Touched in the Head
A Tale of Characters, Clowns, and Imaginary Misfits
Based on a Number of True Stories
Rebecca Reitz
Touched in the Head
Rebecca Reitz
Copyright 2012 by Rebecca Reitz
Smashwords Edition
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This book is dedicated to the staff and employees at Clowning Around–Celebration Authority, as well as the children (including my own little fledglings) who request the presence of characters and clowns at their events.
The Roots of Ahchoo
The loyalty exhibited by imaginary friends is a precious gift. Their tried and true support is often the catalyst for their creation. What may be most curious about the phenomenon; however, is the fine line between whether the creator thinks the pal is fictional or non-fictional. Be it the former or the latter, does not hold much significance as long as the friend is there during the dark hours, smiles without a grimace, banishes high fructose corn syrup, and so forth. The “so forth” holds a lot of weight, as the boundaries and qualifications of the make-believe friend are ever evolving, which is the reason it is the pal of choice for so very many. The mind naturally designs a tutelary companion by default.
However, when I was in search of the ultimate imaginary comrade, I was unaware that I was even doing so. As a young girl, I had a few imaginary friends, all of whom served various reasons at various times. Yet in the years between 1998 and 2002, I searched, but unknowingly at that moment. How could one be looking for something yet not realize it; and thus does that even constitute a fair search? I say yes, and I know it is bizarre; however, such remains the case. It wasn’t until years later that I looked back on those four years as a type of experiment. An experiment to find an ideal imaginary friend. Therefore, anyone out there may have embarked or be “embarking” on the same journey, but not truly know it yet.
So this is a story within a story; not only a double adventure, rather a universal diatribe that is to resonate with others out there in their own right…be they real or imaginary. It’s just a tale of being on the lookout for the ultimate buddy, my tale happens to involve costume characters and clowns, real ones that is, as will soon be revealed. Yes, I worked in the children’s entertainment field and truly did have the chance to be surrounded by a multitude of fuzzy creatures, some of which were potential imaginary best friend candidates.
Most importantly, however, bullying is now at a despicable level and more people than ever feel ostracized. So being one’s own best friend often ends up as the ultimate solution to a companion search. When in doubt, trusting the self and not being influenced by others is the way to happiness. This is critical to remember if on a friendship quest. Though may it be said, imaginary pals rarely bully, so typically this is a safe path to travel down as well.
All this aside, plastic costume heads and drippy red noses await, so may the roots of this tale now proceed…
When I was three or four years old, I began to understand the difference between literal and figurative meanings within the English language. It started out small such as when someone said to me, “You’re so nervous, I can see your heart beating.” I knew full well that my heart is one of the internal body parts and the idea was just meant to create a chuckle. That little saying, however, only induced more anxiety on my behalf and a brief look toward my chest cavity to make sure my previous “heart knowledge” was still valid. Yes, it was inside my body and therefore invisible to onlookers. My goodness, I was only three, I needed the verification.
This understanding of the literal and figurative continued onward as in the case of one of the only times I came in excessively late as a teenager. When my 16-year-old self popped through the door at 2:30 am to both sets of my parents’ weary eyes, they said, “where the hell have you been, we’ve been running around everywhere in search of you.” At that moment I knew they were the ones lying. As if they had actually ran to Jewel Osco (where I had been by myself, why that late remains locked in my 16-year-old mindset) and then ran back home to sit there all proper and concerned. Ran. Right. I doubt they had left the couch to make more than a few phone calls.
Now as an adult my years of practice in the use of literal and figurative forms of expression has arrived at the creation of this book’s title. “Touched in the Head” chronicles the four years I worked as a costume character and clown for a company in Illinois known as Clowning Around - Celebration Authority. Why the title? Well, literally it represents the way in which some pint-sized party attendants would hit the costume character’s head as vigorously as possible while I wore the costume. Often the parents and other adults at the event would find this hysterical. At that point, given the parents’ behavior, I realized how the children had come to be like they were in life. While underneath all the plastic and mounds of fur on my body, I began to grow doleful about the state of society. It can be rather unsettling to have one’s visibility obstructed by the mesh inserts in the character’s eyes, yet know it is imperative to see for the sake of one’s own safety. As employees we were instructed to remove the costume’s head should the little debacle proceed, however, I never did. My reason? I felt bad for the children at the event not engaged in this malevolent practice of physical violence. As need be noted, most of the children usually were delightful minions, but the exceptions certainly left their impact.
