The Fears of a Clown or Does This BM Look Funny to You?

Does This BM Look Funny to You?
The Fears of a Clown

Last week in the news there was a story about a recently held Brazilian congressional election which was won by a clown. Not clown in the punny easy politician joke sense, but an actual clown. His name is “Tiririca” which translates as Grumpy and he ran with the campaign slogan “it can’t get any worse”. He admitted freely that while he is not exactly sure what a congressman does, he would find out and tell the public how elected politicians actually spend their time. And he won. By a lot. From a pundit’s perspective the story seems almost too good to be true. “Yes We Can” vs. “I’m Supposed to What Now?” The more I thought about it the more it made sense. Sure, the red state/blue state CNN visuals are pretty, but when it comes down to it, most of our opinions probably combine into something closer to a shade of purple. Except when it comes to clowns. I can’t think of any other issue as divisive as clowns. No one is on the fence when it comes to clowns. You either love em or you hate them. In this age of governmental disillusion and apathy I think American politicians should pounce on this hot button topic and incorporate it into their party platforms.

Personally conducted research supports my hypothesis. In the fall of 1995 I found myself with a cum laude degree in Political Science and Criminal Justice and the very number of job opportunities you might expect to go along with such a degree. With my graduation savings draining quickly I was, well, let’s say, extremely motivated to find work. I was living with my parents who live about half a mile from a very popular well known pumpkin farm. Every fall the farm transforms itself into a Halloween festival. Pumpkins, haunted houses, rides, bouncy houses, face painting, $4cups of hot chocolate, and a barn stuffed full of various Halloween accoutrements for sale. Since my legal department has advised against me using its real name, I’ll just refer to it as Cloudy Hectares and let my three western suburban readers put two and two together. One day I saw a sign saying they were hiring seasonal help. Two days later, after bouncing a check to the public library for overdue book fees, I chewed and chewed and chewed until pride swallowed, I filled out an application.

I arrived for the interview and while pleased to realize I would easily land the gig couldn’t ignore the knot of failure tightening in my stomach. Is this why I stayed up until 3:00 am finishing my last research paper on East Germany and the military industrial complex? The owner began to review the farm’s employment policies and then, with a bright smile, told me I qualified for two important benefits. The first was that as a college graduate I was entitled to a higher pay grade. Furthermore, since I was over 21 I was qualified to hold positions that required the handling of money. Suck it 401K plan and health insurance, I’m in the pumpkin business now! No hauling wheelbarrows of gourds and petting zoo goat feed for this honor student. I’m handling money! I take it all back Mrs. Petersen. Even though you ate hard-boiled eggs all throughout the fourth grade and once sent a note home to my parents after you caught me drawing E.T. during math, I will give you this. You were right when you said that math counts. This meant I was sure to get assigned to a cushy indoor gig ringing up wax lip fangs, grainy fudge and $5 caramel apples in a climate controlled environment on cash registers stacked upon folksy hay bales.

The one condition of employment was straightforward. There was a strictly enforced dress code. And that dress code was costume. Every employee, regardless of assignment, age, seniority or sense of dignity had to report to work in a full Halloween costume of our choosing. So off to Target I went with my dwindling funds and faster dwindling self esteem. The costume choices seemed to reflect my current career choices. There was the gratuitous French maid uniform, the ‘sexy’ convict (complete with- wink wink- handcuffs) and a scant flouncey and feathery getup with the vague title “Olde Time Barkeep”. Was that Old West code for prostitute? After some consideration I settled on a clown suit. It was roomy, easy to layer and best of all, came with make-up that would allow me to scowl openly at the customers and my fate while appearing to be grinning from ear to ear. While my other classmates were spending their money accessorizing new suits with interview appropriate pearls and Clinique makeup, I was deciding between an oversized pacifier and squirting flower. I had no idea at the time what truly large large shoes I was about to step into.

I arrived on my first day in happy clown makeup. First impressions are everything after all. I was all set to take my place in the cider café when they told me what my assignment was going to be. Instead of wrapping pumpkin muffins and plastic swords I would be selling tickets for the Spinning Apples ride alone in what amounted to an outhouse sized shack with a stool, padlocked door and chain link fence for a window. It was a relief to know that all that time spent studying for my Soviet American Relations final was finally paying off.

My nearest coworkers were not even human. They were equine. And based on the glazed dead eye heroin chic ‘80’s supermodel/old hooker stare the riding ponies shared, I could tell we all felt the same about our opportunity for upward mobility at this company. However based on their generous breaks and hour long lunches, they clearly enjoyed the benefits of unionization. Norma Hay indeed.

