Saturday's Storyteller: "Russell put the clown make up on to hide the burns."
by Belinda Roddie
Russell put the clown make-up on to hide the burns. He had to cake extra white powder on his chin - that was where the scars were the worst. Leave it to his mother to smack him in the face with a still hot frying pan when he was nine. With bubbling egg yolk still around its edges, no less. He had smelled like an omelet the whole time he was in the hospital.
He didn't try to convey to anyone the kind of physical and mental pain he endured on a daily basis. People just thought the paint was a quirk. An artistic decision. A way to be himself. Only a select few knew about the kitchen incident - his brother, Joel, was one of them. Joel was two years older. He was also mentally thirty years younger, stuck at a seven-year-old mindset. So he still didn't quite comprehend what had happened, and he never would. He liked the clown make-up, though. It made him laugh and clap his hands with glee.
Russell gave Joel warm cereal every morning, just the way he liked it. Joel liked warm chocolate milk on his cheerios, and his brother didn't make a fuss about it. He'd go into the bathroom and start powdering his face, taking extra care to embroider his jawline black because the skin was still rubbery on his cheeks. He had refused any sort of cosmetic operation, mostly because he didn't have the money. He had to take care of Joel, anyway, whether he wore red rouge or not.
Dabbing the underside of his eyes with a blue-dipped brush, Russell walked into the living room to see Joel watching Sesame Street again. He had his fists propped up against his chin, his stubbled face beaming, as he sat rapt at the sight of the Count singing about the number thirteen. Chip bags and glasses with the chocolate powder still muddy at the bottom were scattered around the battered coffee table, which took up a good chunk of the living room space.
"Haven't you watched this before, buddy?" Russell asked as he fetched a glass of water from the cramped kitchen. He sipped carefully so as not to smear his face paint.
"Yeah. I don't care," chirped Joel, his eyes glistening under his mop of auburn hair. He turned his head to look at Russell and giggled. "You look funny."
"You like the blue?"
"Not really." Joel frowned. "You look sad."
"Blue's the color of the ocean," Russell pointed out.
"Then the ocean looks sad, too."
Russell laughed and ruffled his brother's hair. He would fetch him a king-sized peanut butter candy bar at the drugstore after he returned from work. The people coming in for his tattoo designs didn't mind the clown look. One chick had commented that it was edgy and unique after receiving a Celtic knot. His most difficult and impressive tattoo to date.
"I'm gonna go, buddy. You remember the jelly sandwich I left in the fridge."
"Okay."
"And don't mess with the stove."
"I never do."
"Atta boy, Joel," grinned Russell before putting on his jacket and stepping out of the apartment.
***
"You lied about this tattoo!'"
Riley, peeved, glanced from her latest sketch in order to stare down the red-faced man in the too small shirt, his stomach noticeably bulging against the stained AC/DC logo. A seemingly innocuous line of Chinese characters, freshly inked, pulsed from his lumpy forearm. She had been on a roll with designing a sword-rose hybrid. The hilt was the blossom and the blade had thorns. It looked awesome.
"And how did I lie?" she asked smugly.
The man snorted loudly, like a raging rhinoceros. "You wrote 'fat cocksucker' on my arm! You fucking whore! I don't know where you get off!"
" 'Fat cocksucker?'" Riley repeated, feigning skepticism. "Who told you that? Your multiculturally adept buddy Farley, with the blood-stained chainsaw spray-painted on his ass?"
"It was the guy who owns the Chinese restaurant down the block, you tubby bitch!" howled the agitated customer.
From the corner, Riley's fellow tattoo artist did not jolt or become distracted from his work. His customer was practically comatose as he worked up and down the exposed invert of her back, his white face gleaming in the spare light of the parlor. Riley sighed and clicked her tongue. For someone who freely decided to call her fat because of her admittedly huge hips, this frustrated patron was one to talk given his assumedly steady penchant for beef chow mein.
"So let me get this straight," she mused. "You showed your new artistic endowment to your Chinese waiter, and he said it means 'fat cocksucker?'"
"Bitch, you deaf?"
"No, but he's not quite right." Riley smirked as she crossed one leg over the other, the stool swiveling slightly beneath her. "I wrote, 'fat penis-eater,' though I have to confess, it's simpified Chinese, not traditional."
The way he screamed at her nearly caused her ears to ring, but her co-worker was up in a flash, putting his needle down and sizing the angry customer up. One look at his exposed bicep, and his eyes crinkled under his make up.
"You asked for something in Chinese, Vince buddy," he sneered. "You never said what."
"I said - "
Vince stopped, stuttered, howled, sputtered, and shook just a little bit more before storming out of the parlor. Russell turned to his client as if asking for a sign of approval. The relaxed college student gave him a thumbs up.
