Amy Meets a Clown

(continued from Sex and the Single Clown)

The Ringling clown alley formed my early Weltanschauung -- one I never really overcame, or wanted to. It consisted of the phrase “Anything for a Laugh,” blended with “Never trust a townie.” To this day I feel nothing but affection and respect for those goofy guys that strove so hard to wring a chuckle out of the distracted and sugar-maddened crowds. We had our disagreements, sure -- but I never felt anyone in clown alley was my enemy. Not even Michu, the World’s Smallest Man, whom I once locked inside his own wardrobe trunk.

But at KGCX Radio in Williston I had a true enemy. For the first time in my life a nemesis stalked me -- intent on my destruction. She was Faye Halvorson, the station owner’s wife. She disliked everything about me, and said so frequently. I hated her guts, but since she was Oscar’s wife I never said it outloud -- but my face, long-trained to display the broadest emotions for thousands to see, all too plainly revealed my violent loathing.

When Becky Thingvold and I broke up, Faye pounced on my misery like a panther on a weary disoriented traveler in the wilderness.

“We heard that Thingvold girl finally came to her senses and dumped you” she purred at me one morning, using the royal ‘we’ as if she were Queen Victoria. “We always thought it was a bad idea to mix with newspaper people -- they only want copy from you. We really think Oscar should dump YOU now -- since your love affair with radio is obviously over. That last newscast was the sloppiest ever heard.”

I was too disheartened to even glare at her. Instead I just started making my morning phone calls to surrounding county sheriff’s offices, as well as to Red over at the Williston Volunteer Fire Department. I never got through to any of the other sheriffs -- I only got as far as the receptionist, who couldn’t be bothered to tell me anything except “Nothing going on here, sorry.” Even if a spaceship crash landed in a wheatfield next door, they’d say nothing to me about it, just keep parroting “Nothing going on here, sorry.”

Red, on the other hand, was a good egg. He ran a hardware store in his spare time -- but spent most of his hours at the fire station playing gin rummy and polishing up the city’s one and only fire truck until it glowed like Chernobyl.

“So Becky dumped you, eh?” he greeted me that particular morning when I called. “She’s a cousin of mine, y’know.” In Williston everyone was related to everyone else by consanguinity or marriage. And apparently the news of our extinct love affair was as widespread and virulent as a plague epidemic.  

“Don’t let it get you down, Tim” he continued. “There’s plenty more salt in the ocean. By the way, did the sheriff over in Watford City tell you about the grain elevator burning down? Big explosion -- could be heard ten miles away. Lemme tell you what I heard . . . “

And Red would give me all the details, since the sheriff over in Watford City was also one of his cousins. I got most of my hard news from Red, bless his card-playing soul.

Even at church, usually a haven from worldly sorrow and distraction, the members couldn’t wait to come up to me and commiserate with my loss -- just to see how miserable I was. All except old Doc Maisy, who ran a thriving dentistry clinic with several of his sons -- and was also the LDS Branch President for the entire town and surrounding countryside.

“You’re better off without her, Brother Torkildson” he told me in the chapel foyer. “You need a good LDS girl, one who shares our values. Say, I’ve got a niece coming in from Twin Falls this week. Why don’t I set you up with her for dinner at our house and then you take her out to a movie?”

Before I could reply there was a resounding crash from the area of the foyer couch. Doc Maisy and I looked over to see hefty Alice Anderson and several of her numerous brood sprawled on the floor next to the collapsed sofa. It had apparently given way underneath her girth and the kids jumping on it simultaneously. A young woman, a beautiful young woman -- one I had not seen at church before -- was helping Sister Anderson to her feet.

“C’mon mom” she urged. “Look what you and Mathy did to the couch! You should keep him on a leash!”

Doc Maisy and I came over to see if we could help. But the young woman had her mother well in hand, while the kids scattered like BB’s down a hill.

“Hi, President Maisy” said the young woman, blushing prettily. “Sorry about the couch -- I’m sure my mom will pay for it.”

“I’ll do nothing of the kind! It was very wobbly to begin with . . . “ Alice began to sputter. But Doc Maisy cut her off smoothly.

“Don’t worry, Sister Anderson. We were going to get it replaced soon anyway. Are you back from BYU now?” he asked the young woman. The very fetching young woman.

“Yes. I’m teaching up in Tioga.”

“Fine! We’ll get you a calling by next week. I should introduce you to this young man just moved into town. Amy, this is Brother Torkildson. He used to work for Ringling Brothers as a clown.”

“Hi.”

I shook her hand, holding it a second longer than needful. And thinking -- why, why, why does everyone have to introduce me as having worked as a clown at Ringling Brothers? That life is behind me -- now I’m an important media personality. It irritated me vastly back then, and it still does today. Even my kids introduce me to their friends as ‘This is my dad, he used to be a clown for Ringling Brothers.”

What are they expecting me to do -- drop my pants?

(to be continued)