Creativewriting - Blog Posts
Futureless moth, eating old keepsakes. Nothing else to be done in locked closets but eat. Soothing herself on the past, indulgently gorging on memorabilia, unbothered by the holes her little mouth leaves. No better meal than childhood. No better place to die than in wools, and silks, and cottons, refusing to batter oneself against the closet door.
Before she swims to me, I catch her scent in the water. Like bath pearls popping in the laps of purple water against the yellow sand, I inhale euphoria, and I am intoxicated, immovable from the shoreline. I melt into the mud, and I am eaten alive, transfixed, infatuated with the shape of teeth boring holes in my skin.
-Diary of a Siren
What is all this?
It’s bioluminescence. You never seen it before?
No, I haven’t.
It’s little tiny creatures, every time something moves through the water they light up like itty bitty stars.
Do you eat them?
Do I-? No! They’re beautiful!
You don’t eat beautiful things?
You’re still here aren’t you?
-conversations with a siren
I don’t want to die knowing sadness last. I want to die in a happy moment. I want to die on the beach when I’m 8 years old, and I’m boogie boarding right for the first time. There’s salt water in my teeth and the sun is shining. I want to die suddenly. My head hitting the bottom of the sea floor hard and fast. I want to die a happy child.
One day I’ll be old, and teenagers will record me doing mundane tasks with my wife in public, and post it somewhere, on an app with a name I don’t know, appreciating #humans being humans. Appreciating how adorable old people are like we’re rabbits in a wooded glade or something, never thinking they’ll be me, holding the hand of their partner, helping her step from the street to the sidewalk with weary bones and wrinkled faces. One day I was them, and one day they will be me. Though I’ll never know their names or faces, they will have taken a moment of my life as their own as a relic of humanity, though for me, it is just a slice of my morning commute. I wonder if I’ll feel the camera on my back then. I wonder if I’ll wish I was the recorder and not the recorded. I wonder how many likes the essence of my self and my life would get, as a moment of my life is turned into an online commodity by a stranger.
It took three. The first killed her parents, in the home they used to share. The second took her legs, leaving only her arms to hold her. The third took her life. It took three bombs for Israel to murder a little girl. But it only takes the death of one child to devastate a world.
What secrets I would tell you if it would not take you drowning to hear them
-Diary of a Siren
A mermaid is born when a heart is buried, deep in the trenches of the blue sea. A mermaid coveting motherhood need only snatch a sailor’s heart and offer it to the seabed, and within hours, her baby girl will rise from the sand and into her arms. What happens, though, when a mermaid steals the heart of another mermaid? How will the others forgive a murder, even if it is done out of love?
-Diary of a Siren
It is relieving to write what I think. I hadn't realized how ravenous and independent thoughts can be when left to their own endeavors. They can swarm behind the eyes so fiercely that they may pop out. And perhaps that would be a good thing, for a dangling eye can see oneself from an outside perspective, and not one manufactured and manhandled by pesky buzzing thoughts.
How pathetic. To spend my days reassuring myself that they are not wasted, all the while wasting them in trivial debates with the wretched thing in the mirror about the very topic. Why I should answer to her, I do not know. She is the opposite of me. Her left eye is where my right is, and her right eye is where my left is. Her hair is parted on the wrong side, her college chosen wrong, her days spent mindlessly, her work set to waste, what a rotten thing she is. I know who I am. And it isn't her. It can't be. Or every poor thing I think of myself would be true.
There is no wound so healed that the body does not remember its shape.
Send Me Your Thoughts
DEAR READERS:
Whilst the world is inundated with interesting times, let this be an opportunity to share positive and meaninful content to entertain and enrich one another.
I ask my followers to send me an Ask request for anything that may entertain you and I will create it. Be it an artwork, a short story, a moodboard. The possibilities are endless and this platform makes it possible to be extremely productive.
Requests are currently open, multiples are accepted and any concept/fandom/ideas are welcome.
Don’t be shym write to me and together we can create something beautiful.
With Much Love,
Laser Glass Spider
Joker || Fracture
Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.
|| SIX ||
Time is flux.
The days rolled into weeks, leaving behind October and greeting November with sharply declining temperatures. Gotham woke every morning to frigid, cutting winds and frozen sidewalks. The radios, televisions and newspapers continued to bemoan the state of Gotham’s garbage crisis as the sanitation strikes rolled into their second consecutive month.
Meanwhile Thomas Wayne began his campaign for city mayor beseeching the people to hold steady for the future. It seemed his speeches were poorly received by the under classes who began to protest boisterously in the streets. ‘We are all clowns.’ Their bitter demonstration posters read. Such was the way of the wealthy. So disconnected from their workforces it appeared they weren’t listening to the people they hoped to govern at all. Even a man whose best intentions were on display was not immune to media misinterpretation. Misconstrued messages manipulated out of context.
Arthur was reminded sharply of how little attention people paid one another in this city. Everyone walked with a weight on their shoulders. Slightly hunched against the wind and rain. No one seemed to smile anymore. Not even the children as they walked holding their parents’ hands, tearful at the school gates. Fearful of a world outside the comfort and routine of their private homes. It was rough out there. They’d learn soon enough. They’d grow up like everyone else. Without a smile.
His latest visitation with his psychologist had not gone well.
“Arthur, I have some bad news for you.” He braced himself. When the blow finally came, the realization that the public health system would now be closed to him and his medication paid for at a premium that he clearly would be unable to sustain – it was like a wave had struck him in the face, tearing the air out of his lungs all at once. He’d been taking his medication for so long now. How would he function without it?
Meanwhile the Regale Theatre had opened to a full house. The musical production had performed without a hitch as a dozen or more stage hands, Arthur included, ran a series of fast paced checks ensuring audio, set and lighting were beyond reproach. There were reviewers for Gotham Times in the audience and Lauretta was not about to take any chances. Tensions ran high and Arthur found himself in the unfortunate position of having to defend his work more than once.
Early in the season he found himself party to an unwanted argument. He’d argued with Fay bitterly and broke into an agitated fit of laughter that resulted in the aspiring comedian taking a hard slap to the face. Fay had stormed away, bursting into angry tears and refusing to return to work for two whole days after. Arthur wasn’t even given a chance to explain himself. Even Freddie who witnessed the disagreement had come to Fay’s defense.
“Jeeeesus, Mary and Joseph, Artie! Where’d they teach you be such an asshole? You done deserved that slap boy! Look at ‘chu. Still laughin’? Whatcha being such a jerk for, huh?”
His disappointment purely crushing. It felt as though ice water was being pumped directly into his bowels. Sick to the stomach but unable to control the cackling peels of rib shaking laughter that plagued him. He reached into his trouser pocket and simply placed his apologetic card upon the closest table in the break room, ensuring all eyes were on him, before turning on his heel and marching away. They’d work it out themselves. He’d answer questions later if in fact he was asked any ever again. The atmosphere always seemed to change when people witnessed the otherwise docile comedian decompile into a fit of painful, choked, near sobbing laughs.
Agitated, revolted, Arthur continued his duties, attending the male dressing rooms as was his routine instruction. The play costumes had returned from the dry cleaners and it was his duty to ensure each one was returned to the correct rack in performance order before the actors returned for the evening show. No sooner had he entered the empty dressing room with its light framed mirrors that his aggression swirled and bubbled forward.
His painful laughing fit had passed but his surging aggression was uncontrollable as the scene replayed its self in his mind’s eye. He stalked the empty dressing room, furious, humiliated, hurting. Why was he always the fuck up? Why could he never find the words to defend himself when he needed them? He’d tried to explain but even so, Freddie seemed in no mood to hear excuses. And he knew he only had himself to blame. If he only rang Fay through their walkie-talkies sooner this whole mess might have been avoided. Everyone was simply trying to do their job.
