BUTTONS

(A Day in the Life of a Tech Apocalypse Party Clown)

A special holiday treat, some “fiction”!

(A short story idea I came up with years ago- that I've re written for you. Inspired to revisit thanks to my mentor’s brother.)

Dedicated to my brilliant and persevering clown friends in the Bay Area and beyond

Part One: Morning

The factory silence was absolute. No hum of machinery, no neighbor sounds through the concrete walls, just the particular quiet of a building that had forgotten its purpose..

Buttons woke to thin morning light cutting across her loft space, old dust particles hung in the quiet air like glitter. The light illuminating the traveling altar of her life: a well worn Sailor Moon manga from Japan her father brought home for her as a child, a Tibetan singing bowl gifted to her on her travels after college, glimmering glass trade beads in a small hand blown jar catching the morning light through the window. And her greatest treasure, her grandmother's tarnished hand mirror.

She lay still for a moment, running the day's calculations. Gig at 2pm in Presidio Heights. Transit time: 47 minutes if the Red Line was running clean. Return window: departure by 5:30pm latest, before the BART crowds shifted and the platform at 16th became something else entirely.

The velvet coat hung on its dedicated hook, deep purple worn to almost black at the elbows. She'd check the ribbons sewn into the lining before she left, hand-stitched reinforcements that kept the lapels crisp, that made the difference between "eccentric" and "homeless."

Her workspace occupied the corner with the best light: bubble solution in glass jars labeled by pH and glycerin ratio, testing notes in cramped handwriting tracking humidity effects. The balloon pump sat clean beside its case. And the brushes, ten fancy luxury quality makeup brushes in their original roll, each one treated like the professional instruments they were. Fifteen minutes every night cleaning them, keeping the bristles perfect. The clients never saw that part.

She sat up, slipped into old fuzzy bunny slippers to guard her feet from cold concrete, and began the transformation.

First: the face. She mixed the pale base with the precision of someone who understood undertones, coverage, the physics of pigment on skin. The red nose wasn't a foam ball, too crude, too obviously cheap. Hers was custom built up in latex, made by hand, a unique nose that caught light like a shiny gem. Big expressive lashes and a few well placed sparkles set off her imp like grin.

The costume came next. White collar starched stiff, she'd learned that trick with cornstarch and patience. The oversized jacket with its hidden pockets (balloon stash, backup solution, the small bottle of actual glycerin she'd tell them was "magic drops" if a kid asked). Checkerboard pants that she'd sewn from fabric remnants, each square aligned perfectly because the pattern *mattered*. Rich people could see crooked seams even if they couldn't name what was wrong.

Before the wig, she checked her phone: client confirmation, address in Pacific Heights (of course), special note about twins turning six. She pulled up the BART schedule. Red Line running normal. Return window good if she left on time.

She braided her long brown mousey hair, tucking the braids up into her wig cap.

The wig went on last, spilling over with beautifully colorful pastel pink curls that had cost her two weeks' food budget, three years ago, still immaculate because she treated it like her brushes. She looked in her grandmother's mirror and saw the transformation complete: a professional children's entertainer, whimsical and clean and expensive-looking.

Not a 32-year-old woman who lived in a former textile factory with a space heater and an illegal hot plate.

She packed her kit with the same precision: balloons sorted by color and size, pump, bubble wands (three backups), solution (the 3:1 ratio, best for today's fog forecast), and the small bottle of emergency reserve. The velvet coat went on last.

7:42am. Perfect timing.

Buttons locked her door, three deadbolts, the bottom one she'd installed herself, and headed down the concrete stairs into the morning, into the careful navigation of being no one in particular on her way to being magic.

Part Two: Transit

The morning streets were manageable. Buttons kept her pace steady, not hurried, not lingering. The velvet coat helped here; neighborhood folks recognized creative hustle when they saw it. A nod to the woman opening her corner store, another to the guy hauling salvaged copper wire. Professional courtesy between people working the margins.

Three blocks to 16th Street Station. The gradient started subtle: less trash, fewer tents, the buildings getting incrementally less tagged. She watched the shift happen like weather.

The BART entrance smelled like piss and something chemical, might as well be the scent of misery.. Always did.

Platform wasn't the worst yet, just the early commuters, people with actual jobs to get to, everyone maintaining that public transit agreement of strategic blindness. Buttons positioned herself near the platform edge but not too close, back to the tile wall, sightlines clear. She'd learned to see out of her peripheral vision after a few random close calls with problematic passengers.

