AUSTRALIAN AUTHOR | Free Book | 'Clown Club: Chapter 5' by D. M. Wright
Updated: 1d
NEW CHAPTERS WEEKLY. Comment below where you want the story to go next!
(To comment, create a login account in the top right of this page.)
VOLUME 1
CHAPTER 5. >>
I., II. & III.
On a Friday evening that Dad had intended to head out, an unexpected thumping brought him to his door.
There, he found Mum standing on the porch.
Angry.
Upset.
Tired.
All the above and more.
I stood there beside her with a black eye spread below my left eyebrow.
Her fingers were wrapped firmly around my upper arm.
Dad frowned:
“What’s going on?”
Mum released me like she was handing over hazardous waste:
“I can’t deal with your son right now.”
Dad looked at me.
Then at her.
Then back at me.
“It’s not my weekend.”
“So!” said Mum.
“But I’ve got shit to do!” said Dad.
“Congratulations.”
Dad opened his mouth, ready to launch into what was recognisably the opening stages of a custody argument.
Then his eyes settled on the bruise.
He stopped.
Everything stopped.
He was always wanting more time with me, and here I was.
His mouth closed.
Mum seized the opportunity.
She was already halfway back to the driver’s door.
“Sunday,” she called.
“Mum…” I called back. I had nothing with me.
“Sunday!”
The door slammed shut.
The engine started.
The car screeched away.
Dad stood there watching it disappear down the street.
Then he looked at me.
Really looked.
His hands settled on either side of my face.
Firm.
Careful.
Safe.
He turned my head slightly toward the light.
I squinted.
“Fuck me dead, Jimbo,” he grunted.
His thumb traced the edge of the bruise.
“Should I ask how the other bloke looks?”
The joke died halfway out of his mouth.
He already knew the answer.
I hadn’t landed a punch.
Hell, I probably hadn’t even tried.
Something in Dad’s expression softened.
It wasn’t disappointment.
It was pity.
Which somehow felt worse.
He glanced inside the house.
His clown outfit was already draped out on the lounge chair ready for the night.
The oversized shirt.
The trousers.
The nose.
Waiting.
Dad grimaced:
“Keep your jacket on, mate.”
He grabbed the keys from just inside the door and shut it behind him. He slung an arm across my shoulders and steered me toward his ute.
“Let’s go out for a bit.”
That was the first night I went to Clown Club.
Dad drove us across to the next suburb, barely five minutes away.
I spent most of the short trip staring out the passenger-side window.
He spent most of it pretending not to look at my black eye.
The Gully Tavern appeared around the corner of the backstreets Dad had taken, looming wide along a main road like its own suburb.
In the carpark, cars were packed in.
Other utes.
Family wagons.
Tradies’ work vehicles still carrying ladders and toolboxes from the day.
White light flooded the area like the ground was lit for a night-time Grand Final.
Dad parked.
We climbed out.
The smell hit me before the building did.
Chips.
Steak.
Beer.
The combined perfume of Australian civilisation.
People drifted toward the entrance as we were.
Smokers gathered beneath the awning.
Laughter burst out of groups without warning.
Everyone was arguing about the State of Origin scores or arguing why anyone cared in this state about them.
The doors opened, and another world swallowed us.
Warm air.
Bright lights yet dulled by dark walls.
Noise coming from every direction all at once.
Families crossed between restaurant tables carrying buzzing pagers.
Blokes wandered toward the bar.
Somewhere deeper inside, poker machines chirped like electronic crickets in a sideshow alley.
Sports commentary erupted from televisions on every wall.
The place felt alive.
Dad kept walking through.
Apparently, he knew where he was going, or at least who he was looking for.
I followed trying to keep pace.
We walked all the way round the main bar.
It stretched down the centre of the main hall, separating the bistro from the private function area, not that anyone cared in the thirtieth birthday using the space. Were we friends of the birthday boy? Were we family? Were we work colleagues?
One tried starting a conversation with Dad.
Dad said he knew the fella from… He muttered some bullshit he knew the other couldn’t hear above the noise, then bought me and him drinks on the party’s tab.
