Not My Circus

By Pamela Love     

At best, my Mark 12 Temporal Teleporter had maybe one last jump in it. Any means of controlling my destination’s location or time was lost long ago. But my space shuttle’s equally wonky steering was currently spiraling me into a gas giant, so I couldn’t be picky. Pushing the activation button, I braced myself to land on my feet.

What I did not anticipate was landing on someone else’s.

Luckily, those feet—or rather, those shoes, polka-dotted and the longest I’d ever seen—belonged to a man who was looking elsewhere. In the few moments it took him to sense my presence and swivel his head, which was crowned with a rainbow-colored wig and adorned with a red rubber nose, I’d taken a hasty step off them.

“Another clown come to compete, huh?” Judging by his snort, my purple fedora, silver tuxedo, and orange paisley boots didn’t meet with his approval. Tough. Like his three sizes too big denim overalls and saggy suspenders were anything to brag about.

I, on the other hand, was delighted to run into a clown—in fact, a bunch of them. In my halfway-to-eternity spent on the run from a cosmic curse, I’d joined more than a dozen circuses. There was always work to be done, and not only did they hire without asking too many questions I couldn’t answer, they possessed useful means of rapid escape: galloping horses, cannons to be shot from, and, of course, clown cars, if you didn’t mind sharing a ride with a crowd.

But here, instead of sawdust, I stood in a tiled hallway. Instead of manure, I smelled disinfectant. Instead of cheers and roaring lions, I heard machines beeping—and whimpers of pain. I squirmed. This isn’t a big top. This is a hospital. Why are so many clowns here? Was their friend bruised by a balloon animal? Sprained by seltzer?

Leaning against a wall outside the nearest room, I did some casual eavesdropping. These were “caring clowns.” Unaffiliated with any circus, they were officially here to cheer up kids in the pediatric unit. Unofficially, they were here because of Lizetta Lance. She was the richest kid in the world, but even her father’s billions couldn’t cure her rare chronic illness.

Victor Lance, so tight-fisted it was said he paid his current employees no more than minimum wage, had offered a million dollars to anyone who could make his daughter laugh, which she hadn’t done in years, including today, despite the clowns’ best efforts. One by one each made his or her entrance, barging, wriggling, or bouncing before the Lances. The door closed. Five minutes later, one by one each made their foot-dragging exit, pouting, frowning, or muttering.

Usually I “borrow” my transportation, but a million dollars, even considering twenty-first century inflation, would pay my way out of town—heck, out of hemisphere. I tilted my head. I hate working, but this is really more of a dare—a chuckle challenge. I sauntered past the losers and rapped on the off-white wall of Lizetta’s room.

Mr. Lance glanced up from his phone. “Five minutes. That’s it.”

He went back to surfing the net, thus missing the grand debut of Side-Splitting Spark Spaulding. I skidded into the room and landed in a split at his daughter’s feet. This trick always brought the house down when Bobbsey-Bo the Betelgeuse Buffoon did it.

But the lines of pain creasing nine-year-old’s Lizetta’s forehead deepened at the sight of me. “Hmm. Another fourth-rate joker. Dad, do I have to keep doing this? I’d rather watch videos.”

“A deal’s a deal.” He swiped something diagonally. “He’s still got four minutes.”

Cheated out of thirty seconds, I pulled out all the stops, including pulling my face into the goofiest grin possible without prosthetics. I told her the one about the anteater, the snowplow, and the spaghetti. I would’ve sworn I could’ve inspired giggles from anyone.

Little Miss Lance chewed on the end of one blonde braid and glared at her father. “He’s stupid, like the rest of them. It’s a waste of time.”

I glanced at my chronometer. I didn’t know about her time, but I couldn’t stay here all day. One last chance. I’d dealt with people like Lance before, and maybe… “Look, folks, I really need money.” Holding out my arms beseechingly, I said, “Since I tried my best—Mr. Lance, would you give me a hundred anyway?”

As I’d expected, he ignored my question. My focus was really on Lizetta. Her lower lip trembled. She blinked hard.

Then she burst into guffaws. “You think my dad would do that?” She kicked her feet, shrieking with laughter, tears streaming down her face.

And that’s how I got my million.

Just kidding—this is Victor Lance we’re talking about, remember? And he’d dealt with enough smart alecks like me to guess I wouldn’t be able to sue. But he did hand over enough to get me out of the country.  And the money from the other clowns who’d been foolish enough to bet I couldn’t make that kid laugh made sure it was a fast escape.

Oh, and I also got fifty bucks from Lizetta, plus a smile I’d never forget.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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