Balloons float high in the air, shining in every color of the spectrum except black--black is too dismal for a five-year-old’s birthday party. Parents squish themselves against the fence around the yard. Kids converge around the poor man in the middle of the yard, whose name is Barry the Clown.

Barry erupts in a practiced, jovial smile as he begins his act. He booms out in a goofy, circus-ready voice, “You ready to have some fun, kids?” He begins his routine, making balloon animals for the kids. Barry accommodates their requests, creating poodles and swords and giraffes with incredible speed. He’s finishing the last one when he hears some parents shouting. He turns his head towards them, only to see a tomato flying towards his face.

Barry shoots his arm up with killer reflexes and catches the tomato, albeit squishing it in the process and squirting red juice all over himself. He snorts, looking up towards the group of parents. They’re staring at the birthday boy, who stands looking at Barry with the most mischievous grin. He has a second tomato in his hand, arm bent back to release.

Barry stands up. “Hey now, little boy, what’d you do that for?”

He ducks as another tomato flies over his head. Geez, that kid’s got an arm.

“‘Cause you’re stupid!” the child yells, sticking his tongue out. His child henchmen run to join him, picking up their own tomatoes.

“Moms, you gonna help me out here?” Barry asks as he starts to walk towards the kids. The women don’t respond, each one looking to the others to go help.

He can’t reach the gang of kids fast enough; before he can blink, another tomato flies towards him and smashes into his large belly. A second tomato lobs in an arc and hits Barry in the shoulder as he tries to wipe the mess off himself. He clenches his fists, wishing he had something to defend himself with besides an air horn and some colored pieces of cloth.

He jogs with his hands over his head, focusing on getting to the kids as more tomatoes fall. He’s almost there when the birthday boy screams, “Attack!”

Barry looks up; the kids put down their tomatoes and rush him. He attempts to turn around but is thwarted by a girl jumping on his foot and grabbing his leg. Another child leaps onto his back, clamping his arms around Barry’s neck. Barry yelps, struggling to get the children off him. The girl on his leg bites into his exposed calf, and Barry roars in pain and kicks her off.

What kind of kid bites clowns! Another child comes in to take her place, grabbing his other leg and holding on for dear life. A little boy yanks Barry’s suspenders and pulls him to the ground. He fights for breath as the children pile on top of him, laughing maniacally.

Barry's vision starts to go black. He still can't believe all this is happening. This is the sixth time something has gone terribly wrong with a party. And probably the thousandth time kids or adults have made fun of him. It’s humiliating.
Thankfully, Barry feels the pressure start to lift—the parents have come to the rescue. They extract their children from the poor clown, and one mom kneels down to ask Barry if he's okay. He grunts.
He gets up and brushes himself off, ignoring the fake apologies from the parents. He fights back more tears, questioning why he’s still a clown.
The parents pay him a generous amount of money, trying to make up for their kids’ fiasco, but it’s useless. As soon as Barry climbs into his obnoxious, rainbow-painted van, tears flow from his eyes and embarrassment flows from his heart. On the drive home, he stops at a red light and leans his head against the steering wheel. “I can’t do it anymore,” he whispers to himself, choking up again. “I’m done being a clown.”


Back at home in his apartment, Barry tosses his mail onto his kitchen counter and slumps into a recliner near the TV. He runs his hands over the cracked fake leather of his recliner, looking around at his shabby, one-room apartment, complete with ugly red walls and a broken stovetop.

A black ball of fur runs and jumps onto Barry’s lap. The soft tongue of a Scottish terrier licks off the remaining makeup from his face. “Hey Roxy,” he says, stroking her head.

“What do I do now, girl?” He sighs. “I... I give up. I can’t take all this humiliation. It’s like I’ve lost my passion for this clown thing, and I don’t know how to get it back.”

The dog stares back therapeutically.

“Great advice,” he deadpans.

Roxy leaps off his lap and dashes to the counter, whining at a box of treats out of her reach. Barry groans, but gets up to give her a treat anyway. He flips through the mail while there, seeing all the usual items: phone bill, magazines, taxes, coupons, army recruitment service... Wait, army recruitment service?

