"Krusty, when will you listen to me?"
"Heh, maybe later, I need to let some steam off first."
As the clown lets his heavy body lazily drop in his armchair, I decide to step inside his dressing room along with him. As usual, there are more items destined to relax than to work on the show, so I decide to sit at the large make-up station to take care of my wound. I am greeted by my own reflection, and of course I am not pleased with the result. My red hair is completely disheveled by the abuse of the day, it lacks the proper natural form that is so easily recognizable by many and which I strive to keep in shape. My eyes run along the vanity desk, and find the small first-aid kit hidden behind the many hair products destined for Krusty.
After the show is never the right time to suggest ideas to the man in charge. Days off, if I could reach him at all, are 'not fit for business'. As I apply the antiseptic cream to my scraped cheek, I can't help but wonder if it is even my place, as co-star of the show, to suggest anything. I take a quick look behind my reflection at Krusty, not thinking much of him bending forward and hearing a loud sniffing sound, and I can tell right away my worth has never been recognized. Krusty sat back up with a nasty guttural noise that make me wince with disgust everytime. To each their own. No matter how low I fall, I will never get into such filthy ways.
How hard can he have it, compared to me, really?
"Feeling better?" I ask with contempt.
"Alright. What is it, Bob?"
Taken aback, I put down the healing instruments and grab the unexpected opportunity to finally lay out my ideas. "As I was telling you before recording, I would greatly appreciate taking care of the book section of the show myself. I have many ideas as to where to start – easy and well-known works at first, so as not to confuse our dearest fans – then I would eventually dive into more-"
"Whoah, whoah, there," he interrupts with raised hands, much to my discontent. "I'm stopping you right there. You said you want to take over an entire section of the show?"
"Well, yes, that is what I am implying," I reply carefully. "Now, if you want to keep that section short, I will abide by-"
"Read your contract again, then," he cuts off again dismissively. He doesn't even need to say more. I already know where he is going, and I have a feeling I won't be heard once again. "You're Sideshow Bob. You talk through your slide whistle. That's your character, and your character doesn't talk. Now don't get me wrong, I appreciate you giving me some ideas..."
What a liar. A dirty, selfish liar. "But surely my character can evolve and get some semblance of dignity. I can only imagine the surprise in the eyes of our young audience when they find out that Sideshow Bob is in reality this cultured, well-spoken-"
"Yaddy, yaddy, yadda. See? Too many words, and too complicated." As Krusty is leaving his comfort table, I brace myself for another long-winded talk to put me in my place. He stops right behind me, towering over me in the mirror – an image I have always hated every time I have used my voice to escape my ridiculed position – and decides to starts his usual little act. "Look at this, the kids love you! They love our duo! Why try to fix what ain't broken? It's like putting two hot shots together on one teeny-tiny stage. That's a recipe for disaster. Trust me, I've seen it happen way too many times. Every big name needs their sidekick, to shine, and to make them shine right along."
"If you would just give me a chance, I can assure you we would shine together," I insist, though I can tell from his bored expression I may as well ask for a raise. "I don't mean to overshadow you, Krusty. I'm only asking for a small portion of the show during which I could communicate properly, to improve the show and, with it, to improve your image."
"Let me take care of that, Bob," he says as he grabs a small bottle of face-cleansing product to hide his ever-increasing old age and turns his attention to his own reflection. "Don't be like me, stressing out about every little detail on the show. We've known unpopular times, and I don't want to take any risks. You know, you're pretty lucky, actually. Just go with the flow, sideshow, and all you get to do after a show is go home and not worry about fame and all that crap."
I observe him with disgust as he examines every square inch of his face in the mirror, having to put an excessive amount of makeup to appear alive and well. Unlike me, still young, taking good care of my skin without a fraction of what the main clown in charge uses, and having my brain cells still intact, untouched by the excessive use of artificial happiness. And I have a potential that would make me shine brighter than him. He knows it, I'm sure, which is why he insists on keeping me down.
"I am worth more than that. I can do more than being stepped on and shot out of cannons. You told me, years ago when you hired me, that the show could be a stepping stone for my acting career."
"Heh. That was years ago. This is now. And look at you! You're a beloved figure to these kids! I'm the kids' hero, it's better if I teach them about books and whatnot. You're a genius when it comes to that slapstick humor, stick to your guns, you're good in what you do." He turns away, ready to leave, probably to go to his favorite whore-house like he does every week. "Don't wish you were me, Bob. It's not worth it."
With a final grunt, my boss and so-called 'friend' walks out of the room, putting an end to the conversation that I started. I remain on his chair, absolutely unsatisfied with my latest attempt. I take the first bottle of hairspray within my reach and clench it, constricting it hard, almost to the point of crushing the metal with my bare hands. If he only knew all of the ideas I have to improve his asinine little display of cartoonish tomfoolery. If he only knew half of it, he would be at my feet, calling my righteous genius for everything else but slapstick humor. But every time anyone suggests anything that doesn't serve his image, he will simply shut it down. All for Krusty, as it is the Krusty Show. Being the name of the brand has only given him more power over me and over the staff.
We deserve better. I deserve better.
Throwing the small bottle away, I lean on the vanity desk, supporting my weight on my elbows, lost in my own reflection. A few more years, and I may become just like that wreck of a man. Who knows? It might be contagious.
As I look over all the superfluous makeup products once again, a small flicker of an idea lights up in my mind. So much of what lies before me would be perfect to transform a person from head to toe.
Don't wish you were me.
Oh, Krusty. Perhaps, just for a moment, I should be you.