"He did ask for specific characters, actually," Riley admitted as she returned to her sketch.
"Oh? And what were those?"
"Sexy lion."
"Son of a bitch." Russell laughed. "You just can never tell with that guy."
"He'll be back in three months, you know that."
"Yeah, and if he asks for kanji, I'm writing, 'manwhore.' Watch me."
Riley giggled as Russell returned to his work. His receding hairline caught the light of the nearest window, which cast an eerie pall over his powdered face. Riley knew why he wore the make up, and in fact, she had seen why he wore it, too. She had stumbled to work hung over once, not wearing one of her contacts. In her half-blurred vision, she had watched Russell through the partially ajar door of the bathroom they kept in their establishment. He had just washed his face and was re-applying his paint. A blob of dead skin clung to both corners of his mouth.
However drunk or crazy his mother was, she had had a precise hit when she struck him with that pan. Russell had seemed to tell the story almost jokingly, which seemed masochistic to Riley but perhaps was the only way he could handle it. Riley sometimes wished she could do something. She didn't bother to expand from said desire.
The streams of musical notes and clefs looked great on the girl's bare back, and she shook hands with Russell after spending some time resting - he hadn't wanted her to pull on her shirt and take off just in case he had given her an infection. Not that it would have happened - he was a brilliant tattoo artist, and he always seemed capable of going above and beyond his latest accomplishment. Riley tucked her sketch into the drawer below the cash register and sat beside Russell as he dug into a box of Mongolian beef.
"Ugh, not Chinese. Reminds me of Vince."
"Vince can keep being a penis-eater," Russell scoffed. "Want some?"
"No, thanks," replied Riley. "I'm surprised you don't smear your make up with the way you gobble that down."
"It's not so bad."
"You ever end up accidentally eating your own face paint?"
"Occasionally, but it's not toxic," explained Russell, his mouth brimming with spicy cow product. "Consider it extra protein."
"There's no protein in it!"
"Then consider it extra nutrients in some form. Whatever. Isn't that why kids eat paste?"
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're sexy," commented Russell, bluntly as he always was. "You want to grab a drink after work?"
Riley sighed. She leaned against the nearest wall and bunched her knees together, her bosom pushed up against her shirt.
"You know I've got Brian to tend to," she griped.
"And I've got Joel. Let's make it a family get-together."
"How old is your brother again?"
"Thirty-nine. How old is your nephew again?"
"Seven."
"So they'll get along fine," said Russell. "Put the TV in front of them and they'll be buddies."
"Russell, I know Joel thinks like Brian, but Brian's not going to be comfortable," Riley pointed out.
"Well, shit, Riley, I've been dying for a Scotch. You know I don't keep booze in the house."
"There's also the fact that you look like a circus performer."
"Town's used to it."
"I'm not." Riley averted her eyes. "I'd like to see your real face more often."
Russell frowned above his box of beef. His eyes were narrowed under his blue make up. "What makes you say that?"
"You say it looks half-melted. I disagree."
"It is half-melted."
"You don't look bad."
"I got frying panned, Riley. This is the only way I feel normal."
"You got frying panned, and I got sausage lips and one eye that's smaller than the other and a deviated septum," retorted Riley. "Do I win the self-pity contest?"
Russell chewed on some gristle and hummed. "Only a little."
"What's the prize?" she asked.
"A drink and a kiss?"
"Not with the make up on."
"Riley, please," begged Russell. "I'll wipe it off around my mouth."
"Russell."
"I'll let you kiss my real lips. My real, patched up lips."
"You're like a walking art piece, dude," groaned Riley. "I can look, but not touch."
She was looking straight on at his face, watching the way it moved as he set down his chopsticks. The intricate patterns of black and red on his cheeks, forming elaborate spades and hearts like he was a playing card. Every design was different. Flowers, shadows, even wild beasts had dotted his jaw bone and lined up with his sideburns. The eye paint was always different - usually blue or purple, but the difference in shade was a nice nuance. The way his eyebrows lifted above the mosaic. The way the skin around his eyes folded into bunches of portable happiness as he smiled.
Riley licked her wet lips and leaned her head against the tile. Outside, a motorcycle hummed. Maybe Farley marching in to defend his humiliated friend.
"We'll try out your Joel and Brian plan. I'll get him to bring his video games to your apartment."
"Sweet. Scotch and Kahlua at Henry's?"
"I expect to see you in a tuxedo and an equally patterned facial mask," teased Riley as she stood up. "And in return, I'll wear my ass-hugging skirt."
"Make sure it rides up just around your left buttcheek. That's the nicest of the two."
"Fuck you, Russell."
