Beneath the Smile by Blake Powers

Beneath the Smile by Blake Powers--Professional/Final Draft

Saturday Morning. No Breakfast. Not five years ago, Nicole had a tradition of making a southern style meal every Saturday before work. The absence of her cooking means Leonard Hillsdunn came stubbing in late from his nightly endeavors at the bars.

With Nicole, primary methods of fighting no longer consist of words, but subtle actions like this. It wasn’t that they didn’t still care for another, just that love doesn’t have the heavy preservatives like TV dinners. Leave the two in the freezer for eight-teen years -- you end up with a cynical woman who takes Prozac with her daily vitamins, remaining constantly bitter that she is married to an alcoholic clown with the philosophy that his drooping beer-belly and hairy back fit into the category of girls-going-for-mature-guys.

Leonard’s life is wedged in that soft molded section of an old couch. In a drugged numbness of being miserably comfortable with the way things are. Hating himself the whole while through. And for the others who don’t accept him like that, well, that’s repaired after a hot shave.

Over his beef-jerky face, the thick white make-up blots on. With a blue pencil the eyes twinkle, with a red foam ball the fat nose is brightened, and his favorite part of all -- the red paint to fix his smile. The more depressed Leonard was, the bigger and happier the make-up went around his mouth.

This was the happiest day of his life.

While walking up to the front door, grumbling stomach and all, he miscalculates the last step with his size 18 boat-shoes and crashes into a flowerpot.

Leonard’s still smiling.

“Hey kids! It’s Kazzi the Clown!”

Bobby Harlington is turning twelve. Too young for the girl scene, and too old for clowns, but Mrs. Harlington’s lack of creativity for this monumental year lead to the hiring of Kazzi. The room is filled with thirty pre-pubescent boys. Right away, Bobby is being teased about having a clown at his party, and transforms his neutral first impression of Kazzi into vengeance. Who is this guy ruining my party?

Leonard’s quick pep talk: All right, an hour of this shit well get me get me $100 minimum. But the better the show, the better the tip. By the size of the house, and this Mom’s breast implants -- I could rake in a 50% tip, easy.

He begins with juggling. Three at a time, then four, then five. And peeking through every other ball sees the look of discontent in the crowd.

Leonard’s still smiling.

Interaction -- just the cure.

“Alright kids, I need two volunteers to give this a shot.”

No hands.

“Okay the birthday boy . . . . and you son.”

While showing them the method of juggling, right in mid-syllable Bobby throws the bean ball like a major league pitcher directly into Kazzi’s temple.

Ouch! Goddamn brat! Interaction -- Bad Idea.

Leonard’s still smiling.

“So juggling may not be your thing, but I will now show you something you have never seen before. An art of magic, which has no other explanation.”

He pulls out a twenty-dollar bill. For the first time the room goes silent. At this age kids really begin to like money. Each eye is set on getting the twenty for themselves.

“A lot of you may like money, but you see -- I have no use for it. And this I will prove this by stabbing my pen through it with no worries.”

Crinkle. Snap. Kazzi holds the bill up with the pen stuck through it. Everyone in amazement. Well, with the exception of this one cringing blue-eyed boy.

Shut up kid.

“But, in case I get hungry tonight (or thirsty, damn I could use a drink about now), I will make this torn twenty dollar bill brand new. All we need to say is, come on everyone now, Abra-Kadabra-Alla-Kazam!”

Kazzi holds the unmarked crisp twenty in the air. A handful of boys clap.

“What a load of bull,” came an abrupt voice from the audience, “it’s a magnetic pen that splits in two, so it only looks like . . .”

“Okay, for our next trick”

Shit.

Several “Boos” come from the crowd.

Leonard’s still smiling.

“Give us our $20 you lousy clown!” whines the voice.

He desperately fills a balloon with air. A twist and a flip later, “How ‘bout a sword for you, soldier!?”

The same abrupt voice from before comes hurling through the room. “We’re not soldiers -- WE‘RE WILD APES!”

No control. The “Kazzi the Clown Show” is lost to a jungle of loud apes climbing on shelves and swinging from each other.

Evacuate Show.