On the flip side, “Touched in the Head” figuratively signifies the manner in which people, including myself, can be labeled as “crazy” throughout different times in their lives. For me, one of the reasons I was branded with the label was for my work as a clown. Some adults felt it necessary to give snide remarks about the job followed by laughter that was supposed to indicate just how they felt about the profession. Others discovered I was paid $40 an hour and instead of being congratulatory on that fact, decided to belittle the job in an attempt to erase their own jealousy. My answer was for them to join the ranks, put on a red nose, and earn the same dough, however, they were just too good for such nonsense. Yes, “Touched in the Head” is an ode to the suffering endured by all clowns.
I worked at Clowning Around-Celebration Authority from 1998 until 2002 while I was 20 to 24 years old and attending school. This fact is simply noted for memory sake, as one of the magnificent aspects of the job is that age is not a factor. In my opinion, age needn’t be a prerequisite for any career, however, being a children’s entertainer is a position in the work force in which the infamous digits truly have no significance. Consider the facts. Does it really matter if the human that occupies the costume is 20 or 80? No, it does not, as long as either party can endure the near-desert-like temperature one’s body will reach as a result of wearing the furry character. Does it really matter what age individual packs on layer upon layer of circus make-up? No, it does not as long as one can accept that he or she will appear ghastly distorted even at 15 or 83 and undergoing intense Botox therapy.
My clown name was Ahchoo and given I have an obsession with names, I was more that elated to have the opportunity to name myself once again. It was as if I had been teleported back to 1978 and could declare another title along with the more traditional, Rebecca. I decided on Ahchoo. As part of my “clownly duties” I would have to enter homes. I am allergic to lots of “stuff” within those habitats including animal fur, dust, pollen, mold, and the number one culprit, cigarette smoke.
On that note, it was quite anomalous to work with those who had a penchant for puffing on tobacco. Some of the images I was forced to endure while in the line of duty were positively heinous. For example, most costume characters came in three parts – the head, the body, and the feet. Costume characters often did shows in groups and during lengthy parties a break was needed in order to avoid collapse. I would be outside with the head off just to get a breath of fresh air. Suddenly I would look up and see half of a Winnie the Pooh puffing away on a Marlboro. My, my, my, a fellow employee dressed in the furry, tan, pear-shaped suit complete with the red t-shirt and huge, paw-like feet. Only Winnie’s head was missing and in its place was a human face only too happy to get a few drags in on our ten minutes of ventilation.
Given that almost all of us employees worked as both clowns and costume characters, this type of behavior also ensued when we were clowns. Only the head didn’t come off and instead I got to watch as the spawn of Bozo went through a pack of Newports like they were candy. It was quite a disturbed scene. Habits, even the killing kind, can be hard to break, but if one cannot quit as Mickey Mouse, is there any hope to quit when simply staring one’s own “human reflection” down in the mirror? Hopefully that question will encourage further research.
A most convenient aspect of the job was the fact that employees could take on as many gigs as desired. In other words if a gig was offered, one had the choice of whether to accept it, so some weekends I worked eight events whereas others maybe only a couple. The company was great in understanding clowns had lives too. Primarily almost all work fell on weekends due to children’s birthday parties, holiday celebrations, corporate picnics, and related events often being scheduled on Saturdays and Sundays. Gigs varied in terms of length with some of them only being 45 minutes with others lasting up to six hours. Summer was the season of lengthier extravaganzas often due to the picnics. Some corporations went all out for the employees and their families, and hired a group of ten of us to bring cheer to the day.
