The Clown and the Washing Machine

We were six in clown alley on the Tarzan Zerbini Shrine Circus many years ago.

Half way through the season we were down to two clowns; the rest had succumbed to the rigors of two shows a day in primitive rodeo grounds where the dust was thick and the audiences were thin. Our juggling and magician clowns were gone; so was the producing clown, who had supplied all the clown props for our gags. There was just me and Victor – who doubled as the Human Cannon Ball.

The boss still expected a grand clown gag with plenty of boffos from the two of us, so we put our bewigged heads together and came up with a weird pastiche that used every remaining piece of equipment we had between us. It went like this . . .

We come out lugging a large wicker laundry basket, full of dirty clothes. In the center of the ring is a huge washing machine (hammered hastily together out of plywood scraps and painted an unconvincing white). We begin tossing the laundry into the machine and set the dials. Working several concealed foot pedals at the base of the machine, I am doused with water and suds from the sides of the washing machine. In a passion I start beating on the washer, and Victor helpfully boosts me up so I can peer inside the rebellious contraption. And then Victor casually pushes me inside the washer. Inside we had placed a propane canister rigged up to some pipes along the top of the washer. I turn on the gas, light it, and WHOOSH, the washer is suddenly aflame! About here all logic and sanity disappears, cheerfully subsumed by the clown mandate that the bigger the disaster the bigger the laugh. While the flames roar I put on horns, a red cape and a long red tail. Then I turn off the gas and unlatch the sides of the washer, which collapse outward. The whole thing ends with me, now inexplicably changed into a leering devil, chasing Victor out of the ring with a plastic pitchfork.

For reasons that still elude me to this day, the gag went over big with the circus crowds. Even the boss, a hard-bitten veteran of the tanbark and not given to praising his joeys, came right out and said he thought it was a pretty good gag.

When the show reached eastern Wyoming my wife brought our (then) six kids to see daddy at his job. I never traveled with my family, preferring to send my paycheck home each week. Clowns always got free room and board, such as it was.

After the matinee I was eager to find out what my children thought of their old man’s comic ability. But when I approached them, still in my clown regalia, their eyes started out of their heads in terror as they ran squealing to their mother, pleading with her to save them from the “daddy devil!”

It was only after I removed my makeup and took them out to McDonald’s for all the Happy Meals they could handle that they warmed up to me again.

For years afterward whenever I needed to lower the boom on their youthful mischief all I had to do was casually mention that I was going to do a load of laundry –they would immediately stop whatever they were doing and start towing the line again.

I wonder what Dr. Spock would think about that?