class clown

He sits in the far corner of the classroom and really does struggle with the question: should I be funny, or should I focus. He knows what his classmates want; they want the clown. And he likes the role. It makes him feel special. No one can cut up the room like him. It’s like ham with eggs. But Mr. Lash told him, yesterday, that time was beginning to run out, that it was time for him to buckle down, to get serious, to focus. And Mr. Lash wasn’t the first, by any stretch. He looks across the room, now. Sid is the intellectual. Mary is the sensitive one. Lou’s the wordsmith. Hallie’s the artist. Fred and Allie carry the common sense mantles. Where would he fit in, if he went straight? Would he fit in? Maybe. Maybe not. He does think about this, but with that smile on his face because it’s best not to let anything on. Mr. Lash is lecturing, now, talking, pointing, and, finishing the 20-minute presentation, says, “Any questions?” and he says, “Yeah, can you go over that, again, Mr. L?” and the class guffaws. It wasn’t that funny, certainly not one of his funniest, but it was him who said it and he was the one they counted on and laughed with, or at. He wondered, a lot, lately, about that one, too.