Curing Jackson Blair: bp3

Morning show radio DJs are clowns of the airwaves, thought Sterling as he drove to campus. William wasn’t with him today, as William preferred to stay passed out on the sofa. A drunk clown is a sight few people have had the fortunate or misfortune to see in a lifetime, so perhaps it was something William really did need to sleep off. The radio DJs weren’t talking about Jackson Blair telling off all his friends and fleeing the college, but that’s what kept circling around in Sterling’s mind.

In fact the radio DJs weren’t even making cracks about that one actor getting pulled over for drunk driving. No, DJ Josey Wails was actually talking about Daniel Day Lewis spending time at the nearby clown college, Ashton University, researching his role in an upcoming movie. Sterling wondered if he’d tell William about this resoundingly uninteresting tidbit. Sterling decided he wouldn’t. Daniel Day Lewis in baggy pants, a rubber nose and floppy shoes isn’t much to get excited about.

With no memory of getting to the parking lot and sitting in his seat, Sterling found himself in his Clowning Theory class. This was actually the third level of essentially the same class and Sterling really had little reason to be there. Sterling had done between moderate and exceptional in the first two variations of the classes thanks to hard work and sound comedic instincts. And though Sterling could feel himself burning out, he still went to every class and scribbled unintelligible notes for weeks on end on a single piece of notebook paper.

Sterling briefly believed he was suffering from “senioritis,” not unlike when he was in high school. However back then he didn’t “suffer” from it—he enjoyed it quite a bit. He also had lots of other things to do back then, but now when he didn’t care about classes he still had nothing better to do than go to them.

“Sterling. What is the first rule of improvisation?” demanded Professor Claterbos. Claterbos wasn’t a mean teacher, as Sterling detected a trace of empathy in the teacher’s eyes. Claterbos earnestly wanted Sterling to be paying attention, but could only drive home the point by openly challenging Sterling’s lack of attention.

“Don’t deny the preposition,” Sterling stated.
“And why is that?”
“It kills the comedic momentum.” Claterbos paused before continuing on. Sterling was no more engaged in the lecture than he had been, but Claterbos had no other way of making a point to Sterling or the rest of the class.

Sterling supported his face with one hand and looked at his desk. The desk was an off yellow, worn down color that could only be achieved from years on this world. The desk was chipped on the edge and smooth on top. In the corner a message was scratched into the desk from years ago that simply read: You Suck.

The acrobatics teacher also brought attention to Sterling’s lack of attention later that week. Thinking Sterling looked a little down, she tried to lighten his, and the class’s, mood by suggesting he “turn that clown upside down.” The not-so-funny thing about puns, Sterling had known since childhood, was that they are a joke that makes the audience briefly, and inevitably, violent.

Sterling’s attitude must have become quite obvious to everyone as even his little brother William noticed one night that Sterling hadn’t seemed like himself, or like anybody, in a long time. Upon making his observation, William asked Sterling straight up, what’s wrong. Sterling, despite thinking a lot for a long time, had not thought about this answer at all. After a moment he responded.

“I just don’t feel funny anymore.”