Chapter Seven

We all live in a yellow submarine, dear reader, and the windows are too small for us to see what really exists outside the comfort and bright warmth of our daily lives. For every one of us that sleeps in a bed, there is one who does not; for every meal served with bread, there are seven of rice; for every six billion human beings, there is one Clown House.

It’s a two-story victorian monstrosity with a big yard and a tall wooden fence. Every corner and crack in the yellow siding is grimy; the second-floor balcony sags; wild vines and insects roam freely along the walls and windows. There is an oversized flag attached to one of the cracked white posts of the front porch. If the wind was blowing, it would reveal itself as a faded clown face, but the wind isn’t blowing.

Next to the house, on the overgrown lawn, a long and narrow table is set up with a real banquet: sausages, potatoes, veggie burgers, corn on the cob, chocolate pudding… However, much of the pudding and potatoes are currently flying through the air: the Clown House is having a food fight.

DamNear and HasBen can hear the yelling from halfway down the hill. Ben’s step quickens. He shoots her a smile over his shoulder as he pulls ahead of her, almost jogging up the warped, broken sidewalk in the late-morning sun. As soon as he steps inside the gate, he pauses to shrug off the turtle pack (which he has been carrying for the last hour as per their agreement). DamNear stands just outside the tall wrought-iron gate and watches as he charges, yelling, into the middle of the fracas.

It’s just a bunch of gutter punks and war vets, really. Some of them have green hair and top hats, most of them are pierced here and there, but it’s nothing DamNear hasn’t seen before. There are twelve people around the table, most of them in their twenties. All of them are wearing their food. As she watches, Ben tackles a pretty girl in a black slip dress, grabs some of the glob of pudding that has already landed on his head, and starts rubbing it into her shoulder. She struggles and gasps. He lets up. She turns over and socks him in the balls. DamNear lights a cigarette.

Sidestepping around the table to lean against the trunk of a nearby cottonwood, DamNear considers her situation. It could be worse, put it that way. Ben briefed her a little on the Clown House during their journey: it’s been around for five or ten years, and actually started out as the home base for a touring clown troupe. But the members, especially Ben, have a habit of bringing home strays, travelers, and artists; now it’s some kind of hostel. “We never lock the doors,” he explained, picking a shred of tobacco from his lip. “None of us have anything worth stealing, and anyway we don’t really trust each other. Plus, we could fight off any intruders if we wanted to. Hey, but especially if you’re around. Can I see your machete again?”

DamNear thinks she might sleep with that machete in her hand, at least the first few nights. She doesn’t know how long she’ll be staying here, you can never tell that kind of shit. But yeah, she’ll stay a while.

No fucking food fights, though.

Anyway, this one seems to be breaking up: the lawn is now littered with groaning, giggling, discolored bodies. A cracking voice cries out: “Oh God can anyone get me a cigarette!” This only makes everyone giggle more. Bunch of fuckin idiots. DamNear is not about to share one of her smokes with these fools. She tucks her pack into her sweatshirt pocket.

Ben is walking toward her, flushed. Half of his hair is matted with chocolate pudding; there are smears of it all over his face and sweater. There is a potato stain on his ass, too, but DamNear can’t see that. In fact, she’s mostly looking at the girl in the slip dress, who is holding HasBen’s hand.

“Hey,” he says between heavy breaths. “You wanna go get set up inside? The shower’s gonna be busy in a few minutes, maybe you can get in there first.”

“Fuck yeah, me too,” the girl chimes in. Her voice is low and round-sounding. “I don’t want no cold fucking shower.” She’s too short for him, DamNear thinks.

“DamNear, this is Miriam,” Ben grins. “Can she shower with you, save some water?”

Miriam steps forward, offering her hand. Her hair is black, cut straight across her neck. She looks up at DamNear from beneath her bangs, revealing a pair of huge, round eyes the color of amber. She murmurs, “Just ignore him.”

DamNear is not having any trouble ignoring him: DamNear is smitten.

She shakes Miriam’s hand in a daze, spellbound. She flushes, looks down, steps backward. Her hand feels warm, wet, squishy somehow.

HasBen and Miriam are having a laugh attack. DamNear looks down to see that she has just been given a potato handshake. Her heart is pounding. She feels dizzy. She sits down on the grass.

“Hey, y’all got any food that isn’t for throwing?” she mumbles, staring at her knees. Looking up, she sees that Miriam is already at the table with a plate. Miriam glances over. Orange sparks shoot into DamNear’s brain. A pudding-smudged Betty Page tattoo smirks at her from beneath the strap of Miriam’s dress.

Ben is talking, possibly to himself. No, no, he’s talking to DamNear. She tunes in Tokyo. “…Dr. Bronner’s, but you know that shit cuts everything so we should be okay. What’s on there anyway, engine oil? …DamNear? Your backpack?”

She shrugs. “Train grease, you know?” That poor turtle.



nonowrimo day nine, unedited