Earth Wind
& Fire
—
Patricia Q. Bidar
LIZZIE CALLS IT A BIERGARTEN, but it’s really the deserted patio of the local hofbrau. There’s an Alpine meadow painted on the stucco wall. Lizzie is done up in a sundress and full makeup. It’s not the first time she has fled in this way. No, her husband Rick hasn’t gone off the rails. But he could! He might! All morning long, she has messaged him that she is only trying to save him. There has been no response.
Two different songs blare at once. The first is a ranchero tune from the open door to the kitchen. The other is Boogie Wonderland, the old Earth Wind & Fire tune, piped in over the restaurant loudspeaker. Lizzie winces.
“You’re gonna push me away for good this time!” Rick warned late last night after returning home with Lizzie from this very hofbrau. From an outside point of view, Rick is the reasonable one. Lizzie is unhinged. The loon. He knows people believe this. He lets it happen. To him, it’s funny.
The door between the deserted patio and the interior opens stutteringly, like someone with their hands full is managing it with their rear end. They are. That rear is padded and polka-dotted. A clown? Yes, a purple-wigged male clown, holding one full-to-the-rim rocks glass in each hand.
He chooses a table opposite the fountain. Sets the glasses down and licks his fingers and wrists. He is talking on his phone. “—not sure I can go back in.” Deep breath. Then, “You’re definitely paying me right after?”
He ends the call, sees Lizzie. “That kids’ birthday party inside? I bailed. I get… panicky.” His eyes, like the eyes of all clowns, contain misery. “Who even has a kids’ party in a place like th—"
A female police officer bursts through the door. The top of Lizzie’s head fizzes, her reptile brain activated. The cop is in full uniform, holstered gun and aviator sunglasses.
But the anxious clown goes right to the cop, maneuvering in such a way she won’t see the drinks he’s set down. “You came,” Clownie says. The two sit, confer in low voices. Their wedding bands catch the sun.
“Yes, they do want you,” the cop says, her hand on Clownie’s shoulder. “You don’t need me.”
“Can we do the beginning together, at least?” Clownie asks, and the cop presses her lips together.
“No way, honey! I’m on duty!”
“With you, I can start,” says Clownie. He knows she’ll say yes. It’s just like Rick with Lizzie.
“Okay, honey. Okay,” the cop says. She’s holding both of his wrists in one of hers; for a thrilling instant, Lizzie thinks Clownie is handcuffed.
“You’re wonderful together!” she calls over. The clown’s arm goes around his wife’s shoulders. The cop assesses her, gives a nod. Middle age has bestowed a presumed harmlessness upon Lizzie.
By day, this place really is a hofbrau. Fake turkey spinning in the front window. Inside, a yellow banner menu above white-hatted carvers. But at night, they sometimes have music and dancing in the bar area. Rick and Lizzie were here just last night. She came from work, still in her scrubs and crocs. She’d looked forward to corned beef. He hadn’t said it was disco night. He was dressed nice. See? The loon. In this case, the exhausted phlebotomist. And deeper inside Lizzie was the anxious child she had been. The in-charge, oldest kid of checked-out druggies.
Lizzie and Rick held their own among the boogying duos. Smiling, he signaled a move to a quiet corner. “This is fun!” she cried.
He dipped to speak into her ear. “Yeah, for sure. I actually wanted to tell you something. Kind of a crazy thing.”
Her heart sank. Was he going to chastise her for her appearance? He was the one who’d neglected to mention disco night.
“You know, my ex, Mimi?”
Crap.
He goes on to explain that Mimi is in a bad way. Like, seriously depressed out there in New York. Long story short, she feels that ingesting some of Rick’s feces will help her state of mind. It’s a real thing; Mimi’d attached an article about it. The issue was, the treatment is experimental. Her insurance won’t cover it, and out-of-pocket would be five grand.
The way Mimi had it figured, she knew firsthand how emotionally solid Rick was. At this last bit, Rick lifted his chin slightly. He was proud of having it all under control.
Unlike some people.
“So you’d… mail your poop?” Lizzie asked.
“Yeah, overnight.”
And your so-fabulous mental health molecules will help her?”
“In a smoothie or what-have-you. That’s the idea.”
“Ahh.”
Lizzie gripped tabletops as she made her way to the women’s room. The music was even louder in there. Boogie Wonderland. Weren’t the lyrics sort of sinister? Something about midnight creeping into men’s hearts and women being dealt a bad hand?
