Through Oreo cookie size nostrils, I stare into a blond, spiky head — a ten-year-old punk who's gotten hold of some hair gel. He's wearing a Michael Jordan jersey, #23. It's my last gig of the summer, a street fair in Mamaroneck, New York. The kid, #23, he's knocking on my hollow purple cheeks. "C'mon," he goads. "I know you're not Barney. Who's in there?"
Though I'm fuchsia as a blooming cactus, and my head takes up its own seat, inside my furry, clawed feet I wear the steel toed Doc Martins that protect me in mosh pits. At nineteen, I still carry ten of my freshman fifteen in my brain, on my hips. I'm not in a sorority but have pledged to never again count the pubic hairs clinging to a fraternity toilet. I hate Calculus, the whole idea of infinity, but I love lesbian feminist poets with names like Chrystos. My 88-year-old Sicilian grandmother has recently broken her hip trying to change a light bulb. She comments that my black nail polish is "notta-nice" so I promptly remove it. My ears are crammed with piercings, but not my face — I'm not that brave. I don't like kids, but think I do, or at least, that I should. I'm the babysitter you hire because I get good grades, am dependable, who your kids like because I let them win at video games before I snoop through your make-up and watch Beaches on your bed, sobbing into your pillows. I think kids should just say no to priests, boy bands, happy meals, the Army. Though I'm good at a few things, I'm not great at anything. I can resuscitate a mannequin and have a mean scissors kick. I live on pasta doused in fat-free dressing. I'm a Catholic in recovery, stuck on step six. I'm a virgin, waiting for the bookish lover who deserves me.
And now, I'm gazing at #23, at high-top sneakers too big for his body. The leather tongues are white, puffy wings. I'm sweltering. I'm stalling.
Over the summer, my boss, Lisa the Clown, who runs a children's entertainment business, has taught me the two secrets to clowning. One, believe who you say you are, and if that doesn't work, two, cultivate distraction.
Children have gathered in a half moon around me, and beyond them, senior citizens dip their horns in a G-rated rendition of "I Feel Good." #23, he's karate-chopping my snout. A girl in pink overalls looks on, confused. I block #23's chop with a high five, place my furry heels together and shimmy.
"Yup. I am Barney," I say.
But #23 has lost interest, wanders off in a pack armed with sno-cones.
I stumble around, a little bounce in my step. High in a tree, two pink balloons knock together like breasts. The air smells like hot dogs, relish and mustard. Mothers clomp around in cotton shorts with elastic waistbands, while high schoolers walk slow and close, almost touching.
A three-year-old feeds me popcorn. Yumyum, I grunt, shoveling kernels into my idiotic grin. On the pavement, seagulls wrestle for the pieces.
The littlest ones tell me they love me, and I love them back. I think about my boss, Lisa, about the first time she showed me her props, among them a bunny named Pinky. "He's cute," I said, because what else can you say to a clown about her bunny?
After the town fire truck sprays the kids, they leave me with wet hugs, my fur matting. Their faces bleed stars and hearts and baseballs into wands of cotton candy. I wander towards the marina, and through the holes of my nostrils, watch the Long Island Sound, the masts of sailboats like steeples. In the sky, a few clouds pool like glue on crisp, blue paper. In the distance, I make out the fuzzy outline of New York City and feel a wave of hope, as if I've discovered something that's been there all along. With the right attitude, it's ridiculously simple to float through life as a dinosaur, a clown, as anybody else.
In two weeks, I'll be back at school, dozing in a lecture hall among hundreds. But that day, I make the paper, a photo in the town weekly: "Barney Makes a Splash!" Behind me, water arcs in rainbows, and I hold my purple paws open to the children, as if they've asked a question, and I don't know the answer. Because it's still summer, and that's all that matters.
Kristen Keckler teaches at the University of North Texas, where she is finishing up her PhD in the field of creative nonfiction. Her work has appeared in Ecotone, The Sonora Review, The Dallas Morning News, Cold-Drill, Palo Alto Review, and Concho River Review. She is also the co-author of the nonfiction instruction guide, Writing Life Stories, (Tenth Anniversary Edition), forthcoming from Writer's Digest Books in summer 2008.