He hadn’t meant to upset Fay.
It happened when Freddie had told him to move a heavy road case out of the way and into the orchestra pit. Freddie hadn’t seen or known about the microphone cables gaffed to the ground connecting to the expensive master PA amplifier rack that outputted audio for the entire theatre. Arthur knew Fay was working on settling the orchestra pit. He’d meant to tell Fay not to attempt to move the road case until the sound engineer gave him the all clear to take it out into the loading bay. There was nowhere else to move the road case until then.
It had all gone terribly wrong.
Arthur had turned his back for just a moment to take some cables out of the way. It was then that he heard Fay being abused by the conductor for having unsightly equipment intruding upon his work space. Irritated, Fay muttered a curse and rolled the case out of the pit crushing and tearing the audio cables underfoot in two.
A disaster!
Show time was less than two hours away and this costly mistake meant the audio team would have to frantically rig new cables to amplify the show throughout the theatre.
The blame game ensued. Freddie had argued with Fay, Fay exploded at him and they both erupted at Arthur for failing to communicate properly.
“Christ, Arthur, this fuck up is entirely your fault! When Lauretta hears about this she’s gonna rip us all a new one!” Freddie had snapped angrily.
“She won’t if you just let me explain-“
“What?! How you cost her a sold out fuckin’ show? What’s the point of a fuckin’ musical if half the people in the theatre can’t hear the fuckin’ music- eh?” Freddie snapped, cutting Arthur off mid-sentence.
Defeated, Arthur chose to walk away. A barking cough erupted from his belly, smashing through his ribcage in a crippling peel of breath-stealing laughter that he fought to choke back. His eyes stinging, his insides burning for air. And there he found himself now, in the empty dressing room. His pain soaked eyes and contorted reflection looking back at him pitifully from the illuminated mirror. His rage overtook him. A chair was in his hand and hurtled across the room, impacting upon the mirror and shattering it into hundreds of out-blown shards with a stunning explosion of glass and noise.
He watched the wrecked glass as it lay cracked and hanging haphazardly from its frame with numb composure. He hated that man in the mirror. Hated feeling this empty sense of disconnected futility that followed the encompassing wave of crushing anger.
The cacophony had jolted nearby staff into action. Footfalls rushing across the floor. The seamstress surged through the dressing room door with Greg and two other crew members at her heels to find Arthur searing in fury. His hands shaking violently. His eyes bloodshot as he stood in partial darkness amidst the ruins of shattered mirror glass and detonated light bulbs.
That evening had not gone well.
Lauretta had heard about the argument and phoned Fay entreating her to return to the theatre. The younger woman refused in a fit of tears, humiliated at being laughed at by Arthur and belittled by the conductor. It took the theatre director the better part of twenty minutes to calm her down and explain Arthur’s unfortunate condition.
“Fuck, Laura! Why’d you have to go hire such a freak?!” Fay cried.
The words stung. Lauretta may have had personal reservations about certain members of her staff, but her rigid British up-bringing prevented her from voicing them in a professional capacity. Instead, she opted for neutrality.
“C’mon now, Fay, give him a break.” She soothed, “He didn’t mean it. This whole episode is a great misunderstanding. I’m sure Arthur would apologize if you gave him half a chance. He’s harmless, honest. A little peculiar perhaps, but deserving of an even go, like anyone else.”
“How could you just defend him like that? He humiliated me in front of everyone!” Fay wept bitterly, throwing herself onto her sofa cushions and kicking her shoes across the room.
“If I don’t, who else will? Now, you take the next two days off if you must but I expect you back for Friday night’s performance. I’ll have you, Arthur and Freddie in my office before then. We’ll talk this out. Goodnight, Fay.”
No sooner did she hang up the phone than she sent for Martha to fetch Freddie and Arthur. The two men were marched into her office and door closed behind them. For the first time in weeks, Lauretta sat behind her desk, lit a cigarette and quietly demanded the men explain exactly what had happened.
They left her office an hour later, their heads hanging significantly lower.
The broken mirror and light globes would come out of Arthur’s wages and both men received a formal warning for misconduct. They would be made to apologize to Fay personally upon her return. Arthur’s affliction had been ousted. The theatre was relatively quiet for the rest of the night. The crew spoke in clipped hushed whispers to one another. No jokes were cracked over the walkie-talkies and the only noise to be had were the claps and cheers of the audience as the performance went ahead whilst the crew sweated and swore under their breaths.
Somber and muted, the crew could not wait for the audience to empty the theatre. Shut down was as fast and efficient as ever. Staff attended their lockers and wished each other a goodnight whilst Arthur distanced himself as early as was prudent.
Without realizing it, he’d found himself hovering about the foot of the stairs that led up to Lauretta’s office.
She was up there, writing her reports and calculating her losses. She was almost always the last one to leave the theatre at night and the first to open the doors of a morning.
That meeting was the first time in two months of employment that he’d seen the warmth in her eyes fade. Her features become hard and her words cold. She was furious in the way a quiet storm might exact its wrath upon the earth, under an incessant torrent of heavy rain. So different to the shouting and yelling of his previous bosses. Arthur struggled to make sense of his feelings until he decided, this treatment was worse.
So much worse.
In spite of this disastrous episode, come Boxing Day, Lauretta had kept her promise and allowed Arthur the opportunity to perform as a roving entertainer for the Boxing Day Theatre Gala held at the Gotham Centre for Performing Arts. A lavish party that featured the board of directors for the theatre whom Lauretta paneled with were present. With them came a whole host of actors, writers, directors, stagecraft students, their families, friends, members of the media and general public. The gala highlighted excellent opportunities for students of performing arts to meet an array of teachers to discuss the following year’s courses and training programs. A busy and lively party of which Arthur was invited to entrain for two sets.
His first set would commence shortly after the opening speeches. The auditorium was outfitted with three small elevated round stages that highlighted talented performers, Arthur occupied one and was splendid in his costume. The theatre seamstress, Italian woman, Paola Midici took inspiration from the 18th century Italian comedy. When asked to fashion Arthur a great costume for his gala performance, she spent a great deal of time looking into his eyes.
“Are you happy, Arthur?” She had asked, deliberately and without preamble. Italian accent heavy still.
“What does that have to do with-“
“It was a simple question, young man.” Paola interrupted briskly. “Are you happy?”
“I suppose-“
Paola cleared her throat sharply, cutting off the aspiring comedian yet again.
“Not really, no.” He found himself admitting quietly. It was strange to say the words out loud to a stranger no less.
To this admission Paola nodded her head approvingly.
“It’s in the eyes, dear boy. Always in the eyes. Now stand still, let me take your measure.”
Now Arthur stood upon his elevated stage, in his element as a crowd gathered round him to watch as he performed classic mime, juggling and magic tricks in silence. He wore a magnificent costume styled in the fashion of the classic historic clown, Perriot. His puff sleeved shirt, waistcoat and trousers divided evenly in an array of black and white large satin diamonds. His buttons a deep, wine red. An Elizabethan ruff made of lace and tulle adorned his neck. On his head rested the tri-horned hat of a royal court jester. Spectacular, like a crown in black and white, adorned with red and silver bells that jingled musically for every time he moved his head.
His face however was of spectacular contrast. In delicate black and white greasepaint the left half of his face was painted in a great upturned smile, the right however, pulled down low in a miserable frown. Neither comedy nor tragedy. But a vision of both painted in homage to the theater he now served.
