Everybody Hates Clowns

Claude shook a packet of sugar into the paper cup and swirled the wooden stick that always reminded him of a tiny tongue depressor. A large hairy hand thrust into his periphery. He looked up to find the corresponding face. A man with tousled dark hair, bushy mustache, and full beard grinned at him.

“Brad, rodeo clown.”

Claude looked down at the palm still waiting to be acknowledged and resisted the urge to use a hand buzzer as a gag. No, this was not the place. Instead, he grabbed the furry appendage. “Claude, circus clown.”

“Nice to meet ya. Haven't seen you around here before. First time?” Brad had a slight drawl, very much what one would expect from a rodeo clown.

Claude nodded.

“Are you currently workin'? I'm in the off-season.” He pointed to his messy assemblage of facial hair and emitted a chuckle.

“I'm taking a break,” Claude replied levelly.

Brad nodded, his face suddenly serious. “Yeah, I don't know how some of you guys do it. I would kill myself without a few months off. The rodeo is brutal, body and mind.” He paused then added, “Man, I knew not everybody liked clowns, but the abuse is a lot. But I guess you know that cuz you're here.”

Claude nodded again before moving toward the circle of chairs in the center of the room. He doubted anyone would play a seat-pulling gag, but couldn't be sure; best to leave an empty seat on each side, just in case. However, his buffer on one side was taken by Brad and on the other by a large man with a booming voice who seemed to know everyone in the room.

Brad nudged his arm. “That's Benny, aka Bubbles, the facilitator. Circus clown, retired.”

Brad looked like he was going to say something else, but Benny cleared his throat and spoke. “Welcome, everyone. Take a seat and we'll start introductions. Really good turnout.”

A round man sitting across the circle wearing what looked like pajamas blurted, “Yeah, everybody hates clowns.”

There were a few chuckles before Benny interjected, “Now now, that's not true. It's just a few troubled souls that make it tough out there. Now, who wants to start us off?”

