The New Nasty

In the tributary system to the north of Mobile, we moved into a small house, with a small yard, and a fence that kept us from wading in the canal waters crisscrossing our neighborhood. The fence, some say, was recommended not required, but it was there when we got there, and Travis was six—and me, only ten—so it seemed like a good idea to leave it up. Dad actually said that to our neighbor one morning. Despite all the barbs and the rust and rotten posts (he continued), at least it kept out our dogs—two frown-faced boxers huffing at turtle heads floating by.

Our neighbor, Mr. Charlie, said it was for the best too. He knew things and saw things in his years by the canals. "People dump stuff, lose things," he said, looking out over the black water. "I could make stories up, but they wouldn't be half as wild as what actually happens." He smiled down at us and our dogs, gave a wink and a squiggly-toothed smile. Retired carny. Circuses and state fairs, you name it. I could see the carnival in the lines on his face, like the years of greasepaint oozed in, bright colors desaturated to oddly mixed skin tones and purpling, dusty shadows. I wondered if he was a sad clown or a happy clown.

In him, I saw the midway—not the fun stuff, the adult stuff—barked out by gravel throats, men-folk ushered behind heavy tent flaps. Oddities and “wonderments,” sights to behold, I knew the tall-talk, the tales and the musings. I studied it. Feared it. I kept a rubber harlequin mask in the trunk by my bed. More about that later. I was listening to Charlie. Seeing if he’d give away his cahoots with the “nasties.”

And he chattered, on and on with my dad by the fence—big gestures, big expressions—small talk about alligators and low tides and trot lines. I stood by, transfixed by his quirks and his—what’s the word? Clown-ness? (That’s not right, but I’ll leave it for now.) Travis finally yanked me away for a game of horseshoes. Charlie’s wife, Miss Lidia, in silhouette, waved hello from the porch on their mobile home as we passed, kicking dirt clods and punching at each other like brothers do. She turned up the last of her drink; sweet tea, I guess. The ice clacked in the glass. “You boys get thirsty, lemme know,” she said then laughed for no reason. She laughed a lot. Chortled. She was carny too. A full-figured lady. I choose my words carefully. She, however, was less sensitive about it than I. Mr. Charlie used to play the spoons while she danced what she called a “Lil’ Tawdry.” They caught Trav and me spying from the shrubs once but pretended not to see us.

“I sure hope nobody’s watching,” Mr. Charlie kept saying.

“Laws mercy,” Miss Lidia kept laughing. “Anybody wanna see this, then God bless ‘em!”

So, the harlequin mask—in the trunk by my bed. Because I was ten, I got home from school first. Latchkey, I let myself in, chunked my books in the hallway, and turned on the TV. I didn’t watch it. For some reason I just felt the TV always needed to be on. Since being a baby, I never knew it any other way. The people on TV were always yelling it seemed. Good noise pollution. I know I risk losing you here. I’m weird. I’m sorry. And what’s weirder was the mask—and me, wearing it—alone. Sitting bolt upright in a hard-backed chair by the rear window, I’d done this in our other house too. If the clowns—the nasties—ever came creeping, they would hear the raucous TV chatter then see me, in my mask, white-faced, mugging—no need to stop here, he’s already got ‘em. Then the nasties might slunk away to haunt someone else’s house.

Of course, it was only a few weeks before Mr. Charlie, the new nasty, came walking down the fence line. He looked up and down the canal before emptying the contents of a crinkly, black trash bag in the water. I saw what I saw. It was Miss Lidia’s head that came tumbling out. I could imagine the ploomp sound. The water boiled angrily. Something thrashed. I saw an alligator tail slap hard on the bank. Mr. Charlie got wet. He laughed and walked away. And there I sat, morbidly transfixed, cataleptic almost.

So the clowns—the nasties—did kill people. I knew it. I friggin’ knew it.

It was her, right? I swear I saw her face. The chins. The tangly hair. Can a neck still have extra chins when it’s not perched on a body? So much hair. Happened so fast.

Mr. Charlie had gone into his work shed. I had to check their trailer.

My feet hit the floor in pins and needles. Numbness, like sandbags, stilted my stride, making me lurch and lean, a monster walk. Still in my mask. Never thought to take it off. Across the lawn and up to their porch, years of grime clouded the screens, but someone was there. Miss Lidia, of course, in shadows and stillness. I opened the door and approached her prone form, arms and legs splayed, phone on the floor, blood spatter making the rug squish. A bib of dark gruesomeness oozed onto her dress—a large, bearded lady, an oddity, a showpiece. Freshly headless, her body still twitched. I covered the stump with my harlequin mask. She needed it more than I did.

Mr. Charlie took his own life in a shed full of carnival trash, old posters and signs, light-up oddities, things in jars, a spear gun—dropped—the spear through his mouth, out his head, a little red flag hanging off, dripping brains. The flag said “BANG!”

I guess he was a sad clown, after all.

©2021 J. Brian Reed

Originally published on Crystal Lake Entertainment's Patreon site.