His audience was intrigued, pointing and clapping at his jubilant gestures and exaggerated dancing. He made flowers appear from under his hat and brightly coloured silk scarves were handed to a passing lady who had the good grace to laugh when she found they were tied together from his pocket in a seemingly endless string. A blue rose tied to the last one. Around her the gathering clapped and cheered. Arthur, court jester as he now fashioned himself, bowed smoothly and pointed to his cheek, wordlessly requesting a kiss. Embarrassed, the lady shuffled on heels, hesitating. Arthur frowned deeply, hanging limp and sad. The audience broke into an exaggerated cry of: “Awwwwwww!”
Pinched by the pressure, the lady thought better of her station and came forward bravely, pecking Arthur upon the cheek. Joy! He straightened and clapped happily, a merry jingle of his belled cap. The gathered crowed cheered and clapped. A far better outcome!
The lady curtsied and darted away to her giggling friends whilst Arthur bowed deeply. His performance a success. The set was complete. He bounded off the stage and made for the cluster of other performers milling about behind a red roped area reserved for theatre staff beside the bar.
“Arthur!”
Upon hearing his name he turned to find Lauretta dressed in a beautifully fitted black evening gown that trailed to the floor. Her hair gathered in an artful array of curls. Her lips the most striking shade of red that contrasted sharply with the blue of her eyes. She was stunning to behold. And smiling. At him.
Arthur removed his hat slowly, running his fingers through his hair. He strode forward and offered his hand that the director took, watching warmly as he kissed her knuckles just as he’d witnessed so many gentleman do in those old black and white films from Pinewood Studios, London.
“Arthur, you were wonderful out there, really!”
“You were watching?”
“Intently. Every sway and trick brought delight to your onlookers. You should be very proud of yourself. You have true beauty in your movements.” Lauretta replied earnestly, fixing him with a tender, appreciative smile.
“Thank you. Really. I-You look lovely tonight.” Arthur offered warmly, taking a step back to admire his employer more completely.
“As do you! Paola really has done magnificently with your costume. And your face paint - the crème-de-la-crème to be sure. Are you enjoying yourself? Not nervous at all?”
“A little, I’m not used to performing in front of this class of society, but I am having a lot of fun. This is incredible, honest, it’s like a dream come true.”
“I’m glad you think so. We’ll see if can’t establish you in the theatre a little more fully in the new year, you’re doing very well for yourself.” The compliment delivered with all sincerity. She had watched as he mingled with her colleagues, noting the way in which Arthur had not broken down into a fit of nervous laughter.
She’d witnessed a few fits rack the man most painfully in the months of his employment. Notably soon after he had revealed to her in private that his psychologist’s office had now been closed and his access to his medication subsequently revoked.
She worried for him. He continued to function, mindful not to be late on shift and engaged in his work. But there was something about him that wasn’t quite right. She’d made calls here and there until she located an office for social services across town that agreed to assess him with a referral letter from his doctor. There was administrative work to take care of, but if it meant bettering an employee who worked so tirelessly, then she agreed without hesitation. Arthur had first refused her help on principle. Although his position in the theatre did pay a great deal better than his commission performances at Ha Ha’s, he could not yet afford health insurance to cover the cost of private consultations. Lauretta had insisted none the less.
“We can find a way, Arthur. If you need help-“
“I can’t afford to pay you back, and I have to look after my mother.”
“So let me help you both, Arthur. Don’t be stubborn. How do you expect to carry on looking after her if you’re not well enough to care for yourself?”
The matter seemed to be settled. Though he hesitated, there was something in her eyes that drew him. He appeared so displaced and vulnerable. Something inside him ached. Words would not come and instead he began to weep silently, so starved of affection and human kindness. He would have kissed her then and there he felt so overwhelmed and broken down.
She took him in her arms and Arthur lowered wordlessly into her embrace, breathing in the scent of her rose perfume. A cruel fit of laughter took him, coughing, weeping, and shaking him from within. His ribcage burning. Every ounce of him aware that in his arms he held a woman, honest and pure. Guilt welled in his gut, his fantasies of his neighbor, Sophie, haunted him. He’d followed her to her work place. Watched as she’d walked her daughter to school and hovered by her front door, meaning to knock but unable to find the courage to let his knuckles rap the timber.
Even so, Lauretta held him through his fit. One hand caressing his back with near motherly affection, the other stroking his hair.
“It’s alright,” She’d whispered gently, sweetly. “Everything’s going to be alright now.”
He wanted to believe it.
For many minutes Lauretta and Arthur chatted together amicably. She offered him a glass of champagne that he took graciously admitting he’d never tried the drink before. The possibility thrilled him as he clinked glasses with Lauretta proudly before taking a sip …and immediately winkling his nose in disapproval.
“It’s not for everyone.” Lauertta laughed gently, enchanted as she watched his eyes twinkle. The clarity and warmth of his features were not withdrawn by the layers of face paint.
It was then that she saw him standing not more than ten feet away. A handsome gentleman dressed in a fine silk suit of pin stripe navy blue. An elegant burgundy tie at his neck and a glittering diamond tie pin shimmered in the light. He caught her eye and held it with his own deep green gaze as he rose his glass in the air, a salute. Lauretta’s smile vanished setting Arthur off kilter. He whispered her name,
“Arthur, please excuse me. I’m afraid I’m obliged to have a conversation with a colleague it seems.” Her focus returned to Arthur’s eyes who turned to see who it was that so efficiently erased Lauretta’s smile. A group of students here, a waiter, some ladies smoking over there. It was her hand on his arm that turned his attention back to her lovely features.
“You’re doing extremely well, Arthur, I look forward to seeing your second set in an hour. Mind you travel home safely tonight. I’m sure Fay or Freddie will gladly give you a lift. Excuse me.”
And with that she was away in a flutter of black fabric and sure footfalls. He called his good night after her wondering all the while who it was that could upset her tender nature. Arthur lamented her loss as he watched her recede into the crowd.
He’d wanted to ask her to dance.
Previous Chapters? Search Tag : #joker fracture
@smilewhatstheuseofcrying || @arthur-j-fleck || @daily-joker
What I heard on the radio…
Fracture | One | Two | Three | Four
|| @smilewhatstheuseofcrying @daily-joker @arthur-j-fleck ||
Joker || Fracture
Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.
|| FOUR ||
Three months, two weeks and four days.
Arthur had been keeping a log of the passing time in the staff sign-in book where he was taught to autograph his name and the date for every morning as he clocked in and every evening before clocking out. The theatre director, the enigmatic and somewhat eccentric Lauretta Styl proved to be a regimented woman who ran her staff both cast and crew strictly, but fairly. With the exception of the performance personnel, theatre crew were worked on a two week rotating roster over a nine hour day. Staff began at either 7AM, 9AM or 11AM and worked through to 4PM, 6PM or 8PM respectively. They were afforded an hour’s lunch break, unpaid and two coffee breaks spaced evenly throughout their shifts ensuring the floors were never kept unmanned and always evenly staffed.
Arthur’s first fortnight in the theatre saw him on the 9AM shift and he was mindful to take an early bus into town to avoid being late. The weekend leading up his first Monday on duty found him to be a veritable ball of kinetic excitement. He could hardly sit still his anticipation was so great. That evening after the interview, found him bolting home on jubilant footfalls. A new sense of purpose filled him. Opportunity did wonders for a man’s self-confidence. Divesting himself of keys and coat, he called for his mother who was reading in the warm lamplight of the living room. She fixed her son with a cursory glance and nodded approvingly. He furnished her with every detail he could recall, bustling into the kitchen, intent on cooking a celebratory dinner. He’d make pasta sauce from scratch tonight!
