Jobless

The office sat at the far end of the parking lot. I opened the door and sniffed the air, like a soldier going into battle. A bony, long-haired man older than fifty got up from a couch against the far wall and walked barefoot to the desk. The wall was covered by a bookshelf full of clown dolls, puppets, trinkets, toys, and dust. I could taste years of neglect on my tongue.

I turned and found the other wall covered with pictures, posters, masks, and other circus paraphernalia. It was an exhibit—someone’s untamed passion, passed down, left unkempt and forgotten in plain view. I let my eyes run wild around the room for some seconds, then noticed the man looked agitated. He conveyed a kind of exhaustion from sitting for too long, like DMV clerks and old people with dementia.

“So, you went to clown school or something?”

“No dude,” he said, sinking back in his chair. “I just found some shoes and they put me to work.”

Advertisements

Leave a comment

Filed under Stories

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s