Clown School

Part Two

The following paragraphs are from a book that I’m writing. You can read Part One here. Please keep in mind that, as with any work in progress, there’s an excellent chance that the following text will be modified or omitted from the final book.

Chapter Two -  My Birthday Clown Interview

Here’s the thing about being broke - not only does it eliminate most options from your life that the majority of non-broke people find available if not abundant - things like transportation, an evening out with friends, a warm meal consisting of something other than rice and canned beans or ramen noodles and hot dogs (the combination of ingredients here can be mixed and matched any number of ways, but all come out tasting surprisingly similar.), but it also ignites and fuels a sense of desperation to acquire money. Now let’s face it, this desperation isn’t necessarily a bad thing, as long as it eventually leads down the right road and doesn’t lead one to even more poverty, misery, or…worse. In the summer of my 24th year, I learned exactly how desperate I could get and just how far down that dark road I could travel. 

The classified ad stated $15 an hour which seemed like a good hourly wage to me at the time. The title of the ad, JoJo the Clown, for a number of reasons, didn’t bother me too much. Not that I felt that my life to that point had led me to become a clown, but in many ways, the clown persona was one that I felt comfortable with as part of my natural, everyday personality, so let’s just say that although it wasn’t what I would have considered my dream job, it wasn’t a nightmare job either, and certainly not a stretch. There was a phone number and “Whittier, CA” at the bottom of the ad. 

I was a little surprised to find the address of JoJo, Inc. to be that of a small home in a middle-class neighborhood in Whittier, CA - a suburb on the southern edge of Los Angeles known for its oppressively-hot and smoggy summers, fantastic street tacos, and 17 of the top 21 top birthday clown enterprises in the Greater Los Angeles metropolitan area. The first two stats in that list are true. The last one may be true, but I have no data to back it up. Speaking of backing up, perhaps I should back up just a little and explain why I felt I had the qualifications to be a birthday clown in the first place. 

I lost my clown resume years ago, so I’m going strictly from memory here, but first and foremost, I had always been THE class clown. There were many imitations, but only one original clown, and I was it in every class from preschool through 12th grade and then probably through college, as well, although the memories there are fuzzy. Unfortunately, they didn’t give out any certificates for this, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. Then there’s my work with elementary school children for three and a half years as a teacher’s aide. Believe it or not, as serious as teaching is, with kids that age there’s plenty of clowning around, as well - anything to keep them awake and attentive was an acceptable part of my job. I also owned a rainbow wig, which is a long story with a horrific origin all its own, so if it doesn’t make it into this book, look for it in the next one. And, finally, I had no fear of clowns, which, I agree isn’t a true qualification, but rather a lack of one, but hey, enough splitting hairs, point is - I needed a job and was probably better qualified than 99% of people my age for this particular vocation… as sad as that sounds, it’s all I’ve got. 

The interview started off just fine and, I’m very relieved to say, it’s the ONLY interview I’ve ever had while sitting on a couch in a living room. Ironically enough, Maria, the middle-aged lady who ran JoJo, Inc was all business and wore no makeup at all, from what I could tell, although I did glance at her oversized shoes more than once and kept glancing at them as I became aware that they were at least four sizes larger than they should be for a woman of her height. At one of the more awkward moments during the interview she caught me looking down at her feet and she cleared her throat, drawing my attention back up to her face; then, without breaking eye contact, she shuffled backward into the kitchen, swinging wide as she pivoted to change direction and knocking her left shoe into the dog water which sloshed onto the linoleum floor. Without skipping a beat, she tossed a dish towel from the counter onto the spill and continued about her business. She was talking to me about something, but her words came in muffled echoes as I looked again at her feet and had to wonder just how many minor catastrophes those feet caused around her home. 

She walked back toward me, picking the towel up from the floor and tossing it into a small laundry area off the kitchen. “Let’s relax in here for a bit,” Maria said to me, motioning for me to follow her across to the dining table in the breakfast nook on the other side of the room. She set two tumblers on the table. 

“Horchata.” she said.

“I love horchata!” I said with honest enthusiasm. “You make this yourself?”

“Of course!”

