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It was the first time I had had a person sitting in one of my client chairs dressed in a clown suit, complete with a red ball on his nose. I wondered if someone had stolen his squawker or balloons.
“I’m Clarence the Clown, Mr. Tuff,” he said.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” I said, wondering if I really was. “If someone sent you for my birthday, he or she got the wrong date.”
“No,” said Clarence, “I need your help. I’m a retired insurance broker and I became a clown to entertain children in the hospital and at birthday parties, but a man comes to my appearances and spoils them by telling the kids I’m not a real clown, just an old man in a funny outfit.”
“Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“And who is he?”
“Oh, I know him: he’s a neighbour. His name is Cyril – we call him Cyril the Cynic. I never know when he’ll appear and ruin my act.”
I agreed to accompany him to a birthday party that day. Fortunately Clarence did not have an extra clown suit. As we entered the house, I stumbled and fell flat onto the floor. The children screamed with laughter.
“Good move,” whispered Clarence.
“Thanks,” I whispered back. I didn’t want to tell him that it was not deliberate – I am naturally clumsy.
Clarence was good: he joked and gave out balloons and small toys and a dozen or so chocolate bars, then we left for his next gig: the children’s ward at the hospital. As we departed the house, unfortunately before the delicious-looking candle-decorated cake was cut, a boy shouted: “Fall down again.”
I stayed on my feet as we entered the children’s ward, but Clarence didn’t need me: he kept the patients laughing and screaming … until a dour man entered and said loudly: “He’s not a real clown, kids, he’s a phony.” The children were puzzled.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Butt out, buddy,” and he pushed me so hard that I almost fell to the floor again. I suppose that legally he had assaulted me and that I was entitled to defend myself, but I didn’t want to brawl in front of the young patients; besides, I would probably lose a fight.
Clarence was twisting balloons skillfully into various animal shapes, while the intruder chased me around the ward. Some of the children were enjoying the balloon artistry, others the man’s pursuit of me … until he tripped and fell. As he got up, swearing, two male attendants seized him by the arms.
“What are you doing?” I asked again, “and why?”
“I hate clowns,” he snarled.
“Many of us hate tax collectors, but we don’t attack them or interfere with them at their work.”
“You don’t understand. My father was a carpenter, but what he really enjoyed was his second job … as a clown. He’d come home from work, change, and go out clowning. When he returned, mother would tell him the bad things we had done and, still wearing his clown outfit, he would spank us, brutally. I came to associate the clown suit with unfair beatings, so when my neighbour Clarence began going in and out in his clown suit, I lost it.”
I think I understood, but I left it for him and Clarence to work out.
As I departed, I stumbled again and fell flat. The children laughed with delight.
“Well done,” said Clarence. “As I told you, you’re a natural. Are you sure you won’t join me? We’d be a great team.”
I was sure. I left.
