Francis applied the makeup generously.

Eyelids, nostrils, and lips disappeared behind a mask of white leaving no clear, defining feature untouched—his eyes stood out, two murky indentations on a blank canvas.

He combed his sandy hair back with his fingers, not at all bothered that the remaining greasepaint on his hands aged him. He placed the bald cap over his hair and then reached for a Q-tip. He swept it exactly an inch above each brow, wiping away the makeup and creating comically large, expressive eyebrows that were perfectly even, curved at the exact points. He used a fresh Q-tip to remove a small amount of paint from the center of his lips. He discarded both Q-tips carelessly in the direction of the overflowing trash.

Francis smeared a small amount of cerulean paint on his wrist and dabbed at it with a brush before leaning closely to the mirror and watching his progress intently. With a steady hand, he painted the eyebrows he had so meticulously shaped, then outlined the blue brows using a dab of black paint and a clean brush. He lined his eyes with the black paint and filled in the naked pink center of his lips until they, too, were smooth and black. He pulled the brush gently to the creases on each side of his face, giving the impression of a wide, smiling mouth.

Francis puffed his face with baby powder before dabbing moderate drops of glue to his nose and applying the bulbous latex nose.

He surveyed himself in the mirror one last time before shoving every bottle, tube, and brush back into the medicine cabinet.

In the car, Francis ignored the eyes of other drivers. He itched with sweat. At a stoplight, he glanced to his left and saw a carful of teenagers pointing at him. Gawking. Laughing. Francis smiled widely and crossed his eyes at them. They pointed and laughed harder. The light turned green and Francis drove.

The house was enormous and painstakingly beautiful. He parked his Taurus carefully along the curb beside the mailbox that had a wind-tangled mess of red and gold balloons tied to it.

Francis checked his reflection in the rearview mirror one final time before adjusting the driver’s seat, reaching down to remove scuffed loafers from his feet, and replacing them with the overlarge, shiny yellow and blue shoes from the passenger’s seat. He reached behind and felt for the wig in the backseat.

Francis walked up a cobblestone path that curved along a well-manicured hedge. The overlarge shoes squeaked with each step, sounding out of place and utterly ridiculous in the thick atmosphere of the affluent neighborhood’s reticence. He held a bright purple polka dotted briefcase in one hand, and with the other, he shielded his eyes and looked upward at the impressive height of the house.

Francis knocked on the heavy oak door and waited. He heard a dog’s barks echoing from one of the neighborhood’s many expansive, manicured backyards. A woman, well-groomed and pretty in a sunflower-patterned summer dress, answered the door. She looked exhausted and when she saw his face, hers lit up.

“Beamo?” She exhaled.

“That’s me.” Francis said in his normal voice.

She held the door open for him. Francis wiped the large shoes unnecessarily on the doormat just outside the door and then entered the house with a polite nod to the woman in the sunflower dress. Sounds of laughter and liveliness came from somewhere in the distance. He glanced around, as equally impressed with the interior of the house as he had been with the exterior. A magnificent grandfather clock bellowed out the time in deep, resounding bongs.

“You have a lovely home,” he offered, but she was already walking away down a long, high-ceilinged hallway.

“Watch your step,” she called over her shoulder. “The boys got a bit rowdy waiting for you…” She pointed unnecessarily. Shards of blue and white china glittered against the otherwise spotless mahogany wood floor. A broom and dustpan leaned against the wall. Francis attempted to step gingerly over the shattered remnants of what used to be a vase, but his giant shoes made the task nearly impossible. He noticed a pattern of matte white magnolia blossoms on one of the larger shards and bent down to touch it with a gloved finger.

“Boys! Guess who’s here?” The woman called. Francis leapt up and followed. With each squeaking step, the merriment of children grew louder.

“Was that a Wedgwood?” He asked, motioning to the hallway. The woman turned but barely gave the mess a second glance.

“I have no idea. The boys are ready for you.”

She led him into a rather large, brightly lit den that had been decorated for the party. Balloons clung and crept along the ceiling as if playing keep away from one another. Streamers of red and gold hung from the ceiling fans and window valences. Some of the crepe paper had already been torn down and trampled by the dozen or so boys who watched Francis’s entrance with something like hunger in their eyes. Francis spotted a boy in full Iron Man gear toward the back of the room. He jumped up and down on a long sectional couch chanting,

“Beam-O! Beam-O!”

Francis set the briefcase down, smiled widely, adopted a crooked posture and instantly became Beamo.

“Well now, where’s the birthday boy?” Beamo said in a voice that broke out of the left corner of his mouth. The boys laughed and pointed to Iron Man.

