A Clown in Thailand

At the end of the 1973 season I looked fondly at my clown alley compatriots for one last time. Over the last few seasons we had shared a lot of laughs, a few hard times, and many miles on the old Iron Lung (our name for the train car where the new clowns had their roomettes.) I had been kicked by llamas; peed on by elephants and tigers; swindled out of ten dollars by a roustabout named Scotty; discovered my inner clown with the help of master comics like Swede Johnson, Prince Paul, and Otto Griebling; been promoted to Advance Clown; and eaten my first bean burrito. Now it was time to leave these hallowed halls of harlequiny for a radically different environment. I had received a letter from Salt Lake City, signed by President Spencer W. Kimball himself, calling me to spend the next two years as a proselyting missionary, at my own expense, in the Kingdom of Thailand for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was to report to Salt Lake to begin my orientation in three weeks. From there I would be whisked off to BYU-Hawaii in Laie for a crash course in the Thai language. And then drop anchor in ancient Siam for two years to discuss the rudiments of salvation with Buddhist monks and tuk-tuk drivers. I wanted to say a fond farewell to these benighted buffoons who had tolerated a Minnesota naif and taught him so much -- with the maximum amount of obscenity and absurdity.

I stepped into the middle of the alley, already dressed in a white shirt and tie, with pressed black slacks, and rapped on Swede’s trunk with a handy turkey baster for attention.

“Listen, you guys” I began, my voice husky with emotion. “I just wanna say that . . . “

“How many wives ya gonna have, mate?” jeered Dougie Ashton.

“I just wanna say . . . “

“Hey Tork, bring me back some pre filled sarongs, will ya?” This from Chico. The rat.

“I just wanna say . . . “

Several clowns began a rousing rendition of Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus, substituting the word ‘halitosis’ for ‘hallelujah.’

“All of you guys can go to perdition for all I care” I yelled as I strode out of clown alley, right into Charlie Baumann’s starched tuxedo shirt.

“You must do this, this Mormon nonsense?” he asked me sternly.

“It’s all set, Charlie. I can’t back out now.” I gave him a weak smile. I didn’t want anymore arguments, especially since he was holding his tiger whip.

“Verwahren” he shook my hand. “Come back vhen you are done. You are a goot clown.”

Before I could react he pushed past me into the alley, to begin a rancorous investigation concerning the previous night’s panty raid on the showgirl’s train car.

I looked around for Tim Holst, who had introduced me to the LDS church several years earlier. This was all his fault, I wanted to joke with him. But he and his wife Linda were out shopping for bassinets somewhere.

I passed out the back entrance, looking at Backdoor Jack and thinking “There’s a face I won’t much miss.”

I had more luggage than the other missionaries when I arrived at the Mission Home in Salt Lake. President Morris in Thailand had instructed me to bring along my clown ensemble for possible use as a goodwill ambassador for the LDS church. Airlines, then as now, charged me an arm and a leg for the excess weight -- which I had to pay out of my own pocket.

In Hawaii I spent ten hours a day learning the basics of the Thai language. “Sour tea cup” or something like that, meant “Hello.” Being a tonal language, you had to sing it or risk having phrases such as “Would you like some rice?” come out as “Get out of here.” As set apart missionaries we were sworn to complete celibacy and obedience to other strictures that could rub a young man the wrong way pretty easily. The torrid beauty of the entire Pacific Rim poured into BYU Hawaii to study English, accounting, and home economics, and these languid island girls were not shy about parading past the barracks where we studied, ate, and slept. Even though I had been exposed to dozens of painted ladies (showgirls) during my years with the circus, I still found myself taking several cold showers a day -- as did most of my fellow sufferers.

When it was learned that I was a professional circus clown, the powers that be set up a one hour show for me at the campus auditorium, for all the missionaries and student body. I had plenty of my own original material, but I did not scruple to swipe bits and pieces from my colleagues back in clown alley. I especially relished stealing Otto’s old gag of going out in the audience and flirting with the girls while pretending to be cleaning the seats with a rag. I stole several impudent kisses from Melanesian and Oriental lasses that I still cherish today -- mostly because my clown persona let me get away with it. Out of costume, I would have been sent packing for such an egregious breach of standards. To paraphrase Mel Brooks’ famous dictum: “It’s good to be the clown!”

In Thailand itself I faced several challenges new to me as a clown. First, all my grease paint melted in the tropical heat, becoming impossible to apply. I finally solved this problem by purchasing bags of ice prior to my performance to firm up the greasepaint so I could apply it properly. Next there was the problem of my classical whiteface clown makeup. To the Thais I appeared to be a “phii”, a ghost. Their initial reaction to my appearance was to screech and head for the exits. Or else cover their eyes and wave their Buddhist amulets in front of me to ward off the revenant’s evil eye. I finally overcame this dilemma by having my companion (LDS missionaries always work as a team) come out before me to explain that although I may look like a specter I was actually a harmless funnyman (“tuatalog” in Thai.) This satisfied most people, but there were always a few betelnut-chewing grannies in the back row who remained unconvinced and would pelt me with holy water sold by the pint by Buddhist monks. Finally, my clown shoes, stuffed with horsehair, began to sprout grey wedges of fungus out the sides -- making me look like a ridiculous winged Mercury.  Through trial and error I found that Snake Prickly Heat Powder discouraged the growth, not only on my shoes but on me.

As my two year assignment came to a close I began to ponder about my future career and activities. Did I want to go back to clowning with the circus, or should I aim higher? Most of my companions were set to enroll at BYU in Provo Utah. They would become doctors, lawyers, CPA’s, architects, teachers, and engineers. Have comfortable and productive lives.  I decided that when I got back to the States I would enroll in the University of Minnesota for a bachelor’s degree in theater arts, so I could mold young performers’ minds with my expertise and mellow avuncular humor.  

At the end of two semesters I called Mr. Feld to ask for my old job back. I was suffering from terminal boredom. He cheerfully hired me back. Since then I’ve always wondered . . . did he do me a favor or a disservice? That’s the kind of stuff that gives an old man like me insomnia.