Selling Insurance to Circus Clowns

That's me, bottom right. 1971.

Clown alley was a semi-autonomous state

within the larger world of the traveling

circus.  What goes on in there, who

comes to visit, and why a sudden geyser

of water might erupt onto innocent heads

outside of the alley, are all matters of high

policy not usually discussed with outsiders --

including management and the local constabulary.

While no formal passport was ever issued or

required to enter the Ringling clown alley,

all visitors, by mutual consent, were to be

scrutinized outside of the alley by one of

the veteran clowns before gaining admittance.

 This went for sweethearts, bill collectors,

reporters, pizza delivery boys, relatives,

and insurance agents.

Although I was a committed zany during my working

hours, squirting seltzer and flinging pies with deadly

humor, when I was out of makeup and out of the alley

I was a serious young man.  For one thing, I was

haunted by the memory of my Grandmother Torkildson.

 Before I left to join the circus she had come to our

house and pleaded with my mother for a room in her house,

or even a cot in the garage, as she had so very little to pay

for rent and food.  My mother, with tears in her eyes, had

to turn her down – our house was cramped as it was, and my

father, who attended the Simon LeGree school of Hard

Knocks, did not approve of any relatives besides children

moving in.  I did not want to wind up like that, and

thought the best way to avoid such a melodramatic

end would be to salt my money away in the bank and

invest it prudently.  To that end, I was always ripping

ads out of magazines and newspapers for mutual funds

and whole life insurance, sending away for their pamphlets.

One fine day, when the show was playing Philadelphia,

I was told a visitor awaited me outside the alley, having

passed muster with one of the older clowns.  I thought

it might be a girl I had met at church the previous

Sunday, so I smoothed down my bushy hair (which

I was also using for my clown wig), spritzed myself

with some Old Spice, and hurried out, only to be met

by a shambling figure swathed in a tan raincoat, even

though it was a warm sunny day in the City of Friends.

Turns out that this palooka was with a Philadelphia

insurance company which had received one of my

inquiries. He had been assigned to track me down

and pin me with an insurance policy. He introduced

himself as Dewey Moede with a damp and flabby handshake.

Not knowing any better, I invited him into the alley.

Pulling up a folding chair, he began his spiel while

I applied the greasepaint in preparation for the day’s

merrymaking chores.

He asked my age, where I was born, did I smoke, how

much did I drink, and was I married.  He then did some

tabulations on a sheet of graph paper and produced a

document that he told me indicated I would live to the

ripe old age of eighty and that if I began investing in whole

life right now, to the tune of five dollars per week, by

the age of seventy I would have enough to live a life of ease and

comfort in a broom closet in Miami Beach. Provided there were

no hurricanes.  Or, if I preferred, I could immediately invest

twenty-thousand dollars in an annuity, which I would not

start to collect on until the age of sixty-four, and could then

look forward to three square meals a day, if I didn’t mind two

of those meals being cheese and crackers.

While I found his logic interesting, I couldn’t quite see myself

committing to five whole dollars every week.  At the time

my salary was ninety-dollars a week, and I was already putting

ten of that away in a savings account each week.

I was about to voice my hesitation when there was a loud bang

behind us.  It was just Spikawopsky, making black gunpowder

squibs and testing them out to make sure they were efficacious.

 I explained this to Mr. Moede, because he seemed suddenly

rather nervous.  I told him we went through at least two

dozen exploding squibs each show, and I had never lost more

than a few singed eyebrow hairs.  He began fiddling with his

graph paper again.  While he did, I went outside of the alley

to help Swede Johnson with the new flamethrower we had

installed in the stove we used for the baker’s gag.  A nozzle

blew powdered coffee creamer over a candle flame –

creating quite a spectacular tongue of fire, about five feet

long.  It was Mr. Moede’s misfortune to come hunting me

just as Swede squeezed the bellows after I had lit the

candle.  The resulting roar of fire caught the insurance

agent completely off guard, and before I could explain

that the flame was relatively harmless – producing minor

blisters only – he was galloping up the exit ramp of the arena,

tossing aside crumpled graph paper and blank insurance forms

like confetti.

Oh well, I thought to myself, there’s always more insurance

agents – and Sunday School girls – in the next town. . . .