This the first of five Brent-centric ‘Hallowe’en’-themed posts throughout Bobtober.
Brent was… let’s see, what’s the term?… oh yeah, a scaredy-cat. Oh, we watched our fair share of horror movies together and I drug him into more than a couple haunted houses with me. but he hated it. He was extremely sensitive to the heebie-jebbies.
He used to tell me there was one thing that used to scare the absolute hell out of him. It was the scariest thing… ever. And it just so happened to be my near constant companion. Whatever could this frightening artifact be?
Bozo the Clown.
I have had Bozo for nearly 50 years. It was a gift to me on the day I was born, from my Grandpa and Grandma Shirley. Save for a period of time when my brother commandeered it when he was a little guy, Bozo was my little buddy… my pal.
I will never forget the first time Brent and I lived together. He walked into my room on Martin Street and said, “What the hell is that?” They hated each other from that day forward.
Of course I didn’t help matters. I used to hide him in various places around the house, places I knew Brent would find him… in his bed, his dresser, in the refrigerator, hanging by a noose in the shower… I continued to terrorize my best friend with my little buddy when we moved to Ashland and the 400s.
A few years back, Brent took on the task of renovating Kim’s and my place in Converse. One day, I took Brent up to my den to show off one of my swords, a mutual passion of ours. He unsheathed the blade and made a couple of test thrusts and slices when all of the sudden he froze.
My eyes followed his gaze and I smiled. There was Brent’s old nemesis staring back at him from my desk chair. “Maybe I’d better take this,” I said, reclaiming the bastard sword and returning it to its rest.
Brent looked at me and shivered.
“I hate that fucking thing,” he said.
And he did. He really did.