Of Cyclopes and a Clown

When the clock struck fifteen minutes past midnight., Parlov waddled out of his room, one hand clutching his laundry basket, and the other, his Berry Minty vape pen. His Ma grunted at him in acknowledgement - it was, after all, his first venture out of his room that day - and waved her bony finger towards the yellowish-green plastic bag near the front door. Her eyes never once strayed from their rusty, old television; sturdy thing that piece was, having lasted as long as his grandmother. 

By the sound of the squeaky voice through the antique, the President was going about his usual lip service to the nation again, promising sweet, sweet nothings of change and delusion. 

Parlov breathed a needy puff out of his vape - ahh, very minty indeed - before shoving it into his left breast pocket and grabbing his Ma’s laundry as he left. 

The shuffle down the apartment stairs was always the hardest part of the journey. Nobody on his block had the means, or the care, to pay maintenance fees, and that naturally meant the stairs were near unusable. Trash filled the corners, and broken chunks of the steps’ edges turned his shuffle into a delicate balancing act. 

It was already twenty-three minutes past midnight by the time Parlov arrived at the laundromat, which was just beneath his apartment by the way, and there was one other guy waiting for his laundry load to finish. He’d been playing some gambling game on his mobile, probably poker if the sound of shuffling chips was any indication to go by, and he had the mind to look a little sheepish as he turned the volume down. 

As if on cue, the gambler’s washing machine whistled its final tune, and with an involuntary click of his mouth, the gambler picked up his musty load and vanished into the night. 

Parlov was alone now. 

The unmanned laundromat was always a little unnerving to him when he was the sole occupant of its space, especially when the machines were as silent as silence. Six pairs of washers and dryers focused on him, each with their singular eyes, waiting for him to choose a set to use. The dim fluorescent lights flickered above, and he could swear he saw a Cyclops blink. Or wink, he couldn’t be too sure. 

Anyway, it was time to get a wash going. 

He got both his and his Ma’s laundry going at the same time; he had six to choose from, after all, though he definitely did or did not avoid the winking Cyclops. It was going to be a thirty-five plus forty-five minute wait, another forty-five if the dryer forgot what it was created for. The point is, he had time. 

Most people in Parlov’s shoes would probably have gone back up to their apartment to rest, but he didn’t. He had his reasons. Nothing mysterious about it, he just wasn’t tired after wasting an entire day on sleep. 

Instead, he sauntered over to the vending machine, searching for a spicy snack to compliment the taste of berries and mint out of his mouth. Perfect, there was his favourite spicy cuttlefish snack, and this was precisely why he loved globalisation.

Of course, Parlov had to conduct a cursory check of the coin slot before fishing his own trousers, sniffing for any loose change within and around the vending machine. A few twenties came to light, but that was all. Another dollar from his pocket, and the spicy taste of globalisation was on his tongue. 

There were a few metal stools and a high table against the glass window by the entrance, like one of those fancy ass cafes, except this was a run-down, neighbourhood laundromat. Parlov’s ass gravitated to the red metallic stool - maybe ‘cos his tongue was on fire, too - and he lasted a grand total of 5 seconds of staring into the night til his trusty gray matter reminded him that his back was turned against twelve cyclopes. 

He had no choice but to choose the lesser of two evils. 

The rocking of his chair, he soon discovered, was a welcome distraction against whatever ominous plight potentially lay around him. To take it even further, if he swayed his hips just right, he could time it to sync with the heavy thump of the spin cycles, and he could pretend to be one of those artistes on stage with a passion for something in this world. 

His scoff threw off his rhythm, and it occurred to him then that there was a repeated thump that was closer to his ears than the washers. It was in-time, almost but not quite fully, sounding like it was coming from just… behind. He stilled suddenly, chills running down his spine at the thought that perhaps, he’d chosen the wrong evil. 

A particularly loud thump had him flinching off the chair and whipping his body back, to come face-to-face with a bloodied, distorted, human face pressed against the glass. 

“AHH, what the hell’s wrong with you?” Parlov exclaimed. 

The fist raised mid-air next to the plastered face lowered, and with an attempted smile, asked, “Can I come in?” 

Or that’s what Parlov assumed, because honestly, with the blood and his lips moving against the glass, it was a little hard to tell what was being said. Stalling was the best option since he couldn’t exactly say no - really, he should have known by now that his brain was untrusty - but the only words that tumbled out were, “Why,” come on come on come on, think,  “are you some sort of vampire that needs inviting to come in?” 

“I didn’t want to scare you,” said the potential killer as he walked in. Parlov could kiss his life goodbye now. He inched away as the killer walked closer to him, mumbling a whimpy ‘sure’ underneath his breath. Please don’t be carrying a knife or a gun, please. 

A quick glance-over, none. The killer’s hands were clean, though bloodied, and his trouser pockets looked empty too. 

Maybe he was one of those that used his fists? Shit, Parlov knew he should have continued his jiu jitsu lessons. It was too late now that he was a lazy forty-year old man with a massive beer belly. Parlov was about to beg, like those filler characters at the start of a mafia movie right before they got shot to death, because they were inches way now, and this laundromat was so tiny and small that there was no point running, and - 

The killer walked right past him to the Cyclops with his Ma’s clothes, and had the audacity to cop a look at the spinning clothes. Parlov was all ready to protect his mother’s dignity, though it was mainly because she would be an absolute menace if he lost any of her pieces, even if he had to fight the killer to his death. 

