Death of A
Clown
Charles Studebaker, also known as
Chuckles the Clown, master of his craft and peerless in the comic arts, sat applying
makeup to his old, worn-out face in the back of his large white trailer on a
sweltering Sunday afternoon in July. The trailer, attached to a rusty, heavily
battered pickup truck, was parked on an upscale street in front of a three-story
brick house with a green slate roof. Tied to the railing beside the steps leading
up to the house were three green balloons that bobbed and swayed gently in the
breeze. The house was owned by Stan and Mary Edelman, whose son Michael was
celebrating his seventh birthday that day. As he sat hunched over on his
rickety chair at his wooden desk, he looked at his reflection in a large,
wood-framed mirror that rested precariously against the trailer wall, spreading
white paint with a small gray sponge over his bloated, creviced face. The air
conditioner of the trailer was broken, and Charles cursed under his breath as
sweat poured profusely down his face and made his makeup run. Normally, this
would not have bothered him, but he was especially grumpy today. Three days
earlier, he had gone to see the doctor for a physical, and the doctor had given
him bad news. “Your heart is not well,” he had said. “You really ought to cut
back on drinking and smoking. You’re liable to have a heart attack.” Charles
had initially brushed this off, telling himself it was all nonsense, but deep
down he knew the doctor was right. It was only a matter of time...
Finally satisfied that he would
never get his makeup on to his liking, he gave up and looked at his painted face
much the way a man looks at an old favorite pair of pants that no longer fit
him—with resigned bitterness and self-reproach. He opened the door of a little
cupboard beneath the desk and pulled out a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels.
He removed the cap and drank heartily. Then he took out a pack of Pall Mall
cigarettes from his pant pocket, lit one and began to smoke. The digital clock
on the desk read twelve fifty eight. Two minutes till show time. He took
several more puffs on his cigarette, put it out in an amber ashtray, took
another swig from his bottle, closed it, put it back in the cupboard and,
standing with a grunt, stretched his back. He picked up his blue prop bag, opened
the side door of the trailer, and walked slowly up to the house, trying (mostly
successfully) to keep his balance and appear sober the whole way. When he
reached the porch and rang the doorbell, he breathed into his hand and took a
whiff to make sure his breath didn’t smell too bad, and, satisfied, waited. After
a moment, a young woman in her mid-to-late thirties answered the door. She was attractive,
with a heart-shaped face and dark brown hair that fell flatly to her shoulders.
She smiled warmly at him from behind a pair of thick, dark-rimmed glasses, and
spoke in a warm, lustrous voice. “You must be Chuckles!” she said. “I’m Mary.”
She held out a refined looking hand with nails painted the same shade of red as
the polka dots on her dress. Charles took it. “Charles,” he said gruffly.
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Well
come in!” said Mary, her dark, intelligent eyes gleaming. “The children are out
back.”
She
led him through the house, which, like most of the houses Charles visited, was
spacious, well decorated, and utterly lacking in character. The door leading to
the backyard was in the kitchen, and as he walked through the room his eyes
glanced over the counters. They were covered with the same snacks, beverages,
and large birthday cake as every other party he had ever been to. It had become
so routine for him that now the only difference he ever noticed was whether the
cake was chocolate or white.
Mary
opened the door and led Charles outside. The children were running about,
playing with balloons and streamers, digging in the dirt and chasing each other
around the yard. “Alright everyone!” Mary announced. “Take your seats! Chuckles
the Clown is here!”
When
he heard the sound of the collective gasps and shouts of the children as they
ran over to the seating area, a faint, prideful smile crept over his face. Then,
as he took his place before the rows of white folding chairs, which were
quickly filling up with children, his bearing transformed. He was no longer
Charles Studebaker—crotchety old man with a bitter wife and rundown house. He
was Chuckles the Clown—indefatigable, impenetrable mass of maniacal joy. He
waited until the children were seated to begin speaking. “Good afternoon, boys
and g...g...” He put his hands to his throat, and made out as if he were
choking. His eyes bulged, and his cheeks puffed out like two balloons. Then,
with a loud “bang!” he lunged forward, and a long pink strip that looked very
much like a tongue shot forth from his mouth and rolled on the ground toward
the audience. The children gasped. “Sorry boys and girls,” he said. “I got my
tongue stuck in my throat there for a second!” The children clapped their hands
and howled with laughter.