One question, in which I still get inquiries, was how I got into this line of work. It all began when I attended school and my boss’ sister was a fellow classmate in a Social Work course. In this particular class, role plays were necessary in order to “practice” our counseling skills. For example, one of us would play an addict and the other an empathic counselor at the Local Y. We also videotaped these scenarios in order to replay them as a means of intellectual feedback on our techniques.
During one of these altruistic technologically based endeavors, I had to be an individual on the autism spectrum. My boss’ sister had possession of the tape in which this occurred, and she watched it with her brother, who would later become my boss. He stated he liked my realistic portrayal of an autistic woman. He then asked his sister to inquire about whether I wanted a job, because costuming and clowning requires acting skills. I was in search of employment and agreed to come in for an interview as the compliment had been kind. Upon my arrival I found my boss to be as delightful as his sister. No joke. They were both terrific people, as was their Mom and his Wife, both of whom also owned the company and do so to this day.
I did get the job, but at the actual shows I would sometimes grow shy and not do much acting. I often, however, overcame that obstacle and was always solicitous to the partygoers. So it all worked out.
When on the pursuit of an imaginary friend, ideas from the movies somehow come to surface quite frequently. The cinema comes forth in all sorts of ways, whether it be searching up and down the aisles for the friend itself, creating one from a character in film, or any number of other odd occurrences. This cinema phenomenon took place in the year 2000 for me…
Tonight, Hilary Swank is up in the Best Actress category for her role as Brandon Teena in “Boys Don’t Cry.” I keep worrying I am going to miss the Academy Awards show altogether. Right now it’s Sunday evening and my final party is scheduled with another associate at the home of an affluent family. The party is located about an hour from my home. I am to be Woody from “Toy Story” and the other employee is to be his best pal, Buzz Light Year. The two of them are quite a duo and I don’t believe the rumors about them being gay. Not that I even mind, as I think that would be very sweet and a great example of why gay marriage should be legal, but still the rumors have no basis.
The trouble with the show is that Buzz Light Year is running late because he has been at another event and has now gotten caught in traffic. I know, Buzz Light Year almost flies in the films, but in real life he drives a used car that carries the potential for a shut down at anytime. I’m worried that I’m going to miss the Oscars. It’s a pity as I know the employee playing Buzz has close to the same interest in the Oscars as well, but first we have to perform among the many partygoers. I loved “Boys Don’t Cry” so much and just have to see if Hilary Swank is going to win. The thought I may miss the opportunity creates a lot of sadness, so I might as well make do with the circumstance to the best of my ability.
Given Swank is a woman who played a man I feel as though my Woody get up is a nod to her incredible performance. I too am a woman about to dress like a man, a cowboy nonetheless. As opposed to waiting for my associate to show, I jump on the host’s offer to meander about her home until I find a place suitable for my transformation. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have to stuff my jeans or anything, but I have a lot to do before I can convince the three-year-olds I am in fact a man named Woody. His name is misleading. It sounds like just the title that will require a stuffing of the old Levis, much less for a “hired party entertainer,” but that’s not the case. All I have to do is put on the boots, of course the jeans, the bandanna, the large Velcro western belt, the plaid shirt, the cow print vest, the tie around the neck, the large molded head that looks like Woody, and the cowboy hat. So I put this apparel and accessories over my street clothes and stand in front of the mirror in the Master suite. I begin to practice standing like a man, walking like a man, and try hard to tuck my long-nailed feminine hands into the cuffs of my shirt. The last part becomes more difficult to do once I start pretending to fire guns as though in a Western shoot-out. Though I feel I have respect and empathy for those who are transgendered, this experience brings it all to such a deeper level. My fun, or should I say work, comes to a close once Buzz pops thru the door and dresses as speedy as hell. We do the show. We make it to our televisions in time. We watch the Oscars. Hilary Swank wins the award. This experience is certainly one to treasure.
