Word Count: 382
He was Peter Rabbit and Cupid and Santa. He was Uncle Sam on the Fourth of July. Bozo the clown on summer Saturdays and birthdays, a stripper at bachelorette parties usually held Friday nights. He was forty-seven years old and whatever you paid him to be.
No one could blame him; he was just trying to make enough to hold onto the house. He’d been an accountant in a large corporation and escaped all but the last downsizing cut.
His wife was expecting their third child in two weeks. He had no idea how much hospital costs would be. He scrambled as best as he could from one job to another. Worked three nights sweeping floors at the grocery but it didn’t pay well.
As her due date drew near he held off on paying the mortgage. Someone had said that they wouldn’t admit her without proof of insurance or cash at the time. He doubled up on his parties, stacking them up back to back when he could. Running from one to another, the costumes all kept in the back seat of his car. He often wore his tear-away cowboy pants and fringed vest under his coveralls as he swept runaway grapes off the grocery floor.
They called him in for an interview at the same place from which he had been let go. Different department, but people he knew at least by sight. It went well, he drove off feeling hopeful. Things were looking up at long last.
He checked house numbers as he drove down the street. Pulled into a driveway of a large brick colonial. He got out of the car, pulled his suit off from over his costume and put on his big Bozo head.
He skipped in as they told him they’d wanted. Blowing the silly-ass horn in one hand, touting a mass of balloons with the others.
“Hiya kids!” he shouted. “Hiya!” Already hoping it would be the last time he did.
The kids screamed with excitement and glee. Three mothers just screamed. His former boss came running out of the house and pointed. When he looked down the blood drained from his face. He was wearing what was left of his tear-away cowboy pants after they had been torn away.
