Clowning Around
teve, let's do something different this weekend," Rosey said, sipping her morning coffee.
"Different? Like what?" Steve answered, his face buried in The Wall Street Journal, chewing on a toasted bagel.
"Let's do something spontaneous and romantic."
"Like what?" Steve repeated.
"Well, we can drive into the city, and check into a fancy hotel. We'll act like newlyweds, and never leave the room, only sending out for room service."
She waited for a reaction. None came. "Steve?" she asked, finally.
"I can't. I have to referee the playoffs on Saturday afternoon."
"Well, there's still Saturday night and Sunday, isn't there?" she added, hopefully.
"I have a golf game Sunday with clients. Important clients."
"Can't you get a substitute, or reschedule, or something?" Rosey asked.
"No ... "
"Couldn't you at least say you'll try?" she asked, her voice getting an edge.
"Ummm..." Steve replied, lost in the stock page.
"You're boring, you know that!" Rosey said, standing up to get a cereal bowl.
"I'm what?" Steve asked, putting the Wall Street Journal down.
"You're a still life. In fact, if I were a painter, I think I would rather paint a bowl of fruit than you. At least fruit changes from ripe to rotten. You stay the same. Always the same."
"So I'm boring because I'm stable. Is that it?"
"Stable is one thing. A creature of continuous habits, that's something else. Look at you! You wear the same pin-striped suits, put on the same Old Spice after-shave, comb your hair with the same part your mother gave you when you were three years old ..."
"Leave my mother out of this ..." Steve interrupted.
"Yes, of course, we'll leave your mother out of this. The woman who has been cleaning the same house and cooking the same meals for 30 years."
"My father appreciates everything she does."
"I'm sure he does. And you're just like him. Thirty years from now, you'll still be sitting here chewing on a toasted bagel, wearing the same pin-striped suit, smelling like the same Old Spice after-shave, with the same damn part in your hair, if you still have any hair."
"So?" Steve asked.
"So? SO! So you should have married a woman like your mother, instead of me. I'll either commit suicide, or kill you, if I wind up doing the same things, day in and day out, for thirty years."
"Is this a preamble to rearranging the living room furniture, again?" Steve asked.
"No, I'm not bored with the furniture. I'm bored with you!"
Steve stared at her a long time. She looked serious, with her big dark eyes piercing like a drill. Something was different about her. It came to him slowly. She changed her hair again. It was cut shorter now, and the color was a rich shade of red, no longer a dark brown. Her lipstick was a different color, a brighter pink, accentuating her full, soft lips. Her outfit was new, too, and she looked attractive in it. He was sure she was wearing new shoes, even though he couldn't see her feet. Rosey was a very appealing woman, if you could get past her moods.
"Is it your job again?" Steve asked.
"No, it's not my job again," she said, mimicking him. "My work is the only thing in my life that is interesting. I like suing the hell out corporations who lie and cheat people. The same corporations, by the way, that you put together stock deals for, and then swindle the public with."
She knew just how to get to him. 'Swindle' was the word that did it.
"It must be that time of month again," Steve said softly. He said it louder than a whisper, and more distinct than a mumble. He shouldn't have said it, and he knew it as soon as the words came out. He picked up the Wall Street Journal again and hid behind it.
Rosey was pouring herself a bowl of cereal when she heard the last comment. It took her a few seconds to decipher what she thought she heard.
"What did you say?" she asked.
Before Steve could answer, she flung the open Kellogg's Corn Flakes Box at him. It ripped the newspaper in half, and then showered Steve, and his half of the kitchen, with corn flakes.
"What did you do that for?" he asked.
"For a change," she said, standing up. "It was my time of the month for a change." Rosey picked up her pocketbook, got out her car keys, and left the house. Steve sat there in disbelief , listening to her start her Corvette up. He continued sitting there, listening to her peel rubber halfway down the street, until she and the Corvette faded off into the distance. Steve shook his head, finally, clearing off the corn flakes that were laying on the part in his hair. He got out the broom and dustpan and swept up.
"She thinks I'm boring?" Steve said to himself. "I'm not boring! I'm just not nuts like her. She's nuts, that what she is. I've been living with a nutcase for 5 years." Steve finished cleaning, got into his car and went to work.
The stock market was quiet that day, showing no direction. Steve called his clients, presented his firm's latest research, and then executed two trades amounting to a typical day's commissions. When the market closed, unchanged, he finished his paperwork and left. He hoped when he got home Rosey would be feeling different.
Steve got his wish. When he arrived home, Rosey was indeed feeling different. She was worse.
"I'm not cooking tonight," she informed him when he walked in the back door.
"Okay, we'll order in," Steve said, picking up the phone.
