The Tears Of A Clown

I was born a clown, and in retrospect my parents were incredibly good sports about what must surely have been on a number of levels a shock and a disappointment. They’d been trying for years to have a child, and they accepted me immediately as a blessing and loved me unconditionally for what I was.

My father likes to tell the story of how on the day I was born he went right out and bought me my first pair of big red shoes. I took my first tentative steps in those shoes.

From the very beginning my lips were preternaturally large, and I have never required much in the way of embellishment beyond a basic application of lipstick for color and a bit of accenting around the outline. I have no memory of being outfitted with my rubber nose, but from the first time I can recall gazing at my reflection in a mirror it was a source of great pride and enduring pleasure.

One morning in early childhood I awoke to discover that overnight my chin and jowls had acquired an application of Vaseline and coffee grounds.

I was, I am told, an uncommonly stubborn and willful child, with a clear and unwavering self-image. I was as a result always allowed to choose my own clothing, and favored a ragged old porkpie hat, an oversized smock with red polka dots and shiny buttons, and baggy trousers covered with brightly colored patches. I was a very happy boy, and a happy clown.

Childhood is of course an awkward and confusing time in the life of a clown. By the time I was old enough to attend school I had grown used to the charmed attention of adults. All of those I had come in contact with had seemed both amused and enchanted to find themselves in the presence of a happy little clown. I suppose in hindsight there was a good deal of condescension in this response, but I loved the attention all the same. I craved and needed attention; there was nothing I could do about it. It was hard-wired in my brain. My self-esteem was entirely dependent on entertaining people and making them laugh.

My parents were an unfailingly compliant audience. They adored me, and I could induce heaving fits of laughter in them with little more than a wide-eyed grin or a startled spit-take at the breakfast table. To their credit they never pushed me. They didn’t have to. I was, however, an unusually sheltered child, and though I don’t believe this was ever a conscious decision on the part of my parents, I had had precious little interaction with other children by the time I started elementary school. As such I was utterly unprepared for the reactions I received from the other students. I understood neither the casual cruelty of children, nor the irrational fear that clowns seem to inspire in so many youngsters.

There were long, unhappy stretches where I got the shit kicked out of me every day I went to school. Bullies on the playground held me down and wiped my beard of coffee grounds from my face; they stole my ragged hat, stepped on my big red shoes, and tore the shiny buttons from my polka dot shirt.

In my teenage years I would stand alone and friendless in the darkened gymnasium at school dances. No girl would dance with me. Even balloons could not get me a date. I eventually taught myself a few simple magic tricks to try to impress my classmates, but it was too little, too late.

I ate too much candy and gained a great deal of weight.

I learned this difficult lesson: a clown is simply not equipped to handle the brutal truth.

By the time I dropped out of high school to join the circus my fate was sealed. I would be a sad-faced clown to the end of my days.