Insomnia in Clown Alley

When the show reached Indianapolis my first season with Ringling the train was parked on a siding right next to a John Deere factory. I never knew that manufacturing farm implements could be so incessantly noisey. There were constant crashes and boomings and the screech of metal on metal -- as well as a deep throbbing quiver that seemed to set the whole train pulsating like a vibraphone. The plant worked 24/7.

Sleep became problematical. And I was a boy who dearly cherished his forty winks. The physical demands of clowning for Ringling included fifteen costume changes per show and running at breakneck speed throughout the performance, sometimes in costumes that weighed up to twenty-five pounds. By the end of the day I was wrung out and ready to welcome the modest embrace of my murphy bed.

Those murphy beds were utilitarian -- they had a thin mattress on a metal platform that was pulled out of the wall to sleep and then pushed back up when I wanted to sit. This no-nonsense approach to my comfort kept my back in tip top condition. Ever since then when the old sacroiliac starts to act up I find a place on my carpeted floor to stretch out on for blessed relief.

But all that clamor from the Deere factory shattered my slumber. I tried earplugs, but they kept falling out. I was afraid I might mistake one of ‘em for a piece of Bit O Honey and swallow it in my feverish sleep. I was leery of sleeping pills -- the news was full of stories about sleeping pill abuse back then and besides, as a youthful miser I resented having to spend a few extra bucks just for the privilege of sleep.

The noise bothered everyone else in clown alley, too. Except for Prince Paul. After forty years of clowning he could sleep during a cyclone. He came into the alley each day disgustingly bright and cheerful, having gathered in the required eight hours without a hitch the night before. The rest of us became red-eyed and snappish. I was really starting to drag. Complaints had been lodged with Performance Director Charlie Baumann, and for once he did not shrug them off -- he too was suffering.  

In the middle of our engagement in Indianapolis I decided to try becoming so exhausted after the show that nothing would disturb me once I hit the sack. So after the show that evening I started going around the arena track at a vigorous trot. I completed twenty laps and had to take another shower before leaving the building to walk over to the train.

Which was not there. For some reason I had missed the announcement that the trainmaster was moving the train two miles down the tracks that evening. Where the train had been there was now nothing but empty tracks and the Vulcan wrath of the nearby factory. Nonplussed, I began walking down the tracks to see if I could find my wayward bed. But I walked in the opposite direction of where the train had been pulled. After an hour or so of fruitless trudging I gave up and turned back. Letting myself back into the arena I found the clown prop boxes, usually so welcoming with soft foam rubber items like mallets and the killer kangaroo, were now all securely locked up. Wearily I dragged myself into the alley, put some trunks together, and lay down in a vain attempt to sleep. It was cold and I had no blanket. My misery was so profound that at last I got up and went over to where the livestock were bedded down on the other side of the arena, to sleep in the cleanest pile of hay I could find. It wasn’t very clean, but it was moderately more soft than the top of a trunk and I soon sank into a deep slumber. Only to be awakened by several drunken roustabouts who took care of the elephants. They had been out on the town and were now returning with a snootful. Their cheery profane songs and scatalogical japes at each other grated on my ears like nails on a chalkboard. Silently sending them my dire maledictions, I rolled over and attempted to recapture my repose. Only to realize I was not alone in my bower of alfalfa. Friendly little critters were trying to make my acquaintance by crawling all over me and giving me affectionate pinches. I leaped screaming out of the hay pile and ran down the hallway flailing my arms like a windmill, scaring those nearby roustabouts into a fit of sobriety that lasted nearly two days.

I went up into the bleacher seats and stretched out for the remainder of the night and early morning. When I staggered into clown alley that day I felt, and looked, like death warmed over.

Swede Johnson took one look at me and assumed the worst.

“Out burning the candle at both ends, eh?” he queried with a wicked leer on his wrinkled old face.  

“Where were you last night, Tork?” asked Tim Holst. “You never came back to the train?”

“Asleep in the hay. What happened to the train?” was all I could manage to croak back in reply.

Where I got the stamina to do two shows that day I’ll never know. That night I made it back to the train and fell into my murphy bed almost sobbing with relief and pleasure. I slept ten straight hours and awoke as bright and chipper as Prince Paul.

Nowadays I’ve reached an age where insomnia is often my midnight companion. But do I worry or complain? I do not; I take a blanket to my recliner, snap on the reading lamp, and settle down with a book. Sooner or later I fall back asleep in my cozy chair, thinking of that terrible night in Indianapolis and thanking my lucky stars that although my youth may be gone my bed is always within reach.