Oh my God, I need to—
I turn my head and hurl the unfortunately varied contents of my stomach onto Nell.
THERE’S A HIDEOUS scraping noise. Then the blackness above me is broken by a sliver of light.
Kinko peers in at me. “Wake up, sunshine. Your boss is looking for you.”
He’s holding a lid open. All of which starts to make sense, because as my cramped body realizes my brain is open for business, it soon becomes clear I am stuffed into a trunk.
Kinko props the lid open and walks away. I work my bent neck free and struggle into a sitting position. The trunk is in a tent, surrounded by rack after rack of vibrant costumes, props, and vanities with mirrors.
“Where am I?” I croak. I cough and try to clear my parched throat.
“Clown Alley,” says Kinko, fingering some paint jars on a dresser.
I lift an arm to cover my eyes and notice it is clad in silk. A red silk dressing gown, to be exact. A red silk dressing gown that is wide open. I look down and discover that someone has shaved my genitals.
I snatch the edges of the gown together, wondering if Kinko saw.
Dear God, what did I do last night? I have no idea. Nothing but scraps of memory, and—
Oh God. I threw up on a woman.
I struggle to my feet, tying the dressing gown. I wipe my forehead, which feels unusually slick. My hand comes away white.
“What the—?” I say, staring at my hand.
Kinko turns and hands me a mirror. I take it with great trepidation. When I raise it to my face, a clown looks back at me.
I POKE MY HEAD out of the tent, look left and right, and then streak across to the stock car. I am followed by guffaws and catcalls.
“Whooeeee, look at that hot mama!”
“Hey, Fred—check out the new cooch girl!”
“Say, honey—got plans tonight?”
I dive into the goat room and slam the door, leaning against it. I breathe heavily, listening until the laughter outside dies down. I grab a rag and wipe my face again. I rubbed it raw before I left Clown Alley, but somehow I still don’t believe it’s clean. I don’t think any part of me will ever be clean again. And the worst part is that I don’t even know what I did. I have only snippets, and as horrifying as those are it’s even more horrifying not knowing what happened in between.
It suddenly occurs to me that I have no idea whether I’m still a virgin.
I reach inside the dressing gown and scratch my stubbly balls.
KINKO COMES IN a few minutes later. I’m lying on my bedroll, my arms over my head.
“You’d better get your ass out there,” he says. “He’s still looking for you.”
Something snuffles in my ear. I lift my head and bang into a wet nose. Queenie leaps backward as though launched from a catapult. She surveys me from a distance of three feet, sniffing cautiously. Oh, I bet I’m just a medley of smells this morning. I drop my head again.
“You want to get fired, or what?” Kinko says.
“At this point, I really don’t care,” I mumble.
“What?”
“I’m leaving anyway.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I can’t answer. I can’t tell him that not only have I disgraced myself beyond belief or redemption, but I have also failed at my first opportunity to have sex—something I’ve thought about pretty much constantly for the last eight years. Not to mention throwing up on one of the women who was offering and then passing out and having somebody shave my balls and paint my face and stuff me into a trunk. Although he must know at least parts of it, since he knew where to find me this morning. Perhaps he was even involved in the festivities.
“Don’t be a *,” he says. “You want to end up walking the tracks like those poor bums out there? Now get on out there before you get yourself fired.”
I remain inert.
“I said get up!”
“What do you care?” I grumble. “And stop shouting. My head hurts.”
“Just get the hell up or I’ll hurt the rest of you, too!”
“All right! Just stop yelling!”
I drag myself upright and throw him a dirty look. My head pounds and it feels as though lead weights are tied to each of my joints. Since he continues watching me, I turn toward the wall, keeping the red gown on until I pull my pants up in an effort to hide my hairlessness. Nevertheless, my face burns.
“Oh, and a word to the wise?” says Kinko. “Some flowers for Barbara wouldn’t go amiss. The other one’s just a whore, but Barbara’s a friend.”