The Best Medicine

The Best Medicine

My name is Anthony.  And I’m a failure.  No, really.  Don’t tell me I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.  I really am a huge fricking loser.  I’m nearly thirty, I’m not married, I don’t have a girlfriend, I don’t own my own home and my job situation hasn’t always been good.  I actually used to be successful, though.  Yep, I went to work in my suit and tie and made loads of cash.  And then I spent it.  All of it.

Foolishly, I never thought it would run out.  Dot coms were the place to be, money was flowing, the market was flourishing.  And then, suddenly, it all hit bottom.  At least my company did.  We lost everything, I lost everything.  This led me to my desperate search for a respectable job.

For some reason, no one wanted to hire me. I was turned down by countless firms and tech companies.  My tech school degree and dot com experience were worthless.  It was ridiculous.  I was either overqualified or underqualified for any job that I really wanted.  I went to an interview for a job as a barista and even they didn’t want me.  I got turned down by a coffee place!  My paltry savings were running out and I was getting more desperate by the day.

Just how desperate was I, though?  I couldn’t quite decide but my friend Susan was right there to help me make that decision.

“Come on, Anto.  Someone out there is going to hire you to do something,” She sighed a little.  “You might just have to sacrifice your pride and do some actual manual labor.”

“Manual labor?!  Like mowing lawns or doing construction or chopping wood?” I replied, holding my arms out from my sides.  “No matter how suave and handsome I may be,” here Susan rolled her eyes at me, “It just doesn’t change the fact that I am a scrawny computer nerd.  And I mean that in the sexiest way possible.  No one in their right mind is going to hire me to do manual labor.”

         Susan nodded in concession, tipping back her coffee to take a sip.  We were sitting in a café near her apartment.  She paid, of course, for our croissants and coffee.  Normally, I would never take money from a woman, but I was swiftly edging towards the poverty line and hey, I thought I might even end up crashing at Susan’s place if I didn’t find a job soon.

         I dropped my head onto the table.  The polished wood felt cool against my forehead.

         “Awww, what’s a matter with Anthony?” I heard a new voice ask.  I knew who it was before I even looked up.  The nasal, excitable voice can only belong to one man, our friend Jack.

         “Hi Jackie!” Susan said cheerfully.  “Don’t mind Anthony, he’s just a loser who couldn’t get hired if his life depended on it.  Sit down with us, Jackie?”

         For reasons I’ve never discovered, Jack insists on being called Jackie.  He’s more Susan’s friend than he is mine, but I don’t really mind him that much.  He’s one of those super metrosexual men.  If he didn’t tell me so much about his escapades with the many women he sees, I might think he was gay.  But the kid does get around and the women he goes out with are usually amazing.  I would be more jealous but his relationships never last long.  Jackie and the women he dates are too pretty to be together for long.

          Jackie twirled a chair around from a table near ours and sat astride it, leaning on the back of the chair.  “Still no job, huh?  Do you still have that fall-back option?”

         “What fall-back option?” I grumbled.  I noticed a sudden brightening in Susan’s face.  “Susan, what?”

         She was now grinning like a maniac.  Her bright blue eyes were twinkling.  “Jackie’s on it.  It’s your only option now.”

         Jackie was grinning now, too.  “He doesn’t remember.  Maybe he purposely forgot.  We all know he has that little problem . . .” He was practically sing-songing.

         “I have no idea what you two are talking about.  Why don’t you take your craziness and go somewhere else?  You’re giving me a headache.” I started rubbing my temples.

         “Oh, just look at Captain Avoidance!”  Susan was gleeful.  “Come on, Anto.  It pays really well.”

         “Surprisingly well!”  Jackie enthused.  “I mean, really, considering what kind of job is it.”

         “I still have no idea what you are talking about . . .” I considered putting my fingers into my ears and singing but opted against it at the last moment.  I was getting the feeling that I was going to need as much of my dignity as possible in the days to come.

         “Oh, quit pretending!”  Susan said.  “You know what we’re talking about and you just don’t want to take the job because you think it’s beneath you.  If you don’t take this job, the only thing that will be beneath you is the cardboard box that’s going to be your new home.”

         “It IS beneath me!  Shit, Susan!  I can’t take that job!  Being birthday entertainment for a bunch of seven year olds for the rest of my life?!  Oh my God!”  I was almost shouting.

         Jackie shushed me.  “Geez, half the restaurant is staring at us.  Shut up, you stupid drama queen.  You don’t have to do this for the rest of your life.  It’s a temp job.”

         “Come on, guys,” I looked appealingly at the faces of my two friends.  They were both staring back with their almost perfectly matched arched brows lifted.  If I hadn’t been in such dire straights I would have laughed at them.  Especially at Jackie, his black eyebrows were almost as well groomed as Susan’s red ones.  But realization that they were right was starting to trickle in.

