Clowns By Tom Coombe The first clowns showed up in the south during the summer. By autumn, they’d migrated north like a plague of gypsy moths. No one knew where they came from, but they were on the news each day. There were stories of clowns stalking children and threatening schools, lurking in parking lots and chasing people with knives and swords. People fought back. Someone in Indiana shot a clown. Frat boys at Penn State picked up their golf clubs and mounted a clown hunt. Everyone at Bill’s office had an opinion. The “think of the children” types were outraged. The just-out-of-college kids thought it was funny. Bill didn’t care. He didn’t think clowns were funny or scary. “If I see one, I’m just going to be irritated,” he told Kelly, the woman he’d begun dating. “Wouldn’t it be a little scary?” she asked him. “I mean, let’s say we looked over there and a clown was watching us.” They were eating dinner at a Thai restaurant in a little town by the Delaware River. It was October, but summer had overstayed its welcome, and they were sitting outside, and Kelly pointed to a little cove of trees near the parking lot. “I mean, it would be creepy,” Bill said. “But if anyone was watching us eat, it would be creepy. The clown part would be, you know, incidental.” They left it alone after that. They told stories about their jobs and their families, and talked about movies and food and bad dates.
Bill walked her to her car and they kissed goodnight, and because they’d been out a few times, they kissed for quite awhile. “We really should do this again,” she said. “Soon.” “I’d like that. Drive safe.” “You too,” she said. Then, as he was walking away. “Watch out for cloooowwwwwwns.” She let out a mad scientist laugh (bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha) as she drove away. Bill’s house was in a neighborhood that sat near the top of a hill overlooking the rest of his city. Halfway up the hill was a set of stone steps. As Bill drove past the steps, he saw a man standing at the halfway point, lit by a streetlight. It was a clown. He — or she, Bill was too far away to tell— wore baggie overalls, a red wig and white face paint. The clown waved to Bill. The clown waved to all the passing cars, hand at shoulder level, arm swinging back and forth like a metronome. Bill slowed to a stop, pulled to the shoulder and watched, fascinated. There had been clown sightings in the city, but Bill had dismissed them, as if the paper had reported an urban legend as actual news: “Call Was Coming From Inside House, Police Say” But here was proof. Bill took out his phone and snapped a picture. He watched the clown wave for another 30 seconds before driving home.
Before he went to bed, he posted the picture on Facebook, with a note. “Look who I saw on my drive home, Kelly Clayton.” Replies started coming in soon after. Jared Devlin: Whoa. Amy Keener: Creepy. Casey Gonzalez: “We all float down here. Hehehehe.” Mark McEvoy: Call the cops? Bill Kraft: Nah. He was just waving. Kelly Clayton: NO. WAY. Lock your door LOL. Kelly Clayton: By the way, I really had fun. I meant what I said. See you soon. Bill read the last comment and smiled. He wasn’t given to smile often. He went to sleep and did not think of clowns. ** After the divorce, Bill had moved out of the suburbs and rented an old Victorian home in a blue-collar neighborhood in a small city near his job. Lilly kept their house in Glenwood Creek. She had friends there, a book club, a gym. It was close to the school where she taught third grade. He still loved her. She still loved him. She was engaged to Aaron, a friend of theirs from college. Bill didn’t mind. “We’re not happy, because you’re not happy,” she had told him three years into their marriage. She left then. He didn’t blame her. He wasn’t happy.
Bill’s doorbell rang at 5:13 a.m. After the divorce, he had rented the second floor of a Victorian home that had an old-fashioned mechanical twist bell, as old as the house itself. He didn’t get many visitors or deliveries, and only heard the bell’s tired sound — half buzzing, half chime — a handful of times. Bzzzzzing! Bzzzzzing! He wobbled downstairs to the front door, playing a queasy game of “Who Could It Be?” His landlord, telling him there was a gas leak or some other emergency. The police, here to break terrible news. A criminal, trying some ruse to break into the house. But he found none of those things. Whoever had turned the buzzer was long gone. They had left behind a plastic shopping bag. The bag was open, and Bill could see its contents: a red foam nose, a bright blue wig, and a small jar of white makeup. He picked up the bag and brought it inside. After showering and shaving, he smeared the white makeup across his face. “I’m going to be a clown,” he thought. Instead of the usual khakis and dress shirt combo he wore for work, he put on his brightest t-shirt, a pair of jeans that hung loose on him, and a hideous yellow and brown sports coat his grandfather had owned.
Then he fit the wig over his thinning hair, popped on the red nose. It all seemed perfectly natural. Instead of driving to the office, he walked his neighborhood. The sun was up and kids were walking to school. He smiled and said hello in his normal voice. He waved to his neighbors and petted a passing dog. The man walking the dog lived across the street from Bill. His name was Rick or Ron. They said hello sometimes. “You supposed to be one of those scary clowns?” asked Rick or Ron. Bill thought about it, and said: “Clowns aren’t scary. At least I’m not,” Bill said. “I’m going to be a helpful clown.” It was 8:40 now. Bill was 10 minutes late for work and called in sick. “Must be an epidemic,” his boss said. “A lot of people are out today.” Still in his clown make-up, he drove to the homeless shelter and donated some bags of old clothing. On the sidewalk outside the shelter, he encountered a group of pre-school students with their teacher. The kids gawped at him. The teachers were wary. “I’m not one of those clowns,” Bill told them. He took out a dollar and showed them the only magic trick he knew, folding and unfolding the bill so it looked as if George Washington had turned upside down. A few kids said “Wow.” As he got back into his car, two police officers stopped him. In movies and on TV, cops always came in mismatched pairs: one old, one young, one white, one black, one tall, one short.