“I have it on good authority that your name is…” with a flourish, Beamo pulled a roll of brightly colored thermal paper from the pocket of his checkered suit. He consulted a small bit of the paper and carelessly dropped the spool allowing the entire thing to unroll along the floor, marveling the boys with its seemingly never-ending length.

“Sally!” Beamo cried from the left corner of his mouth. The boys laughed, and Iron Man squealed in protest, all the while jumping up and down.

“Not Sally?” Beamo dropped his list and it rolled away. One of the boys chased after it. Beamo stood in mock confusion tapping his chin with a white-gloved finger. “I’m afraid I’ve come to the wrong birthday party, in that case. So long!” With affectation, Beamo bent over to pick up his briefcase and proceeded to knock it to the floor where it sprung open and a plethora of rubber bouncy balls spilled out.

“Oh dear!” Beamo cried as the boys scrambled to retrieve the toys.

“Beamo, please stay! Don’t go to Sally’s party.”

A little boy with chocolate smeared across his brow tugged at Beamo’s baggy sleeve. Beamo knelt and winked at the little boy.

“Well, I suppose I can stay for a little while. Sally won’t mind. Do you think Sally will mind?” He asked the whole group and received a resounding

“NO!”

Bouncy balls flew in every direction. Beamo turned to the woman in the sunflower dress who stood in the corner with her arms crossed. She wore a smile but her attention belonged entirely to Iron Man.

Beamo called the boys to order. He asked Iron Man to join him at the back of the room. The rest of the boys sat on their hands and watched with crooked necks and open mouths as Beamo pulled various items like shiny quarters and small toys from their friend’s ears. Beamo removed Iron Man’s helmet, turned away for a moment, and revealed to the crowd all the candy hidden inside.

When Beamo reached into his purple briefcase and brought out a package of twisting balloons, the boys, flushed with a recent surge of sugar, yelled and called like a drunk concert audience requesting songs.

Beamo emptied his lungs again and again as the balloons took shape. His skilled hands folded and twisted the latex into giraffes, swords, hats, boats, dogs, elephants, monkeys. When the birthday boy requested an Iron Man balloon, Beamo rolled up his checkered sleeves, twisted his black lips in mock concentration, and expertly shaped gold and red together into the recognizable form of the superhero. The boys oohed and ahhed in genuine admiration.

When the woman in the sunflower dress announced that it was time for cake, balloon animals were abandoned as the boys rushed to the backyard through a set of magnificent French doors. Beamo followed them outside and joined in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to Iron Man who expelled a generous amount of saliva on the cake as he blew out the ignited number 5.

“There’s plenty of cake if you’d like a slice.”

The woman offered Francis a paper plate with a neatly sliced square of the sheet cake. He took it and thanked her in his normal voice. He wandered to the side of the house where he scraped off the thick layer of buttercream frosting and saliva with a plastic fork and began to eat the cake. He listened to the boys laughing, playing, and begging the woman in the sunflower dress for more cake.

“Beamo?” The small voice near his right elbow stirred him. He became crooked and mechanically winked at the little boy who still had chocolate on his brow. The boy’s face was tear-streaked and his eyes glistened. Beamo knelt to the boy’s level and set his paper plate on the grass next to him. He twisted his face back into its crooked grimace

“Why, what’s with the waterworks, pal?” He took the boy’s shoulders gently in his gloved hands.

The boy swiped his forearm under his nostril and a string of snot came with it. He wrapped his small arms around Beamo’s neck and hugged him tightly. Beamo patted the boy’s back and when he pulled away, he noticed the little boy had a smear of greasepaint on his tear-stained cheek.

“My friends said they don’t want to play with me and…and…” his lower lip trembled and his voice caught between dry sobs. “And they said they don’t want to be my friend anymore.”

Beamo leaned to the side and observed a few of the boys who were kicking a soccer ball to one another, careless of the trouble they had caused.

“Now why would they say a darned silly thing like that?” Beamo turned his attention back to the boy in front of him.

“They said I always kick the ball in the bushes.” A fresh sob escaped from pouted lips and fresh tears followed the clean paths down his round, dirty cheeks.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Beamo whispered out of the side of his mouth. The little boy’s eyes widened with the weight of the moment and he leaned forward and nodded eagerly.

“I ALWAYS kick the ball into the bushes. Sometimes…” he looked around warily, as if afraid they were being overheard. “I kick the ball right over the fence into the neighbor’s YARD! But you can’t tell anyone.” He raised a gloved finger to his lips. “Shhh…”

The little boy giggled and nodded.

