birthday party

it's a warzone.

the screams come from everywhere all at once. the shrill cries make the hair on my arms stand on end. gooseflesh abounds. fires burn on waxy numbers, some of them can't be blown out.

there's crying, rage, laughter. there's crying rage, crying laughter, crying laughter with a side of rage.

the kids are everywhere.

"presents!"

i'm wearing clown makeup. there's a frown painted on my frown.

a mother hides in the bathroom with a cigarette. she's one of the lucky ones.

"hey kid check this out," i say while making a balloon turn into a balloon with a different shape. "it's a dog." it doesn't really look like a dog.

the kid's on his third piece of cake and can't give my balloon any time, he'd have to stop with the shoveling. once a fat kid slows that jackhammer down there's really no starting it back up. that's physics. physics for fat kids.

i toss the balloon at some walking headgear, the pop it makes is unheard in the roar of birthdayness.

the kid sits up and puts his fork down, his eyes glazed over. he's just eaten three pounds of frosting and the sugar is fucking with his head. throw up or throw down? he wants to party, i can tell from the tremors shake his face he's flying high on the cake, and that is an energy that must, must find it's way out. his eyes are what give him away though, he's going to throw up or shit his pants.

he keeps looking back and forth, hoping nobody sees him, that's how scared he is. whatever terrible accident that's about to happen could come forth at any time, and he's already prepping for damage control.

"you feel alright buddy?" i ask.

he snaps out of the haze and looks up at me. he shakes his head slow.

want me to make you a balloon bucket for you to yak in?

"you feel sick?"

he nods his head. if i asked him a simple math problem he'd have to stomp his foot to answer me. his teachers would be proud.

i look around for some options for my little hungry hippo. mom is still holed up in the toilet so that won't work. maybe outside? a bush or something. a bit rustic, but it'll have to do.

"follow me kid."

i take a step before i realize it's all over my shoes. three pieces of cake and a can of spaghetti-o's. and there's a smell of dairy in there.

the kid has some on the corners of his mouth. he's foul. and now he's smiling.

i want to make a balloon gun and shoot him in the face.

that's when the screaming comes in.

"happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear..."