It’s a cold evening. I enter the double doors of the brick building and rub my hands together to warm them with my breath. Ah, just in time for the show. I hate being late. People always stare when you’re late. Pulling out my phone, I click my tongue. Technology. I hastily search for my mobile ticket. Got it. I smile at the usher, a woman in her 60s. Her name tag reads “Emogen.” Her grey hair and loud glasses interest me. She must be an artist. I bet she’s retired but her family is too busy with their own lives to spend any time with her. The usher smirks as I show her my ticket. She scans it before directing me towards a short flight of stairs. Guess there’s no time for a snack.
I pick up my pace and walk into the dark theatre room. It’s started, I better hurry. My eyes slowly adjust to the outline of the stage and the multiple rows of seats. I notice the theatre is nearly empty. The usher inside places her finger on her lips and turns on her flashlight. Huh? I wasn’t even being loud. She uses the flashlight to guide me to my seat. Wait, Emogen?
I maneuver down the stairs and through the tight row until I find my assigned seat. I can already feel the heat of the room smothering me, so I remove my cape and settle in as best as I can in the flimsy seat. Why is the audience so small? Scanning the theatre again, I see a basket of balls within arm’s reach. That seems out of place. I lean towards the basket – there’s a piece of paper on top. The instructions read: "THROW." What? Throw these balls? Me? Where? Is this some kind of interactive performance? But before I can suss things out, the stage lights turn on. Their dim glow warms the stage yet it’s still hard to see details. Out of the corner of my eye I see a figure walk down the aisle, climb up the stairs, and onto the stage. The silence in the room hangs heavy. Eventually, a spotlight turns on.
The light reveals a clown. Wait, am I in the wrong theatre? The clown’s brown doe eyes stare right at me. Why is she staring? Her gaze and silence linger long enough for me to feel uncomfortable. Awkward. In the quiet, my insecurities surface. Why is she singling me out – there are others in the audience. Hoping to settle my nerves, I look away and try to break her gaze, but she prances around the stage and follows my eyes. What’s she doing? Why is she working so hard to get my attention? I become annoyed and shift in my seat, but her piercing eyes remain affixed on me. Well, if it’s eye contact she wants, I’ll give it to her. I square off my body towards the stage to stare her down. The clown stops dead in her tracks. The intensity builds between us as a flash of irritability arises. I’ll show her. No one outdoes me. But after a few intense moments, something changes. Her eyes soften. I catch a glimpse of desperation. Her eyes seem to plead with me, saying help me, save me. I cringe at her vulnerability and immediately feel the subtle pit in my stomach grow into a nauseating ball of tension. Before I can wrap my mind around what’s happening, I see a ball fly onto the stage and hit the clown on her cheek. She winces in pain, jolts her head to the ground, and curls her body in. None of this makes any sense.
In shock, I sit there motionless. Why would someone throw a ball at her? I wait in anticipation mulling over what she might do next. The clown collapses to the floor and curls up into a fetal position. Her body faces out towards the audience and in a quick flash, she looks at me with her soft doe eyes. Save me. I swear I see her mouth the words. Then, the silence is broken with a loud crash of cymbals which shakes my attention. Is the clown smirking? Carnival music begins to play as the clown rises from the floor. She begins moving around the stage pretending as though she’s talking to different people. She smiles and laughs while exuding her natural charm. I guess she’s okay?
The music revs up and the clown starts galloping around the stage. The speed becomes nauseating. There’s too much going on. My head spins and I turn my body away. It’s too much. Too overwhelming. I need her to slow down but she keeps going. Faster and faster. Now she’s talking gibberish. At least I think, as I can’t seem to make sense of what she’s saying. Who’s she even talking to? This is chaos! The desperation grows in me. I want this to stop, I need this to stop. My skin starts crawling as my hands grasp the armrest in a feeble attempt to hold on. My breath is so shallow that I’m sure I’ll pass out. I tug at my sweater’s collar to protest the oppressive heat in the room. Then, out of nowhere and everywhere, the clown is bombarded with balls. I can’t even count how many. She drops to the ground, and everything goes silent. Everything goes dark.
In this empty void, I struggle to orient myself and catch my breath. What the hell was that about? My mind buzzes as I try to grasp what has happened. Wait, why did I even come to this show?
The dim lights come on again and the clown pushes off the floor. She brushes herself off, tucks a strand of grey hair under her wig, and plasters on a huge smile. Too big of a smile. Almost like she’s making up for something. She starts to flitter around the stage again - smiling, nodding, laughing, and speaking gibberish. But her body language is more guarded. Everything is pulled in from her chest to her tailbone as if she’s protecting herself. The music comes on and she begins to speed up again. I brace for another round of unbearable queasiness but this time, I sense the clown is tired. Exhausted. The gleam in her eye is gone only to be replaced by an eerie hollowness.
