The Coulrophobe

Steve Pritchard laid across his therapist’s couch even though Dr. Hollingsworth had pointed out that lying on the couch wasn’t the expectation in therapy anymore. And the couch was actually a love seat. And really, it made him uncomfortable staring at the back of his patient’s head. Still, Steve insisted, and his session continued.

“I realized, doc, that if I want to be able to do things with my kids, I need to take control.”

“That’s admirable, Steven,” Dr. Hollingsworth said, absent-mindedly doodling in his notebook.

“Just Steve.”

“And how old are your kids?”

“Oh, I don’t have any. Someday though.”

“I see.” Dr. Hollingsworth etched a rendering of Steve’s massive bald spot, which shone from the 45-year-old accountant like a spotlight. “Well, coulrophobia is fairly common, even though clowns aren’t so much anymore.”

“Yeah, but you never know when they’ll show up. And it’s been such a persistent fear.” Steve kicked his dangling feet with a memory of Spunky the Clown and his 8th birthday. “So how do I work this out?”

“Well, Steven…”

“Steve—”

“If this is more important than confronting your claustrophobia…”

“Yes.”

“And your aversion to feces…”

“Absolutely.”

“And fear of needles and snakes and bugs…”

“Oh, uh—"

“And amputees and cotton balls…”

“Yes, but maybe next time—”

“And the French Navy.”

“It is a frightening language.” Steve flourished his finger for a moment, as if that gesture could punctuate the seriousness of his concern. “And sailors carry all types of diseases.”

Dr. Hollingsworth stopped his sketching.

“But I think the clown thing is more pressing,” Steve concluded.

“Okay, Steven.”

“Stev—”

“We will do what’s called exposure therapy—”

Steve said, pushed himself onto one elbow so he could address his therapist. “Woah, woah, doc. I’m not sure I’m comfortable removing my pants—”

“It’s not like that.” Dr. Hollingsworth placed his notepad face-down on the table. “Let me walk you through it.”

Steve heard the doctor’s advice, in that he only considered the end step—meeting a clown in person.

When he left the office, he walked directly across the street to the auto dealership, where its clown-mascot sat by the back fence smoking a cigarette. The clown’s paint existed in faint splotches on its face, and its rainbow wig sat like a flamboyant shrub by the clown’s butt. However, the rubber nose was intact, and the oversized red-rubber shoes squeaked in apprehension as Steve approached.

“Look, guy. I’m not one of the salesmen.”

Steve stood several feet away. Far enough he could bolt if needed, but close enough for full exposure. He had brought his left hand up to his eyes, shielding them from the sight of the clown’s face. But he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“What are you doing? Look, I’m not in the mood.”

Steve stifled a nervous burp. Then, he filled his brain with thoughts of future kids and carnivals and birthday parties and funnel cake, and with all that in mind, he decided to speak.

“My name is Steve. And I’m….I’m not….”

The clown blew a cloud of smoke.

“You’re not what,” the clown said gruffly, which didn’t help Steve’s fear. But then, the clown gave a sick gargle of spit before unceremoniously hawking it out in a thick glob. The air reeked of alcohol and disappointment. And in that mucus and stench, something tripped in Steve.

“You…” Steve said in quiet reverence at his blooming revelation. “You’re human.”

“What, are you stupid? Of course I am.”

“You’re human!” Steve said, this time louder and triumphantly. He lowered his hand and pointed his finger at the clown-man, who stared back in utter confusion. “I don’t need to be afraid of you.”

“I wouldn’t say that…” the clown replied, but his voice was soft with uncertainty.

The clown’s name was Chester Soots. He became Bud the clown over a decade ago. In his ten years wearing the rainbow stripes, he’d seen his fair share of phobics using his mere presence to counter their lifelong fears.

From his experience, he knew this meeting could go a variety of ways, none of which sounded appealing to him at the moment. He sighed and snuffed out his cigarette on the pavement.

“Yes, I’m human,” Bud said, collecting his phone and wig. “And I’m done with work. So, if you’ll excuse me…” He walked toward his rusted brown sedan parked off the lot.

“Wait! This is huge for me,” Steve said, scurrying behind him. “I need more exposure.”

“Look, pal, this is great for you and all, but I’m having a rough morning, so—”

“Just let me hang with you for an hour.” Steve sprinted in front of Bud and reached for his wallet. He pulled out a crisp $100 bill and waved it in the air. “I need this.”

Having just been fired, Bud had already concocted plans for his day. They were fluid in many ways, but he held a solid intention to dull the sharp pain of his existence.

Which meant he needed cash.

And maybe a weirdo to bring along for company.

“Make it double and you have a deal.”

Bud the clown drove Steve the gradually-diminished-coulrophobe through pockmarked streets, past the business district, out to the place where the factories died out decades ago.

“So this is where clowns live,” Steve said as he looked upon a dilapidated house. A curious sympathy was now forming where fear had previously resided.

“Sure. If that helps you.”

They parked and navigated a lawn strewn with bottles and auto parts. Two men in ragged clothes were sitting on the porch. Bud nodded at them as he approached. The one closest to the door got up and motioned for Steve and Bud to enter. When he turned, Steve saw he had a scar above his right eye.

