A Fundraiser in Clown Alley

Several years ago I was embroiled in an embarrassing contretemps with my employer over a company blog I wrote about the use of homonyms -- words that sound the same but have different meanings, such as “See” and “Sea.” This misunderstanding eventually led to my termination, which I detailed on my personal blog, which was then picked up by the Salt Lake Tribune and went viral online. Here is the full story, if you want to read about it:  http://archive.sltrib.com/story.php?ref=/sltrib/politics/58236366-90/says-english-homophones-language.html.csp

I found it difficult to find another job because of my sudden notoriety, and so in desperation I turned to online fundraising to help me get back to Thailand and resume my career as an English teacher. My fundraiser site is still active at https://www.gofundme.com/cmbn6w

But alas, the money did not come pouring in, so I spent an uncomfortable winter living in a friend’s unheated basement, sleeping in a recliner and eating at a local soup kitchen. I never did find gainful employment again, taking early Social Security instead.

I mention all this as prelude to my recollection of a fundraiser held for Spaghetti Joe in the Ringling Blue Unit clown alley about 41 years ago. Spaghetti Joe was only four foot ten; he had the classic Napoleon chip on his shoulder, impelling him to talk big, brag outrageously, and swagger around spending his money for drinks on the house and on the tallest, most statuesque shady ladies he could find. He was convinced he was born lucky, so gambled incessantly. The result of all this, naturally enough, was that at the end of the season he was not only dead broke, but in hock to every usurer on the show. And they were very earnest when it came to collecting their vigorish. “A session with the elephants” was the traditional method of encouraging deadbeats; it consisted of shoving the victim between two of the larger pachyderms late at night and then making a loud noise to startle the animals. Elephants sleep standing up, and the entire herd would start to sway back and forth, trumpeting in alarm. Anyone caught between two of the beasts at such a moment was lucky to escape with his life.

Spaghetti Joe was not a popular guy in clown alley, because of the above character traits, but also because he was just plain lousy as a clown. In Clown College he had incurred the wrath of master clown Lou Jacobs for the wobbly intricacy of the lines on his clown makeup.

“Too much spaghetti!” Jacobs pronounced, and so hapless little Joe became Spaghetti Joe to everyone on the show. Besides his makeup, which from a distance looked like a black and blue smudge, Spaghetti Joe was incapable of following orders or taking advice from the veteran clowns. He abused the phrase “Do your own thing” when it came to ensemble clowning; nobody wanted to work with him because we didn’t know what he would do when he felt ‘inspired.’ But whatever it turned out to be, it was always as unfunny and unappealing as a scab on a baby.

So sympathy was lacking for Spaghetti Joe in clown alley the last week of the season when the loan sharks closed in on him. He went to every clown, begging for some financial help to stave off his imminent session with the elephants. He got the cold shoulder from each of us. But then Spaghetti Joe did something unheard of in the annals of clown alley history. During intermission he sat at his trunk and wept. He sobbed uncontrollably as great bubbles of snot blew out his nose. He was so miserable and afraid that he no longer cared about his tough guy image; he regressed back to that scared little kid we all have hiding in us somewhere. I don't think he was play acting; he just wasn't bright enough for that.

Now you can threaten clown alley, cajole it with flattery, taunt it with challenges, or beg it for mercy, and clown alley will simply turn its back to moon you. That is the nature of the collective beast. But no one in clown alley had ever broken down and cried like a baby before. We were nonplussed, standing around in confused knots wondering silently what to do. When Charlie Baumann the baleful Performance Director came in to give us the ten minute warning before come in he glanced coldly at Spaghetti Joe’s spasms of grief, paused to light a cigarette, then asked boss clown LeVoi Hipps “Vhat de hell is it mit him? No more big shot, eh?” And Charlie smiled a slow cruel smile, the kind I imagine he used when serving in the German Army bayoneting French babies during World War Two. Before LeVoi could answer, Swede got up from his wooden folding chair, strolled over to Baumann, looked at him like he wanted to spit in his eye, and said “He’s all busted up because we’re throwing him a fundraiser tonight after the show. Tell the rest of the cast about it, will ya, Herr Baumann?”

Charlie snarled and turned away, like a stage villain, batting away the heavy blue curtains to make his discomfited exit.

“What’s this about a benefit for that little snicker?” demanded Dougie Ashton. “He don’t deserve it! What’s he done to deserve any help from any of us?”

At this question from Dougie, Swede Johnson, usually so philosophical and mellow, blew up like Mount St. Helens. He raged at Dougie to shut his infernal mouth or he’d tear him another one, and went on to exhaust just about every expletive and profane phrase in the English language in his efforts to describe the kind of lowlife scum we were for not helping a fellow joey out. No one dared point out that Swede had also told Spaghetti Joe to take a hike when initially asked for succour.

Swede ended his philippic by enjoining everyone to stick around after the evening show for Spaghetti Joe’s fundraiser, and to have their wallets open and ready to shell out, dammit.

That night, after we toweled off our makeup with baby oil, Swede gathered us around his trunk. Spaghetti Joe, like the rest of us, not exactly sure what Swede was up to, stayed over by his own trunk, quiet and subdued. A few of the showgirls and a smattering of Bulgarians and roustabouts crowded into the alley as well, having heard rumors of something crazy going on.

Swede’s fundraiser took the form of blackmail.

“Prince” he said to Prince Paul. “You remember when you was so drunk you ran right into the elephants during the Manage number? You recall who pulled you outta there?”

“You know you did” replied Prince gruffly.

“Then gimme ten dollars.” Swede held out his hand.

And that’s how Swede collected a goodly bundle that evening for Spaghetti Joe’s fundraiser. Being old, wise, and prying, Swede had the goods on everyone, and he pulled no punches as he described the various peccadilloes of clowns, acrobats, roustabouts, showgirls, and even some of the stars, who, it became clear, were hiding themselves outside the thick blue curtain to clown alley to find out if their particular skeleton was being dragged out of the closet. And those who had led a blameless life of sanctified purity, such as yours truly, got into the spirit of the thing and threw in a few dollars as well. Many of Swede’s scandalous stories were only a few words old when there would be a bleat or shriek, followed by a wad of greenbacks flung at Swede to keep him from continuing.

When Swede figured he had milked the crowd dry, he stuffed the cash into a brown paper shopping bag and solemnly walked it over to Spaghetti Joe’s trunk, handing it to him in silence. Spaghetti Joe uttered not a word, but his face was suffused with the kind of wonder you only see in children on Christmas morning.  

I would like to report that this touching scene caused Spaghetti Joe to turn over a new leaf. But I can’t. The next day he never showed up in clown alley. He was gone for good, having stiffed all the loan sharks and never having uttered a single solitary ‘thank you’ to Swede or anyone else for saving his bacon. To this day, I have no idea whatever became of that little rat.

And by the way, if I start getting some hefty contributions to MY fundraising site mentioned earlier, I’ll be heading back to Thailand to teach English again. It beats sticking around here to see what this country is going to be like during the next four years!  

The questions of Jesus

Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing?

I am a little sparrow and the Lord will note my hurt

If I should fail to fly away but crash into the dirt.

He spares the weak and lowly; he spurns the high and fine.

And he will always make his love upon his flock to shine.