I have only ever been to one bachelor party. It took place in the Ringling Blue Unit clown alley way back in 1972, when Chico and Sandy tied the knot. They had been an item ever since both graduated from Clown College in 1971 and went to work on the Blue Unit, along with my humble self.
The wedding itself, handled with all the tawdry bravura that Art Ricker and his minions could muster, was held in center ring in a blaze of publicity that had Chico and Sandy’s nuptial photographs featured in every major newspaper across the world.
There was an unfortunate glitch in the captioning of most of the photos -- the photo showed the best man, Steve Smith, kissing the bride after the ceremony, and identified HIM as the groom!
The bride and groom sat atop two elephants as the minister nervously performed the ceremony while planted firmly on terra firma. It was executed in lieu of come in, with a huge crowd filling the arena to watch the fun. Even though the pachyderms had been urged onto their hind legs prior to the nuptials, in order to let gravity empty their bowels, the minister’s fears of an unseemly event that would mar the holy ritual proved to be well-founded. Just as he pronounced them “man and wife” one of the elephants let go with a thunderous discharge -- its way, no doubt, of expressing an opinion about the whole idea of matrimonial bliss. As the roustabouts quickly moved in to clean things up, Chico and Sandy dismounted and were escorted by clown alley to the clown car, where Swede, acting as chauffeur, drove them off to start their honeymoon at Niagara Falls. We had made sure to festoon the back of the clown care with strings of empty Stein’s Clown White makeup tins.
The night before this stupendous event, clown alley hosted a bachelor party for Chico. Holst and I had discussed the advisability of skipping this dubious bacchanal, since it was sure to feature a fleshpot tour de force, but in the end we decided that our friendship with Chico demanded our presence -- if only for a little while.
The evening started with a bang when Swede Johnson passed out cigars from the S.S. Adams Company. Holst and I politely passed on the stogies -- which was fortunate, since they were of the exploding variety. When the smoke finally cleared a cake was brought in. It was an interesting model of part of the male anatomy, and its slicing provoked a maelstrom of predictable innuendoes. Strangely enough, no intoxicating beverages were served at this male entertainment -- not so much out of any temperance scruples but because the kitty for this shindig had been got up strictly by donation, and clown alley was not prone to financial extravagance. So we toasted the groom with bumpers of Vernors, which was Chico’s favorite soft drink.
Bob Zraick, alias Barnaby Bumbershoot, set up a projector to run some 8mm stag films -- and that’s when Holst and I skedaddled, after shaking hands with Chico and wishing him all the best.
The next season, when Holst got married, he was pressed to attend a bachelor frolic on his own behalf but firmly turned down the offer. I was in Mexico at the time, studying pantomime, but years later he told me that clown alley had still managed to stage a charivari in his honor by filling his suite on the circus train with an obscene variety of marital aides, and smothering the honeymoon bed with a generous layer of shaving cream.
I thought I would avoid all such claptrap when I married Amy, who came from sturdy no-nonsense North Dakota farming stock. But I had misjudged those earthy peasants -- when we got into our Ford station wagon after the wedding breakfast there was a distinct odor of cow manure emanating from the back of the vehicle. A gunnysack full of the stuff had been thoughtfully left overnight inside the station wagon for our benefit. Eyes watering and nostrils quivering, we drove off without acknowledging the pungent wedding present. It took months for the stink to subside, despite our best efforts at fumigation.
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