Bobby’s Mom storms in, more perturbed that her nails weren’t dry yet than the fact the kids had a mutiny on the clown.

“Everyone Outside NOW!”

Orders are followed.

“Looks like you’ve done enough damage. Here’s you hundred, but if you go outside and show them something good -- I’ll double it.”

Leonard’s still smiling.

Back from the van, he sets the kerosene bucket by the poolside.

The last time Leonard attempted this act he had a two-week penitence in the hospital. The third degree burns, and his blistered tongue that transformed to a crispy brown color to this day, five years from now, still throb in his nightmares. But for once, the desire to please others ignited a change. A change from doing the things in his life just because that molded part in his couch is too cozy to escape from. A change from existing in this world as a mere living corpse.

“For my last act, I will juggle not three, not four, but five clubs of raging fire. And upon the extinguishing the flames, I will swallow each burning club, one by one. A false move and I will completely ablaze myself.”

He bends down with a double smile of excitement and lights the fire. Then, suddenly, a foot still in a grudge about the phony twenty-dollar bill stunt, kicks onto his back, and sends him tumbling into the pool.

In the dead man’s float position, Leonard bobs within his own wake. The fire’s out.

No one cares.

His life is washing away like the make-up on his face.

He lifts his dripping wet head and gazes at the audience.

Leonard was revealed. And so was his true smile.

 

Beneath the Smile by Blake Powers--Draft 1

Saturday Morning. No Breakfast. Not five years ago, Nicole had a tradition of making a southern style meal every Saturday before work. The absence of her cooking means Leonard Hillsdunn came stubbing in late from his nightly endeavors at the bars.

With Nicole, primary methods of fighting no longer consist of words, but subtle actions like this. It wasn’t that they didn’t still care for another, just that love doesn’t have the heavy preservatives like TV dinners. Leave it in the freezer for eight-teen years -- you end up with a thirty-nine year old alcoholic clown, with the philosophy that his drooping beer-belly and hairy back fit’s into the category of girls-going-for-mature-guys.

In Leonard’s prime, he worked ten shows a week in the children entertainment profession. Yet, after several no-show Birthday Parties from Cozzy the Clown, due to fatal hangovers, his clients began to dwindle.

Today, Leonard would like to believe he was on the up-in-up in his career. But in sad reality, he knows to believe his life will continue to gradually deteriorate into a miserable old man trapped in a marriage with separate rooms and stuck into a job that has nothing to compare to in a time/money ratio other than drug dealing. Leonard was never very good at sharing.

After shaving his beef-jerky face, the thick white make-up was blotted on. With a blue pencil he gave his eyes a twinkle, with a red foam ball he brightened up his fat nose, and his favorite of all -- the red paint to fix his smile. The more depressed he was, the bigger and happier the make-up went around his mouth.

This was the happiest day of his life.

While walking up to the front door steps, grumbling stomach and all, Leonard miscalculated the last step with his size 18 boat-shoes and crashed into a flower pot. After twenty years as a clown, one would think he’d learn not to begin the show until their was an audience.

Leonard still smiling.

“Hey kids! It’s Cozzy the Clown!”

Bobby was turning twelve. Too young for the girl scene, and too old for clowns, but his mother’s lack of creativity for this monumental year lead to the hiring of Cozzy. The room was filled with thirty pre-pubescent boys. Right away, Bobby was being teased about having a clown at his party, and transformed his neutral first impression of Cozzy into one of vengeance. Who is this guy ruining my party?

Alright, an hour of this shit well get me get me $100 minimum. But better the show, the better the tip. By the size of the house, and this Mom’s breast implants -- I could rake in a 50% tip, easy.

He began with juggling. Three at a time, then four, then five. And peeking through every other ball, saw the look of discontent in the crowd.

Leonard still smiling.

Interaction.

“Alright kids, I need two volunteers to give this a shot.”

No hands.

“Okay the birthday boy… and you son.”

Cozzy was instructing them the method of juggling and right in mid-syllable Bobby threw the bean ball like a major league pitcher right in the face of Leonard.

Ouch! God damn brat! Interaction -- Bad Idea.

Leonard still smiling.

“So juggling may not be your thing, but I will now show you something you have never seen before. An art of magic, which has no other explanation.”