“Can I tell you something else?” Beamo asked with mock solemnity. The muscles in his cheeks ached and he worked to keep his crooked grimace in place. The little boy shoved his finger in his nose and nodded again. Before Beamo could dispense more wisdom, the soccer ball came sailing over and slammed into the side of the house.

“Hey! Kick it back!” Iron Man screamed. Without another word or a backward glance at Beamo, the little boy chased after the ball and rejoined the game.

Beamo watched the boys play for a few moments before the woman in the sunflower dress found him and handed him a check.

“I wasn’t sure what name to make it out to, so I left that part blank.” He took the check from her without looking at it and folded it neatly.

“That’s all right. Thank you very much.” He said politely. “Shall I say goodbye to the children?”

“Sure. They really enjoyed you, I think. We tried to get Iron Man but he was booked months out, so…” She turned to the whole of the backyard and called, “Boys! Beamo has to leave, would you like to say goodbye?”

“Bye, Beamo!” A few of the boys called.

Iron Man was busy dueling a friend with his balloon sword. The little boy with the tear-streaked face was distracted in play and didn’t seem to hear the woman’s announcement. Beamo waved with a flourish and reentered the house.

As he tossed his paper plate into the trash, he couldn’t help noticing the remains of the broken Wedgwood among crumpled Iron Man napkins. The slices of blue porcelain mingled with slices of barely eaten birthday cake. The shards were smeared with buttercream frosting. Francis glanced around and found himself alone in the kitchen—the kids were still outside wearing out their sugar rushes with screams and laughter. He snatched his purple polka dotted briefcase from the den amidst the cemetery of forgotten balloon animals that desperately clung to one another in a staticky mass. His heart thudded uncomfortably as he picked through the trash and carefully dropped each remnant of the vase into the briefcase.

When he was sure he’d scavenged every last piece of Wedgwood, Francis fastened the briefcase, pulled the folded check from his breast pocket, and then dropped it into the trash.

“Did you need the bouncy balls back?” The woman asked, entering through the French doors and motioning to the toys that were scattered throughout the den.

He jumped a bit, clutching the briefcase to his chest.

“Oh, no. They can keep those. Have a lovely day.” Francis said with a normal, uncrooked smile.

In the car, Francis tucked the briefcase under the passenger’s seat and traded the large shoes for the scuffed loafers. The heat was unbearable and he could feel his skin beneath the makeup prickle and itch. He rolled the windows down for some air, then tossed the wig and bald cap into the backseat along with the large shoes. His hair was plastered to his head with sweat and greasepaint. He turned the key in the ignition without removing the gloves and drove.

In his apartment, Francis opened the briefcase and carefully laid out each piece of the Wedgwood on the kitchen counter. The sun was just beginning to set and he stood for a moment in a spot of orange light that filtered in through the window above the sink.

In the bathroom, Francis dug through his medicine cabinet until he found the bottle of glue. He grabbed a handful of fresh Q-tips and another handful of tissues. He cleaned each remnant of the vase with warm soapy water, carefully wiping until there was no trace of buttercream, until each magnolia blossomed and shone brilliantly. His thoughts drifted to the money he had left behind, attached to the never-ending list in his mind—rent, AC repair for the Taurus, new bouncy balls, the new tube of black he desperately needed before his next gig—but as he counted and gently wiped each pale blue fragment, the worries melted away.

Francis rebuilt the Wedgwood with deft and patient hands. He wondered if the woman in the sunflower dress had, in all the time she had possessed the vase, appreciated its beauty. He wondered what kind of world her life was that shards of a Wedgwood weren’t worth a second glance on an otherwise sparkling mahogany wood floor.

While he worked, he listened to the sounds of solitude that existed on the edges of his world. The groaning hum of his refrigerator, the nesting birds rustling outside the torn screen of his bedroom window, the inconsiderately loud yet familiar sounds of life from his upstairs neighbors. He considered each viable surface in the apartment, mentally shoving aside dishes or books to make space for the Wedgwood. He licked his lips and tasted the bitter combination of balloon latex and makeup melting and mixing with the salt of his sweat. He smiled to himself when he realized that he’d forgotten to remove his makeup. He thought of the boy with tears, chocolate, and greasepaint staining his youthful face and felt a twinge of pity in the pit of his stomach.

The light through the window changed from orange to red to the colorless remnants of a departed day until Francis was forced to flip on the light switch. With a fresh Q-tip, Francis spread glue along the sharp edges of the final piece of his Wedgwood and held it carefully in place, patiently waiting for it to dry.

September 1, 2025