Note: Because I cannot obtain copyright permission to use these lyrics, I could not publish this, I think my best short story. It is a tribute to Steven Sondheim and Paul Simon.
MIND MISCHIEF
Lifeless life at Ringling Bros Rest Home.
Too little mayonnaise, never a lick of Sriracha. Boring as lumpy, gooey oatmeal.
Beige walls. Beige blanket, Beige life. Even the bed curtains, one around me and one circling Henry—mind-numbing beige.
I whisper. There ought to be clowns. (Steven Sondheim, Judy Collins, “Send in the Clowns.”)
Miss the Big Top. Miss the train. Miss the elephants. Miss the crowds.
Dreary nights are the worst. Hello darkness, my old friend/ Come to talk with you again/ Because a vision softly creeping/ Left its seeds while I was sleeping/ And the vision that was planted in my brain/ Still remains/ in the sound. . . of silence. (Paul Simon, “Sound of Silence.”)
Not last night, though.
They thought I was sleeping. I fool ’em, I do. . . Didn’t take my sleeping pill—
saving ’em up. Might need ’em sometime.
So, jes’ like in “Sound of Silence,” my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light. . . that split the night . . . and touched the sound of silence. Bright light in our beige room. Then, they pulled the tent circle close around Henry.
Henry was not silent.
He was coughing . . . and coughing . . . then, they took him away from me. The tent circle hides where he always snores.
I’m alone . . . afraid . . . It’ dark . . . so silent.
* * *
Maybe the cleaning lady comes today. I call her Judy, ’cause I love Judy Collins. My Judy sings “Send in the Clowns” when she sweeps. She knows I love clowns.
Today she brings me a big plaid bow tie. She pins it on my gown.
“Now, I can be a clown, again . . . . useta be one . . . but they took Clarabelle’s horn away.”
She’s mopping the floor, singing. I try to sing too. It’s all crackly sounding. Isn’t it rich? Are we a pair?/ Me here at last on the ground, /You in mid-air. Does she know Maisie? Does she know about Maisie? We never told anyone.
Judy Collins dusts around my floppy clown shoes. She brings me my pictures Can’t see them from my bed. There’s Marty, the Ringmaster in his bright red suit, signaling the band—
the trumpets, tubas, cymbals, and the drums in my mind. “TA DA!”
Not at all silent.
There’s Henry, dressed in bright blue plaid. Kinda like my new tie. Henry and me, we go way back. He’s juggling big heavy balls in this picture, his big muscles bulging.
But nobody here knows his secret. His clown face wore a huge smile. But, he’s cryin’ on the inside. Lost his whole family in a fire. Circus is like that. Hides lotsa pain.
She sings the next verse. It’s our part. It’s so true: One who keeps tearing around/ One who can’t move, and then she hums the rest ’cause she knows it makes me sad: Where are the clowns? There ought to be clowns. Silence.
Before she leaves, she pats my hand and says, Joe, “Don’t worry. They’re here!” She always sends in the clowns when she leaves. She don’t want me to be lonely . . . And then she’s gone, too.
* * *
I have two buttons. One plays my music. My favorite— I’ve looked at life from both sides now/ From win and lose and still somehow/ I really don’t know life at all. (Joni Mitchell,“From Both Sides Now”)
My other button calls Joni. She’s my nurse.
She doesn’t come.
So, I call my Joni Mitchel to sing, Moons and Junes and Ferris wheels . . . It’s love’s illusion I recall . . . Sing it, Joni.
I wave my trembling arms and cheer silently. No one else knows. I’d dance with Joni Mitchell if I could, or even the cleaning lady, if I had my legs. And if you care, don’t let them know. Don’t give yourself away.
My heart hears, “Entrance of the Gladiators” opening the show. Everybody marches around the three rings. Then, Ringmaster Marty says, “Welcome to the Big Top!” The band plays a big “TA DA!” to loud cheers.
In my beige room, in my nomad-life’s mind, it shatters my sound of silence.
Where am I? . . . Why am I? . . . Where is Henry? . . . Where is Maisie? . . . Who am I?
* * *
Yesterday, I think it was, Joni and the doctor came, all official-like, half-faced, half masked. They told me and Henry, “You can’t go outside. Nobody can come here. You can’t do church service. You can’t play games. You can’t use your wheelchairs.”
We useta race our wheelchairs in the halls. Nobody cared. Now Henry’s gone. Wheelchair’s gone.
