There are about twenty people living in the Clown House, give or take a stray dog. Some of them have jobs and some of them raise cash on the sidewalk, but most of them can’t afford to go out to eat and drink. Meals come at all times of day, whenever someone arrives with food. Whiskey-drinking starts midafternoon and goes until sunrise.

DamNear happens to have arrived in the middle of a birthday party for Shackles the Clown, a sixty-five-year-old boozer with yellowish eyes and an endless supply of bad jokes. He is sitting with DamNear right now, telling a joke that involves a blonde and a donkey. DamNear is giggling, stamping her feet on the lawn.

Shackles throws the punchline like a paper grenade. He grunts and turns suddenly to face DamNear, who is still grinning. “So,” he says, “you gonna stick around?”

DamNear shakes her head slowly, shrugging. “Dunno.”

“Well, we’d love to have you around, little girl. You gonna give fighting lessons or somethin?”

“Fighting?”

“HasBen says you’re a fighter. Could be a cool thing to do, you know these kids would be real into it.”

“Hey, are you fucking with her?” Miriam drops suddenly to her knees between Shackles and DamNear, a big smile on her face. “DamNear, c’mere!” and she grabs DamNear’s hand and helps her stand up. “Fuck off, Shackles,” she calls over her shoulder as she leads DamNear to the house.

“Fuck off, Miriam,” he chuckles with a wave of his creased hand.

The house creaks even when it’s empty, but walking through the front door releases a cacophony of clunks and squeaks like DamNear has never heard before. They enter a wide, cluttered living room with a few ripped couches and carved-up walls. Someone has practiced their wood etching skills in here, probably drunkenly and with a bowie knife; nonetheless, some of the pictures are pretty cool.

Miriam takes a left, down a narrow hallway. “I got you food,” she says. “But I’m serious about this shower, we gotta get in there before anyone else does. I fuckin hate cold showers.”

“Me too, yeah,” echoes Fran. She’s not sure if she’s dizzy because she’s hungry, or dizzy because of this whole crazy house, or dizzy because Miriam is holding her hand. Any way you slice it, she feels dangerously out of control. She hasn’t been this confused since high school.

They pass four closed doors, all damaged in some way and decorated with dead Barbie heads or “Pornography Is Fucking Awesome” posters or upside-down American flags. If I have to stay in this shithole, thinks DamNear, at least the people are artistic. She expects to see a cockroach or a fucking rat at any second, but that kind of thing never hurt anyone. Anyway it’s better than the street or a homeless shelter or a whorehouse. She may be broke, but DamNear ain’t desperate – and the Clown House may be dirty, but it’s got a shitload of culture.

DamNear wonders idly where Miriam is leading her.

“Where are we going?” she tells Miriam.

“Here, dumbass,” Miriam answers. She takes another left through a doorway, pulling DamNear in behind her.

They are in a largish bathroom with small octagon tiles covering the floor. Atop the tiles are set a toilet, a free-standing sink, and a clawfoot tub. The lid of the toilet is closed, and a plate sits atop it, covered with a grease-stained paper towel. Miriam picks up the plate and hands it to DamNear.

“I’m like, you gotta eat and we both gotta get clean, so let’s hog the bathroom,” she says. Her upper arms jiggle slightly as she emphasizes her words. “There’s another one upstairs anyway but it only has a shower. I actually like baths, you know?” She turns to the tub and starts running hot water.

“Yeah,” replies DamNear. She sits on the toilet, not sure what else to do. “Hey, thanks for the food.”

“Girl, you like almost fainted out there,” Miriam says, stepping out of her platform Mary Janes. She sits on the edge of the tub and grabs the toe of one green sock, pulling it off. “You shoulda just said you were hungry.”

DamNear is torn at this moment between thanking God she can get this turned on and not have an erection to hide, and thanking God for the veggie burger with ketchup she is currently plowing into. She doesn’t say anything, just smirks around a mouthful of burger as Miriam pulls her slip dress over her head. Miriam’s body is small and brown and round in all the right places – small tits, a smooth little pot belly and a bubble butt. Her feet and hands are tiny and her hair is fine and loose, falling across her face as she bends to drop the dress.

DamNear suddenly needs a shot of whiskey and a cigarette.

Luckily, she managed to palm the whiskey bottle that Shackles carelessly set on the grass earlier, and she pulls it out now.




nonowrimo day ten, unedited