Tribulations of a Clown

One picturesque autumn evening I happily stroll down the brightly lit thoroughfare of my latest home—the exotically intriguing carnival midway.

With a wondrous sense of freedom, my inner child is in fine form tonight, giddily lost in a perfect ecstasy of colors. I watch the kaleidoscope of lights and astounding sights as I mosey-on down the brightly lit and bustling boulevard. Since it’s my only night off, there’s no clowning around today; This is strictly ME time.

A night for tasty food and thrills. Free to enjoy the wonders of the midway without the burdens of working on it. Loosened from the bonds of my absurdly unusual job, I easily blend with the crowd, jostling and pushing through with the best of them (or the very worst). I act just as obnoxiously as they do, perhaps even slightly moreso.

I go by the name Johnny D, and I’m presently a carnival clown and certainly not the only one around. There are a few of us lurking here and there. Now ya see us, now ya don’t. As quickly as a discarded colored hairpiece and tossed red nose, we suddenly become one of you, a normal person, or 'rubes', as we label the perpetually captive customers. They are captured not by chains or bars, but by wonder and chance.

The barkers, these are the boisterous slicksters running the not-so-subtly rigged games. The booming alluring voices boldly beckoning you with tales of prizes and personal glory, just for the petty cash in your pockets. Y’all know it’s only hopes and shadows, shallow as a puddle, but as rubes, you still choose to play our games regardless. But the joke's on you, you’ll never win unless you know our secrets, or are extremely lucky, and yes, there are certainly secrets here. Loosely guarded ones, yet even in winning you still lose, trust me.

After all, knowing how to beat our shoddily-rigged games in which the prizes are of far less value than the investment to play, those types of secrets are not worth even being secrets! These are common knowledge among my particular tribe, my fellow carnies. My brothers and sisters (and otherwise), all of us masterfully perform our roles for a common cause. Profit of course, as well as to enthrall you as we bilk your wallets and purses. That’s always a thrill for us, contributing to your cheap moments of joy.

Yes, without a doubt you are going to be scammed. You know that, and we know you know it. There’s no doubt about that. It’s just never discussed. With leers and false camaraderie, we joke, laugh, and hand you your coveted worthless prize, or not. "So sorry kid, better luck next time! Why not try again?" All said while slyly extending our palm for another dollar. It's a cotton-pickin' guarantee you will feel utter jubilation while tightly gripping the oversized comb you have just won for your crumpled greasy dollar, though the junk you've won is only worth a paltry nickel-if that.

Whether you toss a baseball, throw a plastic ring, sling a dart, or chuck a ping pong ball to terrify a poor captive goldfish, you were always going to lose one way or another. Even if you actually win you lose. Yet you will remain utterly pleased about it all. At least you tried right? Your game is to win our worthless petty prizes, and our game is to win your money! So as soon as you pay, we've just won your valuable dollar, while you try to win useless valueless junk-Thank you very much! Its as simple as that.

Ya aren’t really here for the prizes and never were. Rubes enter our midway for the lights, the crowds, the colors, thrills and the grand show of it all. You are here for the full experience, which I guarantee you shall never forget. The measly prizes will be lost or discarded within a mere day, but not the memory and thrill of the win. That part stays with you all your lives.

We carnies are a tribe unto ourselves, united on the midway both in cause and often ideology. We prize freedom over all and profit comes a close second only to the aforementioned freedom. We love staying on the move, a trait also common among our kind.

For now, I am drinking it all in. The lights, sounds, smells, and certainly the chaos. For me, that’s the most fun part of my momentary profession. Every night a plethora of crazy dramas and comedies unfold upon the midway grounds.

Dressed as I am, no one not working with the carnival recognizes my casual attire and look. For tonight I’m just another nobody meandering my way down the wide bustling midway, lost in a wave of pleasure-seeking rubes. My fellow carnies that do recognize me subtly nod, almost like our own secret language. They are too busy cajoling, beckoning, and eternally promising cheap wonders to the wandering crowds, who are themselves seeking thrills. Though what they do find are mostly underwhelming, never as good or quite as fun as promoted and indeed promised, and that’s ok. For both sides.

Though the old paint fades and peels, the rides often creak, the games are rigged, and there's trash perpetually underfoot, you don't really care, because you'll still get your thrills.

We’ve done our work, setting it all up and acting our parts, just for you the audience. You know, the ones paying in greasy crumpled bills? Yep. That’s your role, to come and see, and try your luck. We both have parts to play, and I daresay we carnies are masters of our particular roles. We'll lure you in, palming your dollar like a magic trick, laugh when you win, and swiftly commiserate when ya lose. Either way, we're happy, and you are always the poorer for our encounter, but richer in experience. Isn't that worth the small price you pay for the thrill of chance, and the memories you will keep forever?

From a distance, it seems a crazy colored wonderland. Look too closely, and you'll notice the lights flicker, the fading cheap paint, duct tape on the rides, and the false too easy smiles. Its all one big act and cheap scam, but it sure is pretty