“Where I come from, clowns don’t bite people,” says Matt, glaring down at me, with his arms crossed, like an asshole.
Matt is in charge here. He’s a “rehabilitation specialist” which means he gets to sit around and berate me for my supposed crimes. Matt is short, and fat, with pasty, doughy chins that droop down, covering his neck. He wears a trucker hat, un-ironically. He has never bitten anyone in his life, or made anyone laugh on purpose, and it shows. He is the opposite of a clown.
Not that all clowns bite. Obviously not, or very few people would hire us to perform at children’s parties. But I do. And that’s why I’m here, at Clown Rehab.
I try to answer Matt, but I can’t because of the ball-gag in my mouth. They placed it there as soon as I checked in, as a “precaution”. I tried to explain that the gag was completely unnecessary. After all, it’s not like I bite just anyone, at any time. I’m not a rabid animal for God’s sakes. But again, it was difficult to explain, because of the fucking rubber ball in my mouth.
The ring they made me wear buzzes. It’s an electronic ring, placed snugly around my middle finger, on my left hand. It looks like a simple black band, very plain and innocuous. But in fact, it’s anything but. It’s actually a high-tech gadget that notifies me when it’s time to go to the cafeteria, when it’s time to go to therapy, and when it’s time to go to bed. If I fail to respond to a buzz, the buzz turns into a mild shock. If I ignore a mild shock, it becomes a strong, painful shock. I have never ignored a strong, painful shock, but I assume what comes next is awful.
Matt hears the buzz and grimaces.
“Lunch time again,” he says, as if meal times were a personal affront. His girth would suggest otherwise, but I can’t say this. Ball-gag.
I nod and stand, eager to get away from him. He’s been lecturing me for the better part of an hour, and I can’t stand the sight of him much longer.
Most of the clowns are here for more ordinary reasons. They showed up to work high, or drunk, or got into serious fights with obnoxious party guests. Maybe they stole things from homes where they worked. A few clowns are here for being creepy with children.
All of those clowns are allowed to eat in the cafeteria, like human beings. I, on the other hand, am forced to eat alone, in my room, where I don’t pose a risk to anyone. A guard removes my ball-gag, while a second guard stands at the ready, holding a stun-gun in case I start chomping. They escort me into my room, where my sad plastic tray awaits me. They leave, I eat, they come and put the ball-gag back in, and we repeat the process at the next meal time.
Today my meal is mashed potatoes and gravy, with chocolate pudding in a little plastic cup. Soft foods. Nothing that requires chewing. It’s all part of my program, you see, to wean me off the urge to bite.
It’s not working.
You’ve probably heard of Clown College, or Clown Academy. There are many of them, and they all have different philosophies, and different styles. The one I attended was called The Academy of Fine Clowning, and it was strictly about classic clowning, with a focus on mime, dance, and physical comedy.
In my own clowning practice, I performed solo shows with dark themes. My stage name was Jaunty, and I wore a traditional black leotard, with white face paint. I was not a birthday party clown. I was not there to make you feel good. I was not your dancing monkey. I was an artist, and my job was to convey EMOTION. Which I did. Well.
My most intellectually complex show was called “Shrubland” and it was a psycho-sexual thriller that took place in a heavily vandalized abandoned house that was haunted by the ghost of a serial killer. As you probably guessed, I was the serial killer.
Of course, it’s frowned upon for classic performers to involve the audience in the show. It’s called “breaking the fourth wall” and it’s strictly for hacks who don’t understand art, and nasty attention whores. However, because of the brutal nature of my piece, I felt it was necessary to add a real element of danger, something to wake the audience up, to shock them out of their complacency.
Hence, the biting.
After lunch, we have mandatory Clowning With Kindness Class, which is exactly what it sounds like. Matt, thank God, is absent from these proceedings. The teacher is a practicing clown named Lulu, who comes every day in full makeup, with a bright blue fright wig, reminiscent of Marge Simpson. Lulu is all about Clowning With Kindness. Lulu wants to bring smiles and hugs to the whole world.
I very much want to bite Lulu. But I don’t. Instead, I take my seat in the back of the grimly bland classroom, tightly gagged, alone in a sea of Bozos and Timmies and Flopsies and Buddies.
“One of the most important things we can do as clowns is to make our clients smile. Let’s all think of ways we can make people smile,” says Lulu, demonstrating with her own garish, pink smile.
“We can not steal from them,” says Kiki, giving a side glance at a thieving clown sitting next to her.
“Great!” Lulu says, and writes this on the white board.
The scent of institutional marker floats back and assaults my nostrils.
“We can read the room,” says Bozo, with totally unearned confidence. After all, he is here for doing inappropriate things with bananas at a children’s party.
“Excellent,” says Lulu, adding that to her sad list.
This is what my life has become.
My jaw aches.
At night, when I’m locked in my room and expected to sleep, the gag is removed, and I’m free to close my mouth and open it as I see fit. It’s a relief, and I savor the cramping as my lips close firmly, pressing together like hands in prayer.
I reach into the slit in my mattress, where I’ve hidden several paper clips, purloined from the various classrooms I’ve been forced to sit in over the past few weeks. A paper clip, by itself, is a silly, flimsy thing. But many paper clips lumped together, and sharpened into a point, can be a formidable weapon, in the right hands.
My hands are right. And tomorrow, when the guard comes to muzzle me, he will learn just how right these hands are.