Upon entering the house, Steve stood off to the side examining the barren entryway and the adjoining rooms with tattered curtains. In the meanwhile, Bud procured a small bag from the mysterious man and wandered off into a grungy kitchen.

When Steve found him, he called out, aghast. “Bud, what are you doing?! You can’t have that!”

Bud had deftly poured out the contents of the bag, which included a vial, a thin rubber hose, and a syringe.

The man with the scar bristled.

“He’s making me nervous, Bud. I don’t like his tone.” His eyes darted from Steve to the clown, who was meticulously winding the tube around his arm. The man seemed to be reaching for something in his belt when Bud cut him off.

“He’s fine. Just give him something to take the edge off,” he said while flicking the syringe. “I can pay.”

The man relaxed, though his eyes remained attentive. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a little container.

“Here,” he said, opening the lid to reveal tiny squares of paper.

“What are those?” Steve asked.

“LS—”

“Breath freshener,” Bud interrupted.

“Is LS the brand?” Steve asked. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Liquid Spearmint. They dissolve on your tongue. Take one.”

Steve smacked his lips. His breath was a little rank. Breakfast was hours ago, and he’d skipped lunch to expose himself to a clown. So he reached out to pluck a strip, accidentally taking two. What did extra minty-goodness matter, he thought, placing the strips on his tongue. He earned this, after all.

The man with a scar whistled as he watched Steve close his mouth. Steve looked over at his new friend, who gave him a passing thumbs-up. Bud had tied a rubber rope around his bicep. A partially-filled syringe lay on his lap. Steve’s mind jolted back to attention.

“Bud, what are you doing?” His heart felt too big, too wild for his chest. “There’s no doctor here and that can hurt you.”

“It’s uh…” Bud looked to his friend, then back to Steve. “Insulin. I’m diabetic.”

“Oh, I see,” Steve said. He didn’t know any diabetics, but the condition seemed sad, so he felt even more connected with his clown-friend, maybe even concerned for him. So much so that he watched while Bud located a spot in his arm, lined up the needle, and pierced his skin, plunging the liquid into his body with a loud sigh of contentment.

The relief in Bud’s face caused another switch to flip in Steve’s brain. Maybe needles weren’t so bad, he thought.

“Hey, will you hand me a cotton ball. Need to plug the blood up a little.”

Steve looked at the counter behind him, then over to Bud. His heart began its frenzied thumping once more.

“I…I don’t know…”

“Steve, come on. I need one.” Bud’s voice was pathetic, pleading.

Again, something happened inside Steve. For a moment, he dissociated completely from his quivering, fear-stricken self. He focused singularly on aiding and abetting his friend’s self-medicating.

Like a robot, he mechanically leaned over, plucked up a cotton ball and handed it to Bud. However, Steve watched the ball get pressed to the skin and a small red dot form on the white cotton. Robot-Steve melted back to flesh, where an avalanche of emotion came rushing over him, sending him stumbling out of the room in a sweat.

“Excuse me,” he mumbled before he trudged to the front entrance and leaned out the door frame, sucking in the outside air.

Had he done it? Had he really handled the coarse, white, fake marshmallow? Had he really watched a metal needle pierce flesh? Did he really find himself tolerating—nay—befriending a clown?

He might need a certificate of achievement or something from Dr. Hollingsworth. An acknowledgment that he had won at therapy. But all the exposure-therapying that was happening so soon, so fast left him delirious. And the house was poorly ventilated. And the mint strips didn’t really leave much of a minty taste. So that was disappointing.

“Bad trip?” A voice called out.

“No,” Steve said after taking another deep breath to calm himself. “It was a lovely drive out here actually. But thanks for asking.”

The man stared blankly at Steve as he staggered toward the chair where the man was sitting and extended his hand for a polite greeting. The man’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he extended his left hand, nonetheless. It was then that Steve noticed his other arm was a mere rolled up sleeve, buttoned at the shoulder.

“Y-y-you only have one arm?”

The man nodded.

“Bad accident?” Steve pressed, a gnawing dread forming at his chest.

“You could say that.”

“Probably something outside your control, though, I bet.” Steve looked away from the space where the man’s arm should have been, focusing instead on the man’s eyes, which must have been red from all the airborne allergens. “Not like a doctor just cut it off, right?”

“Sure. A shark bit it clean off in the Mediterranean Ocean.”

The man cackled, which tickled his throat, which left him hacking for a moment.

“The Mediterranean?” Steve gasped. Everything was becoming polka-dotted.

“Yeah, ya heard of it?”

“Wait a second…” Steve said. A cloud of heat buzzed in his head. The air smelled like purple. “D-do you…speak French?”

“Tons of it. Weewee. Haw-haw. Oolay voo coo-shay ah-vet mwah and shi—Hey, are you alright?”

Steve’s head banged with a loud thud. He had collapsed into an unconscious, overstimulated heap on the rotten wood-porch.

“What happened to him?” Bud asked, emerging from the house.

“No idea. He just kind of gave out.”

“Well.” Bud leaned unsteadily to grab Steve’s arms. “Can’t let him die here. Help me get him to the car.”