Instead, the killer outrageously remarked, “I think my nose’s in here.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me right the first time.” 

Blood trickled down the killer’s left nostril. Parlov, completely confused, waved his hand timidly at the general direction of the killer's nose. To any onlooker, he might have looked like a conductor without his orchestra. 

“Your nose, it’s right there! I mean, you’re even bleeding out of one hole!” Parlov exclaimed.

The killer gawked at him first, then threw his head back to laugh. His laugh was shrilly, kind of like a little girl who was being tickled. Parlov didn’t like it. 

“This is paint, my guy,” cackled the ‘killer’, and he twirled for effect. “Can’t you tell? I’m a clown for God’s sake!”

It was Parlov’s turn to gawk now. A neon yellow boxy T-shirt, with a red stripe of paint on one sleeve, and a pistachio-shade pair of trousers were supposed to tell him this guy was a clown? A snicker slipped out of his lips. If anything, he was a clown for claiming he was a clown. At Parlov’s stifled laugh, the Clown transfixed him with a glare as terrifying as his first impression. 

“I’m not joking,” the Clown muffled through clenched teeth. He glanced back at the drum of the washer - technically, the Cyclops’ eye, which wasn’t scary to Parlov anymore - carrying on its innocent job of spinning the wet clothes. His left finger hovered over the pause button. 

“I’m going to take your clothes out now. I know my nose is in there.” 

Fear-stricken and stunned, Parlov could barely react. The next thing he knew, the Clown’s head was in Cyclops No. 1, and he began dumping his Ma’s wet clothes onto the floor piece by piece. 

The grimy, home-for-the-rats, floor. 

“Your head’s got a screw loose, man,” Parlov cried, but the Clown didn’t pause even a second. He was muttering ‘my nose, my nose’ like a true madman. 

If Parlov’s gray matter got one thing right, it was to not disturb a madman during his outburst. Was the saying ‘don’t let sleeping dogs lie’? That wasn’t important. 

What was important though, was that paint was getting on his Ma’s clothes. A lot of it. 

Parlov braced himself, and ventured a tap on the Clown’s shoulder. The Clown didn’t even flinch. 

“Hey, you want to be a bit careful there? It’s my Ma’s clothes you’re throwing on the floor.” 

That seemed to pause the Clown, and he popped his head out as a mole would, just to pop his head right back in. 

“You can catch what I’m throwing out,” came the echoey response, and Parlov begrudgingly set off picking up his Ma’s clothes. 

Her nightgown, a wrinkly bra, a red thong… It had probably been dyed red by the Clown’s paint, Parlov opted to think. 

Time went past, quite enough that his load of laundry had completed; one throwing clothes, and the other picking them up. At last, the Clown’s head emerged, appearing much less bloodied than his first appearance by the glass window. He seemed disappointed, and not the least bit sorry for the mess he’d caused. 

Parlov was about done now. He was going to give the Clown a piece of his mind, get on back to washing, and return home to rest his anxiety-ridden brain. 

However, the Clown had other plans. His plan, which was put immediately into action after his emergence, was to repeat the absolute lunacy with Parlov’s clothes. 

Parlov shrieked - no, he was not proud of it - and his hands clawed at the Clown’s ugly, neon yellow shirt, shouting at him to get his dirty hands off the laundry. 

It became a weird kerfuffle, of him failing to pull the Clown out, while the Clown successfully threw paint-smeared clothes all over the floor. 

Clearly, the Clown won in perseverance, because Parlov had to step back and catch a breath. There was no point in fighting anymore. He knew he would have to wash all the clothes again. 

Time went past again, seemingly slower the second time round. The Clown’s disgruntled ‘no’s suggested he was determined to find his clown nose from somewhere in his pile of clothes. Parlov had even helpfully combed through every other Cyclopes for one, to no avail. 

Parlov fiddled with his dying phone, checking every second to see if a minute had passed. His phone screen weakly blared 3.03 a.m. Just then, the Clown howled excitedly, surfacing from the eye of Cyclops No. 2, clutching red in his hands. 

“Look! Look, I found it!” 

Parlov grinned. He was genuinely happy to be freed from the lunatic. With an overly cheerful congratulations, Parlov patted the Clown’s back and sent him on his merry way. When the Clown’s prance had vanished beyond the street lamps, Parlov heaved a sigh of relief. 

From the pile of dirtied clothes off the floor, he identified his remaining pair of red socks and stuffed it into his pocket, making a mental note to toss it in the trash later. Much like a deflated balloon, Parlov restarted his laundry and prayed to the Greek gods for the power of cleanliness to be bestowed upon Cyclops No. 1 and 2. 

As Parlov waited into the wee hours of the night, he would soon realise in an hours’ time, what a costly mistake his feigned ignorance to the Clown was. 

Clowns are the foolers, not the fools, and this particular Clown was about to seek Parlov’s audience for another cycle of lunacy.