Down to Clown

Mr Jacobs's bright orange hair cleared the reference desk. It stuck out in spikes, three inch tubes that tapered to fine waxed points here and there. The face paint smeared itself on the mask just under his big red nose.

     He said, Point me the way to the books on Eisenhower.

     Which one? Dwight D, the president? I said.

     Young man, how many Eisenhower's do you know of?

     At least three if his parents were married. More if he had siblings.

     You are a smart ass. I like you. Yes, the president.

     In the biographies under E, I said and got up to walk him back.

     I know where they are, Mr. Jacobs said.

     Well, I'm going to follow you and ask you about the clown makeup.

     He touched his face. He said, Oh, dear. I forgot. When you get to my age you forget so many things.

     You forgot you were wearing clown makeup?

     Playing with my grandchild. Her birthday party.

     That's really sweet. Did she like it?

     Hell no. Ran from me, he said.

     I said, That's too bad.

     He kept talking. To be fair, we should have told her. I just waited in her room for her to get home from school. I hid under the bed and jumped out when she came in. Thought she would laugh. 

     I'm sure it's okay, I said.

     I doubt it. Her mother was upset.

     Your daughter?

     He pulled a book from the shelf, saying, Here we are, Eisenhower. Yes. She warned me that it scared her all those years, too, but I didn't listen. No more babysitting for me. So I get to read.

      Through the mask and the face paint, I thought I saw a smile.