Clowns

I spontaneously bought tickets to the circus one morning because I hadn't been to one since I was a kid. I bought two tickets, then drove over to surprise the man I had been happily dating for a couple of years and ask him to go with me. I didn't need to knock first, but this time I did. Heavy red velvet curtains were closed over the windows, although it was already noon. I waited and he answered the door looking pale and feverish. Something was off. He was surprised to see me and looked like he was recovering from something worse than a hangover. He let me in and we sat down on the blue velour couch that I suspected his roommate had moved from his college dorm. The only light in the room was from a distant kitchen window. I asked him what happened and he said he was out late at a party. He wasn't giving any more information. He was wearing a thick gold chain I had given him several Christmases ago, lying over a tank top, damp with the same sickly sweat as his face. The last time I was there, I had left a pint of my favorite peanut butter ice cream in the freezer, and I stood up and walked back into the kitchen. I opened the freezer and the ice cream container was gone. Figures. You can't expect to leave something like that in a guy's freezer and expect it to be there later. I started back to the living room and froze when I caught movement through his open bedroom door. Sitting in his bed eating my ice cream was my replacement. I turned away and immediately walked out in shock. I drove a few blocks to the cliffs and sat watching the waves crash on the beach below: the glare of the sun, the drawn curtains, the sea foam, the sweat, the gulls chasing retreating waves over the sand, the open bedroom door.

I lost track of time until the squinting and salty air burned my eyes and I needed to get out of the sun. I drove to the circus venue and went inside alone to console myself with greasy, over-salted popcorn. From my hard bleacher I could see several circus acts going on at once, but everything seemed distant and uninteresting. I found myself watching the other spectators instead, mainly the variety of ways the children were enjoying themselves. The adults laughed with the kids. I did not. I kept eating the popcorn although I was nauseous. I reached in my pocket for a napkin and pulled out the unused ticket instead. I imagined people may have wondered why I chose to go to the circus alone. Generally, I'm too self-conscious to go to a public event by myself and have never even gone to a movie alone because I thought I would feel friendless. But today I was truly friendless and did not feel anything.

Sometimes it's lonelier to be with someone than to be by yourself. I forced myself to acknowledge the ways he had not been a pleasant companion. He was the hyperactive life of the party and drained all the energy out of me doing it. He needed to fill every silence and was always trying to impress people for approval. This type of person wants you to think they're flawless and may eventually convince themselves it's true, becoming unable to accept anything that suggests otherwise. When a person lies about themself, like anything else, it gradually becomes easier to lie. And the more convinced they become that a lie is true, the harder the lie is for someone else to detect. The more honest the listener is, the less likely they are to realize they're being lied to in the first place, especially if it's about the simplest things. I thought back to the time he told me that when he was a small child, one time he was standing on the side stoop of their house with his big sister. His sister was holding a piece of gum behind her back. She asked him to "pick a hand," and if he picked correctly, he would get the gum. He pointed to one of her arms and she pulled that arm forward and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. It's kid stuff. It could have happened, except I found out later that he was an only child.

I was still turning this over in my mind when the clowns came out. Where do you draw the line between trusting what people tell you and being gullible, or questioning what they tell you and becoming suspicious, skeptical, or accusatory? The clowns began interacting with the children, much to the kids' enjoyment. I never liked clowns. They're on the same level of creepy as old dolls. They're made to amuse people, yet it seems they may know things about us or do things that affect us when we're not aware. We are never the wiser, because when we look at them, they can stare off in silent disguise. Sometimes if you look away from a clown or a doll you can almost fool it. It thinks you are preoccupied with your own thoughts and it starts to play its haunting games. Then you snap your head back when least expected, and you can almost catch it before it gets back behind its innocent gaze. I realize many a child has been comforted by such a confidante, appreciating a listener and the sincerity with which it treasures secrets, but I'm sure it's rare to find one that doesn't deceive when it's left alone.

I finally realized why many of the littlest kids seemed to think the clowns were the best part of the circus. The clowns are the only event that brings the action right up to the bleachers and captures everyone's attention. The happy clowns were well received because these kids didn't come to a circus to watch someone cry or be sad. One happy clown walked past, then shortly afterward turned and walked back. He was now a sad clown. He stopped and looked up into the crowd. Half of his face was painted happy and the other half sad, which I found hauntingly appropriate. Depending on which direction he turned, we saw a different clown. From one side he looked delighted to be there; from the other, he looked miserable. Neither face was a disguise for the other. They were both painted on him for everyone to see.

I had spent years looking at one side of someone and, until that morning, it hadn't occurred to me there might be another. Maybe that was why I felt drawn to this clown. There was honesty in showing both sides. People are remarkably good at convincing themselves they're happy. A roller coaster gives you a tremendous thrill on the first drop, then leaves you wanting another, so you get back in line and do it again. Some people live that way, always chasing the next thrill without stopping long enough to wonder whether they're truly satisfied. Others convince themselves they're having fun because it's easier to live with the circumstances than to instigate change. Maybe the person inside this clown wasn't sure whether they were happy or sad. It struck me that they weren't faking either one. I didn't mind looking at this clown. Maybe he was waiting for someone to figure out that both sides were real. I did. Many clowns may feel sad, but they put on the faces of happy clowns to win the hearts of spectators. If they become truly unhappy, no one may believe them because the smile is perpetually plastered on their faces. By then they may be surrounded by people who only know the painted face. Taking it off risks losing everyone who was attracted to it in the first place, so the disguise becomes harder to remove.

When all the other clowns go to the dressing room to remove their makeup and go back to their roller coaster lives, they will not see this clown at the mirror. This clown has no makeup to remove. He does not hide in a dark corner lamenting, then jump out with a big smile and betray someone who believed it. He moves through the world as himself, willing to risk being known. When the circus ended, I stepped outside into the sunlight. I wandered up and down the rows of cars, realizing I hadn't taken note of where I parked in the confused state I was in when I arrived. I reached for my key fob and pulled it out along with the extra circus ticket. I pushed the lock button on my fob and heard the short horn from my truck nearby. I walked toward it and dropped the torn ticket into the trash.