Harvey Brown, President Brown to me, was a short and roly-poly sort of a man, with a pug nose and a perpetual twinkle in his eye. At least he always had a twinkle for me, the one LDS missionary in the world who put on clown white and dropped his pants as part of his proselyting efforts.
He put a fatherly arm around my shoulder as I entered his office and ushered me to a seat beside his desk.
"Elder Torkildson" he said, "have you given much thought to what you want to do when you get back home from your mission?"
This was a stumper; for I hadn't really had the time to give it much thought. I was busily engaged in what every LDS missionary does on his or her mission -- appearing at hospitals, schools, libraries, Buddhist festivals, and even prisons, to do 45 minutes of cornball slapstick -- including playing my musical saw.
I figured he wanted me to come up with some kind of serious career choice, so I blurted out:
"I was thinkin' I'd like to be a barber!"
For the first time ever, he glared at me. And shook his head.
"What in the world would you want to do THAT for?" he asked me. "You have a gift you need to share with the world! And you DON'T want to go back with the circus?"
Actually, I did -- I just didn't think it was a dignified way for a former LDS missionary to earn his bread. Lucky for me President Brown was happy to harangue me until I was convinced that returning to the big top would be right and proper. It took all of two minutes.
"And by the way" he added as I left his office, "don't delay getting married, either!"
A few weeks after that interview I was back in Minneapolis, staying with my parents, looking at a bank account that was as shriveled as a raisin found in the Pyramids of Giza.
My parents were happy to see me after a two year hiatus, of course; but they made it quite clear that nothing would please them better than a job that would take me out of their house -- preferably for years at a time.
So I called Information (there were actual LIVE persons who you could talk to back then) and asked for the number of Ringling Brothers Circus.
I then dialed the number, asked the receptionist if I could please speak to Mr. Ivin Feld, and waited to see what would happen.
She asked my name, told me to hold on please, and in less than a minute a very familiar voice, with that inimitable all-business accent, came on the line.
"Well, Torkildson -- is it? What can I do for ya?"
I was profoundly amazed that he would pick up the phone for me, someone who had left his employ two years earlier, and not in the best of odors; he had planned something big for me, he had said at the time, but my ill-advised zeal to go knocking on doors somewhere would put the kibosh on that now.
"Uh . . ." I mumbled like an idiot, "um, I'd like a clown job if you have any openings right now."
It was the middle of April, the season was in full swing -- of course he was not going to need any clowns.
"Sure, I can use ya! Report to the Blue Unit in Cleveland by Saturday and they'll put you right to work. Have a good time in Thailand?"
He remembered that? I think I had dropped him one postcard the whole time I'd been away.
"Uh, yeah -- it was great. I got to . . . "
He cut me off: "Well then, don't be late for the Saturday morning show! Gotta go, Torkildson. Welcome back!"
I told the folks I had a job offer, if I could scrape up plane fare to Cleveland; they were happy to fork over the 45 bucks (like I say, this was a LONG time ago).
When I got to Cleveland Charlie Baumann met me, grim-faced as ever, at the arena back door.
"You are back" he stated flatly. He did not seem either pleased or surprised. "Go talk to Svede Johnson -- he is in charge of der funny men." He spun on his heel and walked away without another word.
I got a rousing welcome on my return to clown alley. Swede gave me a sour look, waggled his head back and forth sadly, and proclaimed: "We got the %##@@& pinhead back again!" He then gave me a big lopsided grin and shook my hand warmly. Kevin Bickford shyly gave me a rubber chicken that had "Welcome Back, Tork" stenciled on it. Several of the new faces, the First of Mays, were immediately told that I was the fabled Mormon Missionary, and they broke into a chorus of the LDS hymn, "Come, Come, Ye Saints" -- only they improvised some obscene and profane lyrics that caused my earwax to melt.
Gee, it felt good to be home again . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment