At eleven o’clock on Sunday night, Clyde Taylor stepped into his small trailer and slammed the door.
He wasn’t in a good mood.
He opened his refrigerator and grabbed a beer, the last one of course, and sat down at his table. He was hoping maybe that would at least take some of his headache away. His head was throbbing. It felt like a steel rod was trying to poke its way out of the middle of his forehead.
Too many hours, too little sleep.
Lighting a cigarette, he watched as he let the smoke drift lazily out of his nostrils, then slowly fade away.
Just like my life, he thought. Slowly fading away.
He could still hear the voices of the crowd outside as they made their way to their cars. The voices, the people, the crowds, the job, his life; he was sick of all of it, and he needed a change. He’d been on the road for too long, going from town to town, seeing people he would never see again, and when it all came down to it, what was he?
Who was he?
He remembered a time in his life when he was happy. He had a good home, a good job, a good wife and family, everything he ever thought he would need.
And then they came to town, and he threw it all away to chase a stupid childhood dream.
He crushed the cigarette out and stepped into his bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror and didn’t like who looked back. Without thinking twice about it, he grabbed his nose and violently ripped it off. Then he went to work on the rest of his face.
The hell with being a clown in a circus. It was time to go home.