A clown is not always a fool.
Unfortunately in my present occupation, assisting producer Brice Hudson, I’m at best, a yes man, and at worst, a clown.
Some days I really do feel like a jester—simply there to entertain Brice—but other days, I feel privileged—when he actually listens to me.
Still, I muddle on regardless, the only caveat being Abigail Hartman.
Abigail runs The Leading Edge, a marketing and public relations agency, and I can tell by the look in her eyes she despises me and I don’t blame her.
Take the other night, for instance—the three of us were on the rooftop terrace of The Park Hotel and Brice was doing his best to demean me.
“Okay, Ethan—get funny.”
I squirm, “C'mon Brice, I can’t just turn it off and on.”
Abigail looks away as if she can’t stomach my spinelessness—and maybe, I’m projecting—but then again, maybe I’m not.
“Hey, isn’t that Elaine Landry that just came in?”
Brice is pointing to a beautiful starlet People Magazine thinks is this year’s most beautiful woman.
“That’s Elaine,” I say. He’s already out of his chair, our strategy meeting obviously put on hold.
“If I’m not back in ten minutes, we’ll resume tomorrow at three in my office.”
We watch Brice navigate through tables like a bird dog after a quail.
Abigail shakes her head as if dispelling Brice’s aura—another man, she no doubt despises.
It’s really lovely though on the terrace tonight.
Abigail’s sitting opposite me directly beneath the constellation Libra. I know I tend to romanticize, but I see her as a goddess fled to the stars, attempting to escape the evil intents of men.
The allusion suits her in a way—she has all the mystery of a myth and is unreachable as the Moon.
“Can I order you another Shiraz?” I ask, half-hoping she’ll accept.
“No, I don’t think so, Ethan. I suspect Brice is done for the night.”
She’s staring off across the skyline and the twinkling jumble of lights. I watch the candle gutter on the table, morosely seeing in it my dwindling hopes.
But, it’s mild tonight—a warm wind stirring the stars—and I want to keep her a little longer.
“Brice might be back—sometimes he strikes out and comes looking for me.”
She gives me a look of profound pity. “Don’t you ever get tired of being Brice’s yes man?”
I shrug. “It’s my job, Abigail.”
“I thought you were Brice’s assistant—not his jester—ordering you to ‘get funny’—who does that?”
“Brice is the biggest film producer—richest too—he’s got a net worth of fifty million dollars.”
“And twenty-eight thousand acres of the richest land this side of the Valley Nile,” she smirks. “C’mon, Ethan—who’s your Daddy?”
“I’m just saying,” I reply lamely.
“And I’m just going.”
She gets up, and I rise politely, but she holds up a hand to stop me.
“Don’t bother walking me to my car—I’m a big girl. Have a nice night, Ethan.”
She might as well have said, ‘have a nice life’. I watch her walk gracefully to the elevators, turning every head in the room.
Who am I kidding?
Here I am on a balmy Friday night in a romantic setting, and I’m watching the woman I love walk out the door.
Sad and lonely as a clown, dying of a broken heart.
I look over at Brice in animated conversation with Elaine and realize Abigail’s right—we’re done here.
But it’s Friday night, and I can’t go home at eleven pm—that would be just too brutal to go back to an empty condo.
I take the elevator to the parking garage and drive aimlessly down Yonge Street. I spot a bar and decide to drown my sorrows.
I take off my tie, leave my jacket in the car and suitably casual, walk into the joint. It’s loud and noisy but I find a stool, and perched at the crowded bar, don’t feel too lonely.
I start ordering draft beer and after two mugs begin to feel mellow.
A blonde, a few stools down, gives me the eye and smiles. She’s out with her friends for a night on the town. I’m figuring, I deserve some fun too.
She catches my eye again, and gives me an even brighter smile. The girl likes me.
I decide to finish my beer and in the meantime get the bartender to send her a drink from me.
At that moment, the piano player launches into a bluesy version of an old sixties song—and of all things, each line seems to hit me between the eyes.
Everybody loves a clown, so why don’t you?
Everybody laughs at the things I say and do.
I’m sitting there, arrested by the words, like Emmett Kelly’s hobo clown, tears streaming down my face.