Cozzy pulls out a twenty dollar bill. For the first time the room goes silent. Each eye is set on getting the money for themselves.

“A lot of you may like money, but you see -- I have no use for it. And this I will prove this by stabbing my pen through it with no worries.”

Crinkle. Snap. Cozzy holds the bill up with the pen stuck through it. Everyone in amazement. Well, with the exception of this one cringing blue-eyed boy.

Shut up kid.

“But, in case I get hungry tonight (or thirsty, damn I need a drink), I will make this torn twenty dollar bill brand new. All we need to say is, come on everyone now, Abra-kadabra-alla-kazam!”

Cozzy proudly holds the unmarked crisp twenty in the air. He even had a handful of boys clap.

“What a load of bull,” came an abrupt voice from the audience, “it’s a magnetic pen that splits in two, so it only looks like--”

“Okay, for our next trick” Shit, something to take their minds off the pen.

Leonard still smiling.

Several “Boos” came from the crowd. But Cozzy was on his toes. With a balloon and a couple twists and squeaks, he made a huge sword. Balloon making was his specialty. Not 5 minutes went by and every boy had a sword.

Evacuate Show.

Now blue swords in a line and red swords in a line -- and everyone march outside.

The same abrupt voice from before came hurling around the room. “We’re not soldiers -- we’re wild apes!”

Like dominos - one starts to fall, they all do. “Oooohh - ooooh -oooh-aahhhh!” came the grunts of thirty enraged eleven year olds. “Attack intruder!”

Although Leonard was out of shape by numerous bulging angles. He could have defended himself from five or six little twerps. But thirty was different.

Cozzy was curled on the ground in the fetal position with several feet kicking him. His stage and gizmos were knocked and sprawled across the room and his magic pen stolen and repeatedly smacked onto his forehead.

Bobby’s Mom was more perturbed that her nails weren’t dry yet than the fact the kids had a mutiny on the clown.

“Everyone Outside NOW!”

Orders were followed.

Leonard still smiling.

“Looks like you’ve done enough damage. Here’s you hundred, but if you go outside and show them something good -- I’ll double it.”

Back form the van, Cozzy set the kerosene bucket by the pool.

Fire. For one the kids will stay back and two they will be impressed.

“For my last act I will juggle not three, not four, but five clubs of fire. A danger and risk that many clowns are not willing to take. (The most Cozzy has ever done was four, but he was sure he could pull it off).

He bent down to light the fire, and suddenly the powerful force of a foot kicked into his back, sent Cozzy the Clown tumbling into the pool.

He laid in the dead man’s float position for two full minutes. No one seemed to care. Leonard then realized no one cared period. Not his wife, his kids, his parents, or his bar-buddies. His life was washing away like the make-up on his face.

He gazed up at his audience. Dripping wet and his beef-jerky face exposed.

Leonard was revealed. And so was his true smile.

 

Beneath the Smile by Blake Powers--Draft 2

Saturday Morning. No Breakfast. Not five years ago, Nicole had a tradition of making a southern style meal every Saturday before work. The absence of her cooking means I must have come stubbing in late last night from my evening at the bars.

With Nicole, primary methods of fighting no longer consist of words, but subtle actions like this. It wasn’t that I didn’t still care for her, just that love doesn’t have the heavy preservatives like TV dinners. Leave it in the freezer for eight-teen years -- you end up with a 38 year old woman who takes her Prozac with her daily vitamins and remains at a constant state of bitterness. Mostly at men. Mostly at me.

In my prime, I worked ten shows a week in the children entertainment profession. Yet, after several no-show Birthday Parties from Cozzy the Clown the clients began to dwindle.

Today, I would like to believe I was on the up-in-up in my career. But in sad reality, I know to believe that my life will continue to gradually deteriorate into a miserable old man trapped in a marriage with separate rooms and stuck into a job that has nothing to compare to in a time/money ratio other than drug dealing. I was never very good at sharing.

After shaving my beef-jerky face, the thick white make-up blots on. With a blue pencil my eyes twinkle, with a red foam ball my fat nose is brightened, and the best part of all -- the red paint to fix my smile. The more depressed I was, the bigger and happier the make-up went around my mouth.