The Red Line pulled in. She scanned the car through the doors before entering: half full, no immediate problems visible. She took a seat near the middle doors, close to an exit, not trapped.

Two stops in, the man got on at Civic Center.

Buttons clocked him immediately: that particular combination of twitchy energy and fixed attention that meant trouble brewing. Filthy clothes, talking to himself, scanning the car with eyes that weren't seeing what was actually there. The other passengers did the practiced freeze, don't make eye contact, don't exist, maybe he'll pick someone else.

The man's muttering got louder. Something about satellites and messages and people lying. His head snapped toward a woman with headphones. Never wear headphones on transit, Buttons thought..

The man said aloud, cutting through the trains loud mechanisms, "You said it. I HEARD you say it."

She hadn't said anything. Didn't matter.

"I heard you, you fucking…"

Buttons felt her shoulders tense under the velvet. The woman's face went pale. Two stops to Powell. The man was moving toward her now, voice rising.

Another passenger, young tech type, made the fatal mistake of saying "Hey man, calm down."

The man whirled. "CALM DOWN? You telling me to calm down? You're ALL,"

Powell Station. Doors opened.

Buttons moved fast but not panicked, staying in the tech guy's wake as he bolted. Half the car emptied. She felt awkwardlyjostled by people pushing behind her to get away from the man. His shouting followed them onto the platform but he didn't exit the train, it's doors closed, and as it pulled away, his voice was still audible through the windows as it disappeared into the tunnel.

Buttons' heart hammered. She checked her phone discretely: 8:24am. She'd have to catch the next train.

The tech guy was already gone, already running toward his day like nothing happened. Maybe for him, nothing had.

Buttons pulled the small alcohol wipe packet from her inner pocket, she carried a stash for exactly this. Carefully unbuttoned her jacket, reached under to swipe her armpits, the nervous sweat already cooling unpleasantly against her skin. The chemical sting was sharp, clean.

She spritzed a small bottle of florida water under her coat and breathe in its soothing scent and centered herself as she waited for the next train. She rebuttoned, then pulled out a folded tissue and *very* gently blotted her forehead, barely touching the makeup. Her fingers came away damp but the base looked intact.

Eight minutes. Next train.

The Red Line arrived. She got on, chose her position, kept her awareness up.

Montgomery, Embarcadero, the train filling with some financial district types.. radiating oblivious, obtuse confidence. By the time they reached Civic Center, Buttons was surrounded by people who’d probably never been chased down Howard Street by someone whose reality had shattered in ways they couldn’t control.

Civic Center Station. She got off, climbed back into daylight.

She caught the 1 California bus heading west. Fifteen minutes through the gradient: downtown giving way to Polk Gulch, then the climb up the hill into Pacific Heights proper.

The shift completed: clean sidewalks, trees in neat boxes, a coffee shop where a latte cost eleven dollars. . (And yes she knew it was delicious, and convenient for many, just maybe not *quite* 11 dollars delicious) The tension in her shoulders started to release, replaced by the different tension of the performance ahead.

She got off at Fillmore, checked her reflection in a shop window. The makeup held. The velvet coat looked intentional. She looked like someone who belonged here, on her way to entertain someone’s children with bubbles and magic.

Part Three: The Gig

The house wasn't a house, it was a statement about what happened when algorithmic trading met generational wealth. Three stories of white stone and glass perched above the street like it was surveying lesser properties. A luxury electric vehichle charged silently in the circular driveway. The landscaping alone probably cost more than Buttons paid in rent for a year. It really was beautiful though.

She rang the doorbell, actual chimes, not a buzzer.

A woman answered, mid-forties, yoga-toned, wearing casual clothes that cost what Buttons made in a month. "Oh, you must be the entertainer! Come in, come in. The kids are so excited."

She led her through a gorgeous foyer, past a living room that looked like a spread in an interior decor magazine, into a backyard that had been transformed into a party space. Balloon arches (professionally done, she recognized the meticulous work of a local colleague), a catering table with tiny perfect foods, and about fifteen children running in that specific frequency of pre-cake chaos.

"I'm Jennifer," she said. "The twins are Castor and Pollux, yes, like the mythology, my husband's a classics professor, the twins are the two in the matching blue shirts. You'll have an hour, and then we'll do cake. Is that enough time?”

Buttons smiled her professional smile. "Perfect. I'll set up right here if that works?"

"Great! Let me know if you need anything." She drifted back toward a cluster of other mothers.

