Mr. Nice Guy

I'm a nice guy. People like me. Just ask the folks at work, or my neighbors, or the clerk at the store. They'll all tell you I'm a nice guy. Even my wife, in a pinch, would tell me I'm a nice guy. She knew I was a nice guy the first time she saw me. That's just the impression I make on people. It's not easy being a nice guy. It takes a lot of work and compromising. A lot of people think nice guys are wimps or fools, but it's not like that. Nice guys choose to be nice. It's hard to understand that, I guess. Why choose to be nice? It's just the way I am.

It didn't bother me this morning when my wife summoned me to the front porch. I wasn't really doing anything. Just shooting the breeze, you know, chewing the fat, with my neighbor Lon. Just doing the usual things all contended nice guys do on a Saturday morning before we start our real chores. And it didn't bother me much to learn that she had volunteered me to replace the clown who couldn't show up for her sister's son's birthday party this afternoon. It was okay with me, as I had always considered myself an amateur virtuoso of magic tricks and balloon sculpting. I even had sort of a special costume figured out in my head for such an occasion. It would be a scientific nerd look with baggy flannel pants, a white dress shirt and narrow tie, a pocket protector, and topping it all off with horn-rimmed glasses and my hair greased back. I have to admit I was a little disappointed later on when my wife came back from her shopping trip and showed me what she'd bought. She pulled out of her bag a flimsy jumpsuit with orange and blue polkadots; a huge frizzy wig; you know the type, with the rainbow-colored stripes; and a huge round rubber nose with the elastic band to keep it on. It's adorable, she insisted. She had made a special trip to the store to buy it for me. I told her I would be more comfortable in my nerdy getup, but she insisted that the children would love it and that's what she wanted me to wear.

I finished off my other chores for the day and by two went into the house to get ready for the party. My love had already gone ahead to help her sister get everything ready and I was supposed to walk down at three and surprise everyone. I put on the outfit my wife had gotten me and even put some of her rouge on my cheeks to complete the look. In the mirror, I looked silly for a grown man, but for Jonathan's birthday I was willing to do it. And after all, my wife had told me that her sister had had a little tiff with the real clown at the last moment and this would certainly help them both out of a terrible jam. I adjusted the red nose and wig and headed off to the party.

The party went off nicely. I made sure of that. I always like to make everything I do special. When I first got there, the children were all sitting quietly on the floor, watching television. There was some commercial on where a wife was telling her dim-witted husband what brand of paper towel was the best. When the children saw me, they all jumped up in glee and cheered and shouted, and the party was on. I did my tricks for them and made familiar animals from balloons as I "worked the crowd" so to speak, which really livened up the party. During the cake and ice cream, I acted as MC and got the kids talking and joking over silly kid stuff. When Jonathan opened his presents, I stood behind him and pantomimed excitement and astonishment with each and every gift so that all the kids were joyous and happy to see Jonathan unwrap them. I suppose the most awkward part of the whole gig, though, was when my beautiful little daughter saw me in my costume. At first she was delighted to see a clown, and then she stared up at me for the longest time with that puzzled look on her face then asked "Daddy?" She told me I looked silly, so I sang a silly little tune and did a silly little dance for her and she giggled and went on her way.

I guess the day got unsettling when Jake came home and went into the kitchen. Jake is my wife's sister'ss husband and quite the dandy, and, I think, glibly full of hot air. He is always tan and well-groomed and seems to always be wearing gabardine slacks, tight knit sweaters, and newly polished shiny shoes. He has neatly trimmed blond hair and always smells of cologne. I don't know why I always find him sort of odd. I guess there was that one time a few years back when the street was flooding and all he did was pop his head out of his front door to see what all the neighbors were doing with the sandbags, then ducked back into the house. Anyhow, he'd just gotten back from playing golf and wanted to wish his big boy, Jonathan, a big happy birthday before he had to go off and meet some business associates or what have you. He gave his wife a quick peck on her cheek, told her he'd be home late, and off he went. I guess being in my clown suit and all must have camouflaged me from the girls and their conversation that ensued. You see, both my wife's sister and my dearest wife immediately began to swoon over Jake's whirlwind appearance. My wife's sister boasted about how Jake was her Mr. Wonderful and that he was always her Mr. Wonderful from the day she first laid eyes on him. What hurt me was my wife agreeing and adding that he was such a hunk. When the two girls came back to their senses and noticed my presence, my dearest gave her usual exclamation of "Oh Brother!" and quickly changed the subject by asking me if I could be a dear and take the garbage out to the back.

So here I am in my clown garb sitting on the back stoop flanked by metal trashcans, a row of plastic recyclable bins full of bottles and papers, and a discarded broken baby carriage waiting for Goodwill. It is quiet and cool out here on the stoop and curiously enough the concrete step seems almost cushy. I did have time to think a bit and go over the events of the day that were troubling me, which is always good to do, to work things out, that is. I haven't heard my dearest say she loved me for the longest time and I suppose I shouldn't expect it now. I'm tired, I guess, it's been a long day and I feel as though I've been aimlessly pulling a heavy cart about for the longest time. What really gets my gall, though, is that I've never ever graduated from being just a nice guy to being Mr. Wonderful to my wife. Llord knows I've tried. I guess her first impression of me will be her last.

Across the alley, Ned is in his backyard watering his plants with a hose. Ned is a nice guy too. He has a golden retriever, Clapper, that he has had for sometime now and who always follows Ned around most lovingly and complaisantly while Ned does his chores. Dogs are like that; they really respect nice guys.

"What are you doing out there?" my dearest asks through the screen door.

"Oh, I'm just sitting a spell and getting some fresh air."

"Well, come on in. I told Jane you'd help with the cleanup."

"You know, I was thinking about getting a dog."

"A dog?! You have plenty of other things to do than to take care of a dog. Now come on in and help us cleanup this mess."

"Yes, my dear, I'll help you with the mess."