“This is why I named you, Happy.” Penny murmured fondly as she sat upon a stool at their kitchen counter drinking sweet, hot tea and watching her son chop onions and sing to himself contentedly.
“Are they going to pay your better at this new job?”
“I dunno, Ma. It’s not right to ask about money during the interview. I’m sure it’ll be okay. We’ve always gotten by before even when things were tight. You should see this place, Ma, really. They have these beautiful purple curtains and gold fittings on the ceilings. They’re so high! You’d strain your neck looking up. And the stage is beautiful. The lady who runs the place, Lauretta, she said one day I might be able to perform on it, with my comedy act.”
“You’ll have to write some better jokes then. Something funny.” Penny replied absently. A shockingly loud clatter jolted her abruptly upright. Her son dropped the cooking knife he was handling to the sink.
“Jesus, Happy, do you have to be so clumsy? And loud? And did you check the letter box on your way up? I’m waiting for a letter.”
“They are funny.” Arthur murmured indistinctly beneath his breath. His voice quiet and his gaze unfocused upon the middle-distance. His elation deflating as suddenly as it had swelled. Penny’s ears were sharp though.
“What?”
“I said no, Ma. There wasn’t any letters today. There never is.”
“Oh… Well, I’m going to watch some television for a while, leave you to cook in peace.”
He waited for a few moments. Listening to the shuffling slippered foot-falls of his mother as she groaned, rising from her seat and padding away.
Through the kitchen window and across the street, Arthur’s sight fell upon his neighbor’s drab, old brick building. His kitchen window regrettably afforded a view of the neighbor’s living room on occasion when the curtains weren’t drawn.
The tenants were never of any interest to him directly. There was something impolite about looking into their living room. For his sake as much as theirs he sought to avert his gaze or draw the kitchen curtains whilst he cooked.
What drew his attention on this night was their great ginger tom cat with white paws and striking yellow eyes. The animal wore a red collar with a tiny silver bell around its neck and perched regally atop the window sill, watching him. Seemingly never moving. He’d lept upon the peeling sill at some point during the conversation with his mother and proceeded to lick at his left paw watching Arthur with feline interest all the while. He wondered at the cat’s name.
Come Monday morning, Arthur made sure he was at the stage door early. Martha answered his knock and offered him a polite compliment over his neat attire for which he was grateful. He’d spent the night before agonizing over the state of his wardrobe, ensuring his shirt was ironed and his shoes were polished. He wished he had a better bag rather than his worn brown leather satchel. It would do however. He made certain he had copies of his resume and ID in his wallet. Money was tight this week, he’d have to eat when he got home. Just as well, he couldn’t stomach anything right now. He was far too nervous.
“Pleased to have you, dear. Follow me to the break room. There are lockers were you can put your belongings and the coffee and tea is complimentary. You can help yourself before your shift starts. We take turns bringing in fresh milk. I’ll mark your name on the roster pinned to the fridge door. Mind you don’t forget it when it’s your turn hmm?” Martha began briskly as she lead Arthur around the box office, up a stair well, into a corridor and out into a large and airy breakout room with unfurnished windows that looked down into the bustling city below. The stage manager checked her watch and continued.
“Now, be mindful of the time. Laura’s called a meeting downstairs in front of the stage at 9am sharp. Take care you’re not late. She’s very particular about punctuality and famous for keeping us honest about it. I expect she’ll be wanting to introduce you to your crew mates formally and assign you some duties, you follow?”
Arthur nodded his head yes. He’d been listening intently as he followed Martha and her rapid footsteps to a row of tidy grey and white lockers that were set against the wall on the opposite end of the room. To Arthur’s surprise, number 11 had been assigned to him, his name written neatly upon a white label in black marker pressed upon the locker door.
“This one’s for you, Arthur. You’ll need to bring your own padlock but I’ll loan you this one for today.” Said Martha producing a small mail lock and its key from her jacket pocket. Arthur took the lock in hand, nodding his thanks. Martha continued her preamble intently,
“Now, if you bring your lunch, make sure you label it clearly when you put it in the fridge, food will mysteriously disappear otherwise. And where possible, don’t keep clothes or shoes in your locker over the weekend. Take them home to be aired and laundered save you copping unwanted flack.”
“Sure. I mean, of course, Mrs?”
“Martha, is perfectly alright, dear. You’ll find most staff will tolerate a first name. But be mindful, some of the actors are sensitive whilst performing or rehearsing. It’s best to keep out of their way. And for heaven’s sake don’t let yourself be caught near the women’s dressing rooms unless you’re expressly asked or you’ll catch hell for it, clear?”
“Crystal clear, Martha. Thank you. For everything, really.” Replied Arthur quietly. His gratitude welling in his eyes. He offered a docile, slightly lop-sided smile.
“Well, see if you make it through the first fortnight before giving me any thanks. Stage front in fifteen dear, yes? Ciao for now.”
And just so, Martha bustled away on a brisk footfalls, adjusting a pen in her tightly rolled bun, leaving Arthur to his own devices in the empty break room. A number of round timber tables and chairs waited quietly giving the room the impression of an unoccupied café.
With little left to do, Arthur set about putting his satchel away in his new locker, helping himself to some instant coffee and lighting up another cigarette to pass the time. Once the clock above the door read five to nine, he was quick to leave the large breakroom behind, retracting his steps downstairs until he came to the open theatre doors where a congregation of some fifteen people were standing at the foot of the stage.
Martha was among them, speaking hurriedly with Lauretta who seemed to acknowledge what was being said and taking notes on a clip board.
Oh, she was splendid today. Dressed in fitted, black high-waisted slacks and a peach blouse. Her sleeves rolled back and her hair gathered in a French braid. Around her stood an array of staff dressed in various states of uniformed workwear. Arthur gathered his wits and strode in what he hoped was a confident fashion to Lauretta’s shoulder.
She turned fixing him with a dazzling smile.
“And here he is. Alright, everyone!” The theatre director clapped her hands sharply, the crowd quieted and listened.
“For months now you’ve told me this production has taken a toll on each of you. I thank you for patience. As it stands, I’d like to introduce you all to our latest crew member, progressive comedian and practiced harlequin, formally of Ha Ha’s Entertainment, Mr. Arthur Fleck.”
All at once a dozen smiling faces broke into hoots and hollers. A round of applause was had and Arthur offered a heartfelt smile. A little shy beneath the heat of so much fresh attention.
“Hey, welcome aboard buddy!” Called a particularly sharp dressed young man. African American, lanky of limb and distinctly possessing the style of a pop-star.
“You’re gonna love it here. Hey, you wanna see your future? Look at that guy over there. That’s Greg, he’s what we all gotta look forward to lookin’ like, even the ladies, yeaooow!”
This seemed to draw laughs from the gathering, even from the unfortunate Greg who was weighty, balding and sucking on a partially lit Cuban cigar. He waved off the sly remark with good humor.
“Enough from you Freddie, you’ll give Arthur the wrong impression.” Lauretta corrected playfully before continuing.
“Now, Arthur will join us as a stage hand over the next two weeks, shadowing Freddie and Fay respectively. I ask you all mind your manners and be patient whilst he learns the ropes. Stagecraft takes time to come into, but if we can work collaboratively we’ll find opening week to our musical runs a great deal smoother.”
The next twenty minutes were spent exchanging handshakes whilst Lauretta introduced Arthur to each of the theatre staff individually. Freddie was finally introduced as the theatre manager, holder of all the keys. Whilst Fay, a sharp eyed, pretty brunette advised she was the stage assistant and understudy to Martha.
