Auditioning for Clown Alley in British Columbia

I’ve never felt there was anything wrong with Clown College students who didn’t get a contract with The Greatest Show On Earth. As I’ve shared before, the main reason I was given a contract was because I was thin and of medium height -- so I would fit into all of the expensive show costumes for the gorgeous production numbers Ringling was famous for. It was not because of my talents and skills as a clown. Those came later -- if they ever came at all. The fact of the matter is I know many students from Clown College who were much more talented and versatile than me who never got a contract. Most of them still managed to do all right.

39 years ago I took my clowning skills on a Canadian tour with the Garden Circus. There were two other clowns with me -- Walter and Wayne. They were both Clown College grads who did not get contracts. So they formed a team and worked a lot of Shrine dates in Canada. Their wardrobe was fantastic; they must have cornered the market on zircons. They outshone Liberace at his gaudiest! At the beginning of the season they were a tad bitter and sarcastic towards me, the Big Shot who had actually clowned with Ringling Brothers. But as the season wore on and the roads got rougher and the towns got smaller, they saw that I was not a diva and didn’t expect any special treatment. And compared to their Las Vegas wardrobe, my poor weeds were strictly Goodwill. We three put up our trunks under the bleachers in each town, which we shared with Chief Thunderclap -- who did a Slide for Life. In real life Chief Thunderclap was Herbie Slobowsky, from Hoboken. Dressed in full warpath regalia, Herbie literally slid on his feet from the top to the bottom of the longest guy wire inside the tent -- a distance of some 20 yards. By the end of his descent his moccasins began to smoke from the friction. When he jumped on the group after a hair raising descent his wife Ramona would let off a full shotgun blast, which made the audience jump to their feet and yell their heads off. Not surprisingly, his feet were always red and swollen. He went through a tin of J.R. Watkins Skin Care Gift Set, Head To Toe, Hand Cream/Hand & Body Lotion/Foot Cream/Lip Balm every week.

Walter and Wayne had all the props to perform several traditional clown gags, so I really didn’t have to bring along anything but my costume and musical saw. We did the doctor gag -- which has more variations than a Haydn concerto. In our version most of the action took place between the patient, Walter, and the nurse, Wayne. My role as doctor was basically to stand around and get hit with a giant thermometer from time to time. Walter and Wayne liked to play it dicey, so most of the comic byplay involved the balloon bust of the nurse, which kept moving around Wayne’s body in an erratic fashion -- finally exploding from an ill-placed hypodermic needle. When the ringmaster intervened to say “Give that patient another shot” I pulled out a revolver and started shooting blanks at the patient as we all ran off. Not exactly Chaplinesque, but the Canadians ate it up -- especially when the balloon bosoms popped.

As part of my contract I was obliged to come up with some publicity stunts for the show as we went up and down British Columbia. The lush green mountains and boisterous Pacific coast were enchanting to behold, but the breathtaking environment seemed to breed a hardy pioneer stock that didn’t like to spend money on circus tickets. As the season progressed we were visited more and more often by that dreaded couple, Mister and Mrs. Rows. Long rows of empty bleacher seats, that is. Finally Larry, the owner of the show, came to me with grim news. Either I come up with some kind of publicity that would start filling the bleachers again or I could pack my trunk and head back to the States. We had just finished playing Kamloops, which I thought was so lovely I seriously considered relocating my family there when the season was over, and I did not want to miss the rest of the tour. The cost of living was a third less than what we were struggling with in Minnesota at the time. The fishing, I might add, was beyond spectacular. I had only to drop a line, even in a birdbath, and a second later I’d be reeling in a brookie.

So I spent the night cogitating, dredging the old cerebrum for something to boost attendance in Greenwood, the next town we played. At last I hit on a stratagem from Carson & Barnes. When their attendance began to sag they would put ads in the newspaper seeking employees for the circus, to start immediately. This always brought a huge crowd of curious folks out to the lot, just to see if there were really any job openings. There always were -- as candy butchers. Concession sales always paid for itself, and more -- so if some of the townies wanted to sign on to sell cotton candy or balloons they were more than welcome. The side effect, so to speak, of this was that most everyone that came out to see about the jobs stayed and bought tickets for the show.

I ran this past Larry and he agreed to spend $50.00 on just such an ad for the local newspaper prior to our arrival.

When we got to Greenwood it was a ghost town; there was no one on Main Street and the stores were closed. Everyone, it turned out, was down at the lot waiting for us -- and waiting for jobs. The place had recently experienced a tremendous financial downturn when the remaining mining companies had all closed up unexpectedly overnight.

Whoops.

We couldn’t very well hire 600 candy butchers, and this crowd was turning surly; they had waited all morning for the chance to apply for a job; now they suspected it was all a come-on (which it was!) Larry was no help whatsoever.

“This was your big idea, Torkildson” he said glumly. “You handle it. I’m going to go lock myself in my AirStream. Good luck.”

And this is where Walter and Wayne showed their true blue Ringling Clown College training. When I told them what we were up against they immediately rallied round and suggested that we hold clown auditions. We’d take a dozen at a time and run them through some rough and ready slapstick to discourage their ambitions. So we invited everyone into the tent, had them sit on the bleachers, and systematically subjected a dozen at a time to the delights of shaving cream pies and how to take a slap. After the first two groups had staggered away, with us calling cheerfully after them “Don’t call us, we’ll call you!” -- the rest of the crowd decided that playing Pagliacci might not be a sound career choice after all. They dispersed to the ticket wagon, as I had hoped and prayed they would, and bought enough tickets to give us straw houses for both the matinee and evening show. Plus a reporter from the CBC showed up, having gotten wind of our 'employment fair.' She interviewed a lot of townies and was about to interview me when Larry, ever the showboater, leaped out of his Airstream to give her a guided tour of the lot.

And we did pick up one young man who took our shaving cream pies and blows to his chops in stride, declaring that he was ready to put up with anything in order to learn to be a clown. He stayed with the show for exactly two weeks -- at which time his girlfriend showed up to bring him back to their love nest in Greenwood. His choice was simple -- continue on as an ill-paid unappreciated amateur or start having sex again. The kid had some potential as a clown, and I was sorry to see him go; it would have been nice to have a protege. But our next stop was Nanaimo, where they make exquisite custard and chocolate bars -- so I soon forgot about him and Greenwood.

My mother thanks you, my father thanks you, and I thank you for your support of my mini memoir “Auditioning for Clown Alley in British Columbia.”  

Sandy Weber

Billy Jim Baker

Victor Ruiz

Mike Weakley

Gabriel Romero Sr

Alberto Ramirez

Trevor Whittow

Joe Giordano

Mike Johnson

Leander Finder

Norm Thomas

Paul Dymoke

Jim Aakhus

Laura Lee Vaugh Nadell

Brenden McDaniel

Linda F Vogel Kaplan

David Orr

Kenneth L Stallings

Erik Bartlett

“May the sun never set on your good fortune.”