2. Romeo
Romeo
For the last eight weeks at Scare Night, I had become High Jynx, a scare actor in clown make-up who ran up to people to frighten the living shit out of them while they least expected it.
Everywhere else, I was Romeo, a thirty-four-year-old who just got dumped by his ex-girlfriend after being fired from his corporate job.
“You make it to work okay?” Rachel, my younger sister by fifteen minutes, asked on the phone, munching on a bag of chips. She checked up on me, knowing tonight was another frustrating milestone in the fucked up relationship that consumed the past five years of my life.
“I just pulled up to the entrance. Giving myself a minute to collect my thoughts before going inside,” I said, turning my radio down. The sky was turning purple and dark, and the park lights flickered on in the distance.
“Did you get the rest of your belongings from that self-absorbed asshole?”
“Yeah. I’m looking at it now.” I eyed the box in the passenger seat that contained the last of my clothes from Megan’s house.
“Did you give her the finger before saying goodbye?” Rachel asked.
“She wasn’t home. She left the box outside the gate of her house.”
“God, I fucking hate her!” Rachel munched away. I could practically hear her lick her fingers over the line. “Never mind her. You deserve better than to be shackled to some materialistic daddy’s girl. Consider this a blessing in disguise.”
“A blessing in disguise? The only thing in disguise is me; a former financial advisor turned couch-surfing clown,” I said, a tad self-deprecating, not wanting Rachel to hear the disappointment in my voice.
Honestly, my breakup with Megan wasn’t some mutual, self-loving journey that ended on good terms. She ripped my fucking heart out.
Megan was a rich girl, and me? I was the former poor kid who wanted to follow his heart and do something creative.
And honestly, I tried to follow the traditional blueprint of American success.
I gave it ten years of my life, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I couldn't spend another day chasing deadlines and punching numbers, spending sixty hours a week in front of a computer instead of actual people.
It was killing me.
I was slowly dying, and it fucked with my head so much that I could barely pretend like my existence in a cubicle mattered anymore.
Because it didn’t. Making rich assholes even richer wasn’t spiritually fulfilling, and this crisis was only amplified when I fucked up at work, making the worst investment of all time—not only for myself, but for a whole portfolio of high-earning clients.
I was essentially left with nothing, holding onto a box of old shit from a former life as a corporate suit-wearing wannabe.
“I’m surprised she didn’t try to convince you again to get a job with her rich dad,” Rachel said on the line, filling the silence.
“It’s hard to convince someone to pursue something different when you tell them you want to be a clown.”
“Not just a clown. An entertainer!” Rachel emphasized, reminding me like it made a difference.
“Not a deadbeat loser then?” I asked.
“Those are Megan’s words. Which, technically, she has the IQ of a goldfish, so let’s not get bogged down in the insults.”
“Goldfish or not, it still sucks,” I murmured, remembering every word Megan said.
Weird fucking circus performer, as she put it, all with a disgusted look on her face.
After that comment, I realized the need to chase my own happiness outweighed concern about whether Megan was happy with me.
And that ended with her kicking me to the curb.
I exhaled heavily, trying not to let the break-up get me down. That was three months ago. I couldn’t let it keep bothering me like that. But still… when you think you have your life all planned out, and suddenly that all comes crashing down, you can’t help but feel completely fucking lonely.
“It might not make sense now, but someday it will,” Rachel said, no longer crunching on chips, but her voice was low and soft. “You need to be your authentic self inside and out. Once you do that, the right person will love you for who you are, every shade of you, clown paint or not.”
I laughed, staring down at a smudge of black nail polish. It was a piece of myself that belonged to my new life within the park.
“Thank you…” I said. “I needed that.”
Rachel was always there for me; we were there for each other, even through the worst of it.
“Duh. You’re welcome,” she said, sounding a little more focused. “Listen, I might be a little late getting home tonight. I’m going to a meeting, and this new kid in town is asking me to be her sponsor. We’re meeting up for coffee next door.”
“Makes sense. Looking after people is what you do best,” I said with a smile.
“Learned it from you,” she answered, giving me a quick goodbye before hanging up the phone.
I was indebted to Rachel for all that she had done for me these last three months, but sleeping in her living room started to feel like a band-aid to a bullet wound.
My time at the park was coming to an end soon.
Halloween was next weekend, and I felt like I was running out of time to figure out what to do next.
And to be honest, I was fucking terrified.
And although I knew this was a seasonal job that would end, for once in my life, I didn’t think about the future.
Just as I cut the engine and grabbed onto the door handle to exit my car, my phone began to vibrate in my hand.
I looked down at my phone for a second, hesitating. It was Gustav. His wedding was next weekend, here in town, and I was already dreading it. I wasn’t in the mood for celebrating love, but at least it was on Halloween, so I could get away with joining the party a little later due to work.
Right before it went to voicemail, I hesitantly hit accept.
“Hey, man. What’s up? Long time, no see,” I said, sitting back in my seat.
“Hey, Ro,” he responded, a little too chipperly. “How’ve you been?”