As the scene unfolds, I notice the clown’s chaos doesn’t bother me as much. I feel more distant. I watch the clown float around until suddenly, a ball whizzes past her and hits the back curtain. What was that? She sharply turns in the direction of the thrower and stares. It’s a vengeful and resentful glare that sends a chill up my spine. Her eyes are hard now, severe in their anger. She stomps her feet toward the other side of the stage until she’s stopped short by another ball hitting her dead between the eyes. I watch her stumble for a moment before she gathers herself up and puffs out her chest, becoming a large daunting figure. She stares in the direction from which the second ball emerged and points her finger at an audience member. She curls her lip on one side and methodically walks to the edge of the stage. The music abruptly stops, leaving a deafening silence. Then, unexpectedly, the clown jumps off the stage and rushes towards the audience member. She screams in their face as she gesticulates her arms into fists ready to strike. I reel back in horror trying to understand what she’s doing.
My terror swallows me up into the shadows. I frantically search for rational thought. What’s happening here? The instructions on the basket said to throw the balls. Why is she freaking out? The chronic tension in my stomach grows as my shaky breath struggles for air. I hate confrontation. Hate it. This is so wrong. Should I get up and intervene?
The clown persists in her tirade until she reaches the crest of her indignation. She spits at the feet of the audience member, releases an audible sigh, and trudges her way backstage. Then, silence again. It’s the kind of silence I spend my whole life avoiding with long hours at work and a social calendar booked into next year. Feeling antsy, I wonder if now is a good time to slip out unnoticed. I scan the room seeking escape. I bolt toward the doors I entered through earlier only to find them locked. I push again only to be met with the flashlight of the usher. Dang! The light reflects off the usher’s glasses. She promptly shushes me like a child and then directs me back to my seat. I hate getting in trouble.
Once seated again, I eagerly wait for the silence to be filled. I hate the emptiness. Maybe I should grab a ball from the basket to keep my hands busy. I reach over and pick up a smooth leather ball – it’s firm yet supple. I bet it’d be easy to throw a ball like this. But as quickly as that thought enters my mind, an image of the clown yelling flashes before me. Never mind.
My head continues to race until a bright light comes on and temporarily blinds me. As I adjust, I see the clown is lying on a couch on her side. I hadn’t notice there was a couch on stage. She isn’t moving. Her face and eyes stare blankly at me. Is she okay? Her arms are wrapped around her torso. She looks dead. Did something happen? My worry overtakes me as my body stiffens. Why is she just lying there? Why won’t she move? Panicked, I look around the room to see if anyone else sees what I see. Come on clown, get up! GET UP! My fear morphs into irritation. Why is she doing this to us? WHY WON’T SHE GET UP!
And then without a thought, the tension in my body lifts my arm and throws the ball. Shit! The ball hits the clown in the chest. She doesn’t react. She remains motionless. What the fuck? Any fear of retaliation is now obscured by my unbridled fury. As I reach over to grab more balls, I see another ball thrown on stage. Then another. Then another. I decide to join in and pellet the clown with all the balls in the basket. I revel in a rush of adrenaline as though I’m entitled to this release. But even after my rage-fueled trance ends, she still doesn’t react. Her body lays lifeless. The basket of balls is now empty. The onslaught is done, leaving only dreaded silence.
After what feels like an eternity, the clown turns from her side onto her back. She stares at the ceiling and lets out a long moan. My body freezes. She moans again but this time, the pain in her voice is palpable. Oh God, what did I do? By now the clown releases wave after wave of moans, spreading her agony throughout the room. I feel shivers throughout my body. My stomach sickens and my heart sinks. Why was I so mad at this clown anyway? I feel guilty. I lock my jaw and grind my teeth to brace for another round of torturous wails. Eventually, my feelings of self-loathing become so unbearable that I leave my body. I wish this performance was over.
Then, without any fanfare or predictability, the clown stops moaning. The room turns dark, and I hear footsteps leaving the stage. Is that it? Is the show done? Before I can answer my own questions, the house lights come on. I glance around the room to discover that it’s completely empty. Absorbed in confusion, my instincts kick in and I put on my cape and make my way to the doors. They’re unlocked. I rush out of the theatre and hurry to the building exit. Once outside, I gulp in the cool air and place my hands in my pockets. Unsure of where to go, I glance back at the theatre. Emogen is leaning on the exterior brick wall smirking. It’s a cold evening indeed.