"If you call Domino's, I'm going to scream!" Rosey said, screaming.
"I was going to order Chinese food," Steve said, hanging up the phone before Bill, the assistant manager at Domino's answered. Steve and Bill were on a first name basis.
"I don't want Chinese food again, either!" Rosey yelled.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"I want a new husband," she said, leaving him by himself in the kitchen, again.
Steve shook his head in bewilderment. He followed Rosey into the bedroom. She ignored him as she changed out of her new clothes, and into her bathrobe. Then she went into the bathroom, and locked the door. She never locked the door. This was bad.
Steve changed from his suit, to his jogging clothes. He knocked on the bathroom door, but Rosey refused to answer. He continued knocking, and then giving up, he announced, "I'm going running."
"Of course," was Rosey's reply through the locked door.
Steve ran harder, and longer that he normally did. He hoped when he got back, Rosey would have washed off whatever it was that was making her so irritable. Then they would order Domino's, or Chinese, or whatever she wanted.
When Steve returned home, out of breath and sweaty, his wishes were granted again. Rosey was indeed less irritable. She was less irritable because she was gone. She didn't leave a note.
Steve drove around the neighborhood, looking for her. He stopped in all their favorite restaurants. Actually, they only had two favorite restaurants, and one wasn't really a restaurant - it was a pizza delivery store. He drove to some bars that might be likely candidates, but Rosey was not there, either. He wasn't surprised. They did not go to bars.
At nine o'clock, Steve gave up the search and drove home. When he got there, Rosey's car was not in the driveway. He got angry, made a U-turn, and headed out again.
"Two can play at this game!" he announced to himself. Steve drove aimlessly for an hour, listening to music on the radio.
The first time he went by the store, the sign attracted his attention. It said, simply, "Artie's Adult Store."
"So I'm boring, am I?" Steve said to himself. "We'll see who's boring!"
Steve drove by Artie's two more times, until the parking lot was empty. Then he pulled in, ready to leave quickly if anyone else pulled in. He waited a minute, and when no other cars drove up, he left his car and walked inside the store.
There was a short, older man with gray hair and a beard behind the counter. When he saw Steve, he smiled a warm, knowing smile, and said, "Hello. Is this your first time here?"
"Yes," Steve said, his voice betraying the embarrassment he felt.
"Well, welcome to Artie's. In case you didn't already guess, I'm Artie."
"Hi, Artie," Steve said.
"Do you know what you're looking for?" Artie asked.
"No. Not really."
"Well, follow me. I'll give you the nickel tour, and maybe we'll figure it out together," Artie said, directing Steve to the magazine shelves.
As they went from left to right through the magazine inventory, they traversed from the mildly wicked, to the sexually perverse, to the clearly crazy. From there, it went downhill to the full-fledged weird, and finally, to the ultimate category, the 'I-can't-believe-there-are-people-who-publish-these-things'. Steve was not interested.
"Let's go look at some adult toys," Artie said, ushering Steve to the department with artificial sex organs. Together, they examined replicas in every conceivable shape, color, texture, size, and in some cases, voltage.
"No," Steve said, shaking his head.
"Well, give me a little help. What is your main fantasy?" Artie asked, still patient.
"Going back home and finding my wife still in love with me," Steve said.
"I see," Artie said, sympathetically.
"She thinks I'm boring," Steve confessed.
"Yes, a common problem," Artie said, leading Steve to another section of the store.
"I'm happy with things the way they are. She's the one who always wants changes."
"Yes, there are women like that. Women who like change. Women who demand change. Is she very demanding?" Artie asked.
"Yes," Steve answered.
Artie stopped at a counter filled with whips, chains, and assorted leather products. He looked at Steve.
"No, she's not that demanding," Steve said, walking away, an air of pessimism creeping into his voice.
"Wait a minute," Artie said, leading Steve back. "There is one more thing. Something brand new." He stopped at a counter, looked up, and smiled, "Here we are."
"What is this?" Steve asked.
"It's the newest thing.. They say it started in California. It's call Clown Sex."
"What is Clown Sex?" Steve asked.
"You make yourself up like a clown, and then you do wild and funny things. Not like circus funny things. You do sexy, funny things."
"You're kidding, right?" Steve asked.
"No, I'm serious. You'd be surprised how many people are turned on by clown sex. It's saved quite a few relationships."
"This is mostly make-up," Steve said, looking at the items on the shelves.
"We have the props like squeeze horns, seltzer spray bottles, and confetti in the back, if you want them," Artie said, pointing to the rear of the store.
"This is ridiculous!" Steve said.
Artie stopped cold. "We don't use the word 'ridiculous' at Artie's. That's a judgment word, and we don't judge here. 'Different' is the word we use when we describe things we don't understand," Artie said, looking stern.