It’s now a year later, March 31, 2001, to be exact. I get to do a show as Buzz today and my significant other is going to be Woody. Given it’s the date before the infamous April Fool’s Day makes everything seem so surreal. Something about this 24 to 48 hour time frame causes everyone to go a little mad. You’ve got people who haven’t laughed at a joke for years somehow devising the most elaborate of schemes.
I have deep seeded theories about the reasons April Fool’s Day is so popular. Some people simply like to play jokes. Others love to laugh. Some hop on any holiday no matter how strange it is just to celebrate. And the last group simply like the trickery. The individuals who comprise this final collection of people are downright filthy liars in their everyday lives. They’re just happy an entire day each and every year is devoted to their insanity. The thought of being able to tell lies and not be called liars, but instead mask the craziness with a simple statement like “April Fool’s!” creates an adrenaline rush for them like no other. It’s the liars that could really get to me if I thought long enough about the whole scenario. These pathological liars are some of the most contemptible people in this world, so I prefer to think they don’t truly get enjoyment out of the day whatsoever. They’re probably quite narcissistic and therefore too busy getting jealous about all the other people getting to tell lies as well. It’s sheer madness.
At any rate, it’s March 31, 2001 and I have a typical day ahead filled with two shows. The first is of the costume variety and the second is of the clown variety. Given the initial show is to begin around 1:30 pm I am going to leave the house around noon. A lot needs to be explained when I say I am going to leave my home for the day because so much organization always goes into being prepared for the weekend. First, although I like to wear make-up of the regular kind, meaning Maybelline as opposed to Moscow Circus Mud Mash, I still have to carry a large clown make-up bag with red crayons, blush, red lip balm, white crayons, glitter lip balm, blue crayons, black lip liner, baby powder, baby shampoo, a powder puff, a make-up brush, wipes, paper towels, and plenty of bobby pins. Baby powder works to seal the make-up on the face and the baby shampoo works best to remove the make-up after the sealing is completed hours earlier. It’s a secret of the trade. Next, I bring an enormous boom box that can play my cds or cassette tapes at the shows. I have to remember extra batteries, the electrical cord in case even the new batteries fail to work, plus the cds and cassette tapes themselves. In addition I place plenty of change for tolls, directions to each of the shows, my address book, regular make-up, a regular change of clothes, bottles of water, the contents of my purse, my cell phone, balloons, temporary tattoos, air pumps, prizes, games, face paint, and of course the costume characters and clown outfit themselves.
I drive a Chrysler Neon that is cranberry in color and is a little under a year old. My automobile prior to the Neon was a grey Pontiac Bonneville which I had driven since about 1995. All had gone semi-well with the Bonneville up to when I accidentally backed into a fire hydrant as I ran late for a Big Bird show. It’s a terrible feeling to try and hold up as Big Bird for 45 minutes when severely worried that your car has been totaled, much less by a fire hydrant. Unfortunately the car was not totaled, so I had to drive it around for over six months with the one side looking like a Hot Wheels crash-up mobile. It was the fire hydrant incident that lead me to purchase the Neon.
Speaking of car accidents, there are a few tidbits of information about them in general that I would like to share. Given the accident also took place while I was on a cell phone, there are a few tidbits of information about cell phones I want to share as well. Automobile accidents are a weird phenomenon in life. What’s even weirder is the way one’s perception of them evolves throughout time. As a child, even the tiniest of fender benders carry enormous importance. Everything becomes measured on whether it happened before or after an accident. This is understandable when devastating crashes occur, but little bumps hold the same weight. Children view time itself in a way that is entirely different from adults and so events are the only means of defining say a day in February versus a day in September. Plus accidents are highly traumatic to children no matter how severe they are as they cannot believe their parents actually told the truth. Yes, I think a lot of kids, including myself at one time, simply thought that accidents were being used as a scare tactic. Cars really couldn’t crash together, the idea was just some fabricated tale meant to stop siblings from engaging in high pitched shrieks, hair pulling, arm twists, incontrollable laughter, crayons up the nose, and so forth, all while in the back of the family station wagon. So when an accident did take place it was cause for bewilderment. It was none of that tooth fairy hocus-pocus, it was the real deal. Thus the complete shock of it all certainly was memorable. These memories were cause for a re-telling of the accident even at family parties. Never mind that the parents had given a strict lecture about the importance of not talking about the accident around anyone they knew. Children do not disclose information to be vindictive, however, it’s just the shock is too much to bear so the information explodes. I understand it, I just wish it wasn’t reality, at least in terms of minor fender benders.
