This is the genius of clowns, and for some reason only children fully understand it. An adult looks at a clown and sees a person in makeup. A child looks at a clown and sees something else entirely—a caricature, a cartoon, an invincible creation doing what that child always wanted to do: being silly and not being reprimanded, being reckless and not being injured, being naughty and not being punished. Not surprisingly, the child is right. The makeup, so central to the adults, is not an end unto itself; it’s a means of escape. It’s a two-way mirror: allowing you to see what’s deep inside of me, and allowing me to reflect what’s deep inside of you. I was not myself in the ring. I was you. I was everybody. I was a clown.
“Here he is, ladies and gentlemen, the world-famous fire-eater—Captain Blaaaze…”
At the moment, however, I am king of the roost, a sideshow barker with a straw hat and a sassy attitude. As I start my pitch, Henry comes stumbling into the center ring, flinging behind him a Superman-like cape and waving in front of him a fiery torch. He staggers up to the elephant tub, and just as I’m about to brag about his “amazing feats of fire consumption…,” he points to his stomach, groans in pain, and collapses onto the ground.
“Uh-oh, boys and girls! Captain Blaze can’t work tonight. Heeee’s got a stomachache. What are we going to do!? Is there a doctor in the house…?!?”
The words are barely out of my mouth before a screech comes from the back of the seats, the band converts to an upbeat romp, and Marty comes speeding into the ring with flaming red hair, a long lab coat, and a four-foot stethoscope. With his manic pace and agitated action he looks like an absentminded physician—Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. He is followed closely by Arpeggio, wearing mud boots, a nurse’s cap, and a giant white dress that sticks out two feet from his bust and butt with oversized foam vital parts. The Playboy Bunny meets Florence Nightingale.
“Boys and girls, please welcome…Dr. I. Killum and Nurse Anna Septic…”
Stopping briefly to accept their accolades (Anna just can’t resist applause; at one point she actually shoves aside the doctor to blow a kiss to her fans), the two professionals from Clown Town Hospital lift the patient off the ground and carry him to a two-piece stomach pump that is waiting in ring one. After a giant suction cup is attached to the fire-eater’s stomach, the procedure is ready to continue.
“Boys and girls, we need your help…, help us count to three…!”
Standing at the front of the pump, a giant wooden box about the size of a washing machine, the nurse grabs the handle and pushes toward the ground.
“One.”
With each push on the bar she sticks out her butt and the patient’s limbs go flailing.
“Two.”
Until her final hefty push when the crowd has joined the call.
“Three.”
At which point the doctor goes to the machine and reaches into its core.
“Doctor, Doctor, what was the problem…?”
He pulls out a giant gasoline can and squeezes his nose in disgust.
“Too much gas…!”
The audience groans as the pun settles in. The next patient staggers to the door.
Since opening day the stomach-pump gag seemed to epitomize all the internal rhythms of Clown Alley. At the beginning of the year the gag was a source of constant friction. Elmo had designed the routine to be what he called a “big bang” gag. “You go through a bunch of business, the object goes bang, and a big surprise pops out.” As he saw it, the gag starts gradually, with each bit getting progressively funnier, until the big surprise at the end. “There’s a rhythm to the gag,” he explained. “You have to have three or four bits so the audience understands the routine.” Jimmy, however, didn’t like rhythm gags; he liked sight comedy—quick visual bits with immediate payoff. Caught in the middle, the clowns didn’t much care about either theory. All we wanted was laughs, which the original gag wasn’t getting. We set out making changes. First, the announcer was moved closer to the action. Next, the number of patients was reduced. Finally, the ailments that afflicted the patients were piqued to make the jokes punchier. By the time we reached New York the gag had been nearly halved in time and more than doubled in laughs. The playpen had performed successful group therapy.
Other changes in the Alley were evident as well. The early tension over my presence had given way first to begrudging admission that I was actually doing the show every day and then by the summer to a surprising brand of acceptance. One incident in particular epitomized the new atmosphere. After autograph party one night in Queens, I stopped by the side of the tent to speak with Khris Allen, who had come to discuss where we were having dinner after the show. As we were speaking, a woman in blue jeans with two small children started badgering me. “Hey, clown!” she shouted from her seat. “Come speak with my children.” When I signaled that the second half was about to begin, her requests became more blunt. “What are you doing?” she blared. “Stop talking to that man and come talk with us.” When I didn’t respond she stood up and started yelling. “Hey, you sorry-ass clown. Come over here and talk to my kids. That’s what you’re paid for. Entertain us!” I left without turning her way.
Back in the Alley when I described this outburst, the other clowns decided to seek retribution. During the stomach pump that evening, Marty, who was playing the fat lady, went to the woman’s side during the act and started dousing her with popcorn. At first she thought it was funny, until the popcorn didn’t stop. One handful in her face. Two handfuls at her mouth. And when she raised her arm to protest, another handful down her blouse. “We clowns have to stick together,” he said when it was over, and this time his slogan had more meaning. The change was showing in our work.
Almost shouting now, I call toward ring one.
“Wait, Doctor, you’re not through yet…, here comes another patient…”
As soon as I speak, four-foot-seven-inch Jerry steps into the ring.
“It’s the circus short man…”
Pointing desperately at his stomach, Jerry staggers in the direction of the nurse and collapses in her arms.
“Looks like he’s got a stomachache, too, Doctor. What are we going to do…?”
The doctor leads the short man to the examining table as the nurse heads toward the pump.
“Now, boys and girls, we’re going to pump his stomach…Are you ready to count?”
The children wriggle with anticipation. I raise my arm in the air.
“One.”
This time the count begins much louder. The doctor encourages the roar.
“Two.”
The entire audience enters the game. The nurse is primping her hair.
“Three.”
Until all eyes inside the tent are looking directly at the machine.
“Doctor, Doctor, what was the problem…?”
Marty reaches into the pump and withdraws a metal pie plate piled high with shaving cream. The audience coos in expectation.
“Look at that, boys and girls.” The doctor sneaks up behind the short man—“Too…”—lifts the pie above his head—“much…”—and steadies his arm for the final blow—“SHORTCAKE!”
Splat.
As soon as the words come out of my mouth Marty takes the plate of cream and smashes it into Jerry’s clown face. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. The audience couldn’t be more thrilled. We clowns are working as well together as we have worked all year. Meanwhile the performers all around us are viciously tearing themselves apart.
By August I had a hard time remembering my early days on the show—the sense of excitement, the feeling of wonder, the idea that around every corner was an undiscovered dream. These impressions had been replaced with an almost oppressive feeling of familiarity with the circus, and with it a sense of isolation from the outside world. Various things marked this transition. At the start of the year the number of trucks and trailers on the show seemed too many to count; now on any highway in the middle of the night I could identify any vehicle by the shape of its taillights alone. At the beginning of the season the sheer volume of costumes was almost overwhelming; now I could pick up any spangle on the lot and identify whose costume it fell off of. On opening day I carried a watch and nervously counted the minutes between acts; now I no longer looked at the time but listened to the music instead. More than merely joining the circus, I had completely melted into the show.