"I'm sorry. You're right. This is different. Very different."
"Yes," Artie said, relaxing again. "Once the make-up is on, you become a new person. A funny person. A happy person ...
" ...a different person," Steve interrupted. He laughed disparagingly.
Artie studied Steve, and then added, "Certainly not a boring person."
"Okay, let's try it," Steve said. 'Boring' was added above 'swindle' on Steve's s-list.
Artie made recommendations, and Steve followed his wise counsel. When Steve returned home, it was almost midnight. Rosey was still not there. Steve spent the next hour and a half in front of the mirror, putting on grease paint. At around 1:30, he heard the tell-tale sound of Rosey's Corvette coming down the block. Steve turned out all the lights in the house and waited in the kitchen, next to the light switch. The Corvette pulled into their driveway. He held his breath as he heard Rosey fumble with her key at the back door.
When Rosey opened the door, Steve turned on the lights, and shouted, "TA DA!"
Steve stood there, arms outstretched, completely naked. Naked, that is, except for a big painted clown smile, a rubber nose, an orange mop-type wig, huge clown shoes, and various grease paint designs placed strategically around his body.
Rosey stood there, her mouth wide open in shock. Next to Rosey, Steve's mother was staring back at him, her mouth also wide open in shock. Rosey was weaving slightly, while Steve's mother held her steady.
If Steve wasn't so concerned with his own appearance in front of his mother, he would have noticed Rosey was weaving because she was tipsy. If Steve were able, at that moment, to leap outside his own feelings, he would have surmised that, all by herself, Rosey drank a whole bottle of Chablis from Steve's father's wine rack. In his mind's eye, he would have then seen Rosey, drinking the Chablis, sitting at his parents' kitchen table, crying to her mother-in-law about what a cold, unfeeling man she was married to. He would have seen his mother agreeing with Rosey, in spite of that fact it was her only son that they were disparaging. And last, but not least, if Steve could have stepped outside his own skin, as full of colorful designs as it was, he would have concluded Rosey was in no condition to drive herself home, and his Mom volunteered out of a combination of heart-felt concern, and the fact she had never driven a Corvette.
Steve was too consumed by his own embarrassment to notice much of anything. He ran from the kitchen to the bedroom and slammed the door behind him. Once inside the bedroom, he kicked off the huge clown shoes and threw on his bathrobe. Not knowing what else to do, he locked himself inside the bathroom. There he sat, on the toilet, shaking his head, feeling like the biggest fool that ever lived.
While he sat there, he heard the Corvette start up and leave. His heart sank a little lower at the thought of Rosey leaving him alone once again.
Steve's dismal thoughts were interrupted a few minutes later by someone trying the knob on the bathroom door.
"Steve?" Rosey said, giggling.
"Leave me alone!" Steve said, feeling indignant, but still grateful she was there.
"Come on, Steve, open up. I want to see how you look again."
"Go away!"
"Come on! Your mother's not here. I let her take the Corvette back."
"Would you leave me alone!"
"Was it my imagination, or were your private parts painted red, white and blue?"
"Rosey!"
"I think that's very patriotic ..." she added, giggling some more. "Come on, open up," she said, pounding on the door.
Rosey beat on the door for quite a while, and then she stopped. It grew quiet. Too quiet. Steve waited a while, not wanting to be the first to break the silence. When he couldn't take it any longer, he made himself wait some more.
"Rosey?" Steve called softly, giving in.
No answer.
"Rosey?" Steve called, a bit louder.
Still no answer.
Steve heard what sounded like 'clomp .. clomp'. Then he heard it again, 'clomp ... clomp'. It was followed by a giggle, and then .... BOOM!. There was a loud thud against the bathroom door. Rosey began moaning in pain.
Steve leaped from his perch, and threw open the door. And there, lying on the floor, stark naked, was Rosey. She was wearing badly applied clown make-up all over her ripe body. She stopped moaning and holding her ankle when she saw Steve standing over her. Then she started giggling again.
"How does anyone walk in these things?" she said, pointing to the huge clown shoes.
"Don't move!" Steve warned, bending down and taking off the humongous shoes. He examined her ankle for breaks.
"You're okay," Steve said. He put his arms under Rosey, lifted her up, and carried her. Rosey wrapped her arms around Steve, and kissed him passionately on the lips.
"What was that for?" he asked, still holding her.
"That's for being so ... unboring ... and ... and ... sweet," she said.
"Yeah, right," he said, lowering her gently on the bed.
"Do you know what your mother said to me before she left?" Rosey said, pulling Steve down on top of her.
"No, and I don't want to know," Steve replied. He was becoming aroused, even though Rosey was tickling him.
"She said, 'He's just like his father.' "
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