TICKLES THE CLOWN

TIM HANAN

---

  Tickles the Clown had been in the Marines. He had seen things he would rather forget. Sometimes he would wake up in a cold sweat, convinced he was back there. However, things were getting better. A lengthy and painful therapeutic process had led him to the discovery that becoming a party clown was the solution to his problems. When he put on the make-up, it was as if he became another person. A happier, warmer, friendlier person.  A person who liked children, which had never been the case before. Even when he had been one.
     And so he had trained as a clown, taking workshops with a clowning troupe. Why did clowning help? Maybe it was that the uniform was an inversion of his previous one. The make-up was a mask, but a freeing one. Or maybe it was something else. Tickles wasn't a psychiatrist. The important thing was, it worked. He had also tried drag, but didn't take to it. For one thing, he didn't like the way it made him look.
     Clowning was different, though he never would have guessed it would become a career.
     Among the people already in his life, not many knew about it. Not that he was ashamed, it was just easier not to bring it up. He probably would, sooner or later, but not yet. He found his few former Marine buddies the most sympathetic--they all had or were looking for ways to cope, and knew on some level where he was coming from. Otherwise, his only real confidante was his sister. She was the only surviving relative that he was still in touch with, and the person who got him his first few jobs. It had been over a year now. He was almost an old hand--a veteran, he sometimes joked--but he could still be taken by surprise every so often.
     This one time, he went to what seemed like a pretty typical children's party. The parents both greeted him before the party started. The father seemed nervous, which Tickles had learned to expect. He had encountered parents before who had a fear of clowns. Usually, they would avoid him. One guy tried to pick a fight. He hadn't met any children yet that were scared of him. Presumably, when it came to children, people checked ahead of time.    With parents, it wasn't considered necessary, or else it was assumed they would hold up just fine.
This dad held up fine. He laughed a little too hard and his wife held his hand, tight, while he spoke to Tickles. He was good. Tickles almost wanted to congratulate him, but it was unlikely he would take it as a compliment.
     He had arrived in costume, but the procedure usually was to go outside, or to a vacant room, until his services were required.    But before this could happen, more parents came to drop off their children. One woman, Bernice, seemed especially excited to meet a clown, about as excited as her son was indifferent. Laughing even more than the father who was hosting the party (and surreptitiously hiding at the far end of the kitchen), she touched his costume, and asked if he had a flower that sprayed water, and if he would spray it on her.
     Slightly embarrassed, he did as she asked. She seemed to enjoy it.
     More people began to arrive, so he went to the room he had been allotted, where his equipment was. He was surprised, on opening the door, to see a boy in there. They stared at each other for a moment.
     "The party's downstairs", said Tickles, and the boy shuffled out past him and down the stairs.
                                                                         ***
     Twenty minutes later, Tickles also went downstairs. The party proceeded in much the same fashion as they usually did. Most of the children and some of the adults seemed to enjoy the show. Balloon animals were birthed, people got wet, and when it was all over, he went back to the room upstairs.
     He was changing his clothes when he noticed his wallet was missing. He went through his things three times and couldn't find it. Searching desperately around him, he saw it, open, on the floor by the door. He picked it up and looked through it. His cards were still there but he was missing all his cash.
     Remembering the boy he had encountered, he hastily placed the wallet in his pocket and hurried downstairs. Maybe the boy's parents would be there.
     They were. But on seeing them, he realized it would be a mistake to confront them or the child, so he went to the hostess.
     "I don't want to cause any trouble, but I'm missing the money from my wallet."
     "What?"
     She looked into the wallet.
     "I don't know what to say," she said. "I can't imagine anyone here doing that."
     "I know who did it," he said, "But like I said, I don't want to cause any trouble."
     "Are they here?"
     He gestured towards the boy who had been in the room, who was at this moment quite clearly watching them out of the corner of his eye.
     "I saw him in the room before the party started," said Tickles. "It might have been someone else, but I'm sure it was him."
     She frowned, and patted him on the shoulder.
     "You wait here," she said. "I'll take care of this."
     She went over to the boy and his parents. Tickles took a deep breath. Suddenly, he heard a voice behind him.