Hell, me and Henry useta ride the rails all over the place, coast to coast. We been everywhere. See dat poster? It’s from Clintonville, Wisconsin, it is.
Don’t wanna be here. Not no more. Not widout Henry.
* * *
My dog, Zach, could hear a mosquito a whole train car away.
I can’t see good . . . I can’t walk at all . . .
My eyes sting with tears wishin’ my circus sidekick, Zach, was here snugglin’ next to me.
* * *
Now, dey’s outside my door. Whisperin’, talkin’ ’bout me. I can feel it deep in my soul, like readin’ a crowd. Me and Zach could always tell.
Instinct, dey call it. Always knew when people needed extra cheerin’ up. ’specially on rainy, muddy days, or when somethin’ bad happened in the news, like in Vietnam or when people saw da sick kids at da circus wid der crutches ’n’ bandages . . . Marty had to work harder on those days.
Thinkin’ about songs with tears in ‘em. Jes’ the way I’m feelin’ now. But my words like silent raindrops fell. I change songs. Tears and fears and feeling proud to say, “I love you” right out loud. Dreams and schemes and circus crowds . . . I’ve looked at life that way.
I pretend to sleep the restless sleep of silence, but I still hear ’em whisperin’. I hear Joni.
She’s talking to somebody I don’t know.
“All this SARS or Corona or COVID stuff, whatever they’re calling it today. Its’s getting me down. They’re saying this virus could kill us all. Hate being suspicious of everyone and everything. Hate being paranoid,” Joni says.
I hear her say to the doctor and the other person, “I’m thinking we’ll tell this patient these are our new clown suits. He’s a circus man. His head is literally in the clouds. He plays his music, lives in the past, and loved Henry. Joe’s latest stroke stole his legs . . . been in memory care for a while.”
The gruff doctor’s in a hurry. “Here’s our issue. Follow protocol. Keep a mask on Mr. Masters. Move him to isolation. Full Personal Protective Equipment: mask, face-shield, goggles, double gloves. Discard PPE when leaving each patient. Disinfect hands. Test him every four hours round the clock.
“Fifteen more rooms on this corridor. Joe’s had direct contact with the victim. So how do we contact trace Henry? Staff?
“Anyone check Donnella?” Joni asks. “She cleans this room.”
“Got it. Let’s do this,” he commands.
“Hi, Joe. It’s Joni.” She touches my hand.
“Ready?” Joni asks. She plays “Entrance of the Gladiators” every day when she comes. She explains, “Joe, we’re taking you on a parade down the hall. Don’t be frightened, Joe.”
I can’t see Joni. She has a shiny face. She has goggles, like Clarabelle’s. Her eyes look like a frog’s. Why is her hair blue? Clarabelle’s was fuzzy . . . bright yellow. No one had hair like Clarabelle.
“Why, yer lookin’ like the sky behind my white cloud. Newest in clown suits, eh?”
“Well, Joe, There’s a new germ we’re trying to outwit. It’s called SARs or Corona.”
“Corona beer? Can I have some? Kinda miss it.”
“Not that kind of Corona, Joe. We have to make sure the germ can’t find you. Okay? Now, I have to take your temperature. We wait for the beep. Dr. Simon writes the number down.
He comes over to watch Joni. She says, “Put your head back for me, okay? I want to tickle your nose. Look way up, like you’re checking the rigging in the big tent. Is Maisie there today?”
“Can’t see her yet, Miss Joni, jes’ getting’ The dizzy dancing way you feel As every fairy tale comes real when I try to think of her.
Mind’s mischief is a scary thing.
Hafta work hard to see the circus train, the tents, the crowds, the glitter, the clowns, the elephants and then Zach and Marty, and Clarabelle and Henry. But most of all, Maisie. All I see is feathery canyons everywhere.
Now, there’s Joni, the gruff doctor, and a person I don’t know.
Miss Joni, turns the lights down low. I’m moving, like in a picture show. The new person’s pushing my whole bed and me through the beige tent flap.
I watch for Marty, the ringmaster. Always up to some mischief to deceive the crowd. That’s really all the circus is: illusion . . . tricks . . . magic. It’s smoke and mirrors. But I’ll never give up the secrets.
That’s what my therapist tries to do. Make magic. Make my legs move.
I’d rather be out there with little Zach. He’d jump through hoops. I’d flap around in my oversized shoes. Marty called ’em torpedoes, ya know, from the war.