Teenagers downplay accidents at almost any cost. Now that my teen years are far behind, I can easily declare my feelings on this issue without worry that I have disowned my own kind. No offense to teens, as in a way I feel sorry for them, however, some of the ridiculous stories they concoct are truly an act of either complete desperation or utter craziness. My teenage self once included, there is for some reason a dire need to cover one’s tracks with elaborate stories that usually end up blowing everything up out of proportion even more so then they need to be. Take it, I did not go down this route often, but I can recall a few times where I now look back and wonder what the hell I was thinking. For example, one time I was on a first date in the city of Chicago and the back of my car was slammed by a taxi driver who had swerved to avoid some lunatic on the road. There was significant damage to the back of one side of the car and all parties involved had to go to the police station. As opposed to simply stating the facts, I made my parents pry the information out of me in a way. Take it, the accident was entirely not my fault and they knew I was on a first date, but for some reason the urge to avoid trouble (even though there was no way I would be in any) overtook my rational mind. Questions like “How bad is the damage done to the back of the car?” were answered with statements like, “Alright. But even the police say everyone has been getting their cars hit lately. They think it’s an epidemic or something.” How the hell does that answer make any sense? From the “alright” to the epidemic scenario, the reply is just silly. Alright, good? Alright, bad? Which way does even the first word of that answer swing?
Now adults have a tendency to dwell on every other fact of an accident as long as no one has died. They will always bring it up as a point of reference and say stuff like, “Well, I don’t know why some people would even think of switching lanes without a turn signal and do you know my yearly insurance deductible went up $200 because of that goddamn incident?” The accident is discussed, analyzed, and dissected on every level, except of course when in front of anyone they know, as noted above.
Cell phones, cell phones, or mobile phones, whatever they’re called. I have grown to like mine again despite a short ban on wanting to ever own one for awhile. It’s true though, it’s best not to use them behind the wheel, especially when one considers the types of conversations many people have these days. I think some individuals would even ask for a divorce via text message on their way to work. That should not go on for any number of reasons, driving included. I often think back to when they were called car phones and poke fun at the primitiveness of it all. That “car phone” business seems like ages ago, yet it was really only when I was a teenager and could easily pick it up to begin one of those elaborate accident stories.
All of this cell phone talk reminds me of a time not so long ago when the mail had created a fury. Snail mail, or the USPS, or traditional mail, or post mail, or whatever one chooses to call it, is becoming rather dated. I love the “regular mail” as much as I adore email, however, I sometimes feel like it is the landline/house phone of the written communication world. Well, about five years ago or so, the primitive correspondence arrived, which accounts for this little tale...
The bright neon postcard sat quietly on the kitchen counter, though the intent of its arrival, was meant to be anything but tranquil. Electrified orange always left a mark, an imprint of sorts on those it touched. This time around, not only did the color scream at me, but the message it delivered did so as well. In bold typeface it confirmed the details of my 10-year high-school reunion that was to last four hours, complete with dinner. My guess is that the meal was to be eaten without assigned seating, which
of course meant salad may have to be consumed next to the individual who once thought it was funny to whisper obscenities as I read “The Color Purple” aloud in class. If I arrived late, I wouldn’t have a choice as to where to sit, and therefore could be stuck anywhere, which is exactly how I felt in high school. Stuck anywhere and everywhere all at once, with thoughts of going nowhere looming on my mind. My goodness, the emotions a little postcard could stir up, I only imagined what a full length flyer would
have created. Such unique timing the austere notification had, as I recently had found out I was to become a Mother again. I would have two under two, a handful that I would love, yet a handful nonetheless. As a student I had taken Parenting. Would others scoff at this remembrance and comment as to why I had children so close together, being sure to note that siblings should be separated by so many, such and such years. As I fed my 10-month old on the couch, staring vaguely into the kitchen at that postcard, I realized I didn’t care if they did, yet I also realized I may not want to be trapped in the same room as those who do.
