​Chapter 1: The Clown King of Atlanta

Lights, Laughter, and Lies

Atlanta.

Not the Atlanta they put on postcards, where outta-town niggas eat lemon pepper wings once and start callin’ it “the A” like they been here since Freaknik. The real Atlanta. The one where dreams get made and broken in the same damn week. Where every nigga got a hustle—some legal, some not. Where the police don’t come unless they tryna lock somebody up.

And me?

I was Clown Joe, the King of the Carnival.

Every weekend, the Atlanta State Fair lit up like the Fourth of July—ferris wheels spinnin’, roller coasters screamin’, smell of fried oreos and funnel cakes thick in the air. The kinda place where a broke family could come, spend they last twenty dollars, and forget they problems for a night.

And right in the middle of it all? Me.

"Ayyy, make some noise for Clown Joe!" The ringmaster's voice boomed through the speakers as the crowd gathered.

I was already in position, perched on top of a trampoline, painted up, suited up, energy on a hundred.

Then—BOOM.

I launched myself into the air, did a wild-ass backflip over a fire hoop, landed smooth as hell, then hit my clown dance—somethin’ I made up that had the kids goin’ crazy.

"OOOOHHH SHIT!" Some teenager yelled from the front row.

Laughter. Cheers. Phones up, recording me.

I was a legend in this bitch.

I made the crowd forget. Forget they bills, they stress, they bullshit. I made ‘em laugh—not just ‘cause I was funny, but because I was free. For those few hours every weekend, I wasn’t some broke-ass nigga from the hood. I was a star.

But when the lights went out and the crowd went home, real life was waitin’ for me.

Back at Home...

"Boy, you still out here making a clown of yoself?"

My pops stood in the doorway when I got home, arms crossed, eyes full of that same disappointed-ass stare he always gave me.

I sighed, pullin’ off my clown wig. "Damn, pops, I just walked in the door."

"You damn right. Walked in late," he muttered, shakin’ his head. "Actin’ a damn fool at that circus instead of gettin’ a real job. You damn near 23, Joe. What you tryna do with your life?"

I already knew where this was goin’. Every time we talked, it circled back to the same shit.

"Mom’s cool with helpin’ me out with rent," I shot back, knowing that’d piss him off more.

"A grown-ass man still takin’ money from his mama. Ain’t that some shit,  sorry lil nigga" he grumbled.

My mom, bless her heart, walked in just in time to stop the argument from goin’ nuclear.

"Leave the boy alone, David," she sighed, shufflin’ toward the kitchen. "He makin’ his way. He got a gift."

"A gift?" Pops laughed. "That ain't no damn gift. That’s some circus, rudolph shit. Ain’t nobody gettin’ famous wearin’ a red nose."

"Tell that to Ronald McDonald," I muttered.

He ain’t laugh. He never did.

Mom just shook her head and fixed me a plate, like she always did. No matter what...

I met Keisha the same day I got hired at the carnival.

She walked in like she owned the damn place—short afro, skin butter pecan’, eyes sharp. The type of girl who could sing circles around anybody but still had to hustle like the rest of us.

"You the new clown?" she smirked, arms crossed.

I wiped some white paint off my hands. "Yeah, what you do?"

She ain’t say nothin’. She just sang.

A high note. Clean, powerful, stretched out so long I swear time froze.

Everybody in the break tent went quiet. Even the security guard stopped mid-bite on his corndog.

By the time she finished, my dumb ass was sittin’ there, jaw on the floor.

"You gon’ catch flies sittin’ like that," she teased.

That was Keisha.

She had a voice that could’ve put her on TV, in studios, on tour—but instead, she was singin’ in a dusty-ass carnival tent, prayin’ somebody important walked in and gave a damn.

She had talent. Too much talent for the hood.

But talent don’t mean shit when you got no money, no connections, and a scammer-ass ex-boyfriend who stole everything from you.

That’s why she was here.

Same reason as me.

Hustlin’. Dreamin’. Drownin’....

Then there was Kirk.

No clown makeup. No bright lights. Just business.

Kirk was the kinda nigga who could sell you some matches in a burning house.  He ain’t finish school, but he had hustle. Ran his own little weed business, makin’ more money than all of us.

"Joe, you got talent," he told me one night, passin’ me a blunt. "But talent don’t mean shit if you ain't got money. You sittin’ here breakin’ your back for a circus check when you could be stackin’ for real."

"Man, I ain't tryna hustle like that," I told him, takin’ a hit. "I got a real shot. I’ma be big."

He laughed. Not in a mean way, just like he knew some shit I didn’t.

"Aight, bet," he shrugged. "But if you ever need some extra cash, you know where to find me."

I shoulda listened to him more.....

For a while, everything felt good.

Me, Keisha, and Kirk—unstoppable. Hustlin’, dreamin’, laughin’.

The carnival was home. A place where people cheered my name, where Keisha got to be a star for five minutes, where Kirk ran his lil’ side business without the feds on his ass.

We thought we had time.

We thought the fun would last.

But the hood don’t let you have dreams for free.

And I ain't know it yet, but my first hit of crack was right around the corner.