I looked out the window as it began to sprinkle. “I’ve been good. Busy, as always. What about you?”
He sighed. “Well, I wanted to ask you something,” he began, and the way his voice turned serious got my attention. “So, Leo can’t make the wedding. And, I know you were coming as a guest, but I was wondering… do you wanna come as my best man, instead?”
Ah, fuck. No. No way.
“Uh…”
“I mean, no pressure, man. I know you already declined before because you’re super busy, but this is totally meant to be! We’ve been best friends since we were kids, right? Feels like… maybe it would be cool to have you up there with me.”
God dammit. Gustav was always a good friend back in the day. The only reason we grew apart was because of that soul-sucking job of mine. Other than that, he always managed to stay in touch.
For instance, he actually called me to tell me he and Tallulah were engaged, rather than let me find out via social media like everyone else.
I hoped I’d do the same with him if that time ever came. If I were ever as lucky as him to find “the one.”
“Um,” I began again. I closed my eyes and shook my head at myself. “Yeah, man. I guess I can do that. Sure.”
There was a sigh that sounded like relief on the other end. “Dude, thank you. Really. That means a lot.”
I nodded to myself. “Of course.”
“I’ll text you with the wedding week plans—I hope you’re free this week? We just have some fun stuff planned for the wedding party. Nothing cheesy, I promise,” he chuckled.
I forced out a laugh. “Uh, yeah. I should be free.” Wait. “I just, uh, I have some stuff at night that I need to do. Just like a… night shift thing I picked up on the side.”
I hadn’t planned to tell anyone about my time as High Jynx. I didn’t want another reaction like Megan’s.
“Cool, yeah. It’ll just be some stuff during the day,” he explained. “I’ll text you later. Thanks again, Ro.”
After we hung up, I closed my eyes and lay my head against the headrest.
This was going to be a long fucking week.
I walked into the back entrance to the park in my all-black attire, my bag slung over my shoulder. The smell of kettle corn filled the cobblestone streets, the air thick with fog and music as I entered the backstage area where the actors got ready for the night.
There was everyone you could think of—replicas of Hollywood horror legends, original characters like evil clowns, zombies, ghost girls. There were a few like me, random stragglers who roamed the park to scare the unsuspecting patron.
I was just starting to get the hang of things, which was ironic because it would all be over soon.
There was something so communal about all of us getting ready together, something far more rewarding than any board meeting or Zoom call.
It was tactile. It smelled like makeup and sweat, and the room was filled with laughter that satisfied some strange loneliness that lived within me.
It reminded me of being back in high school, of the time I spent as the weird emo kid in theatre class.
I think I wanted to do that more than anything.
I wanted to perform, and being High Jynx was the most visceral extension of that old nostalgia that I hadn’t had in forever.
All I knew was that I wanted to create. I’d always been artistic; I liked to paint, read, and draw.
For years, I was obsessed with Shakespeare and Dracula, but I regrettably shoved that part of myself down the second I realized those types of people were the weirdos.
Entering the corporate world in my twenties completely shifted my life around.
I went from watching weird B-movies and listening to Nine Inch Nails to making dinner reservations at upscale downtown restaurants.
I found myself laughing at jokes that weren’t even funny, only to impress my bosses that reminded me of fucking Patrick Bateman.
And then I met Megan, and it was like my personality was completely put on the back burner. I was only “allowed” to listen to my obscure music and watch my odd movies when no one else was around.
Like I had to hide who I really was.
But it didn’t dawn on me that you could never truly hide from the “weirdo” parts of yourself.
I think that’s why Gustav and I were so close when we were young; we were both outcasts who didn’t feel like we needed to hide from ourselves around each other.
He was born into a super fucking rich family, and I was dirt poor, but that didn’t make a difference.
We’d watch shit like Hellraiser or The Crow in my basement while strumming guitars, talking about how much we hated our lives, as emo teenage boys tended to do.
I set my bag down and glanced around the room. It was full of life, with dozens of characters walking around or sitting in their seats, makeup artists and wardrobe people intent on their work.
A lot of the more elaborate scare actors got their wardrobe and makeup done for them, but I was one of the many who needed to provide my own.
I sat down at a small table and glanced up at the tiny makeup mirror attached to it.
My dark brown, ear-length hair was a wavy mess, which worked perfectly for my unhinged clown persona.
My tattoos, which snaked down my arms, were slightly hidden underneath my long-sleeved shirt covered in fake blood.
All that needed to be done was apply my clown makeup.
It was a little Joker-esque, who I idolized growing up.
Kind of weird to idolize a villain, right?
Maybe it was the “weirdo” in me, or maybe it was just me hoping to one day no longer be a victim in my own story, even if that meant turning into the villain.
Thirty minutes later, I swiveled my head to the left and right, checking out my completed look. I’d spent countless hours practicing, feeling transformed from a man who had lost everything into a monster that was ready to steal it all back.
“Scream for me, darling…” I whispered to myself, furrowing my brow into something dark and sinister.
I finished my outfit with my protective gear for sliding, and after one final look, I locked up my belongings and headed out to the park.