Ironically, or perhaps maybe not, orange had been one of my school colors. Orange and navy blue. The colors were most apparent on days of pep rallies as I scurried though the hall trying to decide if I should go to the spirit festivities or sit in the lunchroom with the gloomy crowd whose colors were black and gray. Over the years I was one of the only ones to do a little of both. Not belonging used to hurt, but now at 28, I embraced the concept as my identity. Uniqueness was simply that, it also didn’t have assigned seating, be it a gymnasium or cafeteria.
A decade prior my 5-letter maiden name graced the pages of the yearbook; and now my 11-letter married name would serve as my place card should I attend. My Mom sequestered me on occasion to simply drop some of the letters in my new Mrs. title. In other words, make-up my own last name. However, I explained this wasn’t easy to accomplish in a legal fashion, so she would have to make do with what I was tossed at the altar.
It seems the postcard lurked around the
kitchen and served as a reminder of all that had
changed, but hinted at what had possibly not. Would I go? The answer was left to be seen in the weeks ahead. I gathered the orange notice and put it safely in my purse. I sat on the couch in my navy blue shirt and black pants, read “Harold and the Purple Crayon” to my son, and reluctantly smiled knowing how arduous it would be to teach my two under two all 11 letters of their last name.
And reflecting on that postcard scenario now, I realize my new last name is splendid; however, it does look a little awkward on my cell phone bill, or any bill for that matter; but now on with the clown chronicles…
As stated, today is the final day in March of 2001 and I just woke up in my room, which is located in my parents’ home where I still reside. Earlier this month I had taken my first and so far only trip to Europe. It had lasted nine days, the country I traveled to was England, and I felt highly fortunate to have had the experience. I never went on spring break or have been to any other continent, so this was a real special excursion. So today I am still a little confused as to what country I am in, as traveling always seems to baffle the hell out of me. I decide to look out my window and since there are no castles or double decker red busses I am safely assuming it is The United States. I hope my theory will prove to be right. Usually once arriving home from a trip this back and forth bewilderment only lasts about a month. So, I figure by the middle of April all should be back to normal.
I walk into the bathroom in order to start getting ready for work and notice there are large circles under my eyes. Given I am to be Buzz Light Year today I let out a sigh of relief. For one, the plastic head will in fact cover my head and therefore my face. Second, if I am to truly be in character, I have confidence that Buzz would not let circles under his eyes get him down, so I will need to throw vanity aside. But, I am a bit worried because later I am supposed to dress as a clown. If the circles are too severe I may just come off as a sad mime trying to moonlight as a clown in order to support a drug habit or something. What to do? What to do? I tap my fingers on the counter. I don’t have any answers except to shower, get dressed, and hope for the best, so this is what I do on this April Fool’s Eve.
When I say get dressed, I do not mean a business suit or even a pair of jeans. The kinds of clothes that all of us at Clowning Around wear under costumes are typically items that most people sell at their yearly garage sale. I almost always wear a white t-shirt or green work shirt from Sears and a pair of stretch pants I bought as an eighth grader and wore on my first day of high school. Given I am now 23 years old, they are a little worn down. It doesn’t matter. Given the fibers of the pants are near evaporated, they allow for air to circulate to my legs which is a requirement when dressed in hot costumes. On another note, I am not about to bother with make-up yet as I know it will sweat off and just get all over Buzz’s interior facial features. I do not want to do that to Buzz, to the employee who will next have to wear the costume, or myself. As I mentioned, I later have a clown show and will have to re-apply my foundation, powder, and mascara if applying it before The Toy Story sweat marathon. So now I am ready (pajama-like clothes, wet hair, and uncovered circles under my eyes) and go downstairs to the kitchen.
