Clowns and Candy Butchers

In the Ringling hierarchy concessionaires were about a half-step down from the clowns, even though a real hustler could make tons more money than any clown.

Clown alley called them ‘candy butchers’, and we would have nothing to do with them. They bunked altogether in one train car; a hotbed of vice and debauchery that made Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Sunday School picnic. (Considering clown alley’s own shaky moral standards, this was a clear case of the pot calling the kettle black.)

Prior to my advent, clown alley had dallied with some sales schemes itself. In the 1960's some genius in Detroit thought it would be a good idea to use a Ford Fairmont for the Ringling clown car and base all their advertising for that brand on the fact that sixteen clowns could be squeezed into one. Clown alley got a new Fairmont each year, and the clowns got some big spreads in glossy magazines like LIFE and Saturday Evening Post. At the same time the Coca Cola company became the sole supplier of soft drinks to Ringling Brothers, and several cartons of the ubiquitous brew were routinely dropped off in clown alley for everyone to enjoy and promote. Unfortunately, the clowns couldn't resist shaking the bottles and then uncapping them at each other. And the Fairmont was used to house several geese for a sight gag that involved them apparently pulling a chariot of clowns dressed as Roman centurions. Eventually the Mad Men caught on to the fact that clowns and commercial sales were not a good mix, and clown alley was left to its own daffy devices.

And, like all hierarchies, the pecking order became fluid where money was concerned. The candy butchers were banned from hawking their wares out in the arena during the show, as being too distracting -- except when the clowns were on. They had full reign to peddle their programmes and sno-kones while we cavorted in the rings and on the track, and they took full advantage of these brief opportunities to cry up their merchandise in tones that rang the welkin.

Granted most of our clown gags were already deafening; but when clowns like Otto Griebling wanted to inject a quiet moment of whimsical pantomime into a slap boxing match or the camera gag, it was spoiled by the raucous vendor cries of “Get ‘em while they’re hot!” and “Two for a dollar!”

During the pre show warmup, called come in, I was experimenting with a gag that relied on subtly and concentration. I stacked empty aluminum pop cans into a large pyramid that towered over my head; the blow off was that when I reached up to put the very last can at the summit, the whole thing came crashing noisily down around me. For some reason, which I am still not able to explain fully, the audience thought this was hilarious. But the cursed candy butchers kept yelling facetious comments at me during this delicate operation (you try stacking 300 empty aluminum cans without having them collapse until you want them to -- it’s not as easy as it looks). They would holler “Hey, gimme a beer out of that stack will ya?”, or, even worse, they would give it away by yelling “It all falls down at the end, hah!”

I finally put that particular gag on hiatus in so I could extract my revenge from those loudmouth hucksters.

Going into the audience to do meet and greet (shaking hands, signing autographs, etc.) I brought along clothespins, metal paper clips, and balloons. When I spotted a likely concessionaire victim I would wrap the paper clip around the spring of the clothespin, blow up the balloon, and hook the knotted end to the clothespin via the bent paper clip. Then I would sneak up on the candy butcher and deftly clip the balloon onto the bottom of his or her red and white striped blouse. Now they had a bright yellow balloon bobbing up and down on their keister. As they tried to sell their wares the crowd around them became too hysterical to buy anything, until they discovered the latex bladder that was making love to their own heinie. My strategy started to cut into their come in sales, which accounted for nearly half of their profit each show.

After a few weeks of this artful persecution on my part, the candy butchers surrendered en masse, promising to leave my come in stacking gag in peace if I would leave their behinds balloon-free.

A few years into my clown career I got a closer look at the candy butchers -- one of them, anyways. This happened because he became engaged to one of Tim Holst’s sister-in-laws. By now Holst was a big wheel on the show -- assistant performance director, no less. He knew as well as I the decayed standards of candy butchers, and he was worried that his sister-in-law’s nuptials would soon come a cropper -- and his wife, who had no circus background whatsoever, would blame him for it. So he asked me, as a friend and not as an underling, to keep an eye on the guy, Steve. If I could catch him fooling around with some other woman Holst could put the kibosh on the wedding.

Putting on a pair of gum shoes and swaddling myself in a trench coat, I began tailing Steve. During the show, of course, I was busy with other things, but after the evening performance I would slip up to his concession stand and keep a beady eye on him as he counted his money (an obscene amount, and candy butchers routinely reported but a fraction of it to Uncle Sam.)

Within a few days I discovered that Steve was a dedicated swinger; he had a harem of nubile young women who were far too affectionate to be cousins or mere assistants (which is what he told his fiancee whenever she popped up unexpectedly.) He must have been telepathic, since he kept coming over to me in my dark corner and asking if I thought I could cramp his style by spying on him for Holst. If I wanted, he said, I was welcome to any one of his paramours for an evening that would, in the patois of the times, ‘blow my mind.’ I stiffly declined his offer. He just smiled and continued on with his wanton ways. As soon as I had the goods on this lecher I reported back to Holst, who thanked me effusively and then tried to have the wedding called off.

But the affairs of Venus are beyond the control of mere men. Holst’s sister-in-law pooh-poohed his revelations about Steve’s depravity. She knew he was not perfect, but she would take him in hand and reform him. I was invited to the wedding, which took place at a rented Elk’s banquet hall in North Platte, Nebraska. The place was too big for our party, and the neon beer signs glowing in the cavernous distance leant a distinct touch of melancholy to the proceedings.

It was no surprise to anyone, except the new bride, when Steve borrowed Holst’s brand new Volvo to pick up some concession supplies down in Florida and never came back. The Volvo was eventually found in a ditch in Sarasota, completely trashed and filled with empty Cold Duck bottles.

And yes, Holst was blamed for the disaster by his wife, and his bereft sister-in-law. They ganged up on him until he began seeking the relative peace and quiet of clown alley. There, at least, the constant brouhaha was never directed at him.