Clown alley is a semi-autonomous state within the larger world of the traveling circus. What goes on in there, who comes to visit, and why a sudden geyser of water might erupt onto innocent heads outside of the alley, are all matters of high policy not usually discussed with the circus management, unless they impact the performance of the show.
While no formal passport was ever issued or required to enter clown alley, all visitors, by mutual consent, were to be scrutinized outside of the alley by one of the veteran clowns before gaining admittance. This went for sweethearts, bill collectors, reporters, pizza delivery boys, relatives, and insurance agents. Of course, this was AFTER they had passed muster with Backdoor Jack.
Although I was a committed zany during my working hours, squirting seltzer and flinging pies with the best of them, when I was out of makeup and out of the alley I was a serious young man. For one thing, I was haunted by the poverty and near-homelessness of one of my grandmothers. Before I left to join the circus she had come to our house and pleaded with my mother for a room in her house to stay in, as she had so very little to use to pay for rent and food. My mother, with tears in her eyes, had to turn her down – our house was cramped as it was, and my father, who attended the Simon LeGree school of Hard Knocks, did not approve of any relatives besides children moving in. I did not want to wind up like that, and thought the best way to avoid such a melodramatic end would be to salt my money away in the bank and invest it prudently. To that end, I was always ripping ads out of magazines and newspapers for mutual funds and whole life insurance, sending away for their pamphlets.
One fine day, when the show was playing Philadelphia, I was told a visitor awaited me outside the alley, having passed muster with one of the older clowns. I thought it might be a girl I had met at church the previous Sunday, so I smoothed down my bushy hair (which I was also using for my clown wig), spritzed myself with some Old Spice, and hurried out, only to be met by a shambling figure swathed in a tan raincoat, even though it was a warm sunny day in the City of Friends. Turns out that this creature, by the name of Dewey Moede, was with a Philadelphia insurance company which had received one of my inquiries; Mr. Moede had made it his business to come out to the circus to see if he could sell me some insurance.
Not knowing any better, I invited him into the alley.
Pulling up a folding chair, he began his spiel while I applied the greasepaint in preparation for the day’s merrymaking chores.
He asked my age, where I was born, did I smoke, how much did I drink, and was I married. He then did some tabulations on a sheet of graph paper and produced a document that he told me indicated I would live to the ripe old age of eighty and that if I began investing in whole life right now, to the tune of five dollars per week, by the age of seventy I would have enough to live a life of ease and comfort in a broom closet in Miami Beach. If I lived that long. Or, if I preferred, I could immediately invest twenty-thousand dollars in an annuity, which I would not start to collect on until the age of sixty-four, and could then look forward to three square meals a day, if I didn’t mind two of those meals being cheese and crackers.
While I found his logic alluring, I couldn’t quite see myself committing to five whole dollars every week. At the time my salary was ninety-dollars a week, and I was already putting ten of that away in a savings account each week.
I was about to voice my hesitation when there was a loud bang behind us. It was just Spikawopsky, making black gunpowder squibs and testing them out to make sure they were efficacious. I explained this to Mr. Moede, because he seemed suddenly rather nervous. I told him we went through at least two dozen exploding squibs each show, and I had never lost more than a singed eyebrow. He began fiddling with his graph paper again. While he did, I went outside of the alley to help Swede Johnson with the new flamethrower we had installed in the stove we used for the baker’s gag. A nozzle blew powdered coffee creamer over a candle flame – creating quite a spectacular tongue of fire, about five feet long. It was Mr. Moede’s misfortune to come hunting me just as Swede squeezed the bellows after I had lit the candle. The resulting roar of fire caught the insurance agent completely off guard, and before I could explain that the flame was relatively harmless – producing minor blisters only – he was galloping up the exit ramp of the arena, tossing aside crumpled graph paper and blank insurance forms like confetti.
Oh well, I thought to myself, there’s always more insurance agents – and Sunday school girls – in the next town.
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