Walking to my station on that first day it became immediately clear that my choice of costume held epic consequences and near royal authority. It took only took seconds for me to realize who in the crowd loved clowns and who amongst the crowd was terrified of clowns. The farm was like a highway with me at the center of a giant gaper’s delay. I was greeted with an odd welcome. A combination of parents clutching their children and turning away in a wild eyed panic mixed with a chorus of “Hey clown! Look! A clown! Clown can I take your picture?”

Bending to pose with a little boy he turned to me and asked “What’s your name?” Name? Um, I hadn’t thought about that. “Uh...” I stalled “…Beth?” “So are you a real clown? What can you do?” he pressed. Real clown? Wasn’t that an oxymoron like plastic glasses or jumbo shrimp? The manager said a costume was required but actual character development was not discussed. I was no Meryl Streep. I had no method. James Lipton was never gonna give me the blue note card interview. I had not developed a persona or insisted on wearing my clown costume around the house to help develop my character’s authenticity. And name? Did I need a clown name? What constituted a clown name? At that point my inner clown could only produce the most inappropriate of suggestions: Boozy the Clown, Stabby the Clown, Parolee the Clown.

The situation back in the Spinning Apple ticket outhouse wasn’t much better. Something about the combination of the tiny booth and anonymity of the clown makeup triggered a confessional nature in parents that I was thoroughly unprepared to manage. “You know how much this day has cost me?” demanded one father, as though we were at a “Guess Your Weight” booth at a carnival. “Twenty seven dollars for ONE pumpkin?” He thundered. “These aren’t even my kids….I’m here with my girlfriend and I worked 70 hours this week so I could take the day off to come here”. Who did he think I was? The farm’s owner? As if I had any clout, any juice whatsoever, I would chose to be folded up like an origami crane in a sweaty box next to a paddock of highly ‘regular’ ponies. Handing him his tickets and change I said “I received the highest grade ever given in my college’s Anglo-American Politics class. Happy Halloween”.

Lunch breaks became a nightmare. The employee break room was located on the opposite side of the farm and its time limit strictly enforced. However, it was nearly impossible to make it there in the allotted time while in costume. I was constantly surrounded by throngs of kids and camera wielding parents. No one seemed to understand or care that I was not being employed as an actual clown but merely a ticket taker. They demanded all sorts of favors. Posing for goofy pictures, commands to ‘do something funny’ (oh how my inner clown struggled with that one), even to act as disciplinarian. “Tell him he has to brush his teeth more” shouted one father from behind his camera lens. Another mother murmured through unmoving lips “just say she and her brother need to stop fighting so much”. Some parents even asked me to falsify knowledge of or alliance with various childhood deities. Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, even the Tooth Fairy. Who knew a clown’s authority and affiliations were so vast and connected? No wonder half of the crowd hated me. I was the reason they had four cavities at their last checkup and didn’t get a Green Machine for Christmas in 1982.

One customer even made a clumsy overture towards me asking what I wore underneath my clown costume. Really dude? Hitting on a caged clown? At a pumpkin patch? In broad daylight? With your wife and kids waiting behind you? Shouldn’t even one of these question marks be enough to require that you be escorted by Chris Hansen while on company property?

Another woman, although upfront and apologetic about her fear of clowns, asked me to pose for a picture with her son. While her husband readied the camera she melodramatically held her hands in front of face and turned her head as though merely looking me in the eyes could turn her to stone. That day I happened to be in sad face makeup and so right before he snapped the shutter I bobbed my head slightly thus ensuring the resulting picture would show a grinning toothless first grader with the menacing and blurred pale face of Cackles the Clown.

Never in my life had I wielded nor witnessed the power to instill simultaneous joy and fear in a crowd of people. I had to admit, it was at time intoxicating. I wondered if this was how movie stars, famous athletes, ruthless dictators, mobsters, alderman and Oprah felt. Eventually I discovered that the only way I would ever enjoy my 20 minute lunch and two allotted 10 minutes breaks would be if I ran. And it worked. Turns out, love them or hate them, nobody messes with a running clown.

Though on a different plane, Tiririca clearly knew this too and I suspect it may explain his successful congressional bid. Perhaps this is what America needs. Let’s do away with red states and blue states, elephants and donkeys. Let’s go confetti state. We’ll make it simple. No more getting bogged down in fiscal reform, healthcare debate and the role federal government should play in state’s rights. It’s about Bozo. You’re either Pro-zo or No-zo. Hold the debates above dunk tanks, get Tom Bergeron to moderate and watch the text votes rack up. Let’s see…it’s text B-L-A-G-O….