"Coulrophobia" is fear of clowns. Clowns scared me as a kid, watching in horror as dozens scampered from a very tiny car, hitting each other in the face with a board. Why the hitting? Why?! Make it stop! Why?!!?
I still find clowns, and children's party entertainers in general, just plain creepy. Maybe it's the horror of a lurking stranger behind makeup and a fixed smile, maybe it's the disturbingly floppy shoes. Why do clowns inspire such awe, and such fear? I need to find out why! Immediately! Yes, I shall become a children's birthday party clown and hit the circuit!
Future colleagues.
Like a burning bush sent from heaven bearing a comically oversized red nose, I come across this ad in the SF Bay Guardian:
Earn $100-$200 a weekend entertaining at children's parties as characters or clowns. Call Josh
Fumbling for the phone, I call the listed number. "Can I speak to Josh?"
"Hold on, he's got on big floppy shoes and a red nose and just walked in," spouts a mean-sounding man. Presumably he gives me these details to confirm that I will be talking with an actual clown.
I give Josh a few phony clown credentials, and he grants me a prized interview in San Leandro -- a godawful industrial suburb right by Oakland Airport.
The next day, I arrive at "Clown Central," a depressing warehouse under a freeway overpass, snugly situated next to a towing yard, a sheet metal shop, and some sort of plastic factory. This is the lowest link in the clown food chain.
I wear a polka dot shirt, so it'll be easy to envision me as a clown. A large, weirdly proportioned man comes to the metal door.
"Hi, I'm here for a clown interview!" I say, noting that his hair, if bright red, would make him look just like Bozo the Clown.
He grunts, and leads me in. With a walk suggesting he's worn a lot of floppy shoes in his lifetime, I follow Bozo inside the failing clown headquarters.
"I'm the crying-on-the-inside type of clown, I guess."
"Why do you want to be a clown?" Bozo asks with pure bitterness, perhaps from being sprayed too many times in the face with a seltzer bottle.
I pull a colored object from my pocket. "Before we start, do you mind if I put this on?" I exclaim, firmly sticking a red nose in the center of my face. Bozo neither laughs, nor seems fazed by these antics.
"Most people see $42 an hour and think it's easy money," he sneers, fumbling for clown applications.
"Not me. I REALLY love clowning!"
Bozo pauses for a moment. "Do you want to be a manager?" he asks from nowhere.
Without missing a beat, I blurt, "Sure!" I'm getting the feeling that I'm the only person who's ever applied for this job. I tell Bozo about my manager experience at a non-existent restaurant called "Happy Burger," then I follow him into a room full of clown outfits, Teletubby costumes, and Pokemon heads.
"Why don't you fill out the application in your ... NEW OFFICE!" he says. This is becoming plain odd! I put my feet up on "my" new desk as I answer such questions as:
- Do clowns scare you?
- Why do you want to be a clown?
- Have you ever worn a red nose?
I ace the interview. Bozo gets on the phone with the president of the failing clown company. "...Yeah, he's had clown experience and was manager of a Jack In The Box."
I'm put on the phone with the clown president. He explains I'll be responsible for hiring other clowns. Yes!
We hang up the phone. "The president is in L.A., that's where the headquarters are," Bozo explains. "It's the headquarters of porn," he continues, in a marvelous non-sequitur. Bozo rambles on a while about porn, then adds, "We'll teach you everything you need to know in an hour!"
Little did I know my clown education would take a lifetime.
Please continue to Part 2: Clown Boot Camp!
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