This was the happiest day of my life.

While walking up to the front door steps, grumbling stomach and all, I miscalculate the last step with these size 18 boat-shoes and crash into a flower pot.

I’m still smiling.

“Hey kids! It’s Cozzy the Clown!”

Bobby Harlington is turning twelve. Too young for the girl scene, and too old for clowns, but Mrs. Harlington’s lack of creativity for this monumental year lead to the hiring of me. The room was filled with thirty pre-pubescent boys. Right away, Bobby was being teased about having a clown at his party, and transformed his neutral first impression of me into one of vengeance. Who is this guy ruining my party?

A quick pep-talk: Alright, an hour of this shit well get me get me $100 minimum. But the better the show, the better the tip. By the size of the house, and this Mom’s breast implants -- I could rake in a 50% tip, easy.

I begin with juggling. Three at a time, then four, then five. And peeking through every other ball, see the look of discontent in the crowd.

I’m still smiling.

Interaction -- just the cure.

“Alright kids, I need two volunteers to give this a shot.”

No hands.

“Okay the birthday boy… and you son.”

While instructing them the method of juggling, right in mid-syllable Bobby throws the bean ball like a major league pitcher right in my temple.

Ouch! God damn brat! Interaction -- Bad Idea.

I’m still smiling.

“So juggling may not be your thing, but I will now show you something you have never seen before. An art of magic, which has no other explanation.”

I pull out a twenty dollar bill. For the first time the room goes silent. At this age kids really begin to like money. Each eye is set on getting the money for themselves.

“A lot of you may like money, but you see -- I have no use for it. And this I will prove this by stabbing my pen through it with no worries.”

Crinkle. Snap. Cozzy holds the bill up with the pen stuck through it. Everyone in amazement. Well, with the exception of this one cringing blue-eyed boy.

Shut up kid.

“But, in case I get hungry tonight (or thirsty, damn I could use a drink), I will make this torn twenty dollar bill brand new. All we need to say is, come on everyone now, Abra-Kadabra-Alla-Kazam!”

I hold the unmarked crisp twenty in the air. A handful of boys clap.

“What a load of bull,” came an abrupt voice from the audience, “it’s a magnetic pen that splits in two, so it only looks like . . .”

“Okay, for our next trick” Shit, something to distract them.

Several “Boos” came from the crowd.

I’m still smiling.

“Give us our $20 you lousy clown!” whines the voice.

I fill a balloon with air. A twist and a flip later, “How ‘bout a sword for you, soldier!?”

The same abrupt voice from before comes hurling around the room. “We’re not soldiers -- we’re wild apes!”

Like dominos -- one starts to fall, they all do. “Oooohh-ooooh-oooh-aahhhh-ahhhh!” came the grunts of thirty enraged eleven year olds. “Attack intruder!”

Evacuate Show.

Although I may have been out of shape by numerous bulging angles. I could have defended myself from five or six little twerps. But thirty was different.

I curl on the ground like a fetus with several feet kicking me. The stage and gizmos were knocked and sprawled across the room and my magic pen repeatedly smacked onto my forehead by the Ape King.

I’m still smiling.

Bobby’s Mom storms in, more perturbed that her nails weren’t dry yet than the fact the kids had a mutiny on me.

“Everyone Outside NOW!”

Orders are followed.

“Looks like you’ve done enough damage. Here’s you hundred, but if you go outside and show them something good -- I’ll double it.”

I’m still smiling.

Back from the van, I set the kerosene bucket on the freshly installed tope patio poolside flooring. Nothing in the place is mediocre. The waterslide alone could be my yearly salary.

Fire. For one, the kids will stay back, and two they will surely be impressed.

“For my last act, I will juggle not three, not four, but five clubs of raging fire. One false move and I could completely ablaze myself and burn into marshmallow ash.”

I bend down to light the fire, and suddenly the powerful force of a foot kicks onto my back, sending me tumbling into the pool.

In the dead man’s float position, I lay for two full minutes. No one seems to care. I then realize no one cared period. Not my wife, my kids, my parents, or my bar-buddies. My life was washing away like the make-up on my face.

