Chapter 18: Rental Shoes

Mom looked at the spare room for a long time and said nothing about it.

She looked at the quilt with the bowling pin, the trophies, the window and the one hook on the wall that held my jacket.

Then she put the casserole on the kitchen counter and asked if it was quiet.

"Yes," I said.

"I hate it," Mom said, and left.

On Thursday night I went to the Strike Zone because it was open mic night and I had a stool to sit on.

Dot had put me at the end of the list, as she always did, and told me to sit in the back and keep my hands to myself.

I had a root beer.

I had barely finished the first sip when the front doors opened and the whole Halvorson family walked in wearing the wrong shoes.

They were rental shoes.

Dad had on a size twelve in red and blue, and Mom was in a pair with a hole in the toe, and nobody had thought to ask for socks.

They walked in a line to lane nine, where the regular sat alone with his tray of nachos.

"Mind if we sit?" Dad said.

"Free country," said the man in lane nine, and moved the nachos.

Dot took the microphone from its stand without even looking at them.

"Folks, we have guests tonight," she said. "Same rules as everybody. No props, no costumes, one stool, two minutes. Mr. Halvorson, you're up first."

"I'm not performing," Dad said.

"Nobody in this building is performing. You say one true thing, and then you sit."

Dad walked to the stool slowly, in his enormous shoes.

Keep reading free with an account. Start No Longer the Family Clown from Chapter 1, then sign up free to read the rest of this chapter.