This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... Down in the Dirt magazine (v112) (the November 2012 Issue) You can also order this 5.5" x 8.5" issue as an ISSN# paperback book:

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Clown Face

Jack Hill

    The q-tip had plunged my ear shut the night before. I visited the doctor and she said two weeks until I would hear again. She said the Grand Canyon caused my hearing loss. The medical assistant scheduled another appointment. Their laughs were whispers when I closed the door to her office and passed through the lobby.
    The sweat stains on my olive shirt make a squinting, frowning face. Two kids on bikes crash into the side of my car when I park next to the garage under my apartment in the alley. One kid cries and lays on the pavement. Blood drips from the back of his forearm when he holds it up. I look away and lock my car, double checking the security system light is on, and push through the side gate to my apartment.
    The laundry room-office at the end of the kitchen exhales like Tupperware when I open the door and I turn on my computer.
    I kick off the shoes and unbuckle my belt and flip on the air conditioner and free the dog from the crate and fill the dish with food and close all the windows and blinds.
    I sit on the toilet and scurry through Outside Magazine, looking at the fit guys hiking and climbing and flying and jumping. I would do all that someday, I think and wipe.
    Back to the computer. Pants down. Dirty sock on the table, next to the mouse.
    I load the bookmarked video of the black girl with the two gallon breasts and the white guy with the clown face tattoo on his abs.
    I want to be him for thirty seconds. I am him for thirty seconds.

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