         I left the café that afternoon with a horrible sinking feeling in my stomach.  Susan and Jack were right, I was going to have to take that horrible, degrading, demeaning and all around ridiculous job if I wanted to eat and keep my place to live.  I drank half of the last bottle of wine in my apartment before I got up the desperation to finally call.  I knew I sounded drunk, but the guy must have been as desperate as I was because he gave me the job.  My first gig?  I had the honor of being the clown at Little Ethan’s fifth birthday party.

         On Saturday morning, I went over to Susan’s apartment to have her help me get ready.  I had left my clown stuff there the night before because I knew I wouldn’t go to the party without a good shove from her.  She answered the door, my beautiful auburn-haired friend’s face almost marred by the amount of sick pleasure she had at seeing me reduced to this.

         “Oh, shut up.”  I said in lieu of a greeting.

         “And good morning to you, Happy the Clown!”  Susan said.  “Your stuff is sitting on my bed.  Go ahead and put that lovely rainbow colored suit on and we’ll do your make up!”

         She was way too excited about this.  “You’re sick.”  I said before trudging off to her room.  Cursing under my breath, I drug my feet across her plush carpet, not wanting to start getting ready yet.  I slid my hand along her dresser, my fingers brushing bottles of perfume, lotion and make up.  There was a picture on the end of the dresser of Susan in a bathing suit with some of her girlfriends.  Man, the girl on the end was a cow.  The blonde one was a babe, though.  Maybe Susan could hook us up.  I got the sudden image of the babe and me, the clown, on the beach.  I put the picture down quickly and stared mournfully at myself in the mirror.  These were my last few moments as a whole man.  After this, I would surely be nothing but a shell.

         Susan pounded at the door.  “Are you dressed yet?”

         “No!  Stay out!”  I yelled back.

         “Well, hurry up!  I want to get started on your make up!  I have just the most gorgeous shade of red lipstick waiting for you.”  She laughed evilly.

         “Go away, Susan!”  I turned back to the blue wig and clown suit.  It seemed to be mocking me with its bright pink, blue, purple and green dots.  I grabbed it and pulled it on savagely.  I nearly ripped the yellow fabric but managed to get it on and zipped up before I ruined it.  I yelled for Susan and she came in to apply white foundation, bright red lipstick, blue eye shadow and bright red gunk to my cheeks and nose.  She was so jovial the entire time that it was almost a relief when she dropped me off at the Schmidts’ home. 

         I looked around as I walked up to the front door.  The street was luckily clear of people, though I could hear the sounds of children screaming from the backyard.  I rang the doorbell reluctantly. A tall woman answered.

         “I’m Happy the Clown,” I said dully, “And I’m here to deliver the
happ-happ-happiest birthday ever to Ethan Schmidt.”

         “Well, you’re going to have to get more excited than that.”  The woman, said with a note of exasperation in her voice.  “The kids are in the back.  Good luck.”

         I stomped through the house.  I caught sight of my reflection in the hall mirror and shuddered.  I reminded myself that this was paying ridiculously well considering what it was.  That was probably only because no other fool would take the job, but money was money, as Susan and Jackie kept telling me.  I took a deep breath as I got to the back door and then threw it open.  I jumped out, causing the kids to scream and jump all around me.  I gritted my teeth and did a weak cartwheel, landing almost on my feet just off the patio.

“I hear it’s Ethan’s birthday.”  I said, as I stumbled around.  The kids screamed, a cacophony of meaningless sounds.  “Which one of you is Ethan?!”  I was screaming just because the kids were but it seemed to amp them up even more.

“A little less sugar in the frosting next time, eh?” I shouted over my shoulder to the mother.  She shrugged.

The kids were swarming all around me now.  I gave up on trying to identify the elusive Ethan; they all looked the same to me anyway.  I pulled the balloons out of my pocket that I was expected to blow up and make into animals, swords and crowns.  “Who wants a balloon animal?”

The kids screamed again, though this time I could make out “I do!  No, I do! Me FIRST!” amongst all the meaningless noise.  “Well, line up and Happy will make something special for all of you!”

“Something special” ended up being a misshapen thing that, if you squinted hard enough, somewhat resembled a turtle.  But it amused the kids for a while.  At least my job skills, or lack thereof, were being appreciated.  Pleasing five year olds isn’t that hard.  I was beginning to pat myself on the back.  Then a startling BANG! followed by the high-pitched wail of a little girl jerked me back to the reality of the situation.

“Uh-oh!” I said, with an attempt at being jolly.  “Hey there, little girl, it’s okay.”  I patted her awkwardly on the back.

         “Noooooo!” She wailed, huge tears pouring down her cheeks.

         “I’ll make you another, uh, turtle!”

         “NO!” She rejected me, spinning away from my hand that was still trying to pat her back.

         “How about I . . . uh, do a funny dance?”  I had not expected that to come out of my mouth and was almost relieved when she rejected me again.

         “Okay!” I said, this time with a real idea in my head.  “How about I spin you?” My dad used to pick me up and spin me around when I was little and I had loved it.