Despite being “ready” I have to eat breakfast and pack up the car. One of the unusual, scary, cool, Gothic, freaky, eerie, funny, unique, disgusting, etc. aspects of the costume characters is how they are packaged.
Each week, I make the trek up to the office near the Wisconsin border and pick up my supplies for the weekend. Aside from grabbing extra face paint and balloons for my clown endeavors, I have to get the costumes themselves. For example, this week I got Buzz and Woody. As I may have noted before, my boyfriend is going to meet me at my first show. The party host has beckoned the presence of both of the lead stars from Toy Story in order to help celebrate her son’s sixth birthday. So earlier in the week when I arrived at the office, Buzz and Woody were sitting there for me in large, plastic, dark-colored garbage bags. Probably of the Hefty variety or something. Buzz’s head and hands were in one bag with helpful tips on how to get to the show tucked inside his head. In the other garbage bag was his torso and feet, though the feet had gotten separated for a moment, so it looked as though Buzz had endured blunt trauma to his gams the week prior. Fortunately, his other foot was hiding behind the bright green belt he wore to give his physique more definition. So all of his body parts were located somewhere in the two garbage bags. Next was Woody. His realistic features peeking out of his respective garbage bag gave off an appearance that he in fact was an actual dead body that Clowning Around had uncovered from the warehouse. His head and all of his goodies only needed one bag as his outfit could be folded neatly beside the other body parts. Woody’s attire wasn’t bulky at all. He was fit and trim, a real modern day metrosexual, despite the whole 19th/20th century Western get-up. All of the costume characters are placed in garbage bags when they need to be transported by any of the employees into their cars and thus to various shows. It is rather creepy, but also clean and efficient. The large warehouse in back of the office is the storing grounds. In a way it looks like a serial killer’s treasure chest. Heads line Rubbermaid shelves. Torsos hang from wire hangers. Hands and feet rest on the ground in an organized fashion, except for the occasional separation, which causes a foot or finger or something to end up in the employee bathroom. My boss’ mother typically takes charge of packing it all up for each of us and she even sprinkles cinnamon scented deodorizer powder on the heads. This is in case some employee has done the ultimate no-no and placed the feet inside the head and left them there for a couple of weeks. Disgusting! The powder kind of seems like human ashes though, which only adds to the serial killer feel all the more. So, bodies in bags are just another perk of the job.
Back to April Fool’s Eve, I load Buzz and Woody into the backseat of my car along with all of my stuff I later need for the clown show. After that I say good-bye to my family and take off. The best route to the first show, which is about 45 minutes away, begins on a street called 143rd that later transforms into The Midlothian Turnpike. From this point forth I will refer to it as The Midlothian Turnpike as it sounds more accident prone than the rather bland 143rd street. Along the Turnpike the speed limit is 45mph and there is a little yellow sign that shows a person riding on a horse. It’s unbelievable to think anyone rides a horse along this road, but apparently the sign indicates this is a regular happening, so go figure. In my opinion horses don’t mix with automobiles zipping by at 45mph but then again a graveyard is near so at least the deceased humans will have a place to rest and the horses could just hitch a ride to the nearest pet cemetery. The graveyard is called Bachelor’s Grove and it is nationally famous for being a haunted site in America. I first went there in the 8th grade on a field trip. It was a two part deal where all of the students got to browse around Bachelor’s Grove and also Rubio Woods which is right across the Turnpike. Given all of the crazy stuff people try to pull off among the tombstones on a yearly basis, a Buzz or Woody resting in the weeds would just seem like a normal occurrence. Fortunately though, they remain in my car as we pass the cemetery grounds. Bachelor’s Grove truly is quite mystical and I like that the swampy pond that sits at its’ side is visible from the street. Tiny houses that were built in a cluster also sit in the forest that lines each side of the Turnpike. As a child I remember hearing rumors that the houses belonged to a cult. Actually they are just part of a camp grounds often used by The Boy Scouts. At any rate the Turnpike is a rather interesting road to travel and this experience is simply making it all the more surreal.