“Hold up,” the other man said. “Those are nice pants he’s wearing.”

Bud the friendly clown put Steve in the trunk of his car and handed the keys to his one-armed friend, who, while decidedly more sober, was decidedly less skilled at driving. The car slammed into turns and rumbled over every pothole along the way back to the dealership.

“Watch it. My suspension,” Bud mumbled from somewhere in the clouds. The thunking sounds were actually Steve.

The two men pulled by a dumpster in an alley behind the dealership. After checking for cameras or approaching cars, they opened the trunk to find a bloodied, sweaty, middle-aged accountant, who was wide-eyed awake and pale as a sheet.

“Oh!” Bud said, taking a step back and tripping in a variety of ways.

“Where are we?” Steve said, shielding his eyes. “Why am I in a trunk?”

Bud summoned all the sober craftiness his fried brain could muster. He walked forward and extended a friendly hand to help Steve out.

“You asked us to help you fight your fears. Remember? Exponent therapy.”

“Exposure,” Steve corrected, pulling his feet over the back fender so he could comfortably scoot himself from the car. He glanced back into the trunk before picking at a wedgie from his tighty-whities. “It worked. But the snakes and spiders were overkill.”

Bud and the one-armed man quickly leaned over the back of the car to search the trunk, which was completely empty.

“Oh, uh, sorry, friend,” the one-armed man said, glancing over at Bud and shrugging. “Jus’ tryin’ to help.”

Steve waved at him in acknowledgment while massaging his temple with the other hand.

“Just a little much. But I survived,” he said with a smile. He had lost a tooth somewhere in the span of the twenty-minute excursion back to the city.

“Yeah, uh. Great attitude. We’ll shut the trunk so the snakes and bugs can’t get out.”

“Hey!” Steve shouted suddenly, pointing at the dumpster. Bud and the one-armed man jumped back. “You brought me back to my car!”

Steve reached out and shook Bud’s hand. He went to shake the one-armed man’s hand but pulled his back after seeing the vacant right arm. Then, Steve turned and shook at the air beside Bud. “I don’t know who you are, but the sunglasses are amazing.”

Bud and his friend—the actual, real-life one—exchanged glances before the one-armed man motioned to their car with his eyes.

“Okay, well…best we get going.”

“Yeah, best we get going.” Bud patted Steve on the shoulder as he sniffled back tears. “I’m proud of you, Steve. You big weirdo.”

With that, Bud the clown slid into the front seat and waved at Steve, who remained staring at the dumpster while the car sped off. Somewhere in the sky, Bud saw dragons.

“Yeah, no problem. Thanks for all your help today…” Steve turned to where his clown friend had stood. “…Bud.”

But all that was left was an empty alley and the imaginary man with sunglasses, who had somehow found fins and a snorkel.

Steve laughed.

“You’re far from the ocean there, big fella’.”

Steve didn’t have his car keys. He concluded that they had fallen out of his pocket at the therapist’s office, which was directly across the street from the dealership.

So he sauntered across four lanes of traffic, pantsless and googly eyed. His bald spot was now a bright, slicked-red from a cut somewhere deep in the thinning forest of his remaining hair.

He entered the waiting room to his therapist’s office, but his door was locked. He really wanted to share his progress with the good doctor, who appeared to be in-session.

“I need to leave a note,” he said.

He repeated himself 38 more times as he patted his imaginary pockets and scoured the room for pen and paper. Steve thought his heart would stop if he didn’t write down what had happened. His new friend had tagged along with him and stood silently by the door. Desperate, Steve looked to him for a writing utensil, but the man with sunglasses and a snorkel and fins patted his hips and shrugged.

Then, Steve had an idea.

After a long session with Mrs. Pauline Tinsley, Dr. Hollingsworth opened his waiting room door to find his client, Steve Pritchard, standing by a wall, bottomless and bloodied and talking to himself. Steve held his soiled white briefs in one hand—like a painter holding a paint tray. On his other hand were poop-stained fingers, which he had used to write “Thank you” multiple times across the floral print wallpaper.

“Doc!” Steve said, swinging himself around to face his therapist. He ran over to where the doctor stood and grabbed him in a tight hug. A notebook and a tea mug fell to the floor. “I can’t thank you enough! I’m cured!”

Mrs. Tinsley fainted almost immediately. The sight of the half-naked, bloodied accountant with a fresh missing tooth and lump on his eyebrow was overwhelming. This, mixed with the smell of poop and blood, and the feel of Steve’s erection, was also too much for Hollingsworth, who collapsed into Steve’s arms.

After he realized what had happened, Steve gently laid the unconscious doctor on the ground next to Mrs. Tinsley. He considered calling a medical doctor, but chose, instead, to head back to the wall. Everything within him yearned to continue his writing. Steve looked over at the man wearing sunglasses, who now stood with a bright striped outfit, a white painted face, and a puffy rainbow wig.

“I’ll wait for him to wake up so I can tell him more,” Steve said, pointing a brown-tipped finger at the unconscious doctor.

The clown nodded and smiled. Then, it made Steve a balloon animal.