What’s in a Name?

“Gary’s not a very good name for a clown,” said Noel
I shrugged. “As good a name as any, I suppose.”
“Yeah, but clowns have names like Bozo, Jocko, or Jumbo. Not Gary. It’s not a funny name.”
“Maybe it’s funny because it’s not a funny name,” I said.
“Shoulda gone with ‘Norman’ then.”

Noel pulled out her copy of the Weekly World News, diving into an article about a recently discovered creature in Ventura County, California, the omnivorous Oxnard odd-toed ungulate. Old ladies and fashionable women found that their Chihuahuas, Pekinese, Pomerianans, Pugs, and Shih Tzus had mysteriously dissapeared. Evidently, a horse-like creature had been seen in the area and it apparently had a taste for the flesh of small, yappy dogs.

My gaze wandered out the window of the Greyhound bus. I watched the rows of corn and wheat stream by in the golden summer sun. The smell of diesel fumes mixed with sweat as the strong scent of “Vanilla Fields” perfume wafted back from the crone in front of me. I let my weariness take me down into a deep sleep.

A sudden jolt and the sound of air brakes awoke me with a start. I looked around to see what was happening.

“That greasy little guy is causing trouble,” said Noel.

He was about five foot four, wearing a dirty ‘wife-beater’ t-shirt. His hair was slicked back with crankcase oil, his face ripped into a sneer.

“Hey baby, I got what you want,” he oozed at the college girl in the front of the bus. He grabbed his crotch. “Bet you know what to do with this.”

“Sir, get back to your seat now!” exclaimed the bus driver, a heavy set black woman who had driven far too many miles this day to deal with this sort of nonsense.

“Oh, you gonna make me mama?” As the bus driver grabbed her radio mic, the greasy dude returned his attention to his prey. “Why don’t'cha show Stevie whatcha got.” He pulled a small knife out of his waist band.

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Gary, the funeral clown, doing something with his hands. I looked over and realized that he made a balloon animal while all this was going on. Gary stood slowly and walked calmly to the front of the bus, the balloon animal in one hand and a small black, white-tipped walking stick in the other. He presented the happy little balloon to greasy little Stevie.

Stevie took the balloon animal in his hands, looking it over. He held it up in front of Gary’s face and stabbed it with his little toad-sticker of a knife. He flung the deflated rubber tube in Gary’s face. Gary raised his small walking stick up in front of his face and waved it slightly almost hypnotizing little Stevie. Suddenly, Gary slammed the tip of the stick down on the floor of the bus as a burst of flash powder exploded between the two.

In the confusion, Gary pushed the greasy little guy to the floor. He tapped his walking stick twice on the floor and, with a magical flourish, the stick turned into a string of handkerchiefs tied together. Gary quickly hog-tied the greasy little man with the handkerchiefs. Gary stood, his big clown shoe firmly holding the greasy guy down. The bus passengers burst into applause. Gary waved and beeped his horn in appreciation.