     "Hi there!"
     He turned to see Bernice.
     "It is you," she said, "Isn't it?"
     "Yes," he said, smiling. He suddenly felt a bit safer seeing a friendly face.
     "I saw some of your act," she said. "It was great." "Thanks."
     "I might actually, um... I might want to book you for something, if you're interested."
     "Definitely. I have a card--" He reached into his pockets but a hand grabbed him and swung him around.    It was the boy's father.
     "What the hell are you saying about my son?" the man said. "How dare you throw accusations around?"
     Tickles focused on his breathing, remaining calm. "All I'm saying is, I saw him in the room--"
     "So what? Anyone could have gone in there! Maybe you faked it! Thought you could get a little extra money by accusing an innocent child, is that it?"
     The man was standing very close now and kept poking Tickles with an indignant index finger.
     "Please don't poke me like that," said Tickles, "I'm just--"
     "Don't you tell me what to do, you clown!"
     The man gave him a shove, and Tickles instinctively hit him back, knocking him on the ground. The room went silent.
     "I'm so sorry..." Tickles reached down to help him up, but the man slapped at his hand, and slowly got up himself, yelling heatedly about assault and lawsuits. The hostess tried to calm him down and looked at Tickles apologetically.
     "I think you should go," she said.
     He nodded. As he left the house, he could feel all their eyes on him, and his career in clowning coming to an end.
                                                                         ***
     When he got back to his flat, he was at a loss for what to do. Finally, in an attempt to unwind, he exercised and showered, and then he cleaned. He went out with some friends and drank and complained, and came home and passed out. The next morning, he was woken up by the sound of the phone ringing. It was the hostess. She apologized about the previous day, and he apologized for punching one of her guests. He was hoping she would say his money had been returned, but she couldn't get the father to agree to anything. She was relieved she had been able to talk him out of a lawsuit, and Tickles sympathized.
     He had no parties to attend today, so he stayed home and looked through the job ads until he got another phone-call.
     This was from Bernice, who told him the hostess had given her his number. She seemed very concerned.
     "How much money was it?" she asked. "About 500", he said.
     "Oh my God. I bet that little shit did steal it. I've heard some stories about him. His parents just make excuses for him too. I'm so sorry."
     "It's fine," said Tickles. "To be honest, I'm more worried about word getting out about this. It might stop me from getting work, and I really need this job."
     "Oh, of course!" said Bernice. "I'm sure nothing like that will happen. Actually, I might have a job for you.
     Would you like to meet up sometime and have a talk?"
     This was unexpected--Usually, people would just give him a date and ask if he was available, but Tickles wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth.
     "Sure," he said.
     "Are you doing anything tomorrow?"
                                                                         ***
     The following evening, he found himself waiting in a bar. When Bernice arrived, she was dressed as if she was going for a job interview. Tickles started to think something was up here. But once she recognized him, she was friendly, and insisted on buying him a drink. It was the least she could do, she said. So she bought him a drink, and then another.
     They talked about themselves for a while. He told her about his past, without talking too much about the PTSD, and she talked about her life, her recent divorce, and her son, who she was devoted to. He asked about the party, and she said she was hoping to arrange it for the next week or two, and then asked if he had a range of costumes, or if it was always the same one.
     "It's always the same face," he said, "but there are a few different outfits."
     "Could I see them?"
     He didn't usually sample his outfits for people, but she seemed pretty eager, and he was less than sober and less than inclined to say no. They ended up going back to his place, and the rest was a blur.
                                                                         ***
     When he woke up the next morning, he had a headache. She was gone, but there was an envelope on the bedside table. On the outside was written: "I'm sorry, I had to go, but I'll call you. I felt so guilty about what happened that I had to give you something."
     Inside the envelope was money.
     Still holding the envelope, he went to get a painkiller.
     He threw it back in front of the bathroom mirror, and then caught his reflection. He was in his full clown gear from the waist up, with the make-up on, if a little clumsily applied.
     Obviously she had done it for him. He looked at the money, a few hundred bucks, and at his reflection again.
          ​Bernice's party never did happen, but at least his career wasn't over.