Greasepaint (2 page)

Chapter Two

The limited edition, bright red corvette turns on a dime. The tires screech, smoke and come to a stop in the driveway of a mid-sized suburban home. It doesn't look like the home of a major television star. In fact, it looks exactly like the kind of home a major television star might buy in order to not look like a major television star. Decked out in Archie Bunker chic, complete with overgrown lawn and a mailbox that resembles a birdhouse, the bright red corvette looks out of place. This, of course, seems less odd when the driver emerges from the flashy sports car.

Orzo, still in full costume, takes no notice of his less-than-stellar parking job and rushes toward the front door of the house. He scans for neighbors on either side and, seeing none, ducks into the one story American Dream special.

Orzo makes sure the front door shuts behind him. He locks it without looking and, stepping lively, he heads into the darkened living room. He moves straight to the door to the basement that spans between the living area to the dining area. If Orzo had stopped to notice he would realize that the furnishings in the home look like the set of a sitcom. Not even his private life could escape the black hole of showbiz. Well, at least this level of his private life. There is another level.

Deep down inside Orzo the Clown is a little boy named Reggie Bent. Reggie grew up in a small home just like this in a safe suburb in Michigan. His father was a teacher and his mother was a homemaker. From an early age, Reggie knew he was different. His father would tell him so…sometimes he would even show Reggie how different he was. The difference between men and boys and how much there was for young boys to learn from their teachers was a favorite subject in the Bent household. Mr. Bent would teach his prize pupil while Mrs. Bent dove headfirst into the bottles of wine a teacher's salary could afford. Orzo was born during that time. When the lessons from Mr. Bent became too much, Orzo would step in. He would make Reggie laugh and soon all thoughts of his lessons were banished to a deep, dark place…for a time. Once Mr. Bent died and Mrs. Bent set up shop inside a bottle for the last time all those lessons that Reggie learned reared their ugly heads. It is like riding a bike and, with Orzo's help, there is an unlimited supply of new students.

The trek across the living room takes no more than three steps but he is breathing heavily and sweating. The closer Orzo comes to the basement door, the more his breath catches and the more perspiration beads on top of the heavy, white grease make-up. He stops at the door to the basement, hand outstretched for the knob. Orzo's breathing has become more ragged and he labors at it. His face twitches into a smile and, with a strangled giggle, the TV clown grasps and turns the knob. Five, four, three, two…just the finger (must be quiet, we're going live). It is time.

The darkness of the basement makes the dim living room positively glow. Orzo descends the wooden stairs, big red clown shoe after big red clown shoe. Creak. Creak. ‘Must not rush,' his father would instruct, ‘never rush.' Seven creaks, just like usual, and Orzo reaches his hand to the wall, flipping the switch.

The basement's overhead fluorescent lights blink. Wink. Go out. Blink again and finally blaze to life. The small basement is dirty, boxes stacked here and there. What are obviously used theatrical sets and circus paraphernalia line the walls with various levels of dust coating each piece like sedimentary layers. Orzo's life under the lights can be measured by dust-dating the junk in the basement. None of that matters to him, though. He steps forward and the oversized clown shoe slaps on the concrete of the basement floor, echoing through the little area. Orzo stops short.

“Oh, crap, did that scare you?” he asks. From the corner of the basement, behind a large stack of boxes labeled ‘Master Tapes 1987,' a small voice sobs.

“I'm sorry if that scared you. I don't want to be scary.” Orzo says as he peeks around the boxes. “It's just me…Uncle Orzo!”

Orzo steps fully around the box with arms in the air. He smiles from ear to ear, his best smile. Not the one the brats get in the studio, this is the real smile. This is the one that helped Reggie out so many years ago.

Chained to the wall is a seven year old boy. Blond hair, cheeks streaked with tears, and barefoot, the boy is terrified. He wears an “Orzo #1” T-shirt with a sticker that reads MIKEY written in black marker. The chain extends from the wall to his ankle, giving him about six feet of movement. To the side, butted against the adjoining wall is a nice, bright mattress complete with the protective plastic still on it. In front of the mattress are a couple of milk crates. A small color television perches atop them. A long cable runs from the television to a large, top loader VCR. Orzo presents himself and the boy shrinks back against the wall. He sobs again, shuddering.