I lift my head and gaze at the audience. Dripping wet. The absence of my shield of paint exposes my beef-jerky face.

The kids freeze as stones in absolute horror. Looking at me not as Cozzy the Clown, but a frightening miserable old man.

With my smile floating in the pool, I feel painfully naked. Out from the water, I dump the bucket of kerosene upon my head. Most people have hope. Frankly, it’s the one thing that keeps people in my shoes from lighting the match. Yes, for some it’s a dim light, and others dimmer yet. But for me, my soul went blind, and all I see is absolute blackness.

Match Lit. Abra-Kadabra-Alla-Kazam!

Poooof!

And for the first time, everyone cheered.

 

Beneath the Smile by Blake Powers--Draft 3

Saturday Morning. No Breakfast. Not five years ago, Nicole had a tradition of making a southern style meal every Saturday before work. The absence of her cooking means Leonard Hillsdunn came stubbing in late from his nightly endeavors at the bars.

With Nicole, primary methods of fighting no longer consist of words, but subtle actions like this. It wasn’t that he didn’t still care for her, just that love doesn’t have the heavy preservatives like TV dinners. Leave it in the freezer for eight-teen years -- you end up with a 38 year old woman who takes her Prozac with her daily vitamins and remains in a constant state of bitterness. Mostly at men. Mostly at Leonard.

In his prime, he worked ten shows a week in the children entertainment profession. Yet, after several no-show Birthday Parties from Cozzy the Clown the clients began to dwindle.

Today, he would like to believe his career is on a turn around, headed for many years of success. But in sad reality, he know to believe that his life will continue to gradually deteriorate into a miserable old man trapped in a marriage with separate rooms and stuck into a job that has nothing to compare to in a time/money ratio other than drug dealing. Leonard was never very good at sharing.

After shaving his beef-jerky face, the thick white make-up blots on. With a blue pencil the eyes twinkle, with a red foam ball the fat nose is brightened, and his favorite part of all -- the red paint to fix his smile. The more depressed Leonard was, the bigger and happier the make-up went around his mouth.

This was the happiest day of his life.

While walking up to the front door steps, grumbling stomach and all, he miscalculates the last step with his size 18 boat-shoes and crash into a flower pot.

Leonard still smiling.

“Hey kids! It’s Cozzy the Clown!”

Bobby Harlington is turning twelve. Too young for the girl scene, and too old for clowns, but Mrs. Harlington’s lack of creativity for this monumental year lead to the hiring of Cozzy. The room is filled with thirty pre-pubescent boys. Right away, Bobby is being teased about having a clown at his party, and transforms his neutral first impression of Cozzy into one of vengeance. Who is this guy ruining my party?

Leonard’s quick pep-talk: Alright, an hour of this shit well get me get me $100 minimum. But the better the show, the better the tip. By the size of the house, and this Mom’s breast implants -- I could rake in a 50% tip, easy.

He begins with juggling. Three at a time, then four, then five. And peeking through every other ball, sees the look of discontent in the crowd.

Leonard still smiling.

Interaction -- just the cure.

“Alright kids, I need two volunteers to give this a shot.”

No hands.

“Okay the birthday boy . . . . and you son.”

While instructing them the method of juggling, right in mid-syllable Bobby throws the bean ball like a major league pitcher directly into Cozzy’s temple.

Ouch! God damn brat! Interaction -- Bad Idea.

Leonard still smiling.

“So juggling may not be your thing, but I will now show you something you have never seen before. An art of magic, which has no other explanation.”

He pulls out a twenty dollar bill. For the first time the room goes silent. At this age kids really begin to like money. Each eye is set on getting the twenty for themselves.

“A lot of you may like money, but you see -- I have no use for it. And this I will prove this by stabbing my pen through it with no worries.”

Crinkle. Snap. Cozzy holds the bill up with the pen stuck through it. Everyone in amazement. Well, with the exception of this one cringing blue-eyed boy.

Shut up kid.

“But, in case I get hungry tonight (or thirsty, damn I could use a drink about now), I will make this torn twenty dollar bill brand new. All we need to say is, come on everyone now, Abra-Kadabra-Alla-Kazam!”

