sadhillock
cellpohane
New York City, 2015
Central Park
Monday, 8:00 am
Everyone hates Mondays.
The dread of another work week hung thickly in the damp morning air, mirrored above by thick grey clouds. Businessmen sighed deeply into their coffees, vendors rubbed sleep from their eyes as they prepared to showcase their wares, artists lazily set up their easels and placed tip jars at their feet. The world itself seemed to move in slow motion.
Suddenly, a sound. It pierced the air like a bolt of light, banishing the grayness of the world. It was a laugh.
A small crowd had gathered. In the middle of the throng, seated on the asphalt, was a clown. He was wearing a suit, torn at the shoulder, smudged with dirt. On his head was a crumpled hat; a tie hung loosely around his neck. He was feebly attempting to light a cigarette that hung between his white painted lips.
Hiss! A match was lit and brought to the cigarette, and extinguished just before catching the paper. The clown huffed and tried again, this time bringing the match too close to his face and scorching his red nose. He howled in exaggerated agony and fell backwards, holding his injured face. A small child laughed and pointed from the crowd, saying things like "smoking hurts you, don't do it!" and "what a silly person!". Under thick painted brows the clown's eyes met the child's, and for the faintest moment, he seemed to smile.
The man rose to his feet, and in doing so, placed his foot into a metal bed-pan that had been sitting by him. He went to step forward, under the guise of telling the child to mind his own business, and instantly fell forwards. The crowd parted quickly as the sad tramp rolled into a somersault. The bed pan flew into the air and with a loud DING landed exactly on his head. Laughter arose from the crowd, as the clown tried removing the 'stuck' pan to no avail.
Everyone hates Mondays... But everyone loves Mr. Mondays.
Every week at the same time he came here, performing for people. It felt right, making them happy. Their every day problems seemed small compared to the woes "Mr. Mondays" had. He offered them an escape, if only for a few moments, and in return he was paid well for it.
Change jingled in the bed pan he held out as the crowd started to part, ready and refreshed to go on their own ways. Each tip was answered with goofy grin and a nod of thanks. He had made at least twenty dollars that morning, by his estimate anyways, and that was good enough for the moment.
"Good work again, John," he said to himself happily, pulling the handkerchief from his front pocket and wiping the paint off his face. "Now, I think it's about time to find some breakfast."
Central Park
Monday, 8:00 am
Everyone hates Mondays.
The dread of another work week hung thickly in the damp morning air, mirrored above by thick grey clouds. Businessmen sighed deeply into their coffees, vendors rubbed sleep from their eyes as they prepared to showcase their wares, artists lazily set up their easels and placed tip jars at their feet. The world itself seemed to move in slow motion.
Suddenly, a sound. It pierced the air like a bolt of light, banishing the grayness of the world. It was a laugh.
A small crowd had gathered. In the middle of the throng, seated on the asphalt, was a clown. He was wearing a suit, torn at the shoulder, smudged with dirt. On his head was a crumpled hat; a tie hung loosely around his neck. He was feebly attempting to light a cigarette that hung between his white painted lips.
Hiss! A match was lit and brought to the cigarette, and extinguished just before catching the paper. The clown huffed and tried again, this time bringing the match too close to his face and scorching his red nose. He howled in exaggerated agony and fell backwards, holding his injured face. A small child laughed and pointed from the crowd, saying things like "smoking hurts you, don't do it!" and "what a silly person!". Under thick painted brows the clown's eyes met the child's, and for the faintest moment, he seemed to smile.
The man rose to his feet, and in doing so, placed his foot into a metal bed-pan that had been sitting by him. He went to step forward, under the guise of telling the child to mind his own business, and instantly fell forwards. The crowd parted quickly as the sad tramp rolled into a somersault. The bed pan flew into the air and with a loud DING landed exactly on his head. Laughter arose from the crowd, as the clown tried removing the 'stuck' pan to no avail.
Everyone hates Mondays... But everyone loves Mr. Mondays.
Every week at the same time he came here, performing for people. It felt right, making them happy. Their every day problems seemed small compared to the woes "Mr. Mondays" had. He offered them an escape, if only for a few moments, and in return he was paid well for it.
Change jingled in the bed pan he held out as the crowd started to part, ready and refreshed to go on their own ways. Each tip was answered with goofy grin and a nod of thanks. He had made at least twenty dollars that morning, by his estimate anyways, and that was good enough for the moment.
"Good work again, John," he said to himself happily, pulling the handkerchief from his front pocket and wiping the paint off his face. "Now, I think it's about time to find some breakfast."