He tears open the camouflage envelope, scanning the letter inside that tells all about how the U.S. Army wants him, how he can become strong and brave and actually do something with his life.

This army thing doesn’t sound too bad, Barry thinks.

He envisions himself, lean and muscular, running through the woods, bombs exploding ten feet behind him, shooting machine gun rounds at incredible speeds and becoming America’s hero. He grins, running his hand across the paper.

He writes down the number for a recruiting agent, feeling his heart thump in his chest with anticipation for a new chance at life.


A dark green army bus rattles along the highway, the voices of many men resounding from within its metal walls. Inside, camouflage uniforms are aplenty, and the smell of testosterone is overpowering. Sleeves are rolled up from the fiercely shining sun, and numerous pairs of thick leather boots rest gently on the bus floor. One of the pair of boots belongs to none other than Barry Thompson, who sits next to a man he’s never met on a journey he’s never before dreamed of.

The man next to him sports the most bizarre, bright blue shoes Barry has ever seen. He’s dying to figure out Blue Shoe Man’s name; calling his first potential army friend “Blue Shoe Man” doesn’t seem like the most mature way to handle things.

He fiddles with his hands. Before he truly gives himself permission, he’s asking, “Hey, uh, don’t know if I ever caught your name. Would you mind telling me?”

“Yeah, sure, name’s Jim. And I have the pleasure of meeting...?”

Barry pauses to process his thoughts: Oh, dear God, I forgot my name. Crap. Think of something quick. What sounds like Barry?
“Harry Potter,” he blurts out.
“Harry Potter?”
The bus rattles as it passes over a bump. “Uh, yeah, Harry Potter. You don’t know me? I’m kinda a huge deal. Defeated the Dark Lord and all.” He might as well go with it since it happened.
Jim chuckles. “Okay, Harry Potter, why are you on an army bus instead of, erm, saving Hogwarts?”
“Harry Potter” is quick to respond, spouting out the words as they come to him. “Well, since I defeated Voldemort, things have been pretty laid-back. I do what I want now. I got a few dogs. Took up painting. My pieces are crap, but people buy them because I’m freakin’ Harry Potter. Life’s grand when you’re the world’s greatest wizard, y’know.”
It takes a minute for Jim to take the quizzical look off his face and reply, “Are you gay?”
“What the hell? No, are you?”
“No,” Jim says.
“Okay, cool. I was just wondering, ‘cause, uh, your shoes are pretty awful”
“DON’T YOU TALK S*** ABOUT MY SHOES, HARRY POTTER MAN!” Jim says, quite too loudly. The whole bus gets silent. Jim’s face turns even redder than Barry’s. The two men sit in silence for what seems like an awkward take on forever, but then Jim starts chuckling. And he can’t stop.
Eventually, he composes himself, saying, “Man, you’re pretty funny. All that Harry Potter s*** was pretty gay, but thinking about it again... It’s funny. I like you. What’s your real name?”
“Barry. Barry Thompson.” Barry smiles and sticks out his hand, squirming through the piles of bags around him.
Jim shakes his hand. “Well, it’s good to meet you, Barry Thompson. I’m still gonna call you Harry Potter, though. By the way, sorry about my shoes. They’re my lucky charm, my two three-year-old daughters painted them for me and told me they were my ‘war present.’” A grin emerges on his face. “They mean a lot to me, those girls and these shoes, and I don’t like people making fun of them. Got it?”
Barry nods, admiring how quickly Jim got personal with him. He realizes all he has at home is a Scottish terrier, no wife or kids. The word “alone” bounces around in his mind.
“Which barracks are you at?” asks Jim.
Barry glances at the number he scrawled on his forearm. “Twenty-four.”
“You kidding? I’m in twenty-four!”
“Sweet!”
The two men attempt to clasp hands and go in for a manly hug, but they’re thwarted by the bags around them and the bus hitting a pothole. They let their hands fall and sit quietly for a while, before Barry starts to ask Jim about his pre-army life. They talk for the remainder of the bus ride, trading ideas and opinions on sports teams as the sun sets slowly behind the clouds in the background.