When she returned, Rick was standing beside the gas fireplace with a younger couple. He was slowly dropping his head to first one side then the other; a sure sign he was toasted.
“You wanna get out of here?” Lizzie managed. It was what they said in cute movies with normal people in them.
Rick tilted back from her. Laughed in his public way. Making her feel like a clown. “Gee, sweetie, I guess so!” At least she didn’t drink shit. At least she wasn’t putting hers in a Fedex bag and sending it to New York City.
The couple exchanged a glance. The man said, have a good night, kids.
Now a cheer comes from inside the hofbrau. Through the window, Lizzie sees Clownie and his wife performing to the happy shrieks of the kids. The Hustle. The Robot. The Bump, at which the cop whoops and goes pretend-flying. The Clown roars along with the kids. It’s beautiful.
Lizzie sniffs one of the Clown’s rocks glasses. Gin and tonic. She loses her hold and the glass shatters at the fountain’s hard edge. Most of the glass goes into the water.
What the hell is she supposed to do? Stay? Go? Take responsibility by entering the fountain, retrieving the pieces of glass? Then wring out her dress and go on home?
Or drive to Rick’s workplace right the fuck now? Because she wants her calm man within arms’ reach, fingerpoint-dancing like John Travolta. Lizzie is the way she is for a reason, and Rick is the only one who knows it. His ex must really be a wreck, to even ask for this. Lizzie gets that; she does.
In person, she can remind Rick they belong together. And what was a little poop between old friends? A very a small amount, he’d said.
She pushes her sleeves up above the elbow. She cannot see the submerged broken glass. She removes her shoes. She plunges her arm in and begins to reach around. The water is cold. A little woundedness, she thinks.
Lizzie pictures herself in a giant tie, yarn wig, and enormous pantaloons. She smiles. She can feel the twirl. The bump. The marvelous snap of handcuffs cinching her wrists. •
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Patricia Q. Bidar is a western writer and Port of Los Angeles native. She is the author of a collection of flash fiction, Pardon Me for Moonwalking (Unsolicited Press, 2025) and Wild Plums, a novelette (E:J, 2024). Patricia’s work has appeared in Waxwing, Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Pinch, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Another Chicago Magazine, and in the Wigleaf Top 50, and in anthologies including Flash Fiction America (Norton), Best Microfiction (Pelekinesis), and Best Small Fictions (Alternating Current).
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Two different songs blare at once. The first is a ranchero tune from the open door to the kitchen. The other is Boogie Wonderland, the old Earth Wind & Fire tune, piped in over the restaurant loudspeaker. Lizzie winces.
“You’re gonna push me away for good this time!” Rick warned late last night after returning home with Lizzie from this very hofbrau. From an outside point of view, Rick is the reasonable one. Lizzie is unhinged. The loon. He knows people believe this. He lets it happen. To him, it’s funny.
The door between the deserted patio and the interior opens stutteringly, like someone with their hands full is managing it with their rear end. They are. That rear is padded and polka-dotted. A clown? Yes, a purple-wigged male clown, holding one full-to-the-rim rocks glass in each hand.
He chooses a table opposite the fountain. Sets the glasses down and licks his fingers and wrists. He is talking on his phone. “—not sure I can go back in.” Deep breath. Then, “You’re definitely paying me right after?”
He ends the call, sees Lizzie. “That kids’ birthday party inside? I bailed. I get… panicky.” His eyes, like the eyes of all clowns, contain misery. “Who even has a kids’ party in a place like th—"
A female police officer bursts through the door. The top of Lizzie’s head fizzes, her reptile brain activated. The cop is in full uniform, holstered gun and aviator sunglasses.
But the anxious clown goes right to the cop, maneuvering in such a way she won’t see the drinks he’s set down. “You came,” Clownie says. The two sit, confer in low voices. Their wedding bands catch the sun.
“Yes, they do want you,” the cop says, her hand on Clownie’s shoulder. “You don’t need me.”
“Can we do the beginning together, at least?” Clownie asks, and the cop presses her lips together.
“No way, honey! I’m on duty!”
“With you, I can start,” says Clownie. He knows she’ll say yes. It’s just like Rick with Lizzie.
“Okay, honey. Okay,” the cop says. She’s holding both of his wrists in one of hers; for a thrilling instant, Lizzie thinks Clownie is handcuffed.