Cozzy holds the unmarked crisp twenty in the air. A handful of boys clap.

“What a load of bull,” came an abrupt voice from the audience, “it’s a magnetic pen that splits in two, so it only looks like . . .”

“Okay, for our next trick” Shit.

Several “Boos” came from the crowd.

Leonard still smiling.

“Give us our $20 you lousy clown!” whines the voice.

He desperately fills a balloon with air. A twist and a flip later, “How ‘bout a sword for you, soldier!?”

The same abrupt voice from before comes hurling around the room. “We’re not soldiers -- WE‘RE WILD APES!”

Like dominos -- one starts to fall, they all do. “Oooohh-ooooh-oooh-aahhhh-ahhhh!” came the grunts of thirty enraged eleven year olds. “Attack intruder!”

Evacuate Show.

Although he may have been out of shape by numerous bulging angles, Leonard could have defended himself from five or six little twerps. But thirty was different.

He curls on the ground like a fetus with several feet kicking him. The stage and gizmos were knocked and sprawled across the room and his magic pen jabbing into his back by an angry ape.

Leonard still smiling.

Bobby’s Mom storms in, more perturbed that her nails weren’t dry yet than the fact the kids had a mutiny on the clown.

“Everyone Outside NOW!”

Orders are followed.

“Looks like you’ve done enough damage. Here’s you hundred, but if you go outside and show them something good -- I’ll double it.”

Leonard still smiling.

Back from the van, he sets the kerosene bucket on the freshly installed taupe patio poolside flooring. Nothing in the place is mediocre. The waterslide alone could be his yearly salary.

Fire. For one, the kids will stay back, and two they will surely be impressed.

“For my last act, I will juggle not three, not four, but five clubs of raging fire. One false move and I could completely ablaze myself and burn into marshmallow ash.”

He bends down to light the fire, and suddenly the powerful force of a foot kicks onto his back, sending him tumbling into the pool.

In the dead man’s float position, Cozzy lays for two full minutes.

No one seems to care. Face it Leonard, in reality no one does care. Period. Not my wife, my kids, my parents, or my bar-buddies. My life is washing away like the make-up on my face.

He lifts his head and gazes at the audience. Dripping wet. The absence of the painted shield exposes a gritty face of raw depression.

Leonard not smiling.

The kids freeze as stones in pure horror. Looking at him not as Cozzy the Clown, but a frightening miserable old man.

With his smile floating in the pool, he feels painfully naked. Out from the water, Leonard dumps the bucket of kerosene upon his head.

Most people have hope. Frankly, it’s the one thing that keeps people in my shoes from lighting the match. Yes, for some it’s a dim light, and others dimmer yet. But for me, my soul is blinded, and all I see is absolute blackness.

Match Lit. Abra-Kadabra-Alla-Kazam!

Poooof!

And for the first time, everyone cheers.

 

Beneath the Smile by Blake Powers--Draft 4

Saturday Morning. No Breakfast. Not five years ago, Nicole had a tradition of making a southern style meal every Saturday before work. The absence of her cooking means Leonard Hillsdunn came stubbing in late from his nightly endeavors at the bars.

With Nicole, primary methods of fighting no longer consist of words, but subtle actions like this. It wasn’t that they didn’t still care for another, just that love doesn’t have the heavy preservatives like TV dinners. Leave the two in the freezer for eight-teen years -- you end up with a cynical woman who takes her Prozac with her daily vitamins, remaining in a constant state of bitterness to the fact that she is married to an alcoholic clown with the philosophy that his drooping beer-belly and hairy back fit into the category of girls-going-for-mature-guys.

Leonard’s life is wedged in that soft molded section of an old couch. In a drugged numbness of being miserably comfortable with the way things are. Hating himself the whole while through. And for the others who don’t accept him like that, well, that’s fixed after a hot shave.

Over his beef-jerky face, the thick white make-up blots on. With a blue pencil the eyes twinkle, with a red foam ball the fat nose is brightened, and his favorite part of all -- the red paint to fix his smile. The more depressed Leonard was, the bigger and happier the make-up went around his mouth.

This was the happiest day of his life.