I decide to call my boyfriend from my cell phone in order to discuss how we will meet at the show. As noted earlier, I am to be Buzz and he is going to be Woody, so I will simply refer to each of us by those characters as I describe our conversation. Buzz and Woody’s exchange goes something like this (I have allowed myself a bit of artistic license).
Buzz says, “Hello, it’s me, are you there?”
Woody says, “Yeah, mmm. I’m here.
“How’s everything going?”
“We just talked last night, nothing has changed much since then.”
“Oh yeah, I know, I am just asking to see how you are.”
“Well, I’m fine, so don’t keep asking me all of the time if I’m okay.”
Flash ahead for a second to the present day again. As I proceed, please remember that Buzz and Woody no longer have a relationship. Also, I was struggling with intense OCD thoughts at the time as I was attempting to drive and talk on the phone all while worried that I may someday get the urge to run over the cute little ducks I just seen crossing the road. OCD is such a hassle. For one, I loathe the thought of violence toward people and animals. Second, I didn’t get violent urges, I just worried that one day I would wake up with them. Third, I’m a vegetarian and wouldn’t even get any meal out of the whole thing anyhow. So there would be no satisfaction across the board. Yes, obsessive-compulsive thoughts are horrendous! I am proud to say I have found a way to manage well with the condition for the past 10 or so years. So, no more concerns for the most part, about Huey, Duey, and Looey crossing the street. Back to the conversation in 2001.
So Buzz (which is actually me) then says, “Okay, well, I just left my parents’ house and I can meet you at the show in about an hour.”
Woody replies, “Sounds good. I will do so.”
“Do you need the directions or anything like that?”
“No.”
“So, then I have a clown show later, but I thought we would meet up afterward for a $1 show and stuff after that.”
“Why? Toy Story isn’t playing at the $1 show.”
“I know, I know, but we could see something else and watch Toy Story on DVD after we go to the theater.”
“There’s nothing I really want to see.”
“Well, I might want to see a drama or a comedy or something. We don’t always have to watch the movies where we are the lead characters.”
“I just like to see myself acting and all.”
At this point I know I should be getting off of the phone as I shouldn’t be on it in the first place, given I am driving and all. Aside from the OCD thoughts, driving, phone conversation, etc., I also start to ponder why the English drive on the opposite side of the street. (Given I just got back from my trip I really do want a logical answer). In other words, with all of the above carrying forth, too much is now going on in the car! As the conversation proceeds, I begin to approach Cicero and The Midlothian Turnpike and drive into the left hand turning lane. While still on the phone I glide into the middle of the intersection and when the light turns green for some reason my brain clicks that I can turn left. Well, it isn’t a green arrow, it is just a green light and the oncoming traffic has the same shade of green that I do, so they begin to drive forward as well. I turn left on to Cicero and BOOM!!!! My arm bangs into the steering wheel and I let out a small scream. The phone disconnects. Suddenly, I realize I have slammed into another car.
The traffic coming from all four directions comes to a halt as green fluid begins to pour out from the front of my car. Given Buzz’s tendency to have hints of green throughout his attire, as well as his alien loving spaceman qualities, it almost appears like the liquid is in fact spewing from him. He has either peeded himself, vomited, or gave a donation at the local sperm bank that just happens to be at the intersection of Cicero and the Midlothian Turnpike. So, the green liquid keeps on pouring and I realize that the left hand side of the front end of my car is demolished. As I get out I suddenly remember I have wet hair, no make-up, pajama-like clothing on, clown accessories that look like I am planning a bank robbery in the front seat, and what appears to be dead bodies in the back seat. In the excitement of the accident these things had temporarily left my mind, until my foot hits the pavement and I realize people in cars are staring at the entire scene. Worse yet the driver of the other car is a male senior citizen, but fortunately he is the only one in the vehicle and neither of us is injured.