As a lanky man a few chairs down stood, Brad leaned toward Claude and whispered, “Everybody does hate clowns. I don't care what Benny says.”

~~~~~

Claude had always wanted to be a clown. When asked why, he had said he'd wanted to make people laugh. At school, while his classmates were swapping school lunches, he was taking requests for balloon animals. He had mastered giraffe and elephant by the time he was ten years old. Eventually parents and teachers alike complained about the presence of the squeaky likenesses – the balloons were disruptive, from being squished in a way that emitted a high-pitched noise, to being thrown around the room from child to child like a hot potato.

His own parents had indulged his interest in clowns, thinking it was a phase he'd grow out of, like dinosaurs or action figures. They had even helped him put together his clown costume for Halloween each year and enrolled him in summer clown camps. However, by the time Claude turned thirteen, they had grown concerned. Most kids his age were interested in sports, music, something besides clowns. The psychiatrist his parents enlisted had basically shrugged and said that there was nothing medically wrong with Claude. He just really liked clowns.

When it came time for college, Claude was told he could go to clown school over the summer, but needed something “practical” to fall back on. He agreed to attend a four-year college, but insisted on majoring in drama. His parents threw up their hands and resigned themselves to their son's chosen vocation.

After graduation, Claude secured a job at a small company that provided entertainment for special occasions. Also on the roster was a magician named Merlin, real name Bob, who would wheeze through parlor tricks before spending the rest of the event chain smoking behind the company van. Claude had tried to make friends with Bob, but Bob wouldn't even make eye contact, muttering, “I hate goddamn clowns. Nothing personal. There's just something about clowns.”

As Claude did more clowning in the real world, he found a lot of people didn't like clowns. There was always at least one crying kid when he performed, and the parents always looked at him like he had strangled their child. The older kids were even worse.

“Claude the Clown, that's a stupid name,” spat one obstinate pre-teen.

“What would be a better name?” Claude had asked, in his best goofy clown voice.

The kid had shrugged. “I dunno, Bozo or something.”

“Bozo is taken. Have you ever met another Claude the Clown?” He tried his best not to sound defensive. But he had always thought Claude the Clown was a great clown name.

“No, and there's a reason for that.” The pre-teen had launched an eye-roll before stomping off.

Claude had been able to shrug off the crying children, but his upbeat temperament wavered when he encountered those who actually hated him. He'd been pepper sprayed on more than one occasion. Once, he had been heckled by teens, shrieked at by a terrified older lady, and had a cup of soda thrown on his clean clown uniform by an enormous He-Man type. At least the crowd had laughed.

He arrived to the audition for his dream job at the Worldwide Spectacle Circus more nervous than he had been for anything in his entire life. His hands were so sweaty they stuck to the inside of his clean white gloves. At the conclusion of Claude's performance, the ringmaster quietly puffed on a cigar before putting it out on the sole of his worn black boot. “You'll do,” he said, standing with a grunt and leaving the auditorium.

Claude had expected his fellow circus clowns to be like the enthusiastic compatriots at clown camp. Instead, they were a scruffy bunch of apathetic misfits who didn't seem to care as much about clowning as they did about drinking and playing cards. Over five years with the circus, he worked with eight other clowns that came and went, all male. Despite the many female clowns he'd trained with over the years, he had yet to actually work with one. When he asked one clown where he had trained, the man snickered; when he realized Claude was serious, he bent over laughing so hard his face turned as red as his nose. It was the first time Claude had made anyone laugh in a while. Another clown lasted only a week before getting so drunk before a show that he was left to sleep it off inside the clown car. Most, however, were professionals at work, albeit completely uninterested in clowning the rest of the time. He didn't understand the unspoken shame his colleagues seemed to experience. To them it was just a job, like delivering pizzas. To him, it was as much a vocation as any other.

During his tenure, other performers became long-term staples; a magician, a juggler, a few acrobats. But none of them became his friends. At first, he had joined the others to drink and play cards after the show. But he found that he didn't much like cards or drinking and didn't have much to talk about with the others. The men wanted to talk about women. The women called the men pigs. And honestly, the men were pigs; he didn't know why the women even put up with it. Any time Claude brought up clowning, or the circus, he was either ignored or brushed off entirely. Eventually they stopped inviting him.

Claude poured himself into his performances, trying to connect with at least one audience member each time, whether it was a custom-made balloon animal or a playful squirt in the face from his lapel. He thought most people found it enjoyable, until the ringmaster came knocking on his trailer one Saturday afternoon.

“Hey, Claude, we need to talk.”

Claude put down the cotton ball he had been using to remove his makeup and gestured to his small bed, the only place there was to sit in the cramped quarters.

“Is there something wrong?” He asked just to say something. Of course there was something wrong. People didn't just say they needed to talk to discuss the weather.

The ringmaster expelled a deep sigh, like he was smoking an imaginary cigar. “Look, the thing is...You're a good clown. Anyone can tell you love what you do. But you're a little...intense.”

Intense? What did that even mean? Clowning was his craft. Would you call a professional basketball player intense? What about a first chair violinist? Claude kept his words to himself and waited for the ringmaster to continue.

“I didn't see the harm in it. But we've been getting some complaints.”

Claude looked up so quickly his neck let out a crack. The ringmaster put up a hand and Claude swallowed the words coming up in his throat like bile.

“I know you don't mean any harm. But every time someone complains, I have to put it in a file. Every performer has a complaint from some uppity grandma or whatever, and I let those slide. But Claude...” He paused and looked down at his rough hands. “Claude, you have twenty complaints. This year.” He paused again to let the information sink in.

“It's not just uppity grandmas. People are saying you're creepy. One lady actually called the next day to say that both she and her kid had nightmares. It's a problem.”

Claude's voice was soft, the anger beneath masked by shame and confusion. “A problem?”

The ringmaster sighed. “Take some time off, Claude. Do something that doesn't involve being a clown. The boss says six months. Come see me then and we'll see what we can do.” The ringmaster stood.

“But I'm a clown, I don't know how to do anything else.”

The ringmaster turned and smiled sadly. “That's the problem, Claude.” He was halfway out the door before he added, “You have until showtime tomorrow to move on.”

Claude stared at his lap and didn't look up until he heard the door shut. He stood and reached for the cotton ball to remove the rest of his makeup before the stream of tears pushed the gunk into his eyes.

~~~~~

Claude had been living with his parents for several weeks when he took the train into the city. He still liked to venture out in public to study facial expressions and mannerisms. He used to do it as a sort of clown homework, and it still gave him comfort. He wandered through the park, paying attention to who hurried and who meandered. Near one of the stone fountains, he noticed a small crowd. Probably a street performer of some kind. Curious as to what had notoriously fast walkers so transfixed, Claude infiltrated the throng and looked to where their collective gaze rested. A small woman in clown makeup gesticulated dramatically. No, not a traditional clown; her neck was plainly visible above the striped v-neck shirt. A mime. And apparently a very good one to garner that kind of crowd. This was not find-your-way-out-of-a-box miming. This was I'm-going-to-talk-about-complex-social-issues-and-also-make-you-laugh-miming. Captivated, he bore witness to the finest bit of miming he had ever seen. Her suitcase was jammed with dollar bills from other appreciative bystanders by the time she finished. He studied her as the crowd dispersed and she pulled on a hooded sweatshirt.

She swiveled toward him. “You're a clown, aren't you?” She was smiling normally, but still looked goofy through her makeup.

“Yeah, how did you know?”