“Together, we’re your ‘A’ team, my man. Get ready, because we’re gonna work you to the bone.” Freddie began, shaking Arthur’s hand with a dazzling smile. Arthur could not help but feel this young man reminded him strongly of the pop star, Prince. He moved with musical grace and had a habit of adding a “yeeoow” to the end of his sentences when making a humorous quip.
“Don’t let him scare you off, Arthur, can we call you Art, or Artie? And what size shirt do you wear? We’ll have to work out some uniform shirts for you now that you’re part of the crew.” Fay announced, gesturing for Freddie to give them some space. Arthur could not help but smile radiantly. His other employers and colleagues were never so welcoming.
“Artie is fine,” He replied finally, “and I wear a medium dress shirt, if that helps any.”
Fay made a note in her log book signaling a thumbs up as Lauretta once again clapped sharply and drew the attention of her team. For the next few minutes she took feedback about the state of the up-coming production, making notes and giving a great deal many directions. Arthur stood by, smiling and noting how pretty her small drop pearl earrings were and the way the rest of the team seemed content if not a little stressed. She addressed each problem and complaint individually and earnestly. The team seemed at their ease around her. In time the crew dispersed to their individual tasks in groups of twos and threes.
“Freddie, I’m going to borrow Arthur a minute. I’ll send him backstage with you shortly.”
“You got it boss lady!” Freddie exclaimed, turning smoothly and strutting away in time with a melody in his head.
The theatre crew finally out of ear-shot, Lauretta turned to Arthur with her characteristic warm smile.
“So, how are we holding up, so far? All good?”
“Oh, yeah! I haven’t done anything for you yet. I’ll work very hard though.” Arthur replied sincerely.
“It’s not about working hard so much as it is about working smart. Relying on your team mates to support you and more than anything, not taking anything personally. You’ll see staff lose their temper more than once and sometimes it may appear directed toward you. It shouldn’t be. But if it is, remember, you’re in your rights to just shake it off and move onto the next task. We’re something of a family here, Arthur. Working a forty hour week means you’ll spend more time with us than you will your own flesh and blood. It’s important that you’re at your ease, even when you’re not. No matter what state you’re in or how busy we all look, I am here to listen to you.”
This sentiment seemed to bring some profound change to Arthur’s features. His smile slipped and his eyes began to sting. He looked away a moment, fumbling for his cigarettes as he whispered,
“Thank you. Really.”
“Of course.” She replied, reaching out her hand to caress his arm gently. Arthur’s smile returned, he lit up, breathed in deeply and exhaled sharply.
“Now, Arthur, I hope you don’t think this too forward of me, but, about your condition. I was giving it some thought over the weekend and I wanted to get your impression. Would you prefer I have a quiet word with the staff just to alert them or would you rather speak to them of your own accord during the breaks and such? What would make you most comfortable?”
Arthur coughed sharply, his eyes widening in disbelief.
“Oh, please, I’m sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m being rude?” Lauretta continued, concerned she’d said something off-key.
“No, no, not at all. I just got on with my cards in the past. I prefer to not draw attention to it if that’s okay with you, ma’am?” Arthur responded quietly.
“Of course, by all means. I just thought, if everyone was on the same page from the get go, it would make it easier for you. If people know what to expect.” Arthur’s eyes seemed to harden as he nodded, taking another pull of his cigarette and blowing the smoke sharply out of the corner of his mouth. Lauretta couldn’t help but feel she’d somehow overstepped herself.
“We just want you to feel comfortable, that’s all. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m almost always upstairs in the office. Have a great day ahead Arthur, I’ll see you at lunch.”
“Thank you, Lauretta. I appreciate it.” Arthur returned.
“Laura’s fine.”
“Laura then.” Answered Arthur with a smile.
The remainder of the day seemed to fly. Arthur diligently shadowed Freddie with a myriad of tasks. He was given a new pen, note book and clip board where he scribbled a range of instructions as he was toured around the theatre. After morning coffee break, Fay rushed to find him before he left the break room with a new walkie-talkie and a microphone head set in hand.
“Here you go honey, you’re on channel eighteen with stage hands. Push this button to call all crew and flick this switch to mute your mic. Try keep radio noise to a minimum during rehearsals. Actors lose their shit when they’re in the zone.” She punctuated the last word by gesturing inverted commas into the air, earning a laugh from Arthur who stifled himself by coughing. He wasn’t about to risk an attack in front of everyone in on his first day. He’d control this. He had to. Instead he thanked her and clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt whilst Fay rushed off taking an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter on her way out.
The evening came too soon. Arthur’s head was swimming with instructions. He’d managed to make notes of his latest directions and did a great deal of shifting, pushing and carrying of stage equipment on Freddie’s direction. The two men seemed to get on well and Freddie showed a sincere interest in asking a great deal many questions about Arthur’s personal interests that he took great pleasure in answering. Arthur was relieved come the end of the day. He’d found a friend in Freddie and Fay and looked forward to telling his mother all about it.
Come six o’clock, Lauretta found her way to the break room where she shook hands with the staff preparing to leave for the day, wishing them all the best and thanking them for their hard work. The same courtesy was applied to Arthur whom she lingered near a moment, whilst he made to take his satchel from his locker.
“Thank you, Arthur, for all your hard work today. I know there’s an awful lot to take in so quickly but your crew mates have nothing but praise for you. I’m thankful to have you in our team.”
“I’m grateful to be given the chance, honestly. It’s been a pleasure today. Are my papers okay?” Arthur replied with a questioning smile.
“Yes, they’re well in order. You can expect to pick up your first pay-cheque from my office next week. Now, go home and get some rest. Let’s see you back on deck bright and early tomorrow. Fay will have arranged some new crew shirts for you by the time you arrive.”
This was his chance. Arthur stepped forward,
“Laura, before I go, could you hold this for me?” He produced from his pocket an oversized match box and handed it to the director. She took it slowly with some trepidation.
“Arthur, this is not one of those prank boxes where if I open it I’ll be hit in the face with something, will I?”
“Haha! No, nothing like that, open it, go on.” Arthur urged, his eyes shining intently.
“Uh, okay.” Deft slender fingers gently pushed the large matchbox open to reveal within its depths a tiny pink rose bud.
“Oh how pretty!” She exclaimed lifting the flower gently and holding it to the light. Arthur furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue in exaggerated annoyance.
“Tsk, that’s not right at all. These boxes can be so unpredictable. Are you sure there’s nothing else in there?”
Perplexed, Lauretta opened out the match box fully affirming to Arthur that it was indeed empty
“May I?” He asked gently, taking the little rose bud from the lady’s fingers and shutting it back into the confines of the match box.
“Now, maybe if you blow on it, like a birthday candle?” Enchanted, Lauretta played along taking the box back into her waiting hands and blowing against it gently.
“Now try.” Arthur prompted. Nodding, the theatre director slid the match box open for a second time gasping with childlike surprise when within, where the tiny rose bud once lay was her light blue handkerchief folded into a neat little square. With a gasp she lifted the cloth free of the matchbox looking up with stunned joy. The little rose bud was nowhere to be seen.
“Arthur! That’s remarkable! What a charming trick!” She gasped exuberantly.
“I’m glad you like it.” He breathed, deeply relieved and gently taking the box from her hand.
“Really Arthur, give yourself a little time to settle into your new role, then we’re going to have to talk about organizing some sort of show time on the side for you. How does that sound?”
“Oh! Wonderful, truly! Thank you!” Arthur exclaimed brightly.