Orzo peeks around to see the television playing nothing but snow. Frowning in mock anger, Orzo presses the rewind button on the VCR.

“I know why you're sad! You ran out of
The Orzo Show
! No problem, little buddy, we'll get that fixed right away.” Orzo smiles at the boy.

“I wanna go home…” Mikey squeaks. Orzo's smile drops in a heartbeat. He lunges at the boy. The fluorescent lights catch the white make-up and perspiration, making the clown glow. He snarls at Mikey and the boy tries to press himself into the concrete wall with little luck.

“What is lesson number one?” Orzo asks. Terrified, Mikey's mouth can only open and close. The boy presses his eyes shut and tears squelch out the sides. “I'll fucking tell you what lesson number one is…don't speak. Don't. Ever. Speak. Do you understand?”

Mikey, having learned this particular lesson, nods. Orzo's mood changes instantly and he steps backward, looking to the counter on the VCR. The whirring of the tape slows down and Orzo turns back to Mikey. The radiant clown-smile is back.

“Good boy! Almost there! In the meantime I'll get ready,” Orzo says as calmly as if he were announcing what is on the menu for the evening. Orzo kicks off the left clown shoe and then the right. They skid across the floor landing by the remnants of a half-eaten Happy Meal. His hands shaking, Orzo unbuttons the top button of his clown suit.

“Didja eat, Mikey?” Another button. “Your Uncle Orzo forgot to eat 'cause he was so excited to get home.” Another button. Mikey's sobs grow louder; he's been through this before. One more button and Orzo shrugs out of the top of the jumper.

“Some things are just more important than food, you know?” Orzo spins in a circle, arms outstretched. He is still wearing the bottom half of the suit and the clown gloves. As he turns, Mikey can see scars running up and down Orzo's back. Large, rail-like scars. He had told Mikey that each one of those scars was from a lesson that Orzo didn't learn the first time. Mikey is bright and became a quick study.

Orzo finishes his twirl with jazz hands. Mikey does not smile, of course, and Orzo frowns again. The rewinding VCR stops with a loud click. Orzo stands straight, smiling, with his finger in the air indicating the universal mime hand signal for having a great idea. Orzo pushes play on the VCR and, with the speed of analog, the TV comes to life. An episode of
The Orzo the Clown Show
from a few years prior plays across the screen.

“Better? Good.” Orzo grabs the waistband of the jumper and steps out of one of the legs. He smiles. Mikey slumps to the mattress and cries into it. The plastic crinkles under his weight and the tears rolled off onto the concrete floor where they are swallowed up.

Unbeknownst to the famous TV clown and his house guest, a group of four members of the city police's Special Weapons and Tactics team pad across the overgrown front lawn toward the desperately average front door. The leader of the team, holding a large automatic weapon, speaks quietly into a radio attached to his shoulder.

“On my signal, it's show time.” The leader looks to each of the men with him. They all acknowledge with a thumb's up. He scans outside the perimeter and raises his fist. The leader jerks his fist down and the man in front rears back, kicking at the front door.

In the basement, Orzo nearly finishes stepping completely out of the clown suit when a loud BANG from upstairs shakes the foundation of the home. Orzo whips his head in the direction of the noise and, making a quick decision, struggles to get back into the clown suit. The SWAT leader's voice, amplified to some degree, resonates throughout the home.

“Reginald Bent, this is the police!”

Panicking, Orzo continues to struggle with the suit. One leg finds purchase. He hops on a single foot attempting to get the other in with little success.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit…” he chants, like some kind of scatological clown prayer to ward off danger.

Mikey watches the clown hopping on one foot and can hear the heavy footsteps of the men upstairs. He wants to scream out, “I'm here!” and “Help!” but he still can't be sure of anything. The last thing he wants to do is to not learn a lesson the first time through. Mikey's breath catches in his throat as the basement door slams open and the shadows of the men fall across the steps. He looks over to see Orzo still hopping on one foot. He decides that he has to chance it.

