Although Earl despised clowns, his youngest daughter, Mandy, adored them. She had dozens of clown dolls, she decorated her room with clown faces, had clown sheets and a clown lamp. She even dressed up as a clown every Halloween. Earl couldn’t have been more ashamed of himself for being terrified of his own daughter when he took her out trick-or-treating each year.
“Read me a bedtime story, Daddy,” Mandy said to Earl, tugging on his pants.
“Why don’t you ask your mother? I’m kind of busy…”
“You’re better at telling stories than Mommy. She doesn’t do the funny voices.”
She smiled up at him. He couldn’t resist her cute little freckled face. “Okay, I’ll read it to you out here, on the couch.”
“No, you have to tuck me in. It’s not a bedtime story if you don’t tuck me in.”
Earl didn’t want to go into his daughter’s room. He couldn’t even look inside when he passed it in the hallway. It might have brought his daughter great joy to be surrounded by clowns, but Earl saw it as a gateway to Hell.
“Pleeeasse…,” Mandy said.
Earl’s hands were shaking. He tried to come up with an excuse not to go, but nothing came to mind. “Okay. Go brush your teeth and I’ll meet you in bed.”
“Yay!” Mandy slid across the carpet in her yellow circus socks as she ran to her bedroom as fast as she could.
Earl’s heart was pounding. Nobody, not even his wife, could understand how doing as simple a thing as reading his daughter a bedtime story would bring him such anxiety. And from somebody who worked with dangerous animals all day! There was only one thing that would calm his nerves. He went to the kitchen, opened the liquor cabinet, and threw back two shots of Wild Turkey.
He went upstairs, entered his daughter’s room, and sat down on the edge of her bed. He did not allow his eyes to wander too much. There were clowns all around him, staring at him. He swore he could hear them giggling.
“Read this, Daddy,” Mandy said, handing him a book.
It was called A Day at the Circus and had a picture of a wild-eyed giggling clown on the cover.
“Hold on a minute, honey,” Earl said, handing her back the book. “I forgot to do something.”
Then Earl went back downstairs and took another shot.
While driving in the car with Captain Spotty, the memory gave him an idea.
“Do you have anything to drink?” Earl asked the clown.
“What, like some apple juice or something?”
“No, some whiskey,” Earl said. “For my nerves.”
Spotty laughed. He dug under his seat and pulled out a black-labeled bottle. “Try some of this.”
Earl took a swig. The burning sensation fried his throat and stomach. He spit the rest of it out. “What is this?”
Spotty laughed even harder. “Clown hooch. Best in Little Bigtop.”
“It tastes like gasoline.”
“It practically is. Vanillas like you don’t have a taste for it.”
“It’s terrible,” Earl said, but he still forced another shot down his throat.
“Yeah, well take it easy on that.” Earl took the bottle away from him. “The boss don’t like people drinking on the job.”