He left work that day and took the bus home in high spirits. He may have had little to offer, but his determination to succeed was great. He was tired now. Tired from a day’s solid physical and mental labor. He hoped to shower and maybe eat something. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to sleep tonight. He began to plan his next visit to Pogo’s that weekend on the bus ride home. He still wasn’t able to get a seat. But it didn’t matter so much now. He’d have a lot to tell his mother when he got home.
He’d made Lauretta smile.
Fracture 1 | Fracture 2 | Fracture 3
Joker || Fracture
Readers Please Note: Joker || Fracture may contain spoilers for the film. Read at your own discretion.
|| Two ||
He'd arrived some forty five minutes early to his appointment. Well dressed and neatly groomed, he left his mother a hot breakfast and fresh coffee, too anxious to eat himself in spite of her complaints of his decreasing weight. He'd evaded her questions until Thursday, unsure of how to break the news of his job loss. He wasn't sure he was processing the information himself. He'd wake before the alarm and instinctively make for the bathroom catching his reflection in the mirror and suddenly being sickened by the lash of anxiety that belted his heart into hammering painfully against his ribcage. He hated this ache. Feeling this insecure.
Breathe.
Focus.
First breakfast.
Shower and dress.
Think it through and write it down.
His therapist may have been virtually unresponsive but she had given him at least general advice to keep him functional. This, and a prescription for medication that kept him moving, the undertow of crushing depression dissipated by one more pill.
Now, Arthur stood across the street from the theatre leaning against the glass window of a rundown aquarium where he was watching the crimson fanning tail of a Siamese fighter fish as it drifted, predatory and majestic in its tiny cubed tank. This miraculous creature was one of many housed in tiny plastic enclosures that made up the curious window display and reminded Arthur of little people each housed in their separate apartments. Around him the city throbbed and bustled. Men and women in business attire, couriers, postal workers, laborers and the general population moved with purpose to and fro. An endless line of traffic rolled on up and down the road whilst he burned down his third cigarette that morning. It was almost time.
He was welcomed through the stage door by a lady who answered his knock and introduced herself as Martha Kara. She was tall and thin, well into her 60s but spry and quick to smile. Her graying russet hair, rolled into a tight bun was beset by at least two pens. She led Arthur inside explaining that they were setting up for technical rehearsals later that morning, apologizing for the ladders, tools and timber. The carpenters were in adjusting the set and shouting instructions to one another on ladders whilst riggers were busy over head running cables for the stage lights.
Martha advised she was the booking agent and stage manager during most seasons as she guided Arthur up a narrow winding staircase backstage, past well lit dressing rooms and open offices. The smell of fresh paint, cut timber and old leather seemed comforting, if not a little overwhelming. It appeared as though the walls had their peeling wallpaper repaired far too often for it hung poorly in some places, frayed and aging. Punctuated with a history of live performance posters tacked haphazardly to the hallway walls. As they walked a narrow corridor above the stage, Arther's eyes wandered over the run of bill posters for performances that had been and gone. He would have liked to have lingered and read their titles and cast names, however Martha's brisk pace lead them promptly to the theatre director's door. A name was painted upon the dark timber in faded gold lettering.
It read: 'Dir. Lauretta Styl'
His nervous tension elevated sharply as Martha knocked upon the door with the backs of her knuckles.
A distinct voice could be heard closing the distance from the other side before the door was swung open to reveal a striking, slender woman in a duck blue blouse with its sleeves rolled to her elbows. A telephone receiver pressed between her ear and shoulder. She carried its base in her spare hand, motioning for her guests to join her within. Arthur hesitated a moment before following Martha's cue to enter the room.
The pair were silent for a string of moments as Lauretta's brisk British accent negotiated the end of the call diplomatically before settling the receiver back into its cradle with a sharp click. She tugged at the cable and set the phone back upon a ledger and paper strewn desk that dominated the majority of the room before turning and fixing her guests with an apologetic smile.
"Laura, this is Mister Arthur Fleck," Martha began by way of introduction.
"Yes, of course. Welcome to the Regale, Mister Fleck. Thank you for coming down. You worked with Jimmy Parkelle at Ha Ha's I understand?"
It took two beats or more for Arthur to process what was being said. He'd rarely been addressed by a lady with such directness. Her pale complexion and murky blue eyes were a stunning contrast. She appeared to be perhaps in her early forties. There were few lines on her face, save for three small furrows between her brows. Arthur noted the easy way in which she reclined against the edge of her desk before he quietly replied his accent, nodding and pressing his hands into his coat pockets.
"I did," he explained, "until recently. It was Jimmy that introduced me to your roadie, Bill. He was good enough to arrange this meeting for me. He said if I were to talk to you, you might have some work available."
Lauretta nodded gesturing to a tobacco coloured chesterfield sofa that sat in the far end of the uncluttered small room.
"Sure, well, let's talk about it, shall we? Martha, can you be a darling and fix Arthur and I a cup of coffee? How do you take yours, Mister Fleck, milk and sugar?"
"Uh...yeah...please and thank you."
"Right you are, dear." Martha replied brightly, turning on her heel and promptly shutting the office door behind her, blocking out the general commotion of the theatre downstairs.
"Take a seat with me, Arthur, tell me a little more about yourself. " Laura began, settling herself down into the well worn cushions. Arthur followed suit taking his slender strides around the timber coffee table and seating himself at the opposite end of the sofa. He smiled at his hostess, running a hand through his chocolate coloured curls self consciously.
Aside from his mother and his therapist, Arthur rarely interacted with women in such an intimate setting, let alone within a professional context.. And being asked about himself outside of clinical regard was cause for nervousness. He stalled the conversation, pulling a cigarette pack from his coat pocket and asking for permission to light up.
"By all means," Laura affirmed, reaching over and producing a clean glass ashtray from under a newspaper at her desk and placing it before her guest atop the coffee table.
He gave his quiet thanks, offering the open Malboro reds packet to the director who thanked him for his kindness and advised she was in the process of cutting down herself.
“It’s remarkably expensive to maintain a smoking habit in Gotham. Stress being such a fickle creature. I’ll accept this once. Thank you.” She said leaning forward as Arthur produced his lighter with a flourish, his slender fingers snapped a small flame, lighting the lady’s cigarette first, lingering a moment to admire the straight line of her nose and the subtle scent of her fresh, rose perfume, before leaning back to light his own.
The pair sat in appreciative silence enjoying the draw back into their lungs, two plumes of blue tinged smoke floated lazily into the air above them and Arthur found himself grateful of having a distraction for his hands. Lauretta was strikingly attractive and her accent was refreshing and different in this otherwise extremely American neighborhood. He’d never had much contact with foreigners and could only imagine their perceptions and attitudes from the films and programs he’d seen televised. On occasion his favorite talk show host, Murray Franklin would have an international artist or performer guest on his program, but that in itself was rare.
“Now, don’t sit on ceremony, Arthur, tell me more about your situation and we’ll see if I can’t be of some use to you.” Lauretta prompted, noting that Arthur appeared inwardly uncomfortable and in the midst of trying to conceal it, though his eyes fixed upon hers for a few moments before darting away. She could not help but note their colour. In this light, they were a remarkable bluish green that was as clear as spring water. He smiled reservedly and crossed his legs leaning forward a moment as if he meant to say something very important, and then thought better of it, snapping his mouth closed and leaning back away to drag off his cigarette.
This interesting nuance of motion only drew Lauretta’s attention more profoundly. She didn’t wish to rush her guest, but at the same time, there were a number of pressing details that required her attention and were time critical in their proposed completion.
Regardless, she was patient and rewarded for her resilience. Quietly, as though he meant only for Lauretta to hear, Arthur began to speak.
