Fast Sunday at Ringling Brothers Circus

I was always hungry as a young clown

“Hurry up, Tork! We’ll be late for the matinee!” said Tim Holst to me, as we scurried
through the loading dock of Madison Square Garden in New York City. Running
past the baleful glare of Charlie Baumann, the Ringling Brothers Performance Director,
who glanced significantly at his Rolex as we sped by, Holst and I dived into clown alley

to slap on the greasepaint as quick as possible that spring Sunday in 1972. We had
taken an Express by mistake, instead of the Local, and had to backtrack our way through
the baffling New York City subway system to the Madison Square Garden exit.

We had lingered at the Manhattan LDS Branch, near Central Park, after Fast and
Testimony meeting that morning to visit with several young people our own age.
They were fascinated with our career as First of May clowns with the circus. Holst
zeroed in on a tall blonde gal, giving her the standard nitty gritty about tanbark living.
I cozied up to a short little number with black hair and dark sparkling eyes, named Alice
Hassan. We discovered that each were the only members of the LDS faith in our
respective families. Alice’s family was Jewish, and treated her conversion with
severe disapproval. My family was lapsed Catholic on my mother’s side and don’t
give a damn on my father’s side. They figured that after joining the circus I was capable
of any kind of infamy, so joining the LDS Church hadn’t bothered them much. To them,
I was already a Lost Cause.

“I enjoyed your testimony in church today” Alice told me shyly, sending
a perfumed breeze my way with her fluttering eyelashes.

“That was the first time I ever did it!” I told her breathlessly. Which was true.
I’d been a baptized member of the church for six months, but hadn’t got up
the chutzpah to bear my testimony in Fast and Testimony meeting until that
particular Sunday.  The LDS Church reserves one Sunday a month for members

to forgo all food and drink for 24 hours and invites them to take the stand to bear
brief witness of their gospel convictions for about an hour after the passing of the
Sacrament. While fasting, members are encouraged to pray for any special
blessings they may need. I always said a private silent prayer for whatever
miracle the Lord wanted to send me -- riches, fame, a girlfriend, or a compliment
from one of the veteran clowns about my comic ability.

Holst had been pestering me in a playful manner to get up and bear my testimony
ever since he had baptized me back in Sarasota, Florida. But the thought of standing
before a congregation of complete strangers to speak of my innermost convictions
made my heart shrink. Holst did it every month without fail. But then, as far as I
could tell, he never knew fear. He’d been an LDS missionary in Sweden for two
years; had auditioned for the Ringling Clown College twice -- after being turned
down the first time and insisting he be given a second chance --
and the week after we started rehearsals in Winter Quarters he had cornered
Harold Ronk, the ringmaster, and talked his way into becoming his understudy.

He finally motivated me, there in the Manhattan Branch that Sunday,
by whispering in my ear:

“The girls will be all over you once you tell ‘em your conversion story.”

And, by the Great Horn Spoon, he was right! I stuttered and stammered

my way through a terse statement about my belief in Joseph Smith and the
Book of Mormon, gulping like a goldfish all the while, and then quickly sat down.
Afterwards, as mentioned above, I hit things off with Alice -- to the extent that I
invited her down to the Garden to catch the show that evening. I didn’t mention
that I’d have to sneak her in through the service elevator, since Baumann,
in his heavy German accent, said Annie Oakleys (free passes) for Madison
Square Garden were strictly verboten to the lowly clowns. The schweinhund.

While it can’t compare to what observant Muslims go through during their
month-long Ramadan, which, if I understand correctly, forbids them to eat or
drink from sunrise to sunset every day, still, the absence of all food and drink
for 24 hours was a punishing trial to me. At 18 I was tall and skinny and always
hungry. Clowning is hard physical labor. I had a dozen costume changes and
ran the equivalent of several miles during each show -- not to mention the exertion
involved in throwing pies, getting sloshed with buckets of water, and doing
pratfalls and tumbles by the dozen. I had to get my bulky clown shoes,
which weighed three pounds each, resoled twice during that first season
with Ringling.

