Death Of The Party - A Tale Of Gotham

Owen Allaway

The piece of paper before me tells a tale of despair and woe.

'I stare at the armchair opposite me. The threadbare cushions are at once a reminder of my past prosperity and a sign of my current woes. It was a good chair. Solidly built with velvet upholstery. A deep, deep red colour complemented beautifully by the darkness of the mahogany arms. I bought it back in sixty-five. It cost me two hundred and fifty dollars. I considered it a bargain. Now I live in an apartment with a monthly rent of less than that. Ten years ago I spent more than that a week in restaurants alone. Or I remember I did. My life back then sounds so grand, so different, that I have trouble believing it. Maybe I'm just the confused old man my children tell me I am. Maybe I'm inventing nice memories to alleviate the suffocation of my life. But I don't really believe that. I have the chair. Like someone in a movie waking up from a dream of love to find a rose on the pillow beside them, it tells me that it happened, that it was real. All of it was real. I've fallen so far. I can't even sit on the chair any more. I loved the sinking feeling I'd get when I sat in it, the cushions giving way, seeming to pull me down. It felt safe, comforting. Now I know that if I sat in it again I'd never be able to get up. I've grown too old, too weak, but the chair, despite appearances, is as strong as ever. At night as I lie unsleeping I hear it call out to me. It would be so easy to get up from my camp bed and fall into its embrace. The only way I can fight it is to remember. Lose myself in the past and remember.

I used to be a clown. Not just any old clown, though. I clowned on television, on stage and at the parties of the richest children. If you're old enough you might even remember my name, if I were to tell you. But then the press would come, sniffing round, sticking their snouts into my business. 'Ex-TV clown living in poverty.' I may be old and I may be out of work, but I'm still a story. I'm still famous. I made a lot of money. I charged thousands for each appearance. I got it, too. And it was a bad week if I only made three appearances. My life was perfect. Like most celebrities I never considered that it might end. But it did. It ended ten years ago. It ended overnight. It ended with the Joker. I can remember seeing his face for the first time. An artist's impression in the top right corner of my TV screen behind the newsreader's head. I can't remember what that first crime was. Murder, theft, extortion, it doesn't matter now. I stared at the image on the screen. The white skin, the green hair, the devilish grin. I knew then that it was over. I hoped I was wrong, but that very evening the phone kept ringing, each call a cancellation. I haven't worked since. Clowns aren't funny anymore.'

An old man's story, the tale of one life torn apart by one man. One man who never even knew of the other's existence. I read it often. It amuses me. It reminds me of my power. It shows me that my reach is even further than I can ever know. I have touched lives. Hey, I've ended more than I can count. I've gassed and drugged and shot and strangled. I've sliced and diced and cut and carved. But they all died with smiles on my face. I mean, smiles on their faces. Well, most of them. You can't expect everyone to get even the most exquisite joke. There'll always be dullards out their scratching their heads and saying 'I don't get it.' But they will. They'll get it in the end. It's so simple. Life's a joke. That's it. It so, so simple. But they won't understand. They just won't see. They run and hide and send out their heroes. They don't deserve me, you know. But I just can't ignore my audience. It's time I made a visit.

'So this is it, is it? I was expecting something far more spectacular. Why, I've seen better chairs abandoned by the side of the road. I've an eye for quality, and this isn't it.'

'What do you want?'

'My dear friend, what a question! I'm hurt. I merely came by to visit an old chum. I really feel we know each other. Don't you?'

I give him a friendly hug, but he recoils. He doesn't seem to be enjoying this. Oh dear. You don't think my comments about his chair offended him?

'Get out.'

I guess they did. There's a fire in his eyes now. He's tensed, like a coiled spring. An old, rusty spring with no power left, but a spring nonetheless.

'Calm down, old friend. You'll do yourself an injury.'

He screams weakly and flops to the floor. I do believe that he was trying to lunge at me. I must say, I do admire his spirit, even if his body does make me feel rather queasy. He's trying to pull himself up. There's no power in his muscles, but his eyes are bright. I stare down at him. It's hilarious. His limbs twitch and his head shakes. I'm laughing so hard I fear I may end up on the floor with him. Eventually he gives up and within mere minutes I've regained my composure.

'Where are my manners? I'm so sorry. Here, let me help you up.'

He doesn't even try to get away. I lift him easily, although touching him makes me gag. No flesh should get this wrinkled, no bones this brittle. It's my moral duty to help him out. I put him gently into the armchair. He sinks in, just as he always used to.

'That feels better now, doesn't it?'

He looks me straight in the eye and nods. I've done all I can. I don't want to outstay my welcome. I leave his apartment with a song in my heart, knowing that once again I've made the world that little bit better.

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