“I had a professional misunderstanding with my employer recently. It... ended with my contract being revoked.” His gaze became unfocused and turned inward as though he were reimagininting the details of that particular phone call and it's distasteful aftereffects.
Laura furrowed her brows apologetically but remained quiet so as not to disturb his train of thought.
I’ve always been an entertainer at heart. I’m supporting my mother who isn’t entirely well. And I’m working on material, a show, to be a stand up comedian.” Here, his eyes brightened and became lucid once more.
“Well, we’ve always got opportunity for roving stand-ups.” Lauretta replied brightly. It was at that moment that their conversation was briefly interrupted by Martha’s knock. The stage manager did not await an answer, but saw herself into the office, a tray balanced single-handedly with such skill, it could be deduced that the woman had at some stage in her career served in a waitress’ capacity. She set two bright yellow coffee cups down upon the table with a small plate of biscuits and offered a smile before seeing herself out again to the call of Lauretta’s thanks. Authur mirrored this gratitude as he took his cup in his cold hands and was instantly soothed by its scolding surface.
“And what was your role at Ha Ha’s exactly?” Laura prompted, helping herself to a biscuit.
“Oh, I was a performing clown!” Arther replied brightly, his eyes shining as he continued, “I performed at promotional events for sales on Maine Street, and I was called on for children’s parties and I even performed in hospitals...on occasion. For children. To… make them smile.” Here, he came to a stalling hold in his speech. He sipped at his cup, dropping his eyes, the light within fading somewhat as he recalled that disastrous and final hospital visitation where his newly acquired pistol had come free of his coat pocket and clattered onto the floor in full view of a ward full of children, parents and nursing staff. The evidence against him unaquitably damning in spite of his entreaty. The overwhelming waves of humiliation that engulfed him amid his frantic, panicked pleas that the weapon was a prop for another act he’d entirely forgotten he had with him did not earn him any remorse nor humility. His performance was instantly terminated and he found himself removed from the premises without hesitation.
Inwardly, Arthur could only dare hope that word of his indiscretion had not escaped to the outside world, further jeopardizing his already unstable reputation.
For a moment, he feared looking up into those eyes, feared a mirror of disparagement and rejection that he instinctively braced himself for.
Such was his surprise when his fears were not realized. Lauretta continued to smile at him warmly, her eyes tender and inwardly thoughtful.
“It’s a noble goal, that of a clown. To smile outwardly to the world whilst within a great turmoil might be hidden by a layer of face paint and a colourful costume.”
Arthur could not help himself. He smiled over the lip of his coffee cup, contemplating the depth of that comment and its infinite resonance given form in such a simple and direct elocution.
“Have you ever read of the great Joseph Grimaldi?” Lauretta questioned.
Her guest shook his head regrettably. Arthur had a love/hate relationship with reading. He’d struggled to learn his letters until finally mastering them in the latter years of elementary school. It was then that reading had become a welcome escape from the world around him. Even so, he was at a loss to place the name Lauretta asked of him. She continued patiently.
“Grimaldi was a great Engish actor and comedian in the early eighteen hundreds. He was said to be the master of the modern clown and coined the classic white face paint so unique to a harlequin’s performance. It was recorded that when not in show, Grimaldi struggled with a deep depression. His first wife had died in childbirth, his father was a tyrannical monster and his eldest son, also a gifted clown, drank himself to death by the age of thirty one. All of this tragedy, Mr. Fleck, and still, he managed to smile.”
His pulse raced, pounding in his temples. Something, something in the tone of her voice, the look in her eyes. He felt it coming on, crashing, crushing him from all sides. He swallowed thickly, sipping from his cup and following on with a deep drag of his cigarette. He couldn’t trust himself to find his words without them falling haphazardly like so many brightly coloured balls. So he simply nodded, a sting that he ignored sparked in the corner of his eyes, weighing against his waterline. But he would not let it fall. He had to control this, he pleaded with himself to control it.
Lauretta, feeling the change in the air, was merciful in pressing on.
“So, you enjoy clowning and laughter. That’s always a good thing. Can you juggle or perform magic?”
“Yes, to both.”
“Hmm, and what of improv, slap-stick? Have you a quick wit? Are you sharp on your feet if you’re heckled? Can you return a jibe with one of your own?”
“I think so. I’ve gotten better over the years.”
Lauretta brightened, sitting up straight now, setting down her partially empty coffee cup and flicking her cigarette into the ashtray. This energy seemed to kindle well. She picked up the pace.
“Do you drive, Arthur? How do you transport yourself?”
“No, I take the bus, or the subway mostly.”
“No matter.,” she returned, flicking her hand dismissively, “do you sing?”
“Every nooow and theeen.” Arthur crooned sweetly, winking at his hostess.
“Ooh! A smooth baritone, very nice. Instantly charming! And do you dance?”
“Whenever I can, so long as there’s nothing to trip on.” Enlivened, he tapped his feet restlessly, as though a melody was already making its way through his limbs. He would have risen then and there, taken the woman’s hand and spun her in a graceful pirouette across the worn threadbare rug underfoot. He thought better of it however. Dancing with a possible employer so soon in the game. Probably not the best idea. What if she didn’t dance?
“Well there, you have much to your credit. A strong foundation. And you mentioned earlier you’re in the midst of writing an act for a stand up performance. How’s it coming on? Have you rehearsed it yet?” Lauretta questioned in anticipation.
“Uh, no, no, not yet. I’m still working on it…” He paused, uncertain of himself. And then,
“Would you like to hear a joke?”
“Always in need of a good laugh. Go on.”
“What’s black and white and white and white and black and white again?”
Lauretta chuckled, she’d heard almost twenty years of comedy material. His angle was unpredictable, though he smiled in anticipation, she found herself unable to place where the punchline might fall. Juvenile or adult? There were a dozen answers she could reply with.
“I really have no idea, Arthur. What is black and white and white and black and white again?”
He didn’t miss a beat.
“Why, a penguin rolling down a snowy hill!”
“Oh, for goodness sake!” Lauretta exclaimed chuckling behind her fingers and turning her head away momentarily before looking back with shining indigo eyes.
“What? You don’t think it’s funny?”
“On the contrary, it's perfectly charming. I can see why you’d keep the children in stitches.” She made a mental note then and there, that the man’s humor was juvanline and likely heavily censored for a younger audience.
“Would you like to hear another one?”
“A thousand of them, and no doubt you have plenty and it would keep me entertained for hours on end. Have you ever visited ‘Pogo’s’ in Midtown? They have open mic nights that are perfect for trying your hand on new material, feeling the room.”
“I’ve visited a few times after work. I like to listen to the other comedians whenever I can.” Arthur confirmed, smoking down the last of his cigarette and crushing the butt in the ashtray. This wasn’t so bad after all. Why couldn’t all interviews be like this? He was having fun for once.
“A strong work ethic, very admirable indeed. I commend you on your labours.”
“Well, I do what I can.” Arther replied, hopeful.
“I don’t doubt it. Regrettably, the Regale has no current opportunities befitting another performing clown at the present moment.”
Arthur was crestfallen. The range of emotion showed plainly on his face. His smile vanished.
Lauretta pressed on,
“That isn’t to say I don’t have need of stage hands and performing stand ins. If you’re not otherwise engaged, could I ask you start promptly at 9am on Monday morning?”
Well! The shift in the room was instantaneous. A thrill of joy flooded Arther’s chest. All at once, he was beside himself in delight! He shook his head vigorously and began to laugh. A short, sharp burst of chuckles erupted from his mouth in a weezing fit of merriment.
