In the process of these miracle mountains erupting, they’d also absorbed and entombed the hostile invaders. And it’s said that those bodies remain entombed within the hillocks to this day. Dakota thought the hillocks had more likelihood of being landfills than housing any corpses, ancient or otherwise. But the legend was vague enough to be a treasure trove for local merchants looking to kick up interest in the town.
The main theme now was that the hillocks possessed magic, and could do everything from curing to cursing those who deigned to explore them. Caves near the bottom of the hills drew just as many visitors yearly, and were rumored to have pools of water that could grant wishes, some claiming to see their futures or the faces of dead relatives reflected back on the glassy surface. Locals typically avoided the caves, as they were small and not that impressive, too crowded with tourists during the day, and best avoided at night unless you liked bats. But tourists crowded the caves in the summer to make their wishes and speak to the dead. I’d been in the caves and found them slippery and smelly.
Though the hillocks themselves were supposed to have formed supernaturally, it was the wooded valleys between them where the weirdest rumors were centered. Folks claimed to see glowing animals and religious visions while hiking, all manner of odd creatures and phenomenon, none of it keeping with any consistent theme. I’d lived here all my life and never seen anything weird on the hills or in the valleys, other than a couple having sex on a boulder in broad daylight. And once when my friends and I hiked the center hill, we saw a drunk guy in his underwear with 666 painted on his chest with what looked like black sharpie, screaming for the dark lord to come collect him. Sadly, for him, it was the Hillock Police that did so.
For those who cared nothing about spiritualism, the multiple strip clubs in Hillock Beach were as big a draw as the spooky shit, or at least a close second. They should add a byline beneath the town welcome sign to encompassed both, I thought. ‘Beasties and Boobies’ or maybe ‘Goblins and Gonads’ as there were fleshy dance clubs catering to all genders and persuasions. I was reminded of this as I watched a neon pink sign flicker on as I passed by—the outline of a voluptuous woman with one leg kicking back and forth. The light going on meant it was eight o’clock, as they weren’t allowed to open before then. Beyond a couple bachelor parties, I’d never given much patronage to the strip clubs myself, didn’t even really know about them until I was a teen, because my parents always forbade me from coming down to the seaside at night.
My father was especially adamant that I avoid this part of town. He insisted con artists would swindle me, and if I managed to avoid that, there were thieves who would carve a piece of your ass off with a machete if they saw the outline of a wallet through your pants. I had nightmares about this when I was little, someone chopping my wallet out of my pants, leaving me bleeding on the side of the road with half my ass gored off. As I got older I stopped believing my father’s description of the seaside at night, but obeyed him for the most part. Then when I finally became of legal age to venture down on my own, I was already a dad myself, and it no longer held much allure.
And it still didn’t, despite a small flicker of consideration for the strip club as I passed under the sign. Spending time with naked women who expected nothing from me but cash sounded mildly appealing right now, but that was more about my bruised ego from tonight’s date. All I really wanted was to be home and warm with my whisky, ruminating on how terrible my night was.
The night was coming alive around me despite my gloominess, and I passed musicians and street performers, the aroma of sea salt and fried clams in the air, along with the occasional hint of cannabis from the tourists darting in and out of the shops and art galleries and nightclubs. Raucous groups of pretty young women passed by in a cloud of perfume, and plenty of young men who looked far better in their ‘nice’ jeans than I did. I probably looked like a vagabond with my dusty clothing, fist gripping the bottle neck of my paper bag as I ambled down the street with an irritated scowl.
I passed a juggling mime and thought of the clown in the dunk tank, which made me recall Bonnie’s final comment before storming out, about going to find him and invite him for a drink. I wondered if the clown was as insulting when he was off duty, or if his non-clown personality was something else entirely. And then I wondered why I was wondering about such things.
“You obviously found him a lot more interesting than me.”
Disturbingly, she was right. I had found the clown somewhat interesting, even before he called me Squirt and nearly busted me in front of my date about the dinner reservations. It was perfectly understandable why that made me curious, but I wasn’t sure what had intrigued me initially. I had my suspicions, though. I was feeling old and out of shape and more than one woman had called me dull recently. That’s how I felt, dull, like an old scuffed shoe that needed a shine.
But that clown, he shone. He was young and fit and colorful, a glowing spark to my burned-out cinder. I’d obviously been fascinated by the clown because I envied him. That’s how low I was feeling about myself. I envied some carnie clown in a cage who hurled insults for a living.
I reached the fun park, and had a moment of panic when I couldn’t remember where I’d left my truck, but found it after wandering around for a while. After opening the door and putting the whisky on the passenger seat, my eyes shifted over to the bright lights and gleeful screams of the park rides. I paused, keys in hand, and a very bad idea emerged. I still had the entry stamp on my hand. I could get back in.
And do what?
It wasn’t completely crazy to go back and find the clown, considering the things he said to me as I was leaving. Maybe it was nothing, a coincidence, albeit a really weird one. But I could at least ask him about it. Bonnie would call this crazy. But I pushed her imagined judgement aside, and next thing I knew, I was showing my faded hand stamp to the ticket taker and being waved back into the dusty grounds of Hillock Beach Fun Park.
It was more crowded now that the sun was down, and the families and baby strollers had been replaced by teenagers and young adults. I probably looked like a pervert alone at night, at my age. I shook my head as I passed the funhouse and sausage carts. I needed to ease up on myself. I didn’t look like a pervert. I just looked like someone’s dad, which, I was.
When I finally made it to ‘Drown the Clown’ my heart sank. The clown was not the same guy from earlier. Different build, different hair and makeup, a red rubber ball for a nose. Shit. My clown had gone.
My clown? Really?
The greasy money collector was still there though, looking exhausted and a little stoned. He stared dazedly at the dunk tank while the new clown hurled insults at the players with appropriate aggression. The money guy turned from the dunk tank when he saw me approach. “Five dollars.”
“No, I don’t want to play the game, I’m looking for someone.”
“Who?”
“What happened to the original clown?”
“Rollo? Hospital,” he said, going back to watching the game.
My eyes widened. “Hospital? What happened?”
“Heart attack. On Wednesday. People have been filling in for him all week. Think he’s getting discharged tomorrow.”
Oh. He was talking about a different clown. The main clown, as it were. I was sorry that ‘Rollo’ had a heart attack. But this didn’t answer my question. “No, I don’t know him. I meant the other clown, the one here this afternoon. Brown hair, longish, little ringlets on the bottom?”