"Back to work, hot stuff," chuckled Russell as he went to his station and picked up his singing needle.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
Russell put the clown make-up on to hide the burns. He had to cake extra white powder on his chin - that was where the scars were the worst. Leave it to his mother to smack him in the face with a still hot frying pan when he was nine. With bubbling egg yolk still around its edges, no less. He had smelled like an omelet the whole time he was in the hospital.
He didn't try to convey to anyone the kind of physical and mental pain he endured on a daily basis. People just thought the paint was a quirk. An artistic decision. A way to be himself. Only a select few knew about the kitchen incident - his brother, Joel, was one of them. Joel was two years older. He was also mentally thirty years younger, stuck at a seven-year-old mindset. So he still didn't quite comprehend what had happened, and he never would. He liked the clown make-up, though. It made him laugh and clap his hands with glee.
Russell gave Joel warm cereal every morning, just the way he liked it. Joel liked warm chocolate milk on his cheerios, and his brother didn't make a fuss about it. He'd go into the bathroom and start powdering his face, taking extra care to embroider his jawline black because the skin was still rubbery on his cheeks. He had refused any sort of cosmetic operation, mostly because he didn't have the money. He had to take care of Joel, anyway, whether he wore red rouge or not.
Dabbing the underside of his eyes with a blue-dipped brush, Russell walked into the living room to see Joel watching Sesame Street again. He had his fists propped up against his chin, his stubbled face beaming, as he sat rapt at the sight of the Count singing about the number thirteen. Chip bags and glasses with the chocolate powder still muddy at the bottom were scattered around the battered coffee table, which took up a good chunk of the living room space.
"Haven't you watched this before, buddy?" Russell asked as he fetched a glass of water from the cramped kitchen. He sipped carefully so as not to smear his face paint.
"Yeah. I don't care," chirped Joel, his eyes glistening under his mop of auburn hair. He turned his head to look at Russell and giggled. "You look funny."
"You like the blue?"
"Not really." Joel frowned. "You look sad."
"Blue's the color of the ocean," Russell pointed out.
"Then the ocean looks sad, too."
Russell laughed and ruffled his brother's hair. He would fetch him a king-sized peanut butter candy bar at the drugstore after he returned from work. The people coming in for his tattoo designs didn't mind the clown look. One chick had commented that it was edgy and unique after receiving a Celtic knot. His most difficult and impressive tattoo to date.
"I'm gonna go, buddy. You remember the jelly sandwich I left in the fridge."
"Okay."
"And don't mess with the stove."
"I never do."
"Atta boy, Joel," grinned Russell before putting on his jacket and stepping out of the apartment.
***
"You lied about this tattoo!'"
Riley, peeved, glanced from her latest sketch in order to stare down the red-faced man in the too small shirt, his stomach noticeably bulging against the stained AC/DC logo. A seemingly innocuous line of Chinese characters, freshly inked, pulsed from his lumpy forearm. She had been on a roll with designing a sword-rose hybrid. The hilt was the blossom and the blade had thorns. It looked awesome.
"And how did I lie?" she asked smugly.
The man snorted loudly, like a raging rhinoceros. "You wrote 'fat cocksucker' on my arm! You fucking whore! I don't know where you get off!"
" 'Fat cocksucker?'" Riley repeated, feigning skepticism. "Who told you that? Your multiculturally adept buddy Farley, with the blood-stained chainsaw spray-painted on his ass?"
"It was the guy who owns the Chinese restaurant down the block, you tubby bitch!" howled the agitated customer.
From the corner, Riley's fellow tattoo artist did not jolt or become distracted from his work. His customer was practically comatose as he worked up and down the exposed invert of her back, his white face gleaming in the spare light of the parlor. Riley sighed and clicked her tongue. For someone who freely decided to call her fat because of her admittedly huge hips, this frustrated patron was one to talk given his assumedly steady penchant for beef chow mein.
"So let me get this straight," she mused. "You showed your new artistic endowment to your Chinese waiter, and he said it means 'fat cocksucker?'"
"Bitch, you deaf?"
"No, but he's not quite right." Riley smirked as she crossed one leg over the other, the stool swiveling slightly beneath her. "I wrote, 'fat penis-eater,' though I have to confess, it's simpified Chinese, not traditional."
The way he screamed at her nearly caused her ears to ring, but her co-worker was up in a flash, putting his needle down and sizing the angry customer up. One look at his exposed bicep, and his eyes crinkled under his make up.
"You asked for something in Chinese, Vince buddy," he sneered. "You never said what."
"I said - "
Vince stopped, stuttered, howled, sputtered, and shook just a little bit more before storming out of the parlor. Russell turned to his client as if asking for a sign of approval. The relaxed college student gave him a thumbs up.