“Heeeelp!” Mikey screams at the top of his lungs.

Orzo spins, hands out, trying to placate Mikey. If he can just get the kid to…he doesn't know but anything would be better than a boy screaming for help while chained to his basement wall. Unfortunately for the famous television personality, that simple move results in a complete loss of footing. He stumbles.

The SWAT Team makes it to the bottom of the stairs and can only stare in shock at the scene that plays out before them. The boy, the latest name to come across the desk of the Lollipop Killer Task Force, is chained to a wall while a half-naked clown teeters back and forth with his arms pin-wheeling in classic slapstick fashion. Before anyone can react, the pin-wheeling stops and Reginald Bent aka Orzo the Clown aka The Lollipop Killer falls backward.

The Task Force was put together after victim number three was positively identified as belonging to The Lollipop Killer (sensationalism had grown less creative with time). The signature was the same, the DNA matched. Budgets were crunched in order to find the villainous, child murdering fiend. No cost was spared, no lead was overlooked. The police department promised a speedy resolution to the case. Justice would be served.

Mikey was victim number twenty-two.

And it comes down to this. A clown in a basement falling backward…now that was comedy. Mel Brooks once said that the definition of tragedy was him stubbing his toe and the definition of comedy was someone else falling down a manhole and dying. This is the last thought that Orzo the Clown has before the base of his skull comes into brutal, crushing contact with the corner of the television set playing
The Orzo the Clown Show
. The edge of the set sinks into the base of Orzo's brain with a sound like someone shoving screwdriver through a T-bone steak. Orzo's body goes stiff, jutting out from the corner of the television and making itself one side of a grisly triangle. As blood pours out of the back of Orzo's head and across the screen—which continues to play the adventures of Orzo and Dumpy Dan—he convulses for a bit and then, without a whimper, dies. No witty final comments, no clever one-liners. The death of Orzo the Clown is…anti-climactic.

The SWAT Team moves in slow motion, or so Mikey thinks. He doesn't feel like crying anymore and, truth be told, he has trouble tearing his eyes away from the TV screen.

Chapter Three

Today

The only light in the room flickers blue from a small TV screen. What it illuminates in the large loft area is nothing short of condemnable artistry. Littered across the open loft are musical instruments in various stages of disrepair. A complete drum set and Marshall guitar half stacks occupy the rear of the room and look functional. Other than a couple of couches found while alley shopping, an old refrigerator—quite possibly old enough to be lead-lined—and the flickering TV on milk crates, nothing else in the area resembles furniture. The walls, though, the walls are covered in garish monster movie posters. The Frankenstein Monster, Dracula, The Beast from Who Knows How Many Fathoms, The Wolf-man, etc., etc., peer down from the walls. Every inch of wall space is covered in the ripped and curling memories of Hollywood's dark side. A banner, larger than the rest, hand painted with a talented amateur's flair, announces that the horror punk band Corpus Delicti would be appearing at a club near you. For the time being, the band lives in the loft space.

Curled up on the least ratty of the couches in front of the flickering television, lead singer, brooding front man and songwriter, Michael Talbot, simply stares. He is thin, in his mid-twenties, with a shock of blond hair that looks almost white under the right light. Michael Talbot is a troubled soul. His band is popular. By all accounts they came close to signing a semi-lucrative recording contract on several occasions. Reviews of their indie albums are universally positive, even within the notoriously cat-scratchy horror-punk sub-genre that still held perennial standard bearers The Misfits in very high regard. No, Michael Talbot's darkness comes from somewhere deep inside. That darkness infuses his music with a soulful melancholy missing from the work of his peers and that sets Michael apart. The price for that darkness was steep, though. Michael Talbot is the last victim of Orzo the Clown. Michael's name had faded into headline obscurity, but the leering clown has left an indelible mark on Michael's soul.

