“Clown Magic” For Misti Rainwater-Lites, Christopher Robin, and Zarina Zabrisky who told me to keep writing it out. by Aurelia Lorca I stood in the parking lot staring at the orange flowers and letters and the mint green and aqua blue panels. It was unmistakable. I kept rubbing my eyes. It was not a cartoon, it was not a plastic replica. I returned to my car in the parking lot of the grief counseling center, still rubbing my eyes. The van was parked cross the street in a driveway. The grief center had told me I was not a right fit for their services. I needed something more than grief counseling. I stood in the driveway rubbing my eyes. The van was not a cartoon. It was not a plastic replica. It was a real van, painted exactly like the Mystery Machine. I took a photo, and texted it to Misti. She texted back, “Clown Magic.” * * * Did I say I love you? I was on my way to a protest for the Ukraine in Union Square. Did I say I love you? I was late. I walked by you on O’Farrell and Powell across from Macy’s. I was late, and I was walking down O’Farrell, and the sun was so bright, you were crouched on the corner with a row of backpacks and someone’s pit-bull. Your face was so bruised and swollen I almost did not recognize you. I looked down and I almost didn’t recognize you because your face was purple. Like a big blueberry. I think I even gasped. You said hi but you did not smile. Everything was so bright, the sun was so bright, and your face was so dark. “What happened?” I asked. “Some guys at the bar next to our squat on California and Hyde didn’t like the way we looked,” you said. “They thought we had a knife, we didn’t. There were six of them and two of us. The bar called the cops- They knew we had been squatting there and not giving anyone any problems. The cops said we could press charges, but I didn’t have my id, and my buddy is on parole. So we didn’t.” I asked if you still had the jacket I bought you. You yelled of course and pointed to it on top of your backpack. “I didn’t sell it,” you said. “That wasn’t what I meant,” I said . “I just wanted to make sure you were ok, if it was keeping you warm. “ You were with Luna, your friend’s dog, a skateboard, and all of your backpacks. I didn’t know what to do or say. There was something larger than myself on that street going on- not just the protest up in Union Square that I was late to. The sunlight was so bright and there were people around. Whatever it was felt so big, and all was exposed. It was too big and too mushy to be on the street corner like that with so many people around. Your face was un-naturally bruised, and not just from getting beat up. I know now it was a sign that your heart was giving out. I gave you ten dollars. “You don’t have to do that,” you said, “I don’t want your money.” “Please,” I said, “just be ok.” I was running late to a protest. My friend Zarina also was once a junkie in Russia and knew more dead than the living, I wanted to support her. The world was bigger than my heartache. I was running late, so I asked you to come with me and you said you couldn’t but you would meet me later. There was something I had to say. I think I said it. I said I love you there on the street corner, on O’Farrell and Powell. Once upon a time it upset you when I said I love you too much, but I said it there on the street corner, even though it felt so weird to be so vulnerable like that. I didn’t think it would be the last time I ever saw you. I just needed to say I love you because your face was so black and blue. I didn’t think it would be the last time I saw you. I just wanted you to know that I loved you. You told me that you’d meet me later, that you had to wait for your friends, that you couldn’t leave their dog and backpack, that you’d come to the protest, but it was the last time I ever saw you other than in my dreams. * * * Sunday, Easter morning began in mist. I sat in a cafe staring at my coffee. I could not think, I could not pray, there was only silence and the mist outside that had turned into rain. The streets had become silver and still. It was Easter morning. A car passed outside and the rain flew under its wheels in a glittering spray. I had not noticed that the cafe was playing music, until a song started playing, “Aint No Sunshine When She’s Gone.” Everything inside of me is muffled, like a calm before the storm. Outside more cars passed by, passed through in the silver silence of rain. I wanted to scream, but could not find the words. And the song played on, “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone.” I stepped outside. The streets were silver in rain. * * * It had been unreal: On Good Friday, April 3rd, at sunset, the night before the blood moon, a man’s voice left a message from an unknown number, “This is an emergency phone call, I have some very sad news.” The man identified himself as the San Francisco Medical Examiner and asked if I was next of kin, did I know next of kin? You died on April Fool’s Day. I was waiting for someone to say April Fool’s. I kept replaying the message. I have some very sad news. I have some very sad news. I have some very sad news. I have some very sad news. I have some very sad news. I have some very sad news. * * * The weekend after you died I found myself in Santa Cruz, and saw Rusty’s garden. Rusty was your little sister’s cat, and after she died, he became your cat. You loved to imitate his hyphenated meow and his goggly lazy eyed stare. Though you had to leave him behind, you loved Rusty, and though you wanted to, you just could not take care of him anymore. Whenever you spoke about Rusty, you would almost