Castor and Pollux. Of course they were, it really was quite precious. Buttons loved mythology as a kid too. Smiling at a unique opportunity for story weaving, Buttons set her kit down and began the show the way she always did: establishing presence. She pulled out the first balloon, began twisting it with deliberate slowness, letting the children notice and gather. One became three became eight became all of them, curiosity pulling them into orbit.

"You know what's funny about twins?" Buttons said, her voice pitched for the children but not baby-talk. She twisted the balloon into a sword shape, and handed it to the nearest child. "Every culture has stories about them. Special twins who do impossible things."

Castor, or maybe Pollux, the blue shirts were identical, pushed forward. "That's us! We're named after twins from space!"

"From Greece, actually," Buttons said, starting another balloon. "Castor and Pollux. Brothers who loved each other so much that when one died, the other one shared his immortality so they'd never be apart. Zeus put them in the sky as stars." She twisted the balloon into a simple star shape, handed it over. "Gemini. The twins."

A little girl in a dress that probably cost more than her coat spoke up: "I thought Romulus and Remus were the famous twins."

"Oh they're famous too, different twins, but same idea," Buttons said, pulling out her bubble wands now. "Romulus and Remus built Rome. Raised by wolves, which is totally bonkers for a founding myth." She caught herself. "I mean, really cool. But here's the thing, the Maya had hero twins too. Hunahpu and Xbalanque. They went to the underworld and played ball games with the lords of.. death."

The children were silent now, watching her mix the bubble solution with theatrical precision. Rushing to the part of the story that diffused the potentially existential scariness.. "The twins *tricked* the death lords, came back to life, and became the sun and the moon!" She dipped the large wand, pulled it through the air slowly. A bubble formed, massive and iridescent, floating above their upturned faces. "Light and dark, always moving, never catching each other but never really apart."

She blew a stream of smaller bubbles, let them cascade down. The children reached up, popping them with squeals.

"Why are there so many twin stories?" one of the Pollux-or-Castors asked.

Buttons crouched down to the kid's level, pulling out her balloons again. "Because twins are special in every part of the world! Some would say, they're even magic, probably. Two people who start out as one. It makes people wonder about duality, you know what that means?"

Head shakes.

"It means things that come in pairs. Light and dark. Life and death. Earth and sky. …Inside a bubble, and outside, or even inside again!"

She then blew her very favorite, most special bubble, a bubble within a bubble.

For the kids she called it the “Square bubble”, made famous by Tom Noddy.

For the grown up clients she called it the hyperdimensional “Tesseract” bubble.

They really liked that one.

Then she shifted gears, and began twisting colorful balloons again, more rapidly now, building something complex. "The hero twins always have to work together. One's usually brave, one's usually clever. One tricks, one fights. They balance each other."

She finished the balloon sculpture, two figures, intertwined. Handed it to the twins, who took it together.

"You two," she said quietly, just to them while the other children chased bubbles, "your names mean you're supposed to look out for each other. The original Castor and Pollux? Castor was mortal, Pollux was immortal. But Pollux loved his brother so much he chose to split his immortality, one day alive, one day dead, back and forth forever, so they'd always be together."

The kids looked at each other with that twin communication that happened without words.

"That's pretty cool," one of them said.

"It's the best story," Buttons said. "Better than anything else your parents' friends are going to tell you today."

She stood back up, pulled out the big bubble wand again, and created a bubble large enough that both twins could stand inside it for just a moment before it popped, together, laughing, covered in soap film that caught the afternoon light like they were already turning into constellations.

From across the yard, she could hear Jennifer talking to another mother: "I found her on GigLoop, isn't she great? So educational!"

Buttons smiled her professional smile and made another bubble.

The hour passed in a blur of bubbles and balloon animals and mythology lessons disguised as party entertainment. The cake came out, elaborate, professionally decorated, probably from that bakery in Noe Valley. The children sang. Buttons did her finale: a cascade of bubbles that caught the late afternoon sun like falling stars.

As she was packing up her kit, carefully coiling the bubble wands and sorting the remaining balloons by color, the twins approached her. The other children were being herded toward goody bags by their parents.

"Why are you called Buttons?" one of them asked.

Buttons paused, looked at them seriously. "You really want to know?"

They nodded.

She crouched down again, lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Buttons do things. You push a button, something happens, lights turn on, elevators move, games start. Buttons initiate action." She touched one of the buttons on her oversized jacket. "But they also hold things together. Keep your coat closed, keep your shirt from falling open. They're small but important."

The twins considered this with the gravity of six-year-olds processing something that felt true.