As he stares at the screen, images flashing back and forth, Michael absently strums a guitar. His fingers pick out what one reviewer had called “The Emily Dickinson of melodies” automatically. Michael has no idea what is on the screen. It is just there, white noise, a background to this particular creative process. He doesn't even move as the front door to the upstairs loft opens up and the other members of Corpus Delicti pour into the loft.

On drums, Walter Simion! Never one to be satisfied, Walter has only answered to the name Skeezer since tenth grade and is a decent drummer. He is meth-head sexy with a long mane of dark-black hair, nose ring and ever-present bottle of whiskey. He swigs from the bottle and howls to the moon as he enters.

“Wassup, bitches…WOOOO!” Skeezer swallows another chug of whiskey and is pushed further into the room by Ricky Rogers, guitarist. Ricky shakes his head at the drummer's shenanigans but realizes, being the “business” end of the band, that a certain level of rock star antics are a necessity. Ricky isn't the best guitarist in the world, or even in the city, but he manages what is necessary and he had completed half of a degree in accounting before dropping out. This makes him invaluable.

Finally, slipping in behind them and holding two grocery bags, is Mona Carson. She is thin, Michael's age, and pretty with short, Bettie Paige styled hair. She is a talented bass player and can make up, rhythmically, where Ricky is lacking. She co-wrote some of the band's music and dotes on Michael. Part lover, part partner, Mona is the only person Michael considers a real friend. Sure, the band is there, but Mona is real. She bee-lines for Michael with the bags as Skeezer and Ricky head for the drum set.

The moment Skeezer gets behind the drum set, he pounds out a loud, unexpected beat complete with multiple crashing cymbals. Ricky and Mona manage to get their ears covered.

“Skeezer,” she says, “you're a complete douchebag, you know that?”

The drummer smiles. “If you're feelin' a little stinky, Mona, just call me Summer's Eve!” Skeezer cackles as he gives Mona the international hand/tongue sign for cunnilingus. Ricky punches Skeezer in the shoulder.

“You're an asshole,” Ricky said as Skeezer drops the sign language to shoot Ricky a bird. Without another word, Skeezer goes back to the drum set. He bangs out another song, but much quieter this time.

Mona holds the bags in front of Michael, who barely recognizes there is another human being in front of him. Mona shakes the bags.

“Michael? Food!” she announces. Still no reaction.

“Fuck!” Ricky blares as he hurried across the room. He snatches one of the bags from Mona's grasp and roots through it. “I gotta crap and we forgot to steal napkins!”

Mona laughs and turns back to Michael who, without missing a beat, continues to play and stare at the television. Ricky peeks down and sees the state Michael is in and whistles.

“Here we go again. Coma time for the artist in residence.” Ricky shakes his head and walks back toward the instruments. Mona stands before Michael; her smile fades.

“Jesus, asshole! You could at least say hello!” Mona throws the food at Michael's feet. This gets through to him a bit and he looks up at her.

“Hold on. I almost got it,” he says. Mona's frown turns into a wicked little smirk as she happens upon an idea.

“I'll wake you up, kiddo,” she purrs. With a deftness that belies a great deal of practice, Mona slips her panties from underneath her leather skirt and around the oversized, buckled boots. Smiling, she straddles Michael and licks her lips.

Ricky isn't one to miss a show. He rushes over to the drum set and catches Skeezer's drumstick in mid-swing.

“What the fuck, dude?” Skeezer exclaims.

“Mona's doing it again.”

“What?”

“Couch dance,” Ricky whispers, afraid to be overheard.

“With Michael?”

Ricky nods. Like a shot, Skeezer comes around the drum set and the two of them hang out in the shadows, away from the flickering TV light.

Mona pulls Michael into a sitting position and gently takes his guitar away. She slowly descends on his lap. Michael smiles up at her but, like all of his smiles, it is tinged with more than a little despair. Mona writhes on Michael following a song in her head. She bucks, arches and moves her pelvis with a practiced ease.

In the shadows, Skeezer and Ricky can only stare.

“I wish that was me,” Skeezer announces.

