Me, with Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Combined Shows. 1971.
After the dreadful upheavals of the Great Depression and World War Two, my parents and everyone they knew who could be considered Standard Issue in the brains department had only one career goal -- to find a job, any job, and stick to it forever and a day, until your pension kicked in. People who moved from job to job, looking for greener pastures, were considered 'flighty' and 'too big for their britches.' Ambition was viewed with vague but steady suspicion, like a French magazine.
My dad only had one job all his life. He worked as a bartender at Aarone's Bar & Grill on East Hennepin in Minneapolis for 43 years. He did some freelance bartending from time to time, but from 11 to 7 Monday through Saturday he could be found behind the mahogany paneled and brass railed counter at Aarone's, ladling out the suds to thirsty souls. Mr. Henderson down the block sold State Farm Insurance -- always had and always did until a heart attack took him away at age 45. My best friend Wayne's dad worked at a warehouse next to the railyards on Fifteenth Avenue, first as a lowly lifter, then as a clerk, and finally, glory be, as assistant manager -- but he stayed with the same storage company in the same building the whole time. There were several old-timers on our block who worked for the railroad all their lives, usually until they lost a finger or a foot to a faulty brake line -- but then they got a gigantic pension (according to the middle class economy of that long ago day) and sat on their porches sipping Grain Belt beer as they benignly watched the rest of the world struggle off to work. The widow Schvem across the street worked at the high school cafeteria for so long that they finally named a dish after her -- Creamed Peas a la Schvem. Now the Ciattis at the end of the block were an exception; he kept opening and closing Italian restaurants all over town, never staying in one spot for very long. Dad said it was because he never paid his liquor license fees on time.
My parents assessed my abilities, or lack thereof, as I struggled with adolescence, and decided that a job at the Post Office would be just about my speed. And after forty years shoving envelopes into slots I would have a secure and comfortable pension to fall back on if they didn't put me away first, gibbering, in a straitjacket.
But I fooled 'em good, I did. When I graduated from high school I hitchhiked down to Florida and got into the Ringling Brothers Clown College at their Winter Quarters in Venice. From there I got me a contract with The Greatest Show on Earth as a First of May, and was immediately surrounded by veteran buffoons who had clowned for Ringling, in some cases, for half a century. There was Otto Griebling, Prince Paul, Swede Johnson, and a host of others who remembered the great days of the canvas big top and dozens of elephants pulling up the king poles one by one. Each clown got exactly one bucket of water per day for laundry and personal hygiene -- if you wanted extra water you had to bribe a roustabout to bring you a second bucket from the heavily guarded spigot. Those old veteran clowns had no company sponsored pension plans -- if they didn't save up the jack themselves they would have nothing when they retired. So they didn't retire -- they worked until they keeled over in their oversized shoes. They all considered it a good life, and couldn't comprehend why some of the new clowns complained about pay and working conditions. It was a secure job for nine months out of the year, and during the winter layoff you could live on the train down at Florida Winter Quarters and feed yourself by fishing along the canals or on the Gulf Coast shore.What more did a person need, for godsakes?
I was of their way of thinking -- my goal was simply to hang on by hook or by crook, save a little bit each week, and in fifty or sixty years wipe the custard pie from my face for good and retire to a little shack on the beach covered in seagrapes.
But after only two seasons with the circus I volunteered to serve a two year proselyting mission for my church in Thailand. And that broke the one-job-in-a-lifetime mindset for me. Over the next forty years I tried my hand at various other jobs, with varying success. And sometimes, when all else failed, I dug out my clown trunk and went back on the road to keep my family fed.
Looking back, I'm glad I jettisoned my parent's work ethic (or maybe it was a slave ethic.) Ringling Brothers doesn't even exist anymore, and clowns are now stuck with such a creepy reputation that I wouldn't even do it as a hobby. In this gig economy I tell my kids to go for broke and work for yourself. But don't forget to roll over that 401(k) plan when you do move on to bigger and better things . . .
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"Wish I had some cotton candy right now."