“Well,”
said Chuckles. “You know, I’ve been having all sorts of ailments recently. For
instance, I seem to have acquired a rash. As you may have noticed, my nose is
bright red. That, I assure you, is not just to look funny. And the rash isn’t
just on my nose, either. It’s all over my body! Sometimes the itch is so bad
I... Uh-oh! I feel an itching spell coming over me now!” He itched frenetically
at his sides, and as he did so, little rubber snakes flew out of his coat and
squiggled on the ground. Again, the children howled.
“OK,
children. OK. Before I begin, I have a confession to make to you.” The children
were silent and listened with eager anticipation. “I am not really a clown.” As
the children chortled at this pronouncement, Chuckles looked around at them as
if he were stunned they didn’t believe him. “You don’t believe me?” he said. “But
it’s the truth! I am not a clown at all! I am a poet.” This time the children
fell about with laughter. “I am a
poet! A poet of the highest order, if I don’t say so myself. What, you still
don’t believe me? Fine. I will prove it to you.” Here Chuckles went to his bag
of props and clandestinely pulled out a large inflated whoopee cushion and
placed it behind his back. He stood up tall and took on a mock-dignified air.
“I wrote this while stargazing on the beach one night in the south of France.
It is entitled, ‘The Feast.’” He began to recite in a British accent:
“Truth be told, there is not a soul
More dignified than mine.”
He squeezed the whoopee cushion,
causing uproarious laughter. “Wait!” he cried. “I’m not finished!” He
continued:
“And when I dine, I always dine with the best!
Sweet meats we eat, and cakes, and puddings galore!
And when the food is finished, I rise from my seat and declare...”
And
again he squeezed the whoopee cushion. The children were uproarious. “There,”
he said. “Didn’t I tell you I was a poet?” And he squeezed the whoopee cushion
yet again, this time contorting his face to form the most absurd expression
imaginable.
As
the children laughed, he bent down and replaced the whoopee cushion, and as he
stood up he resumed his maniacal state. “Oh no!” he shouted, bounding forward, dropping
his head and putting his hand to his face dramatically. “I have forgotten my
dwarf! My pet dwarf! How could I have forgotten him?” The children, at first
bemused, began to titter. “No, really! My pet dwarf Sonny is the key to the
show! Without him, all is lost! Oh, what should I do?” He shook his head with
his hand on his chin as if confounded. “Wait!” he said suddenly, lifting his
forefinger toward the sky. “I know what we can do! One of you could take his
place! After all, you are pretty small, aren’t you? Well let’s see. Who would
like to be my dwarf?”
Nearly
every child raised their hand, some bouncing up and down in their seats and
crying, “Ooh! Ooh! Me! Me!”
“Hmm,”
said Chuckles, crossing his arms and tapping his foot pensively. “This is a
hard choice. Which one of you is the birthday boy?”
A
pale little boy with sandy blond hair and freckles raised his hand. “That’s
me.”
“Ah!
Michael! Would you like to be my dwarf? Come on up! Let’s hear it for Michael!”
Michael
walked up and the children applauded. Chuckles made a sweeping gesture with his
hands in Michael’s direction to let the audience know that this was now
Michael’s show. He smiled down at Michael, putting his hand on his shoulder.
“Well,”
Chuckles began. “Since you’re my dwarf, you’ll need the proper accoutrements. I
have just the thing for you.” He shuffled over to his blue prop bag and pulled
out a blue felt triangular hat. “The dwarf’s special hat!” he declared, and moved
towards Michael. He laid the hat on Michael’s head with all the delicate
ceremony of the archbishop crowning a new pope. “Let’s see. Does it fit?” He
leaned back and put his hand to his chin in mock scrutiny. “It seems to need a
bit of adjustment. Let me try to force it down a bit further on your head. May
I?” Chuckles placed his hands on the ends of the hat and began to pull it down.
