I was infiltrating the world of professional clowns [Read Part 1 here], and now entering my training phase -- or as I would later call it, "Clown Boot Camp."
This is what happens when clowns don't have proper access to birth control.
"Have you ever been to jail?" crudely asks the president of the failing clown company, whose manner could easily pass for the head of a snuff-film ring.
"No!" I say with conviction.
"I'll have my detective check this out," he says, waving my fake, embellished application. Have criminal party clowns been a major problem in the past? Maybe. Outside, the other applicants look partially sketchy. This vocation is a fringe occupation, like dock worker or prison guard. Other clowns must turn up their red noses at these buffoons; they're not even worthy for supermarket openings.
"Our biggest problem is performers quitting on us," explains the failing clown company president.
"How many regular clowns do you have working for you?" I venture to ask.
"Three," he says with pure bitterness. "There's a high turnover rate in clowning."
My basic balloon animal portfolio.
At 2:00, I meet Josh; a goofy guy with glasses. He's going to lead me in clown training. Like Mr. Miagi teaching the Karate Kid, I learn the wax-on/wax-off of children's party clownmanship. First comes the backbone of the art form, which is balloon animal construction. Sadly, I can't even tie a balloon, let alone form it into a shape.
"What if a balloon pops?" I ask. "What do you say, 'Look, it's a dead dog!'?"
"No!" he says without humor. "You say something like, 'Oh look, the balloon popped!'"
"Can I wear an eyepatch with my outfit?" I inquire. Josh ponders the notion, then says it wouldn't be a good idea.
"Can I give my clown a name?"
"Sure."
"Okay, which name do you like best? Bubbles, Twinkles, or ... Trevor?" I Coleridge an eyebrow.
Josh doesn't go for Trevor the Clown, then spends the next half-hour berating my balloon animals.
The next morning I get the call from Bozo. "Josh said you had trouble with the balloon animals."
Becoming indignant, I hold my ground. "Clowning isn't all balloon animals," I bitch like a queen. Point made, I'm told to be at clown headquarters Saturday afternoon at 11:00 a.m. sharp to suit up and fling into action. Now I'll be doing balloon animals for real. The children's party circuit awaits!
Please continue to Part 3: My First Party!
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