begin to cry, but you would insist how Rusty had a large garden to play in. “That garden is like a jungle for him,” you would say. “He loves it. He is so happy. It is the best thing for him.” A week before you died, I learn that Rusty passed away at 21 years old, 101 in human years. When I finally saw Rusty’s garden, I realized it was exactly what you wanted for all of us: A giant lemon tree with its overgrown branches and bright fruit, and even a spotted bunny hopping about with one sad chewed off ear. I was told the garden wasn’t as wild as it once was, but I am sure Rusty was as happy as he was loved- he even had a little grave marker that says, Rust In Peace. I walked back to my car from the garden, thinking to myself, “ok, I get it, I get it, you want us to find a garden, live a long life, surround ourselves with love, and be happy.” Easier said than done, I thought as I got into my car, and turned on the stereo. For some reason, out of all the songs on my itunes, Motorhead’s “Overkill” came on, as if in agreement with my epiphany, and adding, “only way to feel the noise is when its good and loud.” * * * Even Christopher Robin, who coined the phrase “clown magic” told me as we drove down Pacific Avenue that you were a nice guy, but a junkie. I couldn’t expect you to change overnight, or a weekend. “You don’t get it. This is heroin addiction we are talking about,” Christopher Robin said slowly extending out the syllables. “Clown magic,” I said. We were at a stop light, I pointed to the left across the island of Pacific Avenue. “That’s the Chinese restaurant he said he squatted at.” Christopher Robin squinted and said, “And isn’t that him, standing out front?” Indeed, there you were, holding a giant 7-11 cup and gaping at us from across the street. I honked and waved you over. You paused like you were considering something, and then nodded to the guy you were standing next to. * * * I had not forgotten you though it had been years. You had been a hard-core punk with dimples, a chipped front tooth, a little fleck on the chin, dyed maroon hair, and brown skin. Usually your smiles were smirks, and you held your face into a scowl, because when you really smiled you showed your dimples. I was an undergrad at UC Davis who was supposed to be studying literature, but felt more comfortable in the punk subculture of the townies than in a classroom. You had an old white volkswagen, and was working as a cook at a brew pub. You were one of the few punks in town with a job. As you drove us to get beer, I read to you Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach,” but I was someone else’s girl- another punk who was in and out of prison. We hung out a few times but then you left Davis because you were using too much speed. You came back to visit, and my boyfriend said to us, “someone’s getting their ass kicked tonight- either you, or her.” You said, “then I guess that will be me,” and took a beating to get him out of my apartment. I had never forgotten you. I had always wanted to say thank you. * * * “This isn’t going to work,” you said after you decided to leave Santa Cruz and move to San Francisco. “We come from different worlds, but your world is saving me.” “Clown magic,” I said. “Clown magic.” I was very drunk when you finally kissed me. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you,” you said over and over again. * * * You got a job, you found your own place. You said you were one of those who didn’t know what it was to be “in love” but you smiled whenever you thought of me. “Is that love?” you asked. “I don’t know what love is.” I couldn’t tell you anything other than I was a poet who believed in clown magic- That the divine order universe would always offer poets what they needed to understand any situation. And yet, I was also one of those who took umbrage that your cynicism might have something to do with me. It began to be there was nothing you could say that was not something else. Sometimes I would argue myself out your door, whining- “I’m not trying to be pushy or anything.” But you knew I would be back. I would always come back. By 3am I would send you a text. “I’ll take you to work tomorrow,” I’d say. “If you want,” you’d reply. And the next day, I’d be there waiting for you to be ready, accepting everything as if it hadn’t happened. * * * One of the last times I saw you, you said how he had made a mistake. You smelled not just of the streets but of rot. I let you give me a hug, and for hours after I thought I felt my skin itch and hated myself for it. * * * Every night when you first came to San Francisco I walked with you to Union Square. It was around Christmas time. We watched the sunset spin haloes around the Statue of Victory pillar as the neon lights of the ice rink offered a warm glimmer to the night. The giant tree was a freakish beacon we watched from hard benches, the ornaments enlarging our raised eyebrows. Joy spangled the heavens onto our hands. The trumpet flowers dangled over the metal benches and offer an umbrella of winter perfume and the palm trees were fringed in tiny holiday lights giving the appearance of sparkling eyelashes. We watched it all from hard benches softened by the thousand lights of the giant tree. We saw only sparkling and the Statue of Victory pillar that drowned the ornaments and all else on the edges. There was a world that existed beyond the edges, a world beyond the moon-like glow of the ice rink, and the bad-assed brilliance of the giant tree that created a couch from a metallic bench with a dazzle and a pop and awestruck faces as victorious as Victoria atop the statue of