The police in Bill’s city all seemed to have been hired out of the same family of medium-sized, shaven-head men in their 30s. “Sir, can we see some ID?” one of them asked. His name plate said “Huben.” “What’s this about?” Bill asked. “Are you kidding? It’s about you dressing up as a clown. Don’t you watch the news?” said the other one, whose name plate said “Marhon.” “I’m not one of those clowns. I’m a friendly clown,” said Bill, digging his wallet from his baggy jeans and handing over his ID. “‘William Kraft.’ Do they call you Bill? Bill the Clown?” Huben said, looking at Bill’s license. “I’m just Bill. I wanted to just, I don’t know, try this. I don’t have a stage name or anything.” “Look, Bill, this is a bad idea,” Huben said. “College kids are basically hunting you guys. You come out here when the bars let out, it might get ugly.” Bill drove home. He kept his clown makeup on and did some work and made supper. When it got dark, he took the trash to the curb. A clown was waiting in his driveway. He wore a dirty grey suit over a banana colored shirt. His make-up was cracked and smeared, his lips the red of a cartoon poker. Bill expected him to have a high pitched, silly voice, but when he spoke, his cadence was as flat as a dial tone. “I’m Jingle,” he said. “I see you got our package.” “Yeah. I’m still not sure what made me put it on,” Bill said.
“None of us know why,” the clown said. “We just do it. But you’re doing it wrong.” “What do you mean?” “You went out among the people today. We don’t do that,” said Jingle. “We are not of them. We are outside them.” “Maybe you are. I’m not,” Bill said. “I’m going to be a friendly clown.” “You can’t do that,” Jingle said. “We are not friendly. We lurk. We wait. We-” “I’m going to do what I want. I think I like being a clown. I don’t want to scare people. Clowns aren’t even really scary. Goodnight.” He turned and walked back inside, and left Jingle hissing his dark clown manifesto in the driveway. ** The next morning, Bill woke, showered, and applied fresh make-up. He added an old hat his grandfather had owned to his clown ensemble. He called his office, but no one answered. He logged onto Twitter and noticed #ImAClownNow was trending. Hundreds of people had posted tweets with the hashtag, most of them sharing photos of themselves in clown make up. They were college students and retirees, fast food workers and hedge fund managers. There was the anchor on one of the morning news shows and a rising star in the NBA.
The second most popular trending topic: #NoClowns.
@NeganinMD: “I see a clown he's getting stomped. #NoClowns” @MissMollyJ34: “So my brother is apparently one of those scary clown guys now. #NoClowns” On Facebook, he saw that his cousin Brian, his college roommate and his boss had all posted pictures of themselves with their faces painted. Lilly put up a picture of herself and Aaron with Aaron’s tiny son Devon. “I guess we’re clowns now. #NotSureHowThisHappened #SchoolShouldBeInteresting The doorbell rang, followed by a cautious knock. Kelly waited on his front porch. She wore her usual work clothes — blazer, blouse, jeans — but no clown make up. “I’m not kissing you like that,” she said. “You don’t seem surprised.” “Do you watch the news? Half the country is doing this. Why should you be any different?” She smiled a little and said: “I guess it is pretty ironic, given our conversation the other night.” “Well, actually, it would only be ironic if -” “Please don’t do that. I’m here because I’m worried about you. If you go out lurking around, someone’s going to shoot you.” “I was outside, and I didn’t lurk. I talked to people. I did a stupid magic trick for some pre-school kids, and donated clothes to the homeless shelter. I don’t know why I put on this make-up. But I felt good.”
“I just worry that some of these ‘No Clowns’ people won’t tell the difference. I like you Bill. I really do. I…I just don’t know about this.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek, then wiped her lips. “I need to think. We’ll talk soon.” He let her go. If she had shown up in clown make-up, he’d need to think too. He decided to go downtown again and headed to his car. The clomp of running footsteps filled the morning quiet. Jingle was sprinting toward him, followed by a group of men. They were yelling at Jingle has he ran. “Fucking CLOWN!” “Freak!” “Stay away from our kids!” Jingle ran past him and the angry men followed. Three of them saw Bill and stopped. “There’s another one!” “No. No. He’s OK. He’s cool,” It was Ron or Rick, the neighbor with the dog. The men considered this, then took off after Jingle. Someone clattered through the trashcans in the alley. Bill drove to the town square. He waved and said hello to everyone he saw. A few of them wore clown make-up. In college, he had memorized a monologue from Macbeth for an English class. Now he stood on a bench and began to recite.
People gathered around. There was polite applause when he finished. He told them every joke he knew, silly knock-knocks from grade school and a rambling shaggy-dog story about three men at the gates of heaven. He stood on the bench telling stories and jokes until the sun began to go down. Some people put money in his hat.