Clown School

“A woman’s worth is no greater than her ambitions,” said Benjamin Farlays. “I hope we can come to an equitable agreement, miss…”

“Pape,” said Julia.

“Yes, miss Pape. Here at the International Clown School for Women, we have a very particular way of doing things, and I would appreciate it if you could acclimate to the program instead of attempting to adjust us to your…oeuvre.”

“Why are all the teachers here male?”

“What? You were asking a question? What did you ask?”

“I said, why are all the teachers here men, if this is a clown school for ‘women’?”

“Well, that’s a good question. And I’m glad you’ve asked. It’s not every day that a clown gets to drop knowledge on someone. You see…there is a certain je ne sais quoi that a male clown has. The way he is able to totally make a fool of himself with abandon. Not allowing anything to slip, except his feet – or maybe his head. Not allowing anyone to see his backside more than three times per show. You understand me, don’t you? A man was born to be a clown. It’s in his blood.”

“Women don’t make good clowns?”

“Look at it this way. When was the last time you looked at a woman and said: Get out of here, clown?”

“Never, really.”

“And men?”

“Quite often.”

“You see? That’s the issue that confronts the modern clown. The pure anatomy of imbecility and the pleasure of ignorance can only be harnessed using ample amounts of testosterone, thickness of skull, and thinness of instinct. A man’s life is being a clown. A man is designed for it. In many instances, being a clown is a man’s only ambition. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand. But what about men who are great leaders and captains of industry?”

“Clowns.”

“Great doctors?”

“Clowns.”

“Sportsmen and pugilists?”

“More clowns.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes, it can be quite the conundrum. Every man coming of age, no matter his other inclinations, has one overarching question to ask: Will my big clown nose be placed on my face, my fingers, my feet, or my tailbone? What will the final melody of my clown horn symphony be?”

“What about handstands? That’s got to be a big executive decision. How to fall in the most humorous way?”

“Exactly.”

“Why, exactly, have you called me to your office, Dear Provost Clown?”

“Yes, there was something that came up during your finals this past quarter and I thought that I should bring it up to you to reinforce and solidify your ambitions as a clown. May I enumerate the violations?”

“Yes, you may, Dear Provost Clown.”

“Excellent. Number one. Knowing how to read. Is that a thing with you?”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, report has it that you have been seen recently, maybe during some stupor, holding a cylindrical object…”

“Dear provost clown, don’t you mean rectangular?”

“What?”

“Rectangular, Dear Provost Clown. Books are rectangular.”

“So, you do know what a book is?”

“Well, the clown college has the largest library in the province, of course.”

“Correct, very correct. Or so I’ve heard. I was meaning to visit it eventually, just so that I could be reminded not to…enter the doors.”

“You’re a stronger man than I am.”

“Yes, yes, that’s the point. And second, there seems to be a lack of running into things…”

“What?”

“You know. Running into things. Running into a screen or glass door. Running into other students. Falling off ledges and into the lake. A clown can only remain intact for so long. And if that weren’t already the most insurmountable of absurdities.”

“Yes, yes, provost. What is it?”

“Gratitude.”

“Grati-what? What’s that?”

“You know what I’m saying, young lady. As if I had to elongate and remunerate the facts for all to see. In the Ten Commandments of Clowning, what’s the number one commandment?”

“The scourge of gratitude?”

“Exactly and…you wouldn’t have happened to have read that in a book, would you? You’re already skating on thin ice.”

“That would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?”

“Spoken like the leading man you could someday be.”

“A curtsy for you.”

“No courtesy. That’s linked to the scourge of gratitude, you see.”

“Yes, such a scourge. It must be done away with. If only I had the strength.”

“It is not a clown’s place to be strong. Takes too much…”

“Strength?”

“Brains is the word I was looking for, but you’re getting better. Anyway, the scourge of gratitude is something that cannot be tolerated within these walls. Where are the pie-throwing contests? The ‘nuk-nuks’ and the ‘why-I-ought-as’?”

“I was saving that for my final dissertation.”

“Naturally, a clown would think that. Would hope that you will finally come to your senses. But I…I don’t know.”

“A clown’s biggest asset is the hardness of his head.”

“Yes, this is true. But…but try not to be too proud of your accomplishments or this school. For healthy, patriotic pride is but a stone’s throw from gratitude, and I don’t want the student body to be infected…”

“With rabies?”

“Good one. Good one. But more on the scourge of gratitude. Repeat after me: I am grateful…”

“I am grateful…”

“For not being grateful for anything…”

“For not being…grateful for anything.”

“Great. The more you say it, the more you will feel it in your bones. Books are a fool’s errand.”

“But aren’t clowns also fools?”

“A true clown would think that. At least my top-notch clown paranoia says that someone pretending to be a clown would want people to think that she thought that. Though she may not on all occasions.”

“Would this be one such occasion?”

“It all depends.”

“Dear Provost Clown, I admit it. I am a sinner. I’ve read the books. I have expressed gratitude.”

“Remorse is a fool’s errand.”

“But there isn’t much difference between a fool and a clown.”

“A clown has a degree and a fool has a certificate. We are worlds apart.”

“Such is how things are.”