The Final Show
By: Tommy Paley
Tags: Short Fiction, The Weekly Knob, Clowns, 237, Red Nose Day

The Final Show

Photo by Becky Phan on Unsplash

He sat in his small dressing room, old, discoloured posters and news clippings faded, ripped.

The old headlines excitedly announcing in all caps events from long ago when he mattered.

And now? Shoulders hunched, head down, counting the minutes until sleep. A giant of a man, so small, so weak.

A shell of his former self, once tall and proud, now hollow and formless; a gust of wind could blow him away.

The mirror chipped, a loose nail, a hole in the wall a constant reminder of his temper. Clothes tossed here and there, empty bottles all around like trophies, a stale odor in the air.

So many wasted nights, so many friendships lost, so much for the bright future that he’d been told about and promised since he was young.

If he’d had the energy, he’d cry.

A Christmas carol played on a radio a few rooms down while a pretty voice sang along a little off-key.

Looking up at the stained ceiling, he wanted to stand and shout and rage against it all, but instead he sat in silence, stunned.

There had been interventions and warnings and threats and he ignored them all; his ego, so massive. He was invincible.

Now a flat tire, punctured in too many spots to count, air long dissipated.

In the distance, he heard cheers. Crowds calling for more. Urging someone to perform and entertain them.

That had been him once, the star, the main attraction, the focal point.

Or had it? It was so long ago, it felt like another lifetime ago, or a bad television show he’d watched as a kid while his mother made him grilled cheese sandwiches as his father read the newspaper. The smell of cigars.

Nobody called for him, not any longer. Those days in the rear view.

It was cold. It was always cold.

The wind blowing hard. Sending shivers up and down his spine as he stared at his reflection in the dirty mirror.

Bags under his eyes, cheeks sagging, hair receding. He hated the man he’d become. Ragged, rough, grey.

The crowd over in the distance, oohing and aahing, loving the show, eating it up, a waterfall of applause showering down on the performer.

Closing his eyes, he could almost remember that moment, many of them. His favourite was when he stood, offstage, curtains closed, a murmur of anticipation of what was to come and he, a wry grin, ready for it all.

The lights, the music, the energy, the stars above — it was magic, it was alive, it was home.

And now, those news clippings and photos scattered around the room a cruel reminder of what had been.

His eyes closed, cold to his bone, he could recite each story word for word.

The heater banging and clanging, fighting hard, producing nothing.

He’d been warm before. Wrapped in her arms, sitting by the fire, feeling needed and loved. Toasting, the clink of glasses, love in the air.

Back then there had been a smile on his face, a hop in his step, a gleam in his eyes. Success was etched in stone.

He’d been a part of something big, larger than life.

The cascading thrill ride felt like it would last forever before it went careening off the cliff.

A couple outside giggled a little too loudly, uttering promises that one uttered around midnight, young love.

He grimaced, shifted in his chair that barely supported his weight, knocking a bottle to the ground.

Shattered, glass everywhere, loud cursing.

The sounds of love outside his door stopping, momentarily, before the giggles resumed as the couple ran off into the night.

How he wanted to run. Away from it all, into the dark, to be swallowed up by the void.

He lived in silence.

No music played for him, no spotlight followed him, no adoring crowds cheered his arrival.

A buzzer sounded, sharp.

It was time, his time. His final show.

His head barely rising to acknowledge it.

This should have been a proud moment. This could have been a grand send off. This would have been a big celebration of a legend striding towards the sun set.

But it wasn’t. Not at all. They were happy to see him go. They were pleased that this has-been, blow-hard, angry old man was leaving. There would be no parties or hugs or promises to stay in touch.

There would be nothing to remember him by.

This was the end of the line for him and he couldn’t wait to never come back, to disappear.

The buzzer sounded again, angrier.

Pushing up, off the chair, knees unsteady. Drinking from a bottle of something nearby, he reached up, above his coat and grabbed the item, his trademark, his calling card.

He’d worn it, proudly for so many years until it became a weight around his neck, dragging him down.

She’d left when the money dried up. He’d burned every bridge he’d ever built — family, friends, shrinks — he had nothing left.

A spray here, an adjustment there. He took a look around at what had been his second home for years, both remembering the heyday and the reality of the moment, and then he walked, towards the crowd, towards his destiny.

And, as he approached the big tent, the final touch for the final time, the red nose. As he slowly walked, he started to cry.

Showtime.