The Trapeze Swinger

1.2

The sun was high in the midday sky before the first customer of the day halted in front of the Quick-Shot Clown Pop booth, obstructing my perfect view of 2D as he collected ticket stubs. Not that I'd been watching him or anything. He just happened to be in my direct line of sight, leaning all nonchalant against the safety rail of the Switchback Ride. So far I'd noticed he had a habit of opening and closing his flick comb five times before finally using it to brush back his blue locks in an attempt at a quiff, the strands almost immediately falling back into place as a messy fridge across his forehead. This was usually when a group of giggling girls were approaching, some of whom I'd been disturbed to see even asking him to sign various items for them. The boy seemed perfectly as ease doing this, apart from one particular occasion when a buxom woman had asked him to scrawl his name across her breasts, to which his over-eager exclamation of "yeah awright!!" could be heard clearly across the stretch of grass that separated us.

Blinking to focus on the person so suddenly in my way, I managed a sheepish smile as I quickly straightened up from where I'd been leaning my elbows on the bench top. The man in front of the booth was looking directly into my face expectantly and yet I had no clue what to say for a panicked moment. In a spike of anxiety at his uncomfortable eye contact, I blurted the first thing that came to my head.

"Wanna see if you got what it takes to shoot a clown straight in it's head?" asked him in a fluster, before clapping a hand over my mouth in horror as I realised in my panic to greet the customer I'd let my accent thicken absurdly, the words coming out sounding more like: "Wannae see if ye goat what it takes ta shoot a cloon straight innits heid?" The man looked momentarily alarmed, the ticking gears inside his skull almost visible as they grasped for a translation to my warped Scottish tongue. Then he smiled thinly while shaking his head, trotting quickly off in the opposite direction.
Sighing, I tugged uncomfortably at the collar of the too large uniform shirt and tried to calm my breathing.

You can do this, just keep cool. At least no one else heard -

"What the fuck was that?" Lou asked loudly through hysterical laughter, appearing so suddenly at the side of the booth window that I almost shrieked in surprise. Our fight earlier in the day clearly forgotten, he had tears in his eyes as he wheezed, "I haven't heard you talk like that since you were a nine year old wee Scottish felly."

I couldn't help but laugh too, even as I tried to growl, "Look it just slipped out okay, ya radge," then, becoming aware I was still using the slang of our homeland I schooled my voice into neutrality before adding, "I'm a Brit through and through."

"Sure, my little lassie," Lou teased, hands on his knees to catch his breath. I rolled my eyes at the display, making shooing motions with my hands as if I could somehow telekinetically remove him from in front of my booth.

"Why aren't you over there at the ride anyway? You know, doing your job?" I asked irritably, gesturing across the grassy walkway. Lou finally straightened back up at this, still panting slightly before he turned back to face me.

"Oh yeah, some kid threw up on The Switchback and all the ground crew are currently busy so you're honorary maid for this particular mess," Lou smirked, flicking his thumb behind him towards the ride. I narrowed my eyes at the claim in pure disbelief.

"How stupid to you think I am?" I asked him indignantly, to which he only laughed as he pulled something small and black from the top pocket of his employee shirt, waving it smugly in my face.

"Mr Pot gave the order actually; we have nice little blethers on this radio. I told him since you've managed to serve zero customers so far this morning, you'd be more than willing to offer yourself for the job."