I felt suddenly very awkward and very caucasian. Just because the only places I ever drink horchata is at Mexican restaurants doesn’t mean she can’t make hers at home. That’s like her coming to my house and asking me if I made the lemonade I served. I felt deflated and embarrassed as we walked over to the small table, but smiled as she sat across from me. She crossed her legs, her feet dangling somewhere beneath, ready to plant themselves firmly into my shins or stomp loudly in protest to the next stupid ethnocentric thing I said, or whatever it is you do with feet that size.

“There are a few details about clowning that I wanted to cover with you…” she said, taking a sip of her icy beverage. 

Maria continued, but I was only half listening. I was nervous by this time. A little because of the horchata incident, but also because I was actually having doubts if I should even be there. For the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure that I wanted to be a clown anymore. I realize that probably sounds odd because when you’re born with an absurd sense of humor you don’t go around calling yourself a clown, I mean, outside of a classroom, you hope no one uses that term to describe you. So when you become an adult, you may be the funny guy in the room, but you don’t want to be considered a “clown” at that point of your life. Yet there I was, at 24 years of age, about to willingly sign up to become a clown - to have that label permanently applied to me. That thought made me uncomfortable. So as I stared somewhat blankly across the table at her, Maria’s voice rose, breaking out of its echo, snapping me back to the interview. 

“...so they had to use the jaws of life and that’s why we don’t let anyone under four ride the train. …Tom, are you listening?”

“Wha? Oh, yes, under four riding the train. Make sure they ride that darn train! yes m’am.” I said, regaining composure the best I could as I adjusted my posture and took a long sip of my drink. 

“No, Tom!” she said, half shocked, half confused, “This is important. No children under four can ride the train!”

Maria went on to explain to me that before I became JoJo, I had to get training at a special clown school. Apparently, there were dozens of these schools in the area, and she and former students ran them as if they were well-established institutions of higher learning.  

“I had no idea that clown school was a real thing!” I said, and I really meant it. “And dozens of them around here?”

“Fourteen, actually, and one in Long Beach near you. And yes, these are crucial - you’ll see. They are very transformative,” said Maria, taking another sip of horchata. “But here’s the deal. Here’s what I need to tell you before I offer you the job, because I think we’re on track here for an offer, it’s just… I want you to understand that this clown thing. It’s a commitment.”

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t. I know there’s responsibilities, and…”

“No, Tom, and I’m sorry for interrupting you, but I need to say this now. There have been a couple incidents lately that I’ll need you to hear about - full disclosure, and all.”

The silence hung between us for several moments. She looked at me and I looked at her. I could hear the thump, thump of her enormous shoe hitting the table leg as she swung it beneath us like a pendulum. 

She took a deep breath, began again. “This is a very special job, Tom - VERY special. And, from what I’ve read of your application and resume, you are very special, too. You know how you wrote on your application that you were always the funny one in class, the class clown, and how you make all your friends laugh - that you’ve been like that all your life?

“Yes, yes, that’s correct.” I said. 

“Well,” she said, smiling nervously, “We actually were looking for someone exactly like that. I like using this as an example - you know how once you get a job with the post office, you pretty much can work there for life?” 

I didn’t, but I nodded slowly anyway because at this point I realized that as much as I wanted this interview to be over, I had to admit she did have me just a little curious; I mean who wouldn’t want the security of a job that could last forever? We locked eyes and she continued.

“Okay then, I have good news about JoJo, Inc.” She leaned across the table toward me, her gaze becoming more intense, her smile fading to a thin line. “Once you’re hired, you’re hired… for life.” 

At this moment there were three, very loud atonal chords from a pipe organ and six cats, three on fire and one with a lighting bolt as a tail, came tearing out of the bedroom and across the floor screeching in holy terror! And then came the bats… THE BATS!!!! … not really. That all happened in my mind, of course, because my parents allowed me to watch horror movies late at night as a kid while eating Pop Rocks wrapped in Bubble Yum. What really happened was that Maria’s dog began barking outside and Maria turned her head back toward the front room, then cursed beneath her breath in Spanish.

“Will you excuse me for just a second?” she asked as she scooted back and stood.

“Sure thing,” I said.

She headed toward the front door, leaving me with my horchata and my mind filled with visions of a three-year-old girl pinned beneath a twisted, smoldering miniature train wreck and a middle-age clown suffering through his third and final heart attack on the front lawn of a house in Tarzana.

To be continued…