It was Art Ricker’s fault. And I knew the minute he stepped into clown alley that his presence boded ill for my weekend plans. He had that placating yet conniving look on his face that all Ringling press agents had. Wreathed in a cloud of noisome cigar smoke, he sidled up to me with a hail-fellow-well-met affectation that fooled no one.
“Any big plans this weekend, boychick?” he asked me heartily. He had taken to calling everyone ‘boychick’, on the off chance it would ease the resentment most of the the First of Mays felt towards him for either getting them up at the crack of dawn to participate in some hare-brained publicity stunt, or ignoring them altogether when there was a really choice PR gig (one that offered lots of free food.)
“Oh, I might be saving the Free World from Trotskyites” I said casually, eyeing him with deepening suspicion.
I actually did have some plans for the weekend, weaved around the exhausting schedule the show kept on Saturdays and Sundays -- 3 shows on Saturday and 2 on Sunday, and then pack everything up to move out to the next arena. I had just bought a Revell of Germany Junkers JU-88 A-4 Bomber plastic model kit, which I intended to tinker with during odd moments between shows and then finish gluing together in my roomette Sunday night. I’d run out of good books to read that week, and had not found a decent used book store in Akron to feed my paperback addiction. I thought an airplane model would make a nice break from my literary routine. Roofus T. Goofus said he would help me with it, too -- he was very handy with artsy-craftsy things like that. The finished product would make a nice addition to the drab, utilitarian decor of my roomette on the train.
“Good!” boomed Ricker. “I didn’t think you had anything important going on. I wanna give you one of the most fantastic publicity gigs the circus has got for the whole Midwest! And only you can do it!”
The airplane model kit was still unopened on top of my clown trunk; I eyed it wistfully as I sullenly asked: “What now, Ricker?”
“I need you to perform at a Christian service at the St Paul Episcopal Church Sunday evening” he said smoothly. “I tried getting Peggy Williams in for it, but she can’t come.”
Peggy, one of the first girl clowns in modern Ringling history, was being vetted for Big Things by Irvin Feld and his publicity machine on the Red Unit. I knew she would do just about anything for the PR boys -- and make it look fun and happy. She had already done a number of ‘sermons’ at churches around the country. She exuded a positive energy that was contagious when she was up at the pulpit.
I, on the other hand, as a recently returned LDS missionary from the wilds of exotic Thailand, was a little burnt out in the evangelical department.
“I don’t believe in mixing religion with clowning” I started to object, but Ricker had done his homework.
“Don’t gimme that, boychick. DIdn’t you do clown shows all over Thailand for the Mormon Church?” he asked me.
I had to admit he was right on the money. But I had another shot in my locker.
“Sunday evening, you say? Well, then, it can’t be done! I’ve gotta be here for the last show -- you know that.”
“I’ve already made arrangements with Charlie Baumann to have you excused from the evening show” he shot back. “We’ll have some of the national papers there, too!”
Hmmmm. There was something to be said for getting out of that last show on Sunday -- I was usually so paralyzed with exhaustion I just walked through it without a spark of enthusiasm or inspiration. And maybe the Episcopalians would have some toothsome snacks at their evening service. So I said yes, and Ricker said he’d personally come by the arena to pick me up at six on Sunday night -- and to be ready to “give ‘em that old razz matazz!”
Hoo boy . . . what could I talk about to a bunch of Episcopalians? Back then, my language and my erudition were more rough and ready than polished and polite. So I flipped through my handy dandy Topical Guide for the scriptures to see what I could come up with:
Genesis 17:17 -- Abraham fell upon his face, and laughed
Psalms 2:4 -- He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh
Ecclesiastes 2:2 -- I said of laughter, it is mad
James 4:9 -- Let your laughter be turned to mourning
Yikes! Not too promising. Finally, I just decided to wing it -- I’d take some props with me and see what happened . . .
They had a three-piece rock band play some opening hymns, which I didn’t recognize at all. Then their youth pastor made a pitch for an upcoming Bible Camp to be held at Presque Isle State Park. Then I was on.
“Um . . . “ I began brilliantly. “Um, who has any questions about circus clowning?”
As a few hands tentatively went up I could see Ricker in the back, motioning furiously for me to get on with some slapstick business -- something the photographer by his side could snap for a catchy display in the morning paper. That’s when I decided I would sit down, take it easy, and do my best to give straight answers. My contrary streak was in full gear. The more Art Ricker wanted me to throw a pie or drop my pants for the bored photog next to him, the less inclined I felt to do so.
I had a nice quiet chat with the congregation -- most of ‘em young people. I told them that clowning could be learned by just about anyone, and that hardly any of the clowns I knew had a broken heart. I told them about the pie car, and the train, and Clown College, and then told them I’d been away from the circus for two years on a proselyting mission for my church. They were a very respectful group, and afterwards we had chicken salad sandwiches with shoestring potatoes and coleslaw. They even gave me a bag full of sandwiches to take back to the train for the next day’s journey.
Ricker wouldn’t talk to me on the ride back, except to say the photographer had left early after deciding there was no story. I thought smugly to myself that he would not be bothering me again with any more of his PR stunts -- I was now officially in his black book. But wouldn’t you know it, a few weeks later in he waltzes to ask if I’d like to go do twenty minutes at a downtown library. Maybe he was just a forgiving guy, but more likely he just got desperate. Not a lot of the available clowns could do twenty minutes by themselves.
And that German Junker airplane kit never did get opened, not by me. I gave it to Roofus T. Goofus on his birthday a few weeks later.
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