CHAPTER ONE: A JESTER’S GESTURE

Let me begin by saying that I pity clowns.

Their tired balloon-animal routines fail at amusing even the most premature newborn baby, and those who aren’t bored of clowns are usually just scared of them, thanks to the abundance of cheesy 80s horror movies. What’s more, one of the most notable of their clan, whose name I needn’t mention, tarnished the clown image forever after he endorsed artificial hamburgers worldwide.

They’re far from funny, their costumes are tasteless, and most of the clowns I’ve met have a drinking problem. Clowns are sad and misdirected. It’s a shame, really, all that wasted talent.

Jesters, on the other hand, are largely misunderstood as silly, wannabe clown knock-offs. This could not be any further from the truth. In contrast to being a clown, being a jester is not about getting cheap laughs. We want to get a rise out of people, sure, but it’s more than that for jesters. Much more. Why else were we advisors to kings in ancient courts?

About a year after I decided to become a jester, I drove my taxi across the city on a regular night shift. It was dusk on another eerily quiet Saturday summer evening.

“Car 89, back in.” I radioed.

“Copy 89.” dispatch radioed back.“Who’s in 89?”

“It’s Vincent,” I replied.“Vincent Meistersinger. I’m always in 89.”

A pause on the radio.“Ya, thought so.” Another pause.“We had lots of calls about you already tonight. Know anything about that?” dispatch asked, his voice dripping with insinuation.

“Nope,” I lied.

Of course I knew about the calls.

So I had a zest for mobile entertainment, is that really such a crime? Sadly, the answer is yes. But, come on, I gave my passengers something to talk about, that’s worth something isn’t it? So I stapled miniature colour prints of surrealist paintings to the ceiling, so what? So I taped the daily comics to the back of the passenger’s seat, so what? So I always had a new collection of figurines on the dash and good music on the radio, too. Good music never hurt anyone. Besides, it’s my cab!

“Of course you don’t, 89. That’s why we’re getting calls all the time to complain about you.”

“Complaints are compliments if you stand on your head. None so deaf as those who won’t hear, as they say.”

I could almost hear dispatch rolling his eyes over the air.“Just drive the cab, ok buddy? Or Shmitty’s going to want a word with you.”

Shmitty’s Cabs is the name of the company I drove for. Shmitty, its owner, always worked hard at making his drivers hate him. I