The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party

The Birthday Party was written at the Stanford Discovery Institute, the summer before my Senior year of high school. It is a vignette describing a birthday party from a third-person perspective, and then from one of the character's points of view AKA first-person narration. Strangely, later in life, this past year, I made a short film entitled: Karl's Big Day which is strikingly reminiscent of this written piece. (You can view Karl's Big Day HERE - if vimeo asks for a password, type in KARL) Anyway, I had completely forgotten about "The Birthday Party", at least consciously, when I made this film. So for some odd reason, drunken clowns, the subject matter for both, have a penchant for floating in and out of my mind and making their way into my creative works. I haven't quite delved deeply enough to figure out what this represents or why I care about this figure so much. Maybe you, Reader, will solve the mystery of my obsession with the fallen funny man. Enjoy.

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The Birthday Party: 3rd Person

Mara clenched her 5-year-old fist around the 3 apple-red balloons. Her innocent cherub face was covered with a huge grin and 2 dimples that her papa called "craters on the moon". This wasn't any ordinary sunny west coast day; it was her birthday. A day of laughter, black and white cake, and boxes wrapped in colorfully printed and checkered paper. Mara was especially excited about this particular birthday celebration and she could hardly go to sleep the night before due to the sparks and flutters in her stomach. Her papa had promised that this party would far surpass her previous ones. Not only would there be party games such as "pin the tail on the donkey or "musical chairs", but there would be a really funny clown - the clown that went to Sally McDougal's 5th birthday party and the other overly privileged, rich girls from Mara's school. Mara and George (whom Mara called Papa) lived alone and in terms of material wealth, were struggling. Their home, covered in ivy and bug spray, and reeking of an unidentified musty odor, was barely presentable. The cream-colored paint was chipping, but it had character. George worked as hard as he possibly could and wrinkles had started to form on his always-sweaty forehead. He had crow's feet around his eyes, making him appear gentle and kind. He worked at a small insurance company in Inglewood, but most of the time the clients were so impoverished and distraught that he provided service free of charge. However, no matter how kind-hearted or hard-working he was, George never felt adequate enough. He had to be the mother and the father, the provider, for his dear little Mara. George could only imagine how difficult it must be for Mara to not have the warm, soothing coo of a mother's voice or the loving, tender touch from a mother's arms. He wanted to make the world a better place for his daughter and if he hired Craig the Clown and spread a little joy and light into Mara's face for one afternoon he would feel that much closer to success. So, he had pulled together all his spare change, which he kept in a tiny glass jar under the kitchen sink. For years he had saved up: searching through dirty couch cushions, and on hot pavement, for pennies, coins that would accumulate to the grand total. And finally, they did. Unfortunately, here he was, standing on the porch, with those worried wrinkles getting deeper and more defined. It was 3:00 PM and Craig was supposed to have arrived at 1:00 PM, right after lunch. He alternated glancing at his tightly fitted black wristwatch that his father had given him and at the smiling, glowing face of Mara. He was lucky one of the mothers had taken the reigns and lead an elongated group game of hide-and-go seek. Should he tell Mara that Craig the Clown wasn't coming? No, he did not want to see the disappointment on her precious face. Should he wait longer? No, that wouldn't be fair to all the guests. The parents' backs were starting to sag and their phony smiles were starting to fade. Sighs were coming from the children who were patiently waiting on the grassy lawn, the ones who opted out of the communal game, tired of playing, wanting to see this commodity, this climax: Craig the Clown. But not little Mara, her face stayed in a permanent grin. She was hopeful, and she waited happily in anticipation for what she thought would be the greatest day of her life.

The Birthday Party: 1st Person

I really just didn't want to go to work today. I am sick and tired of driving all around town in my shitty old van. By now, I hate little kids, which I never thought was even possible. Their runny noses, the dirty diapers, the endless crying and red little faces. They really get on my last fucking nerve. I know I sound like an ass, but after 20 some odd years of going to kid's birthday parties and wearing a big-ass red ball on your nose, and huge shoes that you trip in constantly, you would feel the same way too. This morning, after swallowing some pills that are supposed to cure a hangover (that shit never works but I keep taking them any way), I put on my orange wig, and my "clown clothes", which by the way, I don't think I've washed in about 2 months now. Honestly, what's the point? I feel pathetic. I just had my own birthday a few days ago. May 8th. And I turned 40. Maybe this is my mid-life crisis or whatever Dr. Phil or those other people talk about on TV. Whatever. Even though I didn't feel like plastering on my famously happy "Craig the Clown" face, I dragged myself to the van. I sped on the freeway, driving about 80 miles per hour. At least my piece of shit van can pick up speed. I took the Rosita Street Exit that was posted on the big green sign and I turned onto the street. This was the poorest neighborhood I had ever gone to. Most people who hire me are these rich pretentious bitches who spend their husband's money. That's why I never got married. Too much responsibility, not enough time alone. I parked my van far away from the actual house, hoping that the air might clear my head. I needed to prepare myself and practice my signature "Craig the Clown" laugh. They don't pay me the big bucks for nothing. My laugh is the shit. I've worked on it for years. I've developed it, honed it. I guess I'm kind of proud of it. Wow. I really am pathetic. Anyway, I took one clunky foot step after another, I hate those fucking shoes, and stopped when I saw bunches of red balloons tied onto a fence surrounding THE crappiest house I'd ever seen. I mean, my apartment looks like a fucking mansion compared to this. I stopped behind a big oak tree in front of their house because I wanted to get the general feeling of the party, see how many people were there, see if there were any whores who might give me a blow job or something after the party. Some women are like that. You would be surprised. They get a thrill out of blowing a clown. These married women, man, I'm telling you. Pretty fucked up. I saw the little kids sitting on the lawn, the parents lined by the "refreshment table, talking "amongst" themselves (yeah I got a proper education, I know grammar), and then I noticed the dad. The parent is always the one who looks worried. I tried to find the birthday kid; I had forgotten whether it was a girl or a boy. Normally he will have a party hat on or he is extra loud and obnoxious, but I didn't see anyone that stood out. After scanning the party, I saw her. I hate to admit it but she was really cute. Smiling and everything, looking real sweet, unlike the bratty kids I usually have to deal with - you know, the ones that yank my nose off, or tie my shoelaces together; the ones that pop my balloons after I have turned them into dogs or flowers. I didn't see a mom anywhere. The mom is usually the one running around trying to set everything up, making sure everything is in order. That's when I remembered. This was the call my boss told me about, specifically. It was the little girl who lost her mom in the fire a few years ago. I felt like such an asshole. Here I was, this 40 year old clown, hiding behind a giant tree, spying on the birthday party I was supposed to be at 2 hours ago. I didn't know what to do. My head was pounding from the beer and grinding techno music from the strip club I had been to the night before. I felt like complete shit and I wanted to quit my job and stay locked up in my house watching crap TV shows like Jerry Springer or Roseanne. But here was this poor girl without a mom, waiting for ME. I didn't know what the hell to do. I could either go to the party despite my shitty mood or possibly ruin what this little girl thought would be the best day of her life.