Shorty's

I have an irrational fear of clowns. Maybe its that leering grin, or caked-on makeup, or the fact that I can't see the clown's true expression. The clown could be feeling anything behind that red and white makeup, and my only clue is the clown's eyes. I find that to be disorienting, I like seeing the full spectrum of facial expression. Clowns creep me out, so I find it interesting that I end up in a bar full of clowns at least once per week.

Clowns are everywhere. Pictures of clowns on the walls, clown dolls sitting on ledges, clowns hanging from a bunch of balloons suspended from the ceiling. Right now polka-like music is playing that makes me want to kick out my legs like a Russian as I drink my raspberry cider.

I used to think this place was strange, and couldn't really get into it. I don't like smoking, I don't like drinking all that much, but David likes it here because he can work on his computer without being bothered, and gets into interesting conversations with the interesting characters. It's a circus here. To me, a lot of the people who hang out at this place are like clowns. They have mohawks, beehives hairdos, and wear shirts with skulls and crossbones. They hide their true identities behind their outlandish looks, and I can't tell what they think about me, this blond girl in slacks and a North Face coat.

Last week I enjoyed this place, really enjoyed it for the first time. I sat outside and plugged my nose against the smoke, and got into a thought-provoking conversation with a young lady outside. I thought she was smart and creative, a free thinker. I found out that people don't judge me just because I look different, they embrace me.

What was I afraid of? Maybe that they would think I was the clown, hiding behind slacks and a North Face coat.