"He did ask for specific characters, actually," Riley admitted as she returned to her sketch.
"Oh? And what were those?"
"Sexy lion."
"Son of a bitch." Russell laughed. "You just can never tell with that guy."
"He'll be back in three months, you know that."
"Yeah, and if he asks for kanji, I'm writing, 'manwhore.' Watch me."
Riley giggled as Russell returned to his work. His receding hairline caught the light of the nearest window, which cast an eerie pall over his powdered face. Riley knew why he wore the make up, and in fact, she had seen why he wore it, too. She had stumbled to work hung over once, not wearing one of her contacts. In her half-blurred vision, she had watched Russell through the partially ajar door of the bathroom they kept in their establishment. He had just washed his face and was re-applying his paint. A blob of dead skin clung to both corners of his mouth.
However drunk or crazy his mother was, she had had a precise hit when she struck him with that pan. Russell had seemed to tell the story almost jokingly, which seemed masochistic to Riley but perhaps was the only way he could handle it. Riley sometimes wished she could do something. She didn't bother to expand from said desire.
The streams of musical notes and clefs looked great on the girl's bare back, and she shook hands with Russell after spending some time resting - he hadn't wanted her to pull on her shirt and take off just in case he had given her an infection. Not that it would have happened - he was a brilliant tattoo artist, and he always seemed capable of going above and beyond his latest accomplishment. Riley tucked her sketch into the drawer below the cash register and sat beside Russell as he dug into a box of Mongolian beef.
"Ugh, not Chinese. Reminds me of Vince."
"Vince can keep being a penis-eater," Russell scoffed. "Want some?"
"No, thanks," replied Riley. "I'm surprised you don't smear your make up with the way you gobble that down."
"It's not so bad."
"You ever end up accidentally eating your own face paint?"
"Occasionally, but it's not toxic," explained Russell, his mouth brimming with spicy cow product. "Consider it extra protein."
"There's no protein in it!"
"Then consider it extra nutrients in some form. Whatever. Isn't that why kids eat paste?"
"You're ridiculous."
"And you're sexy," commented Russell, bluntly as he always was. "You want to grab a drink after work?"
Riley sighed. She leaned against the nearest wall and bunched her knees together, her bosom pushed up against her shirt.
"You know I've got Brian to tend to," she griped.
"And I've got Joel. Let's make it a family get-together."
"How old is your brother again?"
"Thirty-nine. How old is your nephew again?"
"Seven."
"So they'll get along fine," said Russell. "Put the TV in front of them and they'll be buddies."
"Russell, I know Joel thinks like Brian, but Brian's not going to be comfortable," Riley pointed out.
"Well, shit, Riley, I've been dying for a Scotch. You know I don't keep booze in the house."
"There's also the fact that you look like a circus performer."
"Town's used to it."
"I'm not." Riley averted her eyes. "I'd like to see your real face more often."
Russell frowned above his box of beef. His eyes were narrowed under his blue make up. "What makes you say that?"
"You say it looks half-melted. I disagree."
"It is half-melted."
"You don't look bad."
"I got frying panned, Riley. This is the only way I feel normal."
"You got frying panned, and I got sausage lips and one eye that's smaller than the other and a deviated septum," retorted Riley. "Do I win the self-pity contest?"
Russell chewed on some gristle and hummed. "Only a little."
"What's the prize?" she asked.
"A drink and a kiss?"
"Not with the make up on."
"Riley, please," begged Russell. "I'll wipe it off around my mouth."
"Russell."
"I'll let you kiss my real lips. My real, patched up lips."
"You're like a walking art piece, dude," groaned Riley. "I can look, but not touch."
She was looking straight on at his face, watching the way it moved as he set down his chopsticks. The intricate patterns of black and red on his cheeks, forming elaborate spades and hearts like he was a playing card. Every design was different. Flowers, shadows, even wild beasts had dotted his jaw bone and lined up with his sideburns. The eye paint was always different - usually blue or purple, but the difference in shade was a nice nuance. The way his eyebrows lifted above the mosaic. The way the skin around his eyes folded into bunches of portable happiness as he smiled.
Riley licked her wet lips and leaned her head against the tile. Outside, a motorcycle hummed. Maybe Farley marching in to defend his humiliated friend.
"We'll try out your Joel and Brian plan. I'll get him to bring his video games to your apartment."
"Sweet. Scotch and Kahlua at Henry's?"
"I expect to see you in a tuxedo and an equally patterned facial mask," teased Riley as she stood up. "And in return, I'll wear my ass-hugging skirt."
"Make sure it rides up just around your left buttcheek. That's the nicest of the two."
"Fuck you, Russell."
"Back to work, hot stuff," chuckled Russell as he went to his station and picked up his singing needle.
This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.
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