We scurried away for a second look through the bistro.
Waitresses zig-zagged through carrying plates of parmies, pasta and roasts that were on special.
Families occupied the larger tables.
Children negotiated desserts with the ruthless determination of hostage takers.
Exhausted parents were slowly losing ground.
Retirees lingered over coffees.
Dad kept moving.
We crossed into the sports bar.
The place immediately grew darker.
Louder.
Every wall covered by sport.
Footy.
Cricket.
Racing.
Men stood around high tables explaining how they would’ve selected a better team, coached a better game and run the country more competently if only somebody bothered asking their opinion.
Dad scanned the room.
No luck.
We pushed through a set of glass doors and stepped outside where the noise softened, the air cooled and fairy lights stretched overhead.
IV.
Groups sat around drinks beneath shade cloths.
Conversations rolled lazily between knee-high tables.
In one corner, conspicuous among the rest of the venue’s patrons, sat a collection of blokes who looked like they’d been assembled by a judging panel tasked with finding Australian’s least employable superheroes.
Every one of them was dressed to impress nobody.
Big bulbous shoes.
Baggy patchwork trousers.
Rainbow suspenders.
Colourful long-sleeve clown shirts.
Bright red noses.
No makeup.
Beers in hand.
Ryker was there. I’d never met him before. I had no idea who he was.
I had no idea who any of them were.
Dad smiled:
“Found ‘em.”
I froze.
We weren’t actually going over there, were we?
Six grown men dressed like they were celebrating their life on the run from the circus.
What the hell was Dad playing at?
Why did he bring me to hang with these weirdos?
Dad continued forward.
I made an executive decision to head back in the opposite direction.
Without missing a beat, Dad reached out, caught the hood of my jacket and reeled me back in like a fish:
“This way, Jimbo.”
“Dad?”
“Zip it,” he muttered, maintaining the smile on his face.
The discussion concluded with me being dragged toward the most alarming collection of human beings I’d ever seen gathered around a single table.
And beside them was genuinely a huddle of bikies all likely having done time once or twice in their lives!
One of the clowns spotted us first.
His eyes lit up:
“Heeeey!”
Every head turned.
The entire table erupted:
“HEEEEY!”
The greeting lasted approximately half a second before mutating into abuse.
“Brax, mate! What the hell is that?”
V.
“What the fuck, man!?”
“Where’s your gear!?”
“D’you leave it in the car?”
“Go change!”
“Tell me you’ve got it in the car!”
“Go and bloody get it.”
I glanced at Dad.
What the actual fuck?
Dad simply rolled his eyes.
“Boys, this is Jimbo.”
A chorus of nods, waves and suspiciously cheerful handshakes followed as every man made sure he gripped my palm.
Before I could react to Dad having released me, he shoved me down onto an empty stool.
Somebody passed another stood across the table.
Dad sat beside me like a prison guard on duty at the bedside of a hospitalised inmate.
The circle grew to eight.
Several pairs of eyes lingered briefly on my bruised face.
Nothing was mentioned.
It was obvious why a father had brought his son.
Immediately, the dialogue returned to its most pressing concern: nailing Dad to the wall.
“Seriously, fucktard.”
“Where’s your outfit?”
Dad skilfully manufactured enough bullshit to explain my presence and our lack of appropriate attire for Clown Club, while simultaneously returning the insults.
The group either accepted his explanation or silently agreed to revisit its weaknesses later.
One man, though, remained unconvinced.
Ryker.
His eyes kept drifting back to Dad’s complete lack of costume that the two of them had agreed upon with some sort of eternal pact.
Before we’d arrived, the club had been operating at one-hundred-percent clown capacity.
Six blokes.
Six noses.
Six shirts.
Six pairs of ridiculous trousers.
A perfect score.
Then we’d shown up.
Now they were running at six-eighths.
Three quarters.
A clear decline.
A bloke beside Ryker quietly removed his nose so he could study the menu more carefully.
NEW CHAPTERS WEEKLY. Comment below where you want the story to go next!
(To comment, create a login account in the top right of this page.)
Comments