As the bus rolls up to the site of the training camp, the only thing visible for miles is a desolate landscape dotted with a myriad of dark grey structures. Not like Barry was expecting something like the brightly painted daycares he previously worked at, but something a little less drab would have been nice.

But, as Barry steps out of the bus onto the spongy dirt, he sees something as far from drab as humanly possible.

A girl.

She stands before the lines of men pouring out of the bus, yet looks at none of them. Her tall frame accentuates the way her uniform hugs the curves of her body. Her hair, a shade of shining ebony, cascades over her shoulders in gentle curls. But her face allures Barry the most—the angular eyes, the tight-lipped grin, and the jawline that looked like it could slice a man’s throat.

Jim notices Barry gawking at her and nudges him in the side. “Harry, cut it out,” he mumbles. “I think she’s our trainer.”

Barry ignores him and continues to ogle at her, so entranced in her beauty that he doesn’t realize it when she marches up in front of him.

“So your name’s Harry, then,” a feminine voice says, making Barry jump. He makes an incomprehensible noise, wondering how in the world she heard Jim’s remark from so far a distance.

She cocks an eyebrow at him. He stares back, insufficiently attempting to form his mouth into words.

Jim comes to the rescue. “His name’s Barry, not Harry. That’s just me. It’s a joke. He did this thing where--”

The woman holds a hand up to cut him off. “Barry,” she says in a husky voice, enjoying the crazed look in Barry’s eyes. “What’s your last name, soldier?”

Finally, Barry remembers how to talk. “Thompson,” he squeaks.

“Well, Thompson, welcome to the camp. My name’s Sonia, and I’ll be your trainer. I can tell I’ll have a lot of fun with you,” she says, narrowing her eyes.

Barry melts into a puddle as she turns and walks away.


The training period wears Barry out. The amount of physical strain put on his body is strenuous, but it’s nothing compared to the amount of mental strain he inflicts upon himself by attempting to erase any dorky notions the other men may have of him. Even though Barry mentions his past as a clown to no one but Jim, he worries that people will find out and ridicule him. He can’t have this new life become another cycle of his old one.

Weapon training turns out to be most difficult for Barry. The second week of camp is weapons-intensive, and Barry has gotten the lowest possible marks in every section. The sessions usually go like this:

Sonia stands at a safe distance, shouting orders at each man who approaches her station. Another trainer stands next to each trainee, indicating how to use the gun. When it’s Barry’s turn, this information goes in one ear and out the other. He keeps looking up at Sonia instead of paying attention.

“Ready, soldier?” Sonia yells.

“Yes ma’am,” comes the shaky response.

“Ugh, not him again,” Sonia mutters before screaming, “Alright, aim and fire!”

Barry squeezes his eyes shut and pulls the trigger. Within seconds he hears a wooden thud from far away. He opens his eyes.

He hit a tree. There are no trees anywhere besides the decoy ones a few stations way to the right.

“Thompson! What in the devil’s name was that?” Sonia screams. “The target’s only ten yards away! Did you even aim?” She sighs and waves him to the next station, shooting him an icy glare.

Barry moves on with his head down, avoiding Sonia’s gaze.

This pattern repeats several times. However, on the last day of preparatory weapons training, something different occurs. Barry again walks up to the station with the mindset of failing, but when he touches the sniper rifle given to practice with, he feels something stir inside him.

He kneels down into position. He hefts the gun in his arms, feeling its weight and power. He peers into the sighting scope, aiming directly at the target. He can hear his own short, anxious breathing. He hears the bellowed command to fire, and he presses the trigger with an abundance of hope.

Bang! The gun kicks back into Barry’s shoulder and the sound sets off ringing in his ears. Concerned that he may have lost his hearing, Barry stays knelt down with his hands pressed over his ears. Sonia’s radio buzzes, and when she pushes the button a man’s voice explodes out:

“No way!”

Puzzled, Sonia asks him what happened. He responds, “He hit the center! Dead center! Never seen anything like it on a man’s first try!”