         “Huh?”  The little girl sniffled a little.

         “Here.”  I picked her up and spun her around in the air above my head a little.  Her tears instantly dried up and she began laughing hysterically.

         The other kids noticed quickly and crowded around me.  Everyone wanted to be spun.  And this was great for all of us, until Little Brittany puked green Kool-Aid and chocolate cake into my face.  She must not have chewed well; her barf was surprisingly gelatinous.  The brown mound tinged with green just sort of sat there on my face.  I nearly puked right back at her.  After that, it was pretty much downhill.

         As time went on, I gradually got better at being Happy the Clown, though my name really should have been changed to Begrudgingly Happy the Clown.  I still hated it.  How could I not?  It was humiliating, especially since I was still trying to find a real job at the same time.  Prospective employers would inevitably ask during the interview about my current job.

         I would shamefacedly tell them how I spent my days prancing around as a ridiculous clown and then be laughed out of the office.  The geeks that I had picked on in high school for being even lamer than me were now getting their revenge when they got to kick me out of their offices.  So I kept being the birthday clown.  Oh, the degradation.  Some people don’t even like clowns, you know?  Take Little Joey, for instance.  He was so scared when I arrived at his birthday party that he actually wet his pants.  His mother couldn’t shove me out of the room fast enough.  And then she acted like it was my fault.

         “How could you terrorize a little child like that?!” She was half-screeching.

         “I’m sorry, ma’am, but you hired me.  I had no idea your son was afraid of
clowns.  Maybe you should have considered that before you hired me.”  It was difficult to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.  What a bitch.

         “Dear!” Mrs. Anderson whirled to wrangle her husband into supporting her.  He was sitting behind her at a computer desk, his brow furrowed as he clicked around what looked like a spreadsheet.  He grumbled in frustration and continued clicking furiously.

         “Hmmp.”  Mr. Anderson grunted in way of replying to his wife.

         “Michael! This clown just terrified your son.  Get him out of here.”  She shot me one last withering glare before returning to the party in the next room.

         Mr. Anderson just kept staring at the screen.  Maybe a minute later he replied to his wife.  “Okay . . . yes, dear.”  He looked up to find her gone.  He squinted over his glasses at me.  “Erm, I guess you can go then.”

         “Actually, Mr. Anderson, your wife hasn’t paid me yet.  And whether I am allowed to finish the party or not, I still get paid my full rate.”

         Mr. Anderson squinted again.  “Well, okay.  Come over here, I’ll write you a check.”

         I trudged over and stood behind him, feeling like an expectant child.  I glanced over his shoulder.  He was working on a series of coding that my company had been especially prolific at programming.  I immediately saw where his errors were.  When he handed me the check, I pointed over his shoulder.

         “By the way, you have your decimal point three spaces too far over in column three.  It’s throwing your whole equation off.  And your less than sign in column four should be proceeded by a backslash, not a forward one.”  I folded the check, pleased that I had accomplished something today.  I was nearly out the door when Mr. Anderson gave a cry of joy.

         “Hey, um, Clown!”  He cried, running after me.  “How did you know to do that?  You just solved a problem I’ve been working on for the past two hours!”

         “Oh,” I said.  “I used to be a software programmer.  But my company went under and I’ve been looking for a new job. This clown stuff is just paying the bills for now.”

         “Well, thank you for that.  My company just started using this new software stuff and none of us have any idea how to really use it.  We’re just floundering along.  What’s your name again?”

         “Anthony Spear.” 

He grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically.  “Well, Anthony, what a stroke of luck that you were here today.  Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”  His good naturedness made me want to be nice.  “Uh, sorry about scaring Joey.  I hope everything turns out okay with your company.” 
My final sentiment was just a throw-away comment.  I didn’t actually care about his company, of course.  But I was about to start caring and fast.
My phone rang the very next day.

“Hello?” 

“Is this Anthony Spear?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Mr. Spear, my name is Ralph Tonkins and I’d like to discuss a business opportunity with you.”

“If you want the services of Happy the Clown, I’m afraid you’ll have to call my parent company, Backyard Birthdays.  All my bookings are through them.”

“Oh, no, Mr. Spear.  You were recommended to us by Michael Anderson.  He tells us you are a computer programmer and that you know about the Focus program.”

“Oh!  Yeah, I helped design Focus, so I guess you could say I know about it.”

“Would you be willing to interview with us?  As Michael probably told you, we know nothing about the program and have recently started looking for someone to hire to be our company’s software programmer and coordinator.”

He set up an interview with me that day and hired me the next.  Talk about desperation.  But I’m not complaining.  I’m safely back in the world of computers and far, far away from children and big, red noses.  Although, Joey still breaks into tears at the sight of me at company picnics and his mother hates my guts, the clown thing is pretty much dead.  Now if only Jackie, Susan and the guys at the office would quit calling me Happy the Programmer.