Mona, hearing him, turns her head. She smiles, flips the bird to the two voyeurs, and returns to the gyrations. She is really getting into it.

“What a slut,” Ricky says, much quieter this time.

“I think I love her,” Skeezer answers.

“Me too.”

On the couch, Michael's eyes are half-closed as he enjoys the moment. The oneness between them, regardless of the onlookers in the room, always makes him feel a little more whole than he normally does.

The moment is ruined when the theme from
The Orzo the Clown Show
erupts from the television. Michael's eyes snap open and he looks around the bucking and rubbing Mona at the TV.

“Yeah, baby,” Mona declares, her eyes shut in bliss and unaware of any issue.

The television plays clips from the show. Back and forth, Orzo runs, dances, bonks Dumpy Dan, sings songs and performs magic tricks just like he used to. Michael can only stare at the television, dumfounded. From the tiny speaker on the TV, an announcer speaks.

“He's BAAAACK! That's right kids, the Orzo show is finally coming to DVD!”

On the screen, Orzo pops in and out the frame. His image flashes, back and forth, trading places with a picture of the DVD set. All of that combines maniacally with the standard
Orzo the Clown Show
canned laughter.

Michael's eyes grow wider and wider. He can't look away from that screen. He takes hold of Mona's waist as she continues to get off on her dance.

“Oh God, Michael…mmmm…” she responds to his touch.

Orzo leaps into the frame for a final time, cackling and pointing his finger at Michael.

“Act now!” the announcer demands.

Michael pushes Mona to the side. She falls to the floor at the base of the couch with a thud. Michael leans in closer, unconcerned whether Mona is hurt or not, and stares at the final image of Orzo on the screen.

“What the fuck, Michael!” Mona screeches. Michael does not heed.

“This special 20th Anniversary Complete Orzo Show DVD collection is available on October 3rd!” the announcer shares.

Mona stands, screaming. Michael still can't turn away from the screen. There is a graphic on screen for how to order the “memories you cherished as a child.”

“You bastard! What the hell was that all about?” Mona is none too pleased.

“Order now, supplies are limited. Authorized by the Dumpy Dan Estate!”

“I don't understand you sometimes, Mikey! One minute you love me the next minute you're a goddamn prick!”

“What kid wouldn't want Orzo in their home?”

The commercial ends. Michael stands, his face drains of all color.

“I gotta go,” he says.

Michael bends quickly and snatches the guitar off of the couch. Without acknowledging Mona he heads for the darkened rear of the loft where the bedrooms are located. Mona is furious. She straightens her skirt and screams after Michael.

“Thanks for nothing, asshole! If you miss tonight's show I will personally rip your balls off!”

After Michael exits, Skeezer and Ricky peel themselves from the shadows and step toward Mona. They look to Mona, neither of them capable of anything as complicated as condolences after what they had just seen.

“What do you two want? Get enough action?”

Ricky turns away, embarrassed. He shakes his head. “Uh,no. We just wanted to see if you were okay,” he manages to squeak out.

Mona can't look at them. She stares off into the shadows where Michael left.

“I'm fine. Michael's a prick. End of story.”

Ricky nods. Skeezer leans in a little closer to her.

“If you want, I can finish you up,” Skeezer says and steps backward.

Mona looks up at them with a glare that can kill. Skeezer holds up his hands.

“Whatever,” Skeezer says as he turns and heads back toward the drum set.

Mona slumps down onto the couch. Ricky sits next to her.

“Mona. You really gotta stop sitting on every dick you find…especially with Skeezer around.”

Mona refuses to look at him.

“Would you say that if it was your dick and not Michael's?”

The un-bearded portion of Ricky's cheeks flush crimson, “That's not the point…”

“Then what is the point, Ricky?”

Ricky stammers, unsure how this should play out. He had been enamored of Mona since meeting her at the audition for a new bass player three years ago.

“Just…just, be careful, okay?”

Mona closes her eyes and leans back on the couch. She throws her arms underneath her head and sighs.

“Careful is my middle name.”