Tim Holst was a man of action. When I worked with him on Ringling he was never one for ‘pussy-footing around.’ Having served as an LDS missionary in Sweden prior to joining clown alley, he knew the difference between right and wrong -- and acted accordingly.
The ‘Iron Lung’ train car where the First of Mays were holed up during the season attracted a lot of unwanted attention from roustabouts and Iron Curtain cretins who had consumed too much beer during outdoor picnics when the train was parked in a salubrious spot. After downing a sixpack of lager, the more jocular would weave their hazy way over to our train car to relieve themselves against its burnished aluminum side. They thought this was a real knee slapper. This was an unappreciated use of our home away from home. We complained to Performance Director Charlie Baumann about it, but his only response was:
“I don’t babysit clowns. Geh weg!”
So Holst took matters into his own hands. One starry night, as the beer bottles clinked in time with the crickets, he climbed up onto the roof of the Iron Lung with a long green hose attached to a trainyard spigot. My job was to act as lookout and be the spigot turner. Whenever a waterlogged culprit hove into view I gave Holst the high sign and turned on the spigot. Just as the miscreant was about to unload he was shattered with a spray much more forceful than his own. The would-be desecrator of our hearth and home on wheels would retreat, sopping wet and cursing. We did this two nights in a row and voila!, problem solved. Revelers took their bursting bladders elsewhere.
Then there was the matter of asphyxiation in clown alley. Baumann would stalk through each building prior to set up and mark off the men’s dressing room, the lady’s dressing room, the star’s dressing rooms, and clown alley. Usually we had plenty of open space around us, but occasionally we had to pile into a small conference room or some such sardine can. The minute they came in, the smokers would light up and puff away contentedly until the air was unbreathable for us non-smokers. And that included Holst as well as myself. It was unbearable. But again, appeals to Baumann proved fruitless, especially since he always had a Winston going between his own beefy fingers. Holst’s pointed comments to me, in a stentorian voice that carried for miles, about the rudeness of inconsiderate smokers, also went unheeded in clown alley.
Finally Holst went to publicity promoter Art Ricker with an idea. Why not do a Great Clown Alley Smokeout? The publicity would be immense. Ricker, who sucked on putrid stogies like they were pickles, thought it a great idea. Clown alley would go smoke-free -- and not just in one town, but in every town hereafter! No ifs, ands . . . or butts was the motto he coined for this publicity stunt, which attracted a lot of media attention for the next dozen cities. Clown alley had to go cold turkey, or face a stiff fine that came directly out of the backslider’s paycheck. The misery this engendered was epic, but it kept the alley’s air breathable -- at least for the next several weeks. I don’t know why this particular publicity ruse was eventually abandoned, but I suspect that the worst nicotine fiends banded together and bribed Ricker to rescind the ban. But after that the smokers were a mite more considerate, usually practicing their evil habit outside of the alley.
One memorable evening after the last show was done Holst and I and a couple of other joeys went across the street from the train to an owl wagon that was open all night. We were sick of pie car fare, and longed for steaks smothered in onions, potatoes au gratin, and apple pie ala mode. The place was brightly lit but barely inhabited. After we sat down we waited a good ten minutes for the horse-faced waitress to come over and take our order. When she remained immobile on her counter stool Holst went over to see about some grub. She informed him the cook had gone down the road a piece for his own dinner. He never ate at the owl wagon. He’d be back in a hour or so.
When informed of this I was all for trooping back to the pie car for whatever we could get, rather than face starvation through the night. But Holst had other ideas. He briskly walked behind the counter, tied on a stained white apron, surveyed the available comestibles, and began cooking up a storm. The waitress, who looked like she was trying out for a part in a Roger Corman zombie film, started to squawk -- but Holst bought her silence with money gathered from all of us. He made us scrambled eggs, grilled cheese sandwiches, ham steaks, home fries with lots of onions and green peppers, hamburger steaks the size of manhole covers, and grilled up a mess of fresh catfish fillets that the waitress said had been caught just a few hours ago. He warmed up a complete deep dish apple pie in the oven, and then smothered it with gobs of vanilla ice cream and whipped cream. We ate like condemned felons having their last meal and could barely wedge ourselves out of the booth when we were done.
But Holst was still not done. Looking keenly at the homely waitress, who had crow’s feet like the Nile Delta and enormous bags under her eyes, he discerned that she alone would be stuck doing up the dishes. So he commandeered us to run back and wash up the pots and pans and plates and utensils lickety-split before going back to the train. That tired waitress looked truly grateful for our Holst-induced thoughtfulness.
We left just as the regular cook came back from his repast. The waitress rang us up as he looked on in cretinous wonder. Since we had already ponied up the cash, she just dumped it into the cash register, extracting a generous amount for her tip, and waved warmly at us as we left.
They oughta do a superhero comic book about Tim Holst, is what I think.