“Well, I take it that’s a yes?” He nodded again, frantically. His features contorting in panic. It was happening again. And struggle as he might, he couldn’t control it.
Quite suddenly, his joy constricted into vulgar dread. His chest tightened and his eyes began to tear. He laughed. A near maniacal barking peel that he struggled to suppress. His brow began to perspire and he covered his mouth frantically. He couldn’t stop himself. Damnit all! He couldn’t stop himself! What would she think of him?
“Arthur?” Lauretta probed quietly, alarmed at the wheezing fit of anguish that clouded his eyes. She tensed visibly as he shook his hand at her but appeared powerless to control the fit as another ringing peel of near squealing barks escaped him.
“Arthur, my goodness, I can imagine your happiness, but this is ridiculous, what on earth has come over you?”
Again Arthur, panicking, waved at her almost dismissively. As though trying to find his words but clearly unable. His face colouring crimson. He nodded in agreement to her statement and began fumbling in his coat pockets. His cards, please, he had to have his cards. He did pack them, didn’t he? The more he panicked in fear of being misunderstood the sharper and higher the pitch his peels of laughter became.
“Arthur… what on earth is wrong?” The alarm leaving her face, there was clearly something of a building consternation in her features. She composed herself, worried. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t right at all. Should she call for Martha?
No sooner than the thought occurred, that Arther with some relief, finally produced a small laminated white business card and presented it to the lady whilst his struggled bodily to compose himself.
Lauretta took the card wordlessly and read the black print.
It explained concisely and apologetically that Arthur suffered from a condition that caused uncontrolled fits of laughter and begged that the reader not think badly of him if the episode did not match the mood or feelings of said person.. Lauetta nodded, looking up with warm, concerned eyes. Confused and at a loss for how to behave.
“It’s okay...it’s okay. Just take your time to recover and compose yourself. You stay here a moment, I’m going to pop out and get you a glass of water. I’ll be right back.” She set the card back into his hand and rose, crossing the room on rapid footfalls. Arthur meant to tell her not to worry. He coughed out a ‘please’, but the lady had already left shutting the door quietly behind her, leaving the rattled Arthur to ride though the last of his strained laughter. Angry at himself. Of all times, why now? Why did this have to happen now?
Outside the office, Lauretta was met with Martha and the seamstress in the ladies’ dressing room where she rushed to fill a glass of water.
“Everything alright in there? It sounds like a pack of hyenas with their tails on fire!” Martha exclaimed, her hands full with with a bustle skirt.
“Oh, yes, it couldn’t be better. I’ve just on-boarded Mr. Fleck and he seems a little over excited by the opportunity.” Martha might have asked another question but Lauretta rushed away with her water glass leaving the stage manager and her seamstress to wonder about the affairs that were taking place.
Less than a minute later, Lauetta returned to the office where a stricken, but very much recovered Arthur Fleck sat looking forlorn, uncomfortable and extremely apologetic. The theatre director shut the office door behind her and resumed her seat beside her guest, setting the glass in front of him that he took gratefully and drank from in shaking gulps. His eyes were distinctly bloodshot and his cheeks tear-stained in embarassed shame. Cooing soothingly, Lauertta produced a small sky blue handkerchief from her trouser pocket and without a second’s forethought, came forward on the lounge to wipe away at the tears that trailed Arther’s cheek.
The man reeled, tensing visibly, his eyes skittish, like a frightened animal.
“Shh, there now, its alright. No harm will come to you here my good man. You rest easy a moment and when you have your breath back we’ll talk.” Enchanted and set aback, Arthur reached to take hold the handkerchief and found his warm fingers brushing against hers. The contact was brief, a mere string of heartbeats, but Lauretta did not pull away. Rather, she remained close, watching the man’s eyes as he became lucid and murmured his apologies. So strong was his impulse to simply recline his face against her tender caress. She pulled away slowly however, leaving him holding her handkerchief against his cheek a moment. He wiped at his eyes and slowly found his voice.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Don’t apologise for circumstances clearly out of your control. Think nothing of it. Are you feeling alright? Is there anything I can do to ease you?”
By God, this was something else. He sat, bewildered and grateful. The look of concern in her eyes was genuine and the warmth she’d held all this time did not leave her expression.
“No, no thank you, I’m alright, really. It just happens every now and then.”
“I see. My goodness, how unique. You had me rather taken aback there for a moment. Have you had this condition long?”
“Oh, yeah. All my life, or at least, as long as I can remember. It seemed to get worse as I got older. My doctors haven’t really found a cure.” Arthur responded, draining his glass of water and setting it down upon the table. Lauretta merely nodded to this admission in silent contemplation before replying,
“A cure...for laughter….. My word, that is a unique thought now isn’t it? Can you imagine that? A world where laughter was considered an ailment instead of a release?”
For the next half hour, Lauetta and Arthur conversed quietly amongst themselves. The theatre director asked a great many questions of the performing clown. All of which he answered honestly, warmly. Apologetic and earnest. They shared another smoke and in the span of that morning, came to a sincere understanding with one another. Lauetta did not revoke her offer of employment, rather she explained the capacity in which she would charge Arthur with simple duties in the first week, giving him the opportunity to shadow the theatre staff and gain some new skills, bolster his confidence and work out his papers.
At the conclusion of the interview, she invited Arthur to stay on for the technical rehearsal of the musical that was due to open in two weeks time.
Arthur thanked her graciously and took a seat in the dress circle upstairs, overlooking the stage. He’d never been able to afford theatre tickets to a place this majestic. The seats wore plush red upholstery and the stage and walls were framed in 40s art deco luxury with gilded mouldings and bronze statues that held massive white globes. The stage was framed by an elegant royal purple curtain with shimmering gold fringing and the high ceilings gave the illusion of space. Arthur counted at least two hundred seats below him.
For hours he watched as the actors came and left the stage, singing and speaking passages accompanied by a pianist. Lights were tested and costumes were worn in various states. The show stopped and started multiple times as the performance director, a tall thin fellow with a sharp voice, called directions and blocking stances cross the stage to staff that skittered to and fro.
It was almost sunset by the time Arthur left the stage door through which he entered earlier that morning. His head a cacophony of thoughts and feelings, music and laughter. He’d have so much to tell his mother when he got home.
He boarded the bus back to 42nd Street but was forced to stand in the cramped isle. The bus was full of tired looking business people returning home from their offices. They occupied the seats well before he’d boarded.
It was then that Arthur realized, through it all, that he’d never once let go of Lauretta’s handkerchief.
@jokerous @arthur-j-fleck @thejokers-thoughts @joker2019confessions @daily-joker
Dark Academia Ask Game: I was born in 1834 to a seamstress and barber in a back-alley dilapidated Victorian townhouse in Whitechapel, London. At 14, I committed my first murder, wherein I broke into my neighbor's yard and killed his prized Australian Lorikeets because the damned things sat outside my bedroom window early of a morning and chanted their irritating songs. it was not my first murder. I since regretted my poor fortune and have worked to make amends in a new secret society. Who am I?
finding eachother with bloody hands, whispering in dark alleys and running from people who aren’t really there. conversations increasing in volume and secrets stumbling out between meaningless words, considering if friendships are even worth the effort anymore. do i want to kill you or be you? should we run away or put in the work? societies either end in glory and redemption, or snapping eachothers throats to stop more birdsong from waking us up.
What inspires you? #writing #writingcommunity #writersofinstagram #wlw #nblw #queer #writingcommunity #writingofig #writinginspiration #writingcommunityofinstagram #writingmotivation #creativewriting https://www.instagram.com/p/CYuLUFwvFtO/?utm_medium=tumblr