The clients are getting less satisfied these days. I follow this thought as I pack my bag. There’s too much noise; the mess was a bitch to clean up; what will the neighbors say if they heard the ruckus. “Not my problem,” I reflect. When they ask for my services, they should know that happiness is a noisy lane. There is no quiet happiness. Even when you dream a happy dream there’s color, noise and talk.
“Bah! Who am I kidding?” I grip. No one understands the value of proper service these days. It’s all ready-made and tailored to suit. The finesse of my line of work is gone.
I look up at the clock and see that I am expected in 15 minutes. “Shit,” I wince in pain as my hand grabs the electric button. I really have to turn it off when I leave it lying around. I go through my bag one last time before zipping it up. Costume check, makeup ready, assorted instruments for a fun ride check. The electric button gives a faint crackle and I wonder whether it might fritz out on me. Fritzing out is not an option in my line of work. I've been in hot water over that before. Clients can get real pissed if there are unforeseen ‘accidents’.
As I load my bag in my beat up truck, I reflect on my job. It earns me less than what my father and his father used to earn. I mean, I have a perfectly good degree that I could use to get a decent enough job. But then why do I follow through on my pathetic job? Lineage you could say. It’s been a proud family business, but let me confess something. There is absolutely no way in hell that I’d let my son follow my line of work. The hours are unsteady and the ‘occupational hazards’ are really horrible. My last assignment left me with two stitches on my shoulder because some genius thought it’d be fun to throw a vase when running away from me. How did I feel about that you ask? Let’s just say that I made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
My navigator tells me that this is the place. The house with the blue door, I remember my client telling me that over the phone. He wanted me to take care of the kid while he slipped off and drowned his guilt over a few shots of vodka. Whatever, I think. You should have thought of the work involved when you had the kid. I’d heard about him. A bloody nightmare if there ever was one.
I ring the doorbell. I’m not big on surprises like some of the other guys in my line of work. Sure, it brings out a thrill, but my shoulder tells me to stay low key. Just finish the job, collect pay check and leave with your head intact, I tell myself.
I hear heels on a wooden floor and a blonde lady opens the door. “Yes?” she asks. “How can I help you?”
And I say, “Someone order a clown service for a kids’ party here, miss?”
And my shift begins.