Besides which, there was an unwelcome addition to our toil peculiar to the
Garden. Rats. Not just any old rats, but New York rats -- with an Attitude.
They built nests in our clown trunks overnight. They chewed holes in our clown
shoes and ate our greasepaint if we unwisely left it out. And they scurried overhead,
balancing on the steam pipes, dropping filth on our heads. So every day we started
our work by chivvying rats out of our trunks and out of our curtained off section
under the seats and chasing them with push brooms as far as the Bulgarian’s
dressing area -- it was understood that Bulgarians were not averse to an
occasional dish of Rattus rattus paprikash. And we shot them off the
steam pipes with bb guns. Or rather I should say, me and the other First
of Mays did all the rat chasing. It was dirty and disgusting labor --
and it did nothing to suppress my appetite.

So this particular Fast Sunday, as Holst and I whipped past the frowning
Baumann, I was already parched and famished -- and wondering when
I would get a chance to break my onerous fast. And how to pay for it. I’d
left my wallet back at the train in my roomette. And a simple hotdog and
Coke at the Garden, even back in those halcyon days, cost several dollars.
The pie car sent over a portable buffet cart which offered chili beans,
vegetable soup, and anemic ham sandwiches -- but they absolutely
refused to extend any credit, especially to a deplorable First of May like me.

I didn’t want to ask Holst for any money. I was already in hock to him
for twenty bucks. We’d been browsing at the Strand Bookstore earlier
in the week; I’d discovered a pristine copy of Gene Fowler’s biography of
Mack Sennett, Father Goose, which I lusted after immoderately. This
was before the days of Amazon, when bookstores could squeeze a bibliophile
like me for an unconscionable amount of mazuma for a scarce volume.
They wanted twenty for the book; I didn’t have twenty; I asked Holst for twenty;
he loaned it to me. And the book was a very, very, good read, so I didn’t regret the debt.

Well, it took me all of ten minutes to get made up and dressed for come-in,
the audience warm up before the show proper started. My whiteface
was uncomplicated, even stark -- I only used white, red, and black
greasepaint. No fooling with rubber noses or fancy schmancy rhinestones on my chin.
Then it was out in front of the growing crowd, doing Bigger and Bigger
with Swede Johnson and helping Prince Paul drag his oversized
mousetrap into center ring for the last gag before Otto Griebling
came out, banging on two battered old tin plates, to finish come-in.
Although there was no rule about it, all of clown alley silently and swiftly
left the arena once Otto came out -- in respect for his years and
unique talent. He could hold a crowd of twenty thousand all by himself ---
something no other Ringling clown had been allowed to do since Slivers Oakley
back in 1912.

FOOD!

It was all I could think about during the matinee, and when I went down to
find Alice and bring her up in the service elevator for the evening show
I was a mere slavering husk. I found her an unoccupied seat and scampered
back to clown alley, promising to meet her right after I’d taken off my makeup.

FOOD!

Holst got himself a cheese pizza between shows, and ate the whole

thing in one sitting, with a side of pepperoncini and a large bottle of
Dr Brown’s Cream Soda. He did not offer to share it with me. I did the
evening show with my tongue cleaving to the roof of my mouth.
I wiped off my makeup with a palmful of baby oil and took a quick
shower. Then presented myself to Alice, who was waiting in her illicit seat.

FOOD!

I didn’t bother to compliment her on her looks or thank her for coming
or nothin’ else. I asked her if there was a place, any kind of a place,
nearby where we could get a bite to eat. Anyplace. A Chock full ‘o Nuts
greasy spoon -- anything at all. And if she would mind paying for it.
I was beyond feeling bound to the normal social contract. I had to eat,
and all my shame and good breeding evaporated.

This lovely girl, my beautiful Alice, pulled up a brown paper shopping bag
from beside her seat and took out:

A large square of baked noodle kugel wrapped in tin foil

A loaf of fresh marble rye

A small plastic tub of Bismarck herring

A bottle of marinated artichoke hearts

A thermos of matzoh ball soup

And a large brick of chocolate covered halvah

My Fast Sunday miracle had arrived at last. I devoured every last crumb,
escorted Alice back to her lodgings at the YWHA, where we made out
on the couch in the lobby until nearly four in the morning.

good old Tim Holst