A Fear of Clowns (The Greasepaint Chronicals) Read Online Free Page B

Even
years later. It stung nearly as much as his eyes did, after he managed to rub
them with the sturdy gray washcloth while trying to get his face clear. The
cold cream itself wasn't too bad, when that happened. The rag however stung
enough to remind him not to get lazy. Like sandpaper on his eyeball where it
touched. He was getting better over time that way. Pain was a powerful teacher.
    No, he really charged for this part. The hour and a half it took to get really clean after he was done for the
day. Scrubbing, searing his flesh with hot water and rubbing at places where
stuff collected that he could never see. Behind his ears was the worst, but
along his hairline in the back was nearly as bad. Sticky white clung to him
there. Like memories of the past. Both were things he just didn't need.
    At the time they'd seemed good,
but one simple truth, a few words said in anger, and it all fell apart. Not
that the job that day had done that. For once things had gone really well. He'd
nailed the act, played the audience just right and managed to get out with no
one crying at him. No one had stabbed him, either, and he'd been paid enough
that it would all be worth it.
    Jason hadn't counted the money.
That way he could just pretend it was enough . Twice what he'd asked for,
or even more. Not too much, since then he'd have to give some of it
back, but just enough to really make his life a bit easier for a few days. It
seemed like she'd doubled it. That was good. A dream that left him feeling
slightly hopeful, for the time being. It would probably last right until he
opened the envelope to find that she'd only added ten dollars, or that the bit
extra was a coupon for a free car wash.
    There had been a time when three
hundred dollars was only two day's wages. Now it was about what he made in a
good week. That would work now, if he was careful. He was slowly collecting
funds up, twenty to a hundred dollars at a time. When he had three thousand, he
could leave. It was enough to start over. Not to get a great new place, but for
something. A home of his own, with a shower. Possibly a stove, or at least a
hot plate. As long as he had a job to go along with it. Otherwise it was sort
of asking for another quick trip to the roadside.
    It didn't have to be some great
career move. Just something a bit steadier than clowning around.
    Scrubbing, after a while, became
hypnotic. Blinking he realized that he was probably done, and that his skin was
sore in several places. It was a sign that things had gone well, anymore. It
meant that he'd gotten work, and probably been paid.
    Jay looked around the place,
which was nice inside, but not rich. Carlos was a stage magician in Las Vegas,
currently. He and his wife, Wendy, had a regular gig there that kept them busy
for sixteen shows a week. Headlining as the Great Mantooth. The big draw was
that Carlos was a dwarf. Wendy wasn't, being a well put together redhead that
was pushing his own height. Five-ten to his six foot.
     Mantooth. That was a joke. The
story went that his first agent didn't think that "Laron" was a good
enough last name. That part had been a gag too, being the kind of dwarf that
Carlos was often assumed to be, but wasn't. So as a laugh Carlos had gone with
the dumbest sounding thing he could imagine. It had worked pretty well, for the
last fourteen years.
    Technically Jay could have stayed
in the house, where they had television and a fridge that worked, stocked with
white wine and orange juice. It still left him feeling a bit uncomfortable just
using their bathroom, most days. It was enough that they'd taken him in. Eating
all their food or sitting on their sofa like a lump, was just pushing things
too far.
    So was staying for nine months.
He had to get out soon. His friends were great and hadn't even mentioned it,
but no one needed a spare clown in a shed out back. The same was true for extra
history professors. He was making them leave the lawn care gear outside, if
nothing else. Under