He was on a submarine. Scary stories. Never saw the sky, it seems. That’s why he loves the circus.
He can move around.
I can’t no more.
I miss my shoes. Did they find my shoes?
No worries. When things get too boring here, or when I don’t exactly know where I am, it don’t matter. I go to the clouds. They can block the sun. . . they rain and snow on everyone. . . so many things I would have done. . . but clouds got in my way.
* * *
The therapist ain’t comin’. The cleaning lady ain’t comin’.
I miss the crowds. I miss the children. I miss the little freckled-faced girl in the third row.
I miss Maisie. Oh, she had legs! Gorgeous gams. And sparkles and class. She was a high-wire artist, in more ways than one. An acrobat. What a bod!
She and I useta get together off hours. Never told no one about that, we didn’t. She’d come see me if she could.
She can’t. Never. Jes’ can’t. The people bowed and prayed.
* * *
Sign says ISOLAT . . somethin’. Don’t think it’s a train station depot like some island er somthin’. Wouldn’t have a white room on a train. Where the hell am I, anyway?
I’m missin’ the sawdust . . . popcorn . . . trumpets . . . drums. Even a hot dog would taste good right about now. And the “TA DA’s” and the applause. The thunderous applause.
“It’s just another show. You leave ’em laughing when you go” and it’s on to Milwaukee.
* * *
Ah, right on cue. My in-this-place “TA DA!” Another blue-coated, no sparkles, half-faced clown brings me breakfast. Maybe I don’t hear her, if it’s a her. Can’t tell. Wonder if they’ll serve oatmeal again today. A little brown sugar or Mom’s maple syrup might spice it up a bit. Really not hungry. No matter.
When I was bad, though, when I’d get inta mischief, Mom just plopped it, SPLAT, into my cracked bowl and I’d try to pretend it was cotton candy.
This mind mischief is tricky, sometimes.
* * *
I’ve been saving up my sleeping pills. Hidin’ ’em. See, they make me dream dumb things, like I can fly, or the crowd is cheering, and then they’re gone, all in a moment. The little freckle-faced girl in the third row is now way over by the center ring. How’d she do that?
Even worse, I see Maisie drop in a crumpled mess . . . and there’s a loud gasp . . . and she’s dead . . . and I can’t live with that again.
I’ve looked at love from both sides now/ From give and take and still somehow/ It’s love’s illusions that I recall/ I really don’t know love at all.
I try to sleep. I’m so very tired. I don’t need sleeping pills. They’ll find my stash someday. As I doze, my mind thinks, at least I believe it does, Well, somethin’s lost but something’s gained in living every day.
I wake up in a sweat . . . and now . . . chills.
Maisie’s gone . . . Zach’s gone . . . Marty’s gone . . . Judy’s gone . . . Henry’s . . .gone.
My poster’s gone . . . My shoes, gone . . . My pictures, gone . . . like ice cream castles in the air.
I think of clouds. They don’t hurt like people can.
Couldn’t taste the oatmeal, whatever it had on it, or in it. Not sure I could taste Sriracha, either. Everything’s sorta outa sorts. Not feelin’ so good.
I ring for Joni.
Maybe she’ll come.
Maybe somebody knows I’m here.
* * *
She comes, all in costume, with that temperature thing.
Finally, it beeps. . . Loud as Clarabelle’s horn. Took a while.
Then, she tries it again. She asks me to open my mouth wide. I do.
She calls gruff Dr. Simon. He’s got a clown suit too.
“But now old friends are acting strange. . . They shake their heads . . .
They say I’ve changed.
Maybe Zach could hear what they say, but I can’t. They hurry out of the room, hurling their clown suits in a heap. Hats, gowns, gloves, shoe things, in a rush. They slam the door with the big red sign on it.
What mischief did I do, Mom?. SPLAT!
People talking without speaking . . . Peaple hearing without listening . . .
Out of breath . . . just climbed the rigging to hug Maisie . . . She’s about to fly. . .
Now I have a shiny mask, too. “It’ll help you breathe, Joe.”
I got to the high wire, almost to the clouds. Marty, time for the big, “TA DA!” And claps, and whistles, and cheers!
“Fools”, said I, “You do not know/ Silence like a cancer grows/ Hear my words that I might teach you/ Take my arms that I might reach you . . .
Marty, announce my routine’s end!
“TA DA!”. . .
It’s just another show/ And you leave ’em laughing when you go.
Not sure I want to wake up.
But do send in the clowns.
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