Then, a gruff, disgruntled voice was heard: “Leave me be! Can’t you see I fit
fine?” Chuckles looked up at the audience. “Who was that?” he said. “Did one of
you speak?” He was greeted with blank stares. “Well who could it have been
then?”
“It
was me, you overripe pear! The hat!” The children laughed. (Of course, it
wasn’t the hat. It was Chuckles using his skills as a ventriloquist.)
Chuckles
gasped and looked at the hat in mock befuddlement, his eyes wide and his mouth
agape. “But...but...you talk?”
“Of
course I do, you dunce. And I don’t appreciate you yanking at me when I fit
perfectly fine on top of this young man’s head.”
“I’m
sorry,” said Chuckles. “But do you need to be so rude?”
“Me, rude? Look who’s talking, cabbage brain!”
The
children were uproarious.
“I’m
so sorry boys and girls. It looks like we have a grumpy hat on our hands.”
“Grumpy?
Who are you calling grumpy you...mmph!” Chuckles grabbed the hat off of
Michael’s head, scrunched it up, and placed it back in the bag. “We’ll have to
find another hat,” he said, looking up from the bag to the audience. He
scrounged around in the bag, and looking up, shouted: “I’ve found it! Yes, this
will do nicely.” He pulled out of the bag a yellow banana hat. The children
laughed as he placed it on Michael’s head. “But why are you laughing,
children?” said Chuckles, turning to the audience. “It’s a perfectly reasonable
hat for a dwarf to wear!” He looked down at Michael, and, smiling at him
warmly, winked, as if to say: “Don’t you worry, my friend. You will have the
last laugh by the end of this show. I promise.”
Chuckles
wiped the sweat from his brow and spoke again to the audience. “Well children,
I have my dwarf. Now the magic can begin.” He reached into his coat and pulled
out a thin black wand with a white tip. “Do you know what this is, boys and
girls?” he said, holding the wand up for display. “It is a magic wand.” The
children leaned forward in their seats, goggle-eyed. “Of course, it only works
if it is wielded by someone with the magic touch. I, of course, have the magic
touch. Would you like to see if the birthday dwarf has the magic touch?”
Shouts
of “Yes” were heard from the audience, and Chuckles again turned to Michael.
“Well, Michael, here you are.” He handed the wand to Michael, who took the wand
delicately with an expression of modest delight and anticipation. As soon as it
was in Michael’s hand, the wand became flaccid and collapsed, and the children
laughed. Chuckles looked smilingly at Michael, who seemed somewhat embarrassed.
Chuckles put his hand on Michael’s shoulder. “No worries, my boy,” he said. “The
magic touch does not come naturally. It’s something we have to work for. I’m
sure your father would agree.” Michael smiled, and Chuckles looked up at
Michael’s father, who stood behind the last row of chairs, and winked at him.
“Here,” he said, turning again to Michael. “Hand me the wand.”
Michael
handed Chuckles the wand and it immediately sprang back to its original form.
There was tittering heard from the crowd. “Now, boys and girls,” Chuckles
began, “That’s not very nice of you to laugh at our birthday dwarf. Magic is a
difficult art to learn. In fact, even the greatest magicians have their
off-days. Which is why, before I begin the real show, I must undergo a test.”
He turned to Michael and bent down so as to whisper in his ear. “When I strike
you with the wand,” he whispered, “get down on all fours and bark like a dog.”
Michael nodded in agreement, and Chuckles stood back upright. “Boys and girls,
I will now attempt to perform a bit of dark magic. I am going to turn our
birthday dwarf here into a dog. Are you ready? Remember, this is a test! Here
we go! Alakazam!” He tapped the top of Michael’s head with the wand, and
Michael got down on all fours and began barking like a dog.