The blonde sees me and looks horrified. I’m figuring I’ve sunk about as low as I can go.
But it turns out I’m a bit premature about that—I’m not at my lowest yet—I throw up all over myself getting out of a cab outside my condo and have just about enough energy left to make it to my bed where I crash in my vomit-stained shirt.
Ethan Grayson—this is your life.
The next morning, I don’t want to go anywhere—can’t stand bright sunlight, my head’s pounding and my mouth and throat feel like ten miles of torn-up pavement.
The doorbell rings. I haven’t showered yet, but have changed into my pyjamas. I’m expecting to spend the day in bed.
I bump into walls on my way to crack open the door, expecting Arthur the doorman to hand me my morning paper.
But it’s Abigail Hartman standing there, dressed elegantly in a black blazer and matching pencil skirt. Her eyes widen when she sees me.
“Ethan—are you feeling all right? You look terrible.”
Great! Can my life get any worse?
“Actually, I’m not feeling very good today, Abigail. I wasn’t planning on coming into work.”
“You must really be sick. I just wanted to drop by and apologize for my rude behaviour last night. I was going to take you out to breakfast.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. I look really rough.
“Yeah, well I doubt I’d be able to keep food down today.”
She looks at me funny. “I smell alcohol—were you drinking last night?” Then, her eyes widen further. “You’re hung over, aren’t you?”
There’s little point in disputing it. “Yeah, I went on a bender.”
“Do you do this often?”
Mrs. Morgan-Fletcher, my neighbour, is exiting her condo and pausing to observe our conversation.
“Why don’t you come in?” I say, taking Abigail’s arm and guiding her in, away from prying eyes.
Abigail’s agitated. “You have a drinking problem, don’t you, Ethan?”
I slump down on the couch, pyjama legs splayed, feet in slippers, hair tousled, looking for all the world like a loser.
Abigail, for her part, looks haughty as a self-righteous wife on her way to church.
The ball’s in my court, so I serve up my best shot.
“I was drinking last night, but don’t have a drinking problem—well, maybe I do—I have no tolerance for alcohol. I threw up after drinking two beers.”
She looks confused and sits down on the basket chair opposite me.
“I don’t understand—if you have such a low tolerance for alcohol, why did you go on a binge?”
I want to tell her, look a little closer at me—can’t you see I’m dying inside? Instead, I shrug, as I usually do and try to offer an excuse—but nothing comes out.
I’m staring at her, but my mouth won’t work. My throat’s constricted and my eyes fill up with tears. I feel a complete fool.
I’m expecting that same horrified look as the blonde in the bar—but it doesn’t happen. Her eyes grow soft.
I want to sink into the floor. I feel like a bug.
“I really hurt you, didn’t I?”
It’s a perfect opportunity for a joke—a witty one-liner, but I just hang my head.
“You know,” she whispers, “I see a side of you others don’t—I see a sensitive guy. I keep waiting for him to come out, but he doesn’t, and I guess I get angry. I’m sorry, Ethan.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say hoarsely. “I guess just don’t have the courage to stand up to Brice…or even tell you how I feel.”
There’s a long pause. It feels like the floor has disappeared—and an enormous sinkhole has opened before me. The vertigo is sucking me in.
“How do you feel about me?” Her voice is so soft I can barely hear it.
It’s futile to pretend. “I’m in love with you, Abigail. I dream of you every night.”
“Last night, too?” she smiles.
“No,” I grin, “not last night—but every other night for the past two years.”
She looks at me and I’m thinking—now comes the pity party. Instead, she seems to come to a decision.
“I’m famished. Do you think you can pull yourself together and take me to breakfast?”
“I’d like that,” I tell her.
I stand under the warm shower and try to reason where this is going—and honestly, I don’t know.
In ways, I’m a clown but don’t want to be—and I can only hope she knows it too and sees another side of me.
It’s probably not a bad thing though, baring my heart.
It’s not a bad thing either, not being sure of where I stand and needing to win her.
One thing’s for sure, I no longer see myself as a clown with a broken heart…
But I am dreaming of her love, and not knowing where to start.