"I only tell people my name's real meaning if they understand magic," Buttons said. "And you two," she gestured between them, "you're named after stars who chose to stay together forever. You get it."

They grinned at her, that twin-synchronization smile, and then Jennifer was there with her wallet.

"That was absolutely wonderful," she said, pulling out bills. "The mythology was so educational, I mean, we're obviously familiar with the classics, but the Maya twins? I had no idea. You're so smart for a," she caught herself, laughed a little, "I just mean, that was really impressive."

She handed her two hundred and fifty dollars. Fifty more than quoted.

"Thank you," Buttons said, her professional smile firmly in place. *For a clown*, she'd almost said. *For someone we hired off an app to entertain our children.*

"Seriously, do you have a card? I'm going to recommend you to everyone. You were so enchanting too. I love your purple coat."

Buttons thanked her, and handed her one of her simple cards, just her GigLoop handle and a phone number, nothing identifying. "I appreciate that.”

"Well, you made their day. Thank you again!”

Buttons packed the last of her kit, and headed back through the beautiful foyer toward the street.

The afternoon sun hit her as she checked her phone: 5:38pm.

Awe Shit.

Eight minutes past her target departure. Notthe worst, nit the best. Punctuakity wasn’t just for clients. The light was already starting that late-afternoon shift. Her stomach growled, she'd worked through lunch, nothing since the protein bar at 7am. The tip money felt solid in her inner pocket. She could grab something at the Van Ness station, one of those sad pre-wrapped sandwiches, eat it on the train.

Or she could move fast, skip food, and hit her return window before the BART shift happened.

She started walking toward the station, pace quick. Her calves strained a bit but she kept briskly on. Three blocks. The gradient began reversing, nice to less nice, the careful landscaping giving way to normal city wear. Her stomach growled again.

Van Ness station. Down the stairs. She pulled out her Clipper card, tagged through, and saw the board: Red Line, 4 minutes.

The platform was fuller now. End-of-weekend crowd, people heading back from wherever people with disposable income spent their Saturdays. Still safe, still okay. But she could feel the time slipping, knew that two stops from now the energy would shift as different passengers boarded.

Four minutes. She could make it. Just had to stay alert, stay smart, and get home before the factory district went fully dark.

The two hundred fifty dollars in her pocket, minus transit, minus maybe that sandwich, would cover this week's food and a little extra for bubble solution. The glycerin was running low. She hated traveling with cash, it made her nervous about being mugged in some areas of town, but she was content to have funds.

The train pulled in. Buttons found her spot, positioned herself carefully, and began the journey back to being no one in particular.

Part Four: Return

The train rattled through the tunnel and Buttons watched the darkened window turn her reflection into a ghost, white face paint, pastel pink hair, velvet coat. A jester returning from the castle.

Castor and Pollux. She hoped they'd grow up kind. Hoped the mythology stuck, that they'd remember the part about Pollux choosing to share his immortality instead of keeping it all for himself. But kids raised in that much insulation, would they ever see the gradient people like herself crossed twice daily? Would they even know people like her existed outside of GigLoop profiles?

Duality. Light and dark, rich and poor, sane and fractured. The man from this morning, his paranoia about satellites and messages, how much longer before that wasn't delusion? The surveillance was real, the systems were tightening, the algorithms were watching. Maybe the man's only mistake was being early to the collapse, seeing it before it finished happening.

Wavy Gravy used to say clowns were safe. They could protest, could speak truth, move through spaces others couldn't because the costume was armor and permission; the plausible deniability of dismissal and humor woven together like patchwork all at once.

But sadly Buttons didn't feel safe anymore.

The tech-apocalypse, the gig economy, the impossible balancing act of being party entertainment for people who'd automated away the middle class, it was rough. And getting rougher. But clowns had always been there, hadn't they? Sacred fools, tricksters, the ones who held up mirrors and told uncomfortable truths in silly voices so people could laugh instead of riot. Court jesters who were the only ones allowed to mock the king. Heyoka who did everything backwards to show people their assumptions. Arlecchino starving in his patchwork, making people laugh at poverty so they wouldn't have to feel it.

It was a calling. Had been for thousands of years. Would be until there were no more humans left to need someone to make them laugh while the world burned.

Civic Center. She tensed automatically, but the car stayed calm. She hated the transit anxiety, but kept her poker face and awareness. 16th Street next.

The platform was fuller now, that evening energy starting to simmer, but she moved through it quick and clean. Up the stairs, into the industrial district's smoggy air mixed with coastal evening mist. Almost home.

The corner store's OPEN sign was still lit. Manny was inside, starting to close down for the night.