Some
of the children laughed, but above their laughter, a voice was heard.
“But
you told him to do that!” an astute little girl cried from the audience.
“When?”
asked Chuckles, feigning surprise. Michael, meanwhile remained on all fours.
“When
you whispered in his ear just now!”
“But
I didn’t whisper in his ear!”
“Yes
you did,” said another little boy in the audience.
“We all saw you!” cried another.
“Oh,
dear,” said Chuckles, placing the palm of his hand on his face, feigning
distress. “I must have forgotten to take my medicine this morning! I’ve
completely forgotten that I whispered into his ear. In fact, I’ve forgotten
everything! Children, tell me, who am I?”
The
children laughed. “You’re Chuckles the Clown!”
“I
am? My, my, what a pleasant surprise! And why am I here?”
“To
act stupid,” said a smart-aleck in the crowd.
“You’re
right!” said Chuckles. His eyes were wide and his mouth agape as if he were
experiencing profound joy and enlightenment. “I am!” Then he began doing twirls
and kicking his legs up high in a little dance, saying: “It’s good to be me!
It’s good to be me! It’s so very good to be silly-lee-lee!” The children, at
first bemused by the antics of Chuckles, finally caught on and began to laugh.
Chuckles halted his dance. “You may get up now,” he said to Michael, who stood
up. “Well,” Chuckles began, facing the audience. “Now that I know who I am and
why I am here, the show can truly begin. Are you ready?”
The
children responded with enthusiastic applause. “Alright boys and girls,” he
said, picking up his blue prop bag and displaying it. “I have something in my
bag here that is so astounding, so utterly outrageous, you won’t believe it is
real. But to make it come out, we have to tease it. And the only way to do that
is to sing a special song. The song has to be sung by everyone, and the louder
the better. It goes like this.” He put the bag down and began to sing, clapping
his hands in time.
Bingo bango, boom boom boom!
Let’s get the Wingo out of his room.
He’s a kind of zimbee, zimbee zam-zoom.
Bingo bango, boom boom boom!
“Shall we begin?” he asked when the
laughter of the children subsided. “Everyone sing loudly now! No slacking! Here
we go! And a-one, and a-two, and a...” At this moment Chuckles felt a great
pain in his chest, like someone had tightened a vice around his heart. He
ceased to breathe and fell to his knees, wincing and putting his hands to his
chest. He knew what was happening. He had been expecting this moment for some
time now. And yet, now that it had come, he couldn’t believe it. He found the
situation to be utterly ridiculous. What was most ridiculous was that he was in
front of an audience of children, and all of the children—not excepting a
single one—were laughing. His death, to them, was a joke. He asked himself, at
the instant before he fell over flat onto his stomach, if that was the case—if
his death was a joke—what did that say about his life? In his mind’s eye he saw
the thousand laughing faces of the children he had entertained the past four
decades. Not one of them had known anything of his sorrows, his fears, his
disappointments. And yet, why did he suspect that these children knew him
better than anyone else ever had?
Images flashed before his mind’s
eye—of his wife berating him for spending the money they were saving for a trip
to Cancun on ancient books; of his old friends from the circus—the nights they
had spent drinking and playing poker—particularly his friend Cheeky, a sad
little clown who was always hopelessly in love with some trapeze artist or
contortionist or whomever. “You’ll find the right woman some day,” he had
always told Cheeky to ease his sorrows, and he wondered if he ever had. But more
than anything else, what he saw were the faces of the children he had
entertained over his long career—laughing, jovial faces. Faces full of hope and
promise. He too had once had a face like that, he thought. And as he saw these
faces, it was as if the laughter of all those children from his past were being
recalled by the sound of the laughter he heard now, and whatever pain he was
feeling was drowned out by this laughter. He wanted to laugh himself. He wanted
to cry out his great love for every one of these children. But he could not,
and (this was his final thought) perhaps there was no need to. Perhaps all of
his love had already been expressed. He could hear it resonating in his
ears—the laughter of the love that still lived on, and would live on forever.