Sonia turns her head slowly and stares deep into Barry’s soul; Barry ends up getting lost in her eyes. She rolls her eyes, but grins. “Do it again,” she says.

“What?” Barry replies.

“Do it again. Shoot again.”

“But why do I--”

“Just do it!”

Barry obeys and positions himself to shoot while Sonia raps out orders on her radio. She nudges him with her foot as permission to shoot.

Bang! The same loud noise sends flames licking up Barry’s ear canals, but he tries not to show his near deafness. When his ears become functional, he again hears “No way!” from the radio. Pride swells within him like a tidal wave.

Sonia paces back and forth. She asks him, “Where’d you learn how to do this?”

“I’ve never done it before,” Barry admits.

“There’s gotta be some reason you’re this good. Any special skills? Past careers?”

“I’ve got killer reflexes,” he says with a wink. He thinks back to making balloon animals and his knack for catching tomatoes. Well, some tomatoes.

Sonia purses her lips. She pulls out her phone, turning her back to him as she punches the keyboard. She then stoops down and talks low into Barry’s ear, “Come to my office straight after dinner tonight. You’re promising with that sniper, Barry.” He shivers as she says his name. She swats him on the head. “We’ll see what else you can do, and this may be your shot to go to war.”



Before Barry knows it, several weeks have passed, and it’s the morning he’s due to leave for war. He awakens to Jim shaking him, his face centimeters from Barry’s. Barry starts, thrashing his legs and accidentally kicking Jim in the balls. He wheezes and doubles over, hands over his crotch. Barry leaps up and puts his arm around Jim, repeating his apologies in a hoarse morning voice.

After some painful time, Jim straightens up and says, “I wanted to wake you up early before you go. I have to give you something.”

He patters over to his bed and pulls something out of his trunk. Barry notices the terribly shoeless socks on Jim’s feet; when he turns around with something bright blue in his hands, realization dawns on Barry.

“You can’t give me your shoes, Jim. I’m not taking them.”

“No, I’m giving you my shoes, Harry Potter.”

“Jim, you know I can’t take those.”

“You’re going to take them! I want you to have them.”

“Why?”

“For good luck.”

Barry shuffles his feet. “But why me? I... I’m nothing special, certainly not special enough for those shoes. Your kids made them for you, not me, not some gross fat guy who no one likes, who’s no good at anything.”

“But I’m not giving them to someone like that,” Jim says. “No, I’m giving them to Barry Thompson, Harry Potter, the funniest guy I know and the best friend anyone could have. I’m giving these to a guy who’s got killer abs, who can snipe the hell out of anything, who everyone thinks is swell, and who’s not gross at all. Man, you flush the toilet and brush your teeth every morning, I don’t know anyone else who does both of those.”

Jim looks up and sees Barry’s eyes brimming with tears. Barry runs forward and tackles Jim in a huge embrace, and Jim hugs back with equal force.

“You’re so gay,” Jim exhales into Barry’s shoulder.

“You’re gay, too,” Barry sobs.

They stay in each other’s arms for a few seconds before Jim lets go and pushes his shoes into Barry’s hands. Jim then goes back to bed while Barry packs his things and laces up his new prized possession.


In Afghanistan, Barry’s first few days occur uneventfully. Soldiers camp out along combat lines, waiting for a glimpse of the enemy, but nothing happens. Barry is anxious for action; his knees ache, and his squad leader Sonia has been arbitrarily ignoring him for weeks. He wonders if he should just give up on her altogether.

Then, unexpectedly, it happens. There’s shouting near the front of the bushes, and a platoon of U.S. soldiers charges out and sprints towards the Afghan camp. The rest of the Americans mentally reach out to pull them back, but it’s too late.

Three of the soldiers’ heads explode out of nowhere, blood spattering onto their former companions’ uniforms. The rest keep running—except for four, who trip and fall, bullets pinging off their boots.

Shouted commands tear Barry’s horrified eyes from the scene, and one of his squad members shoves him into a run. Barry runs toward his pinpointed position, head down, hearing bullets whoosh by behind him. He dives into his corner, setting up the tripod for his rifle when another body slides in next to him. He does a double take, knowing that body anywhere.