Victory pillar. And victory was as victory decided, amid glowing ice rinks, giant trees, hard benches and faces, and pillars that reminded us to be. I was very drunk the first time you kissed me. You said, “This is never going to work.” I told you, “Clown magic. Clown magic.” You said, “I love you, I love you, I love you.” * * * The nights with you all bled into one another leaving only a texture of words. I remember skipping down California Street backwards because you told me cable cars were over-rated. On another night, the night we were going to an art show on Hyde Street, I shared a fifth of Grey Goose with you while playing on the swings in a park on the top of Nob Hill. “I need to smoke a cigarette before going,” you said. “Ok,” I said, hoisting myself onto a ledge. The gallery had giant windows and clusters of bright haired people wearing black clothes and funny facial hair. “It looks kinda crowded,” I said, peering through the windows. “Check it out through the windows- S&M graffiti art inspired by the Folsom Street fair.” “Who’s your favorite poet?” I asked a hipster with an ironically unfortunate mustache going into the gallery. I was drunk, and feeling obnoxious. The hipster fingered his mustache and shrugged. “I’m not going in there,” you said, putting out your cigarette. “It’s a bunch of pseudo graffiti art and hipster fucks.” I pushed myself off the ledge and went over to a water spigot outside the gallery. “Who is your favorite poet?” I asked it, wrapping my fingers around the nozzle. “I’ll tickle it out of you like water!” You smiled and your mouth dropped open. “No matter what you do or say, no matter what happens, I will love you forever.” “Clown magic,” I said. * * * Christopher Robin lived in Santa Cruz in a small Section 8 apartment off Chestnut Street near the Boardwalk that distinguished itself in an array of toys, records, tiny pinball machines, small press posters, and type-writers. “Be careful of the typewriter on the sofa,” Christopher Robin told us the day we went back to his apartment after I found you on Ocean Avenue. “I gotta work in the next room.” Three cabbage patch dolls were sitting on the floor, along with a plastic replica of the Mystery Machine from Scooby Doo. An assortment of books and a happy meal toy of the three little pigs were on the coffee table. You put your fingers lightly on top of the Mystery Machine, “What is this place? Are you sure it is ok if I am here?” “Yes, this is my best friend. He’s also a poet, and an ex junkie who was so fucked up that he got kicked out of clown school. He got clean in jail on the day Bukowski died. Anyway this is Zen Baby headquarters. He used to have the poetry reading at the Wired Wash and after everyone would come over here to hang out. For years he did this cut and paste punk poetry zine called Zen Baby. But now he’s become a picker, a junk man- hence the cabbage patch dolls. Christopher Robin, of course, is not his real name. His dad was from Sicily, and his real name is very Italian, but no one knows what it is. He’s been called a whole host of nicknames- Spook, Mouse, Eddie, the evil dark overlord of Duh…” You wrapped yourself into a blanket, stretched out onto the sofa. You put your head underneath the blanket. Your body was shivering. “How do you know this guy again?” “Through poetry,” I said. “The small press.” I picked up the three little pigs happy meal toy on the table. I pressed the stomach of the middle pig. “Yahhh!” it said in a German accent. “What the fuck is that?” you said from under the blanket. Your voice was soft and amused. The I pressed the little piggy again. Again it said, “Yahhh!” “It’s this happy meal toy Misti Rainwater-Lites sent to Christopher.” “Who or what is a Misti Rainwater-Lites?” You said, still under the blanket, and lilting the consonants of Misti’s name. “Another poet. My sister of dangerous hair. She lives in Texas but came out last summer for a week and stayed here at Christophe Robin’s when he was out of town. We’re starting our own church- Saint Rooster Toot’s, patron saint of the absurd. Except we don’t have a chapel, we only have karaoke bars. I pressed the stomach of the middle pig again, it said, “Coochie cah.” I pressed the piggies again. “Puddin’ pot” they said.. “What the fuck is that thing?” This time you were softly laughing. “It’s a happy meal toy!” I sat down on the sofa next to you. The type-writer wedged against my back. “Eeyyyah,” the piggies said as I pinched its stomach once more. It sounded just like the first “yahhh” but it was longer and more accented. “Yahhhh,” you said, and sat up from the sofa. You pushed back the blanket you were wrapped in, and your body straightened out against the length of the couch as you began to really laugh. You shook your head, and reached out for the toy, pressing its belly and making it cry out in it’s accented, “Yahhhhhh.” You were still trembling. “Do you want a hug?” I asked. You did not look at me, but you cuddled my head under your chin and said, “Now I feel at peace.” I fell asleep with your arms wrapped around me, looking at the blues and greens and oranges of the toy Mystery Machine van beneath the sofa. Bio: Nicole Henares (Aurelia Lorca) is a poet, storyteller, and teacher who lives in San Francisco California. She has her BA in English from UC Davis, her MFA in Writing and Consciousness from California Institute of Integral Studies, and is an alumna of the Voices of Our Nation Writing Workshops. She is interested in how Lorca’s duende, the duende of Andalusia and flamenco, is a cross cultural spirit.
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