The driver is a clown: tall and slender, wearing baggy clothes and oversized, colorful shoes; a large red ball on his nose; his face painted with an exuberant smile. An irate, well-dressed man stands nearby. “I’m late for my meeting, goddamnit! Can you hurry up, please?!” The man’s plosive pronunciation of “please” sprays spit on the driver’s face. Nonplussed, the driver pantomimes the man’s cries by frowning and wringing his balled fists near his eyes. “He’s dressed like a clown.” The man mutters, then inquires loudly, ”Why are you dressed like a clown?” The clown shakes his head and then pretends to hurry, exaggeratedly swinging his arms faster than his legs while he shuffles towards his truck. On his way, he pretends to slip and fall, standing quickly and peering about before cartoonishly wiping his brow, winking at the irate man, and then grabbing the winch from his truck. The man is speechless, watching the clown secure the winch and lift his vehicle. Afterwards, the clown turns and produces a large bouquet of roses, pretending to smell and admire the flowers before presenting them to the irate man. The man irritably grabs the flowers, freeing the clown, who claps his hands to signal that his work is done before climbing into his truck. “Wait, won’t you give me a ride?” The clown shakes his head, pointing first at the man, then at the roses, and then at the ground. The man watches the truck leave with his car. In a daze, he stares momentarily with furrowed brows at the roses. After some consideration, he bends his head slightly to smell them.
Hip hop music blasts out the speakers and over the roaring engine, their combined force rattling the dashboard and a basketball player bobblehead on the dashboard. The clown hums along to the music, repeating only the expletives, staring at others as they pass on the street. A notification appears on his phone; he burps, drinks his energy drink, and enacts a sharp illegal U-turn.
A child watches the clown unpack his winch and prepare to hoist his mother’s car. His mother’s eyes distractingly flash to the clown as she mutters on the phone, “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. You won’t believe what the tow truck driver is dressed as… Yes, he’s a clown!” The tow truck engine whirs as the van slowly inclines onto the ramp. Meanwhile, the clown removes his nose, making it disappear, then reappear in surprising locations: his pockets, the boy’s mouth, behind the boy’s mother’s ear. The boy cracks a meek smile, but the mother motions for him to stay close. She frets over his hair, straightening his shirt collar, and notices that his pants are stained, anguishing, “Are your clothes muddy already? I need you looking presentable. You don’t want me to feel ashamed, do you?” She sighs and turns the boy around to face her. The boy, however, does not make eye contact with his mother, instead watching traffic pass by on the freeway. The mother rolls her eyes and marches him to a spot far away from traffic. She points down and whispers angrily, “You wait here. You do not move.” The clown rushes forward, motioning with one hand that his job is done, and the other holding a stuffed tiger. “Are you trying to give that to my son?” The boy eyes the tiger with mild curiosity and fear. The clown submissively nods, overtly lowering his head as he quickly scampers over to the boy, handing him the stuffed animal. “No!” The mother rushes to intercept the clown and take the toy away, but not before the clown gives it to the boy—quickly pointing to the animal, then at the boy’s mother, before climbing into his truck. As the truck leaves, the mother grabs the tiger from her boy, hissing, “Nevermind that it’s from a stranger. You hardly study enough for me to give you this.”
The truck’s roaring engine is only drowned out by Celine Dion’s song, My Heart Will Go On. The clown squints his tear-streaked eyes against the setting sun as he wails along, misremembering the chorus. On the driver’s mirror hangs three air fresheners, tangling around each other with each turn. A dead dove flops back and forth in a cage balanced on the passenger seat, held down by a tightly wrapped seat belt.
The driver hungrily eyes a bag of cheese pretzels in the furthest corner of the dashboard. He reaches his sweaty hand, accidentally turning the wheel and forcing the truck into the clear zone, its tires vibrating noisily as they pass over the rumble strips. Suddenly, the rumbling is eclipsed by a sickening thud, as the truck smashes into something standing in the clear zone. The truck screeches to a halt after the impact, and Celine continues to sing, “Near far, wherever you—” until she is abruptly stopped by the clown killing the truck’s engine. Sizzling air cuts through the silence as it escapes from its rubber prison: a balloon crammed underneath the seat.
The clown waits by his truck, pretending to check an imaginary watch. He shuffles his feet occasionally, and looks down at his oversized shoes. A car occasionally passes, but, in the dark, nobody can see the effects from the accident. Another tow truck slowly approaches, passes, and stops immediately past the carnage, briefly exposing the gruesome aftermath with its headlights. A larger clown steps out carrying a carpet bag. He wears a dirty brown suit, with dirt caked on his face—especially near his right eye, which is roughed up. The two exaggeratedly extend their arms as they approach each other. They stop short, then rapidly shake hands. The larger clown points to the strewn fragments of the hitchhiker’s carcass, then points to the carpet bag. The smaller clown nods and they begin cleaning up the mess: one by one, picking up the pieces and placing them inside the bag. Once all signs of the accident are gone, the larger clown unbuttons his suit and pulls out a shot glass, pointing to a neon sign in the distance. The smaller clown claps and rubs his hands together while the other throws his bag in the bed of his truck. The two drive away together, eager to decompress after a long day.