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Prologue: Rusty
- University of Wisconsin Press
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3 Prologue: Rusty I’m a clown. And I don’t mean that in the sense of being a fool ei ther— al though I’ve been that too. I mean, I’m an ac tual clown—as in I wear face paint (an ex ag ger ated frown, of course), a big red nose, bal loon pants, and giant orange shoes. I jug gle; I fall; I’m a fool for hire now in stead of just doing it pro bono. I’m not so dif fer ent from any other clown ex cept for my pros thetic leg, which I use to great ef fect. I’ve got my clown pants put to gether in such a way that I can knock it out from under me. Then I’m able to use it as a prop: put ting it back on up side down, or car ry ing it around under my arm while I hop about; I shake it at chil dren; toss it some times into the au di ence if the kids are old enough to catch. They ei ther howl with laugh ter or are re duced to utter si lence. The two most im por tant things in the world right there in the same place. Im a gine that. They call me Rusty. And I don’t speak. Ever. So I guess you could say I’m a mime too. That’s on ac count of Jimmy, who al ways told me I talked too much, and Eu gene, who showed me how not to. The hard est part is not sing ing, of course. But I do hum and laugh and groan and make all the an i mal noises. I be came a clown for the usual rea sons—be cause things didn’t work out. On a grand scale. That’s the cli ché of clown sto ries, I know. Yet I 4 didn’t go bank rupt or lose my fam ily in a tor nado or any thing like that. I just lost Jimmy, which amounted to the same thing, and then some. Be cause it was like a tor nado, the way it came, leav ing noth ing be hind but dust and rui na tion—and Jimmy’s voice as he grabbed hard ahold of my wrist with what strength he had left, his big hol low dark eyes look ing at me: “Don’t for get to take me back the way I came, Sea mus . . . road’s the place for lost souls.” The ques tion that was my face. “Prom ise?” I nod ded. Then I kissed him on the fore head and sat hold ing his hand, lis ten ing to the rhythm of his breath ing—and hum ming along with it—as he made his way to ward sleep. Jimmy was a song, see? And the song’s over. Let me tell you the story. You read and I’ll hum. ...