“I could tell by the way you were studying people. I could tell by the way you were studying me.”

You were mesmerizing, he thought. “Oh, I see,” he replied.

She flung out a white-gloved hand. “Mimi. Mime. And lesbian. I always introduce myself that way because some guys get the wrong idea. Because I'm so friendly, you know. Too friendly, according to my girlfriend. Anyway, who are you?”

“Claude,” he replied softly. “Claude the Clown.”

“Claude the Clown, snappy, I like it,” she snapped her fingers soundlessly. “And yes, before you ask, Mimi is my real name and no, I didn't become a mime because it's close to Mimi. That would be dumb. Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I gotta say, Claude the Clown, you look pretty miserable. Nothing worse than a sad clown. Come with me, if we hurry we can get there in time to grab coffee.”

And that's how Claude ended up in a church basement stirring sugar into lukewarm coffee at a Clown Care meeting. A chorus of “MIMIIII!” greeted them as they entered. She gave a bow and then a curtsy before she and the tattered suitcase were consumed by a swarm of chattering admirers. She was the only woman. He watched closely. The guys weren't flirting with her; they seemed to regard her as a sister.

One man shouted, “Hey, have to kick anyone in the nuts?”

She grinned, “Not today.”

And so Claude was shut out of Mimi's orbit before he could even be introduced to anyone else. What was Mimi even doing there? From what he had seen, everyone loved Mimi.

~~~~

As Claude rose after the meeting, Brad placed a hand on his arm. “Hey, a bunch of us are going for drinks. Low key, just hangin'. What do you think?”

Claude thought for a moment. He knew he was going to say no, but didn't want to be rude. “Not tonight. Thanks for the invite though.”

Brad nodded. “If you change your mind we'll be at O'Malley's. Left out the door and three blocks down.”

Claude nodded back and smiled politely. Brad disappeared into the herd exiting the room. Claude approached Mimi, who beamed at him.

“Hey Claude, what did you think of the meeting? It's cool that you didn't speak, most first-timers don't, but you'll find that people are pretty supportive here.”

“Uh, it was good.” He looked at his feet. He did feel like it was a supportive space. The stories were similar to his – passionate clowns being treated like freaks rather than gifted performers. He was relieved that it wasn't just him.

“What's on your mind, Claude? You're shuffling around and making me nervous.” She launched several abandoned coffee cups into the trash.

“Mimi, why are you here?” Claude blurted.

“What do you mean, why am I here?”

“I saw you at the park. And here. Everyone loves you. Why do you need a support group? It seems like being a mime is working out pretty well for you.”

She pursed her lips, opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. “Listen, that was just today. I have bad days, everybody does. I've wrung milkshakes out of my shirt with the best of 'em. I've been trailed through the city by creepy dudes, harassed, you name it. Being a woman is its own shit. So don't assume you know.” She paused. “But we're not all here because we're miserable. We're here because we're clowns. Some people come because they feel lost. But I'm here for the community. I love Cassandra, my girlfriend. She's super supportive. But Cas will never really understand what I do. Any time I go to a party or something I have to talk about other shit. Nobody wants to hear about clowning. Nobody understands what it's like to be a clown except another clown. Here,” she gestured to the sparse room around them, “I don't have to worry about that. Sometimes it's nice to just be around other people who understand. Ya know?”

He nodded with fervor. All those times he tried to fit in with a group, even at the circus, nobody ever wanted to hear about clowning. He had felt like he was hiding a piece of himself. “Yes, it's lonely sometimes,” were the words he mustered.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “It can be, but you've got family here. Don't forget that. I gotta go. Cas made lasagna and it is the bomb, best fucking thing you'll ever eat, swear to God. See you around, Claude the Clown.”

With that, he threw his own cup into the trash and exited into the beginning of a summer sunset. The air was still warm. The circus would be in full swing right now. He still had time to decide if he'd return. In the meantime, he decided to stroll back to the park and find a bench. He observed walkers trying to contain wayward dogs, and various configurations of families and couples. It was possible that all or most of these people hated clowns. People hated a lot of things.

Claude looked around one last time before making his way back onto the city streets until he stood outside O'Malley's Pub, watching the table of off-the-clock clowns through the window. One man was gesticulating wildly. The guy next to him was doubled over in laughter. Brad glanced to the side, saw Claude through the window, and motioned vigorously for him to come inside. Claude took a deep breath and walked through the large oak door. Music played low in the background, some kind of classic rock, and the sounds of laughter and conversation swirled around him.

“Hey Claude!” Brad called, motioning once again toward the table. “We've got plenty of room. Everybody scooch. Claude, come on over.”

Claude approached the table, where Brad introduced him to the others. It was true that a lot of people hated clowns, but not everybody. He happened to know a group of people who loved clowns. And he was one of them now.