While walking up to the front door, grumbling stomach and all, he miscalculates the last step with his size 18 boat-shoes and crashes into a flower pot.

Leonard still smiling.

“Hey kids! It’s Kazzi the Clown!”

Bobby Harlington is turning twelve. Too young for the girl scene, and too old for clowns, but Mrs. Harlington’s lack of creativity for this monumental year lead to the hiring of Kazzi. The room is filled with thirty pre-pubescent boys. Right away, Bobby is being teased about having a clown at his party, and transforms his neutral first impression of Kazzi into one of vengeance. Who is this guy ruining my party?

Leonard’s quick pep-talk: Alright, an hour of this shit well get me get me $100 minimum. But the better the show, the better the tip. By the size of the house, and this Mom’s breast implants -- I could rake in a 50% tip, easy.

He begins with juggling. Three at a time, then four, then five. And peeking through every other ball, sees the look of discontent in the crowd.

Leonard still smiling.

Interaction -- just the cure.

“Alright kids, I need two volunteers to give this a shot.”

No hands.

“Okay the birthday boy . . . . and you son.”

While instructing them the method of juggling, right in mid-syllable Bobby throws the bean ball like a major league pitcher directly into Kazzi’s temple.

Ouch! God damn brat! Interaction -- Bad Idea.

Leonard still smiling.

“So juggling may not be your thing, but I will now show you something you have never seen before. An art of magic, which has no other explanation.”

He pulls out a twenty dollar bill. For the first time the room goes silent. At this age kids really begin to like money. Each eye is set on getting the twenty for themselves.

“A lot of you may like money, but you see -- I have no use for it. And this I will prove this by stabbing my pen through it with no worries.”

Crinkle. Snap. Kazzi holds the bill up with the pen stuck through it. Everyone in amazement. Well, with the exception of this one cringing blue-eyed boy.

Shut up kid.

“But, in case I get hungry tonight (or thirsty, damn I could use a drink about now), I will make this torn twenty dollar bill brand new. All we need to say is, come on everyone now, Abra-Kadabra-Alla-Kazam!”

Kazzi holds the unmarked crisp twenty in the air. A handful of boys clap.

“What a load of bull,” came an abrupt voice from the audience, “it’s a magnetic pen that splits in two, so it only looks like . . .”

“Okay, for our next trick”

Shit.

Several “Boos” come from the crowd.

Leonard still smiling.

“Give us our $20 you lousy clown!” whines the voice.

He desperately fills a balloon with air. A twist and a flip later, “How ‘bout a sword for you, soldier!?”

The same abrupt voice from before comes hurling through the room. “We’re not soldiers -- WE‘RE WILD APES!”

No control. The Kazzi the Clown show is lost to a jungle of loud apes climbing on shelves and swinging from each other.

Evacuate Show.

Bobby’s Mom storms in, more perturbed that her nails weren’t dry yet than the fact the kids had a mutiny on the clown.

“Everyone Outside NOW!”

Orders are followed.

“Looks like you’ve done enough damage. Here’s you hundred, but if you go outside and show them something good -- I’ll double it.”

Leonard still smiling.

Back from the van, he sets the kerosene bucket by the poolside.

The last time Leonard attempted this act he had a two week penitence in the emergency room with third degree burns, and a blistered, infected tongue that transformed to a crispy brown color that to this day, five years from now, still throb in his nightmares. But for once, the desire to please others ignited a change. A change from doing the things in his life just because that molded part in his couch is too cozy to escape from. A change from existing in this world as a living corpse.

“For my last act, I will juggle not three, not four, but five clubs of raging fire. And upon the extinguishing the flames, I will swallow each club, one by one. A false move and I will completely ablaze myself.”

He bends down with a double smile of exhilaration and lights the fire. Then, suddenly, a foot still in a grudge about the phony twenty dollar bill stunt, kicks onto his back, and sends him tumbling into the pool.

In the dead man’s float position, Leonard bobs within his own wake. The fire’s out.

No one cares.

His life is washing away like the make-up on his face.

He lifts his head and gazes at the audience. Dripping wet. A gritty face of a raw broken smile unveils.

Thirty jaws drop. They, for the first time, see Leonard Hillsdunn.