Lost Art of Mystery

Atlantic City, New Jersey. Late winter, circa 1978. Crashing ocean waves violently battered the pier as a powerful Nor’easter barreled up the east coast. Frozen sleet encapsulated everything in its wake with a glistening layer of treacherous ice.

The clown sat all alone at a bar. A hole in the wall, the place was an original boardwalk relic. It reeked of beer, stale cigarette smoke, rancid popcorn and mildew. A fine layer of tacky dust coated everything, from the windows to the walls, the banquets to the bottles. Imitation Tiffany lamps missing a few glass panes still worked well enough to give the place a strange, yet cozy glow. Behind one of the dark booths, next to a faded pinball machine, red and gold lights from the jukebox blinked intermittently while it ironically played Frank Sinatra’s, “That’s Life”, on repeat.

As he reached over to accept another generous shot of bourbon from the gaunt elderly bartender, the clown’s tattered and faded sleeve soaked up a sticky spill from the weathered mahogany bar. He dug into an oversized shirt pocket stitched to look like a giant patch, and pulled out a crushed pack of Marlboros. Shaking out a single bent cigarette, he lit it with a clear plastic neon green lighter, embers glowing as he inhaled deeply. He chain smoked, mashing them one after another into a filthy overflowing crystal ashtray.

He had seen lots of good days in his time, he thought to himself. If this was the end, so be it. At least he was back in Atlantic City, back where it all started, and not in some abysmal tiny town in the midwest doing a low rent circus tour, or worse yet, performing for kiddies in Sears parking lots. Yeah, it could be worse, he thought to himself, as he tossed back the potent alcohol and let out a raspy sigh.