Buttons pushed through the door. "Hey man, still open?"

"For you? You know it. How was the gig?"

"It was good. Kids in Pacific Heights. Taught them about mythology, made bubbles, got a decent tip." She grabbed a protein bar and a fizzy water, elderflower, the fancy kind, a treat. Brought them to the counter.

Manny rang them up, then paused. "You eat any real lunch?"

"Not exactly."

Manny shook his head, moved to the hot food case. "These hot dogs and nachos, they're going to waste anyway if I don't give them to you. You want em?"

"Yeah? Thanks, man."

" 'Course, friend," Manny said simply, boxing up the food. "That bubble show you did for Gabriella's sixth birthday, for free? I remember you'd just started doing your clown thing, well - she's going to college next year. Just found out this week she got the school she wanted. Full scholarship. Engineering. She loves science, you helped me spark that fire for her when she was still small"

Buttons felt something catch in her chest. "Really? That's amazing."

"She worked hard. I worked hard keeping her in school instead of helping me here." Manny handed over the food, waved off the money Buttons tried to offer. "But she had people who believed in her. You were one of them. You made her feel special that day."

"She *is* special."

"So are you, friend. Enjoy the nachos. The peppers are still out just behind you there."

Buttons walked the last three blocks home with hot food and fizzy water and something that felt dangerously close to hope. Social mobility, it still existed, sometimes, if you worked hard enough and got lucky and had people who believed in you.

Inside the factory silence, she set down her kit and the food. The nachos were still warm, the gooey processed cheese not exactly the epitome of health, but delicious with jalapeños, and the salty hot dog exactly what her body needed. The fancy delicate elderberry fizzy water tasted like celebration. It reminded her of the "fairy wine" of Burning Man with her dear friends and their old performance art troupe.

Then the after work ritual: she noticed the ribbon inside her coat's left lapel had come loose being jostled off the BART. She got out her sewing kit, threaded the needle, and began mending with small, careful stitches.

An essential clown skill, Harlequin's patchwork, that's where the diamond pattern came from originally after all.. Arlecchino's costume of poverty, scraps sewn together into something that became iconic. The starving servant who became immortal through sheer persistence and clever craft.

Buttons finished the ribbon, hung the coat on its hook, and studied the elbows. The velvet was wearing thin, and would need patching soon too. She had some beautiful vintage fabric scraps saved, lovely charming pieces that would look intentional rather than desperate. Elbow patches done right could elevate the whole coat, making it even more distinctive.

She pulled the tip money from her inner pocket, counted it out. Fifty into the new coat fund, she'd been saving, slow but steady. Two hundred left for food, transit, supplies. Ramen for another week wasn't so bad. Not when she got to be magic. Not when kids like Gabriella went to college and parents like Jennifer, clueless as they were, still paid for someone to teach their children about mythology and twins who shared immortality.

At the sink, she carefully washed her face, the white paint swirling down the drain in little eddies of clouds. Then her brushes, each one treated with the same respect they deserved. Fifteen minutes of meditative cleaning, bristles perfect, laid out to dry.

She caught her reflection in the larger cracked vanity mirror. Just her face peered back at herself now, no paint, exhausted and real. She was tired but happy. In the corner of the mirror frame, tucked in carefully, a photo of her mentor, a unique clown and performer whose name she knew as Paradox. His wild hair, broad eccentric grin, and mercurial eyes had seen everything in this crazy world at least twice and still chose to make people laugh.

"Of course as a professional, I can show you all the best fun things, the techniques, the history I know, and how to cultivate flair; but it's life that's the best teacher", Paradox would say. "But you gotta pay attention to the lessons. The laughter in the sadness, and vica versa. That's the magic of how people relate to the clown."

Buttons smiled at the photo, blew it a gentle kiss of gratitude.

"Perfection is a process, not a state."

Another teacher once told her.

Outside, the factory district settled into its particular darkness. Inside, a clown cleaned her brushes and mended her coat and put money away for a future that might never come, because what else was there to do? The world was ending slowly, the gradient was getting steeper, the man on the BART was maybe right about the satellites.

But tomorrow there will be another gig. Another child who needed to learn that buttons hold things together, and that someone will always care enough to teach them magic is real.

She worked for an hour or so writing grant proposals, her dream clown workshop curriculum, and then her poems.

After this ritual, Buttons turned off the light and let the factory silence hold her while her phone let out a tiny notification bing, announcing she was booked for another gig.

It was enough.

For now, it was enough.

FIN