“What are you doing?” he hisses to Sonia, furiously loading his gun. “You ignore me for weeks, and now you show up? Really, now?”

“I’m helping you out, idiot! I got left behind in the rush, I saw you running, so I came!”
Suddenly, gunfire blasts all around the two figures crouched in the bushes. Sonia shoves Barry facedown into the ground as a bullet flies over his head. Barry feels his hands shake and his heart pound madly in his chest, awareness of his situation settling in.
“Barry, over there,” Sonia yells into Barry’s ear above maelstrom of sounds.

Barry glances through the foliage and sees where Sonia’s pointing. An enemy soldier mans a turret gun, sending masses of bullets into the U.S. front line. Barry’s in perfect position to snipe and kill the man, but he hesitates.

“Now, Thompson!” Sonia commands.

Barry looks at the enemy soldier again. He flashes back to his own men's heads exploding, knowing if he presses that trigger, he’d be doing that exact thing to someone else.

“I can’t,” Barry whispers.

“What? I can’t hear you!”

Barry glances at Sonia, then at the man. His morals howl in his head, telling him everything wrong about this; yet, the girl he’s crazy about is telling him it’s okay. But why is it okay if that man has an amazing life? What if he was a teacher, a comedian, or even a clown?

“I can’t do it!” Barry yells, knuckles white against the tripod.

“Why the hell not?” Sonia screams into his face.

“I. . .” Barry trails off, his thoughts too prevalent to allow spoken words. He studies the man’s face through the scope of his gun, wondering if it was a face that children kissed goodnight, if it was looked at lovingly by a wife. What would the kids do if their father died? Would the wife ever escape the grief?
“Why can’t you do it!" Sonia screams. “What are you, a coward?”

“No, Sonia, I’m a clown!”

“What the hell? A clown? What does that have to do with killing someone who’s murdering your entire unit! Just shoot him!” Sonia screams, looking at him with intense, beautiful urgency.

Barry stares at her, her words sinking in. Time seems to stop, the bullets flying above them moving in slow motion.

“BARRY!” Sonia shrieks, whipping out her handgun and felling an enemy soldier who had plowed through the bushes.

“Barry, look at me,” Sonia shouts, her voice dripping with desperation. “Shoot him. Right now,” she pleads. “Shoot him, goddammit!” She grabs the front of his uniform and wrenches his face up to a hairsbreadth from hers. “Shoot him, I’ll make you glad you’ve done it,” she growls. She locks eyes with him, abruptly softening her demeanor and pulling him in.


She wants me if I kill him, Barry grasps.

Barry feels her sweet breath brush his cheeks like a brilliant, tainted breeze. His own breath stops. Thoughts of her consume him. He wants to have her, to win her over, and all he would have to do is pull that trigger with his own killer reflexes. His heart beats much too fast, and he gazes into her eyes once more, ready to shoot his first enemy.

And then he sees it.

The flicker in her eyes.

The front she’s putting on. He sees it, deep in her brown eyes. She’s bluffing. She doesn’t want him. She wants the kill and then she will leave him before she satisfies an inch of him. It’s a betrayal of the heart, something Barry would never do.

His revelation finally clicks.

I can’t kill people because that’s not me—it’s not in my heart to kill. I can’t betray my heart.

Barry pulls away from her. He starts to move, only to be caught by her arm. “What are you doing, Barry?” Sonia pleads, bewildered that her ruse didn’t work. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

Barry ignores her and tugs at his arm. She grips him harder. “Thompson! Listen to me!”

“No,” he snarls, tugging his arm free. “I’m listening to myself.”

And he runs.

He runs away from her, away from the hero he thought he wanted to be. His blue shoes pound his past life into the dust, running from what he now knows is not what he’s meant to be. He runs past the army base, past every soldier and every building that was part of his army life. He runs until he doesn't see anyone anymore, then keeps going. His mind is clear except for one recurring thought: I’m listening to myself.