A year ago the reflection looking back at Joey would have terrified him. Now he only felt depressed.
Not that it showed. Joey’s condition caused his facial muscles to automatically revert to a wide silly grin whenever he relaxed. Only with real effort could he force his expression into anything different like a frown and even then with his plump red lips and eggshell white skin it would look comical. The wide arches on his forehead that replaced his eyebrows made him look surprised all the time, an impression accented by a bald pate surrounded by a thick horseshoe of cherry red hair, his soft red cheeks, and the big bright round red nose in the middle of his face.
Joey looked like a clown.
Whenever Joey talked it was now with this deep goofy lilt almost like the cartoon moose Bullwinkle, and he’d give involuntary chuckles and giggles in the middle of sentences like vocal commas. And he’d on impulse end his sentences by squeezing his nose, giving a honk like an audible period,
Joey sounded like a clown.
Joey’s chubby body and oversized feet caused him to walk with a silly waddle which would lead to involuntary clumsiness if he tried to move faster. Without thinking he’d used comically exaggerated hand expressions whenever she spoke.
Joey moved like a clown.
Joey WAS a clown. And unless some miracle cure was ever found for this ‘clown syndrome,’ he would be one for the rest of his life, wherever he wanted to be or not.
Yet whenever Joey felt self-pity about his condition, it would immediately be followed by a sense of shame. At this very hospital were men, women and children struggling with crippling disabilities, life threatening diseases, and even inevitable death. What was looking like a clown compared to that? Joey even now felt a desire meet with them and even try to brighten their day. Was this new empathy part of his condition? He’d ask when he got to his new home.
After telling Joey about ‘clown syndrome; and how it was affecting his body, the doctor informed Joey and his mother about this special place set up in a remote area of Idaho for people like Joey. It was an almost camp like compound where children with Joey’s condition could be educated and observed away from the prying eyes of society. After several discussions, Joey’s parents agreed it would be for the best if he went there. In order to stay close to their son Joey’s father, a CPA, agreed to take a position helping with the place’s finances and they themselves would soon move to a town nearby.
Joey heard the door to his hospital room open, and saw his parents enter.
“Are you ready, son?” his father asked.
“Sure thing dad, heyahhaha.” As he now did almost without thinking, Joey squeezed his nose. HONK!
“Remember, we’ll be moving to Idaho after we get the house sold; we’ll see you in a few weeks.”
Joey walked out with his parents; his appearance drew nothing more than an occasional glance. Clowns-the ordinary people who simply wore makeup and costumes-frequently came to this hospital to cheer up patients; most people who saw Joey simply assumed he was that kind. He was even dressed in a clown-like fashion, a long sleeved shirt with red and whites stripes and orange pip overalls; on his feet were yellow and red clown shoes that fit his oversized feet perfectly. He even had an orange flat cap over his bald head; another symptom of ‘clown syndrome’ was that his new white complexion was rather sensitive to sunlight so he covered up as much as possible.
A black van was waiting at the hospital entrance. Before he got inside, Joey turned and looked at his parents.
Joey’s father ran a hand over his scalp; he’d started losing his hair in his mid-twenties and was bald by 35. “Don’t let losing it get you down son,” he said. “You’re my son; you were going to lose it anyway.” Despite himself, Joey felt a genuine smile on his face.
“Remember, you’re our son and we love you,” his mom told him. She honked his nose a couple of times, then the family hugged before Joey stepped inside the van.
Most of the ride to the facility was quiet; the van’s driver was instructed not to talk to Joey. Joey saw the countryside flash by, yet the van only stopped to get gas and change drivers.
Finally the black vehicle turned into a long driveway surrounded by trees, into a clearing with a large concrete building surrounded by several smaller buildings that reminded Joey of college dormitories.
The van stopped outside the main building; waiting outside were several adults wearing either lab coats or business suits and nearly twice that number of tweens and teenagers who looked and dressed like clowns.
Joey and the van driver stepped outside. One of the older clowns, a pretty girl about college age with porcelain white skin, pink hair done into twin-tail braids and a glittering red nose about the size of a golf ball and dressing in a very colorful dirndil style dress stepped forward; Joey knew she was Idonna Vernburg the firs reported case of ‘clown syndrome’ and whose father financed this place.
“Hallo!” she greeted Joey, a comically exaggerated German accent coloring her voice, then honked her nose. “Ya must be Josepp, heheyaha. I am Idonaa, he he, velcome to the Griebling vresearch facility!”
Honk! Honk!