“You’re wonderful together!” she calls over. The clown’s arm goes around his wife’s shoulders. The cop assesses her, gives a nod. Middle age has bestowed a presumed harmlessness upon Lizzie.
By day, this place really is a hofbrau. Fake turkey spinning in the front window. Inside, a yellow banner menu above white-hatted carvers. But at night, they sometimes have music and dancing in the bar area. Rick and Lizzie were here just last night. She came from work, still in her scrubs and crocs. She’d looked forward to corned beef. He hadn’t said it was disco night. He was dressed nice. See? The loon. In this case, the exhausted phlebotomist. And deeper inside Lizzie was the anxious child she had been. The in-charge, oldest kid of checked-out druggies.
Lizzie and Rick held their own among the boogying duos. Smiling, he signaled a move to a quiet corner. “This is fun!” she cried.
He dipped to speak into her ear. “Yeah, for sure. I actually wanted to tell you something. Kind of a crazy thing.”
Her heart sank. Was he going to chastise her for her appearance? He was the one who’d neglected to mention disco night.
“You know, my ex, Mimi?”
Crap.
He goes on to explain that Mimi is in a bad way. Like, seriously depressed out there in New York. Long story short, she feels that ingesting some of Rick’s feces will help her state of mind. It’s a real thing; Mimi’d attached an article about it. The issue was, the treatment is experimental. Her insurance won’t cover it, and out-of-pocket would be five grand.
The way Mimi had it figured, she knew firsthand how emotionally solid Rick was. At this last bit, Rick lifted his chin slightly. He was proud of having it all under control.
Unlike some people.
“So you’d… mail your poop?” Lizzie asked.
“Yeah, overnight.”
And your so-fabulous mental health molecules will help her?”
“In a smoothie or what-have-you. That’s the idea.”
“Ahh.”
Lizzie gripped tabletops as she made her way to the women’s room. The music was even louder in there. Boogie Wonderland. Weren’t the lyrics sort of sinister? Something about midnight creeping into men’s hearts and women being dealt a bad hand?
When she returned, Rick was standing beside the gas fireplace with a younger couple. He was slowly dropping his head to first one side then the other; a sure sign he was toasted.
“You wanna get out of here?” Lizzie managed. It was what they said in cute movies with normal people in them.
Rick tilted back from her. Laughed in his public way. Making her feel like a clown. “Gee, sweetie, I guess so!” At least she didn’t drink shit. At least she wasn’t putting hers in a Fedex bag and sending it to New York City.
The couple exchanged a glance. The man said, have a good night, kids.
Now a cheer comes from inside the hofbrau. Through the window, Lizzie sees Clownie and his wife performing to the happy shrieks of the kids. The Hustle. The Robot. The Bump, at which the cop whoops and goes pretend-flying. The Clown roars along with the kids. It’s beautiful.
Lizzie sniffs one of the Clown’s rocks glasses. Gin and tonic. She loses her hold and the glass shatters at the fountain’s hard edge. Most of the glass goes into the water.
What the hell is she supposed to do? Stay? Go? Take responsibility by entering the fountain, retrieving the pieces of glass? Then wring out her dress and go on home?
Or drive to Rick’s workplace right the fuck now? Because she wants her calm man within arms’ reach, fingerpoint-dancing like John Travolta. Lizzie is the way she is for a reason, and Rick is the only one who knows it. His ex must really be a wreck, to even ask for this. Lizzie gets that; she does.
In person, she can remind Rick they belong together. And what was a little poop between old friends? A very a small amount, he’d said.
She pushes her sleeves up above the elbow. She cannot see the submerged broken glass. She removes her shoes. She plunges her arm in and begins to reach around. The water is cold. A little woundedness, she thinks.
Lizzie pictures herself in a giant tie, yarn wig, and enormous pantaloons. She smiles. She can feel the twirl. The bump. The marvelous snap of handcuffs cinching her wrists. •
Patricia Q. Bidar is a western writer and Port of Los Angeles native. She is the author of a collection of flash fiction, Pardon Me for Moonwalking (Unsolicited Press, 2025) and Wild Plums, a novelette (E:J, 2024). Patricia’s work has appeared in Waxwing, Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Pinch, Painted Bride Quarterly, and Another Chicago Magazine, and in the Wigleaf Top 50, and in anthologies including Flash Fiction America (Norton), Best Microfiction (Pelekinesis), and Best Small Fictions (Alternating Current).
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