A Clown in Williston ND

(continued from A Clown at Brown)

One of the first people I met at my new gig in Williston was Becky Thingvold, who worked as a general assignment reporter for the Williston Daily Herald. She had just graduated from Minot State College and the Herald was her first professional job. She was short and pert with brunette hair and an upturned nose, so I decided to fall in love with her and sweep her off her feet with my media savvy -- learned over the years at Ringling as a publicity-happy clown.

“I’m the news director at KGCX you’ve been hearing so much about” I began modestly.

“I thought you were hired by KEYZ Radio; they’re the only radio station in town as far as I know” she replied sweetly.

“Technically, KGCX is located across the state line in Sidney, Montana -- but we have a news and sales office here in town” I replied through gritted teeth. This was a sore spot with me -- I worked at a satellite office for the station, not even the home office. I thought I would be a big fish in a small pond, but it looked instead like I was a tadpole in a puddle.

“Well, what’s so special about you?” she asked impertinently. Now I was getting to like her.

“Oh, nothing much -- it’s just that my last job was as a clown with Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Circus. You might have heard of them . . . “ I waited for her double-take, but instead she did one of those funny girl moves when their bra or corset or whatever the hell it is they use to keep themselves vertical starts to pinch. Then she smoothed the front of her blouse and said “So you have no previous broadcast or journalism experience? Interesting. How do you think you’ll do with such a demanding job?”

“Why, um,I think it’s just . . . “ I began to splutter with indignation, sounding like a toy motorboat. I needed to make a bombshell announcement to recover my equilibrium, which this snip of a girl had sadly discombobulated.

“Actually, my job at the station will take second place to my main goal here in Williston” I said, wondering what in the Sam Hill my brain was going to tell my mouth to say next. The two were definitely not in sync at this moment.

“And what’s that?” she asked, looking more interested.

“I’m opening a clown academy here in town, to train young people in the ancient slapstick art of circus buffoonery!” I practically crowed.   

“Wow, that’s great!” she said enthusiastically. Now I had her. “I’d love to be one of your first students and write about it for the paper.”

“Well,” I temporized, rubbing my chin, “we’ll have to see about that. To be fair I’ll have to hold auditions to see who might have the raw talent necessary to successfully complete the course -- but I’ll certainly keep you mind, Becky. Mind if I call you Becky?”

“Not at all -- and I can call you Tim?”

“Of course. Why don’t we go down to Service Drug on Main for some fried egg sandwiches and talk it over some more? My treat.”

“Sure, Tim!”

And so we did. Using my turbo-imagination, which scaled breathtaking heights of folly and bombast under the impetus of her coruscating blue eyes, I briefly sketched out my plans to open the Academy as soon as possible, with the ultimate goal of putting Williston on the map as home to a renaissance of earthy big top comedy. After all, I boasted, I had worked directly under the greats like Emmett Kelly, Lou Jacobs, and Otto Griebling; the Dean of the Clown College himself, Bill Ballantine, a famous author and illustrator, had hand drawn my diploma for me (he did that for every graduate that year.)  I could hand pick my instructors from my close personal friends in the Ringling clown alley. Becky ate it up like laudanum-laced licorice.  

“I gotta go write this up and have my editor approve it” she apologized as she got up from her counter stool. “It should be in tomorrow’s paper” she said. “Meet you here tomorrow for lunch, then?” she asked.

Thrilled at my unexpected and total triumph, I merely nodded pleasantly in the affirmative, maintaining a complete sangfroid. After she was gone I strolled over to the candy counter and ordered several Russell Stover Maple Cream Easter Eggs as a sort of non-alcoholic digestif. They were on sale, two for a quarter. Then I went next door to walk up the dusty wooden stairs to the second storey office of KGCX.

As I sat down to my desk to peruse the latest pickings from the AP wire, the enormous scope of my gasconade hit me like the Tunguska Event. I could never pull off such a stunt by myself, and even if I could get a school of sorts up and running I had no idea if anyone in this hayseed community of 14-thousand would be the least bit interested in learning to clown.

“Uh, Arvella,” I said, turning to the office receptionist. She was a local farm girl with a face that would stop a sundial. “Do you think anyone would be very interested in learning how to become a circus clown around here?”

She put down her crochet needle and yarn to squint at me through her glasses.

“What? No! Who cares for that kind of thing” she replied decidedly. “Don’t forget you have to do the cattle prices from Fargo at 3!”

“No, I won’t forget” I said glumly. This was a fine kettle of fish I’d just pickled myself in. What was I going to do?  

(to be continued)