The Tears of a Clown

A fan fiction based on the relationship of two arch enemies in their last days.

     One day after Christmas, in a cheerfully lit common room in a high end retirement home for special people, two staff members remove decorations from a drying conifer. The seasoned caregivers were discreetly sharing anecdotal stories of former residents and Christmas’ past when the familiar slow “thump - slide” sound of an approaching walker stifled their conversation and darkened the mood. A bent sickly pale figure stood behind a carbon fiber walker with bright green Wilson tennis balls on each front leg entered the room. He scowled at them.

“Hi, Sweetie. Are you done with your nap?” one of the ladies asked.

The old man scowled harder at them and mumbled something incoherent. 

She turned to her co-worker with a questioning look.

“He says he wants his cape.” the other replied.

“Oh, Sweetie, I’m sorry, it’s still in the dryer.” she said, addressing the frail figure before her.

“Are you cold, can I get you a blanket instead?” she continued

The old man trembled with obvious anger and mumbled something again.

The co-worker replied before she was asked.

“He says you better have used two dryer sheets this time.”

With that said, the bent, shaking figure turned and quit the room.

    Two days after Christmas, the old man lay sleepless with an upset stomach and making bodily noises. The kind that generally followed “Enchilada Night” in the home. The old man clenched his stomach again as his body expelled another pocket of unneeded gas. A loud giggle erupted from across the room he shared with a grinning fool. He loathed the man. Before the moment had passed, the old man reached into a gift basket on his nightstand. Just as a second giggle started, a tangerine missile found its mark, smacking the old fool on his forehead.

“He He H - ohhh” sound came from the roommate, ending on a sad note but then followed by a soft giggle.

 The night was dark and the silence returned. The old men fell asleep. 

     Three days after Christmas, the grotesquely scarred face of an elderly man stared out over a winter browned lawn from his second story bedroom window. His attention focused on the familiar form of his roommate. The man sat on a weather worn park bench overlooking an ice capped duck pond. His walker lying prone on the ice in front of him, as if thrown there, his head lay in his hands. The abused face, framed in the upstairs window belied it’s thoughts and feelings. The old fool giggled softly and turned away from the scene.

     Out the grand front doors, across the large front porch and over a sloping hill that was the last obstacle for the elderly man to venture, cane in hand, he finally made it to the bench, now absent of his roommate and expensive walker. On the sleeping turf, a red piece of paper, fluttering slightly in the breeze caught his eye. The old fool skewered it with his cane and studied what turned out to be a Western Union telegram. After the initial salutation, it read in part -

(… It is with our great sympathy we regret to inform you that after a long battle with Mesothelioma cancer Mr Grayson has passed away STOP No funeral ceremony per Mr Graysons instructions STOP) 

The old fool let the breeze take the red scrap of pain from his gloved hand. He watched as it flitted away like a little bird and land in a naked cherry tree by the edge of the frozen pond. 

A soft giggle escaped him.

     Four days after Christmas, the old fool awoke with a start. Another dark nightmare. He scanned the room frantically for flying rats before realizing where he was and that he was alone. He let out a giggle.

     It was after three in the morning. Few staff members were seen. Most of them were using this quiet time of their shift to read, study for college exams or just stealing some shuteye in a broom closet somewhere. The old fool made his way down through the lobby, the common room and finally the dining hall. In a tube frame chair facing a floor to ceiling panel of window, he found his misanthropic roommate looking out over miles of forest, walls and highways to a high-rise cityscape. The old fool giggled.

“F**k off, Jack.” his roommate said clearly and without his customary mumble or abusive tone.

The two men made eye contact through the reflection in the window. Jack giggled again and cleared his throat.

“Um…” he started

The old man facing the window let out a resigned breath.

“Um, it’s just that...it WOULD seem we are the only family WE have left, Bruce.” he said and then let slip another giggle.

Bruce didn’t reply.

 They sat quietly alone, spending the rest of the dark hours staring out over a city that could not contain the hurt these two men felt, much less the room they currently occupied. 

     Six days after Christmas, Bruce never woke again.

     One year and six days after Christmas, Jack Napier looked into the midnight sky over Gotham City. The citizens of this noble and dirty metropolis decided it would be a fitting tribute to the late caped crusader to light the night sky every year on this day with the Bat Signal.

     

     A stream of tears traced the wrinkles and deep scars over white pancake makeup as the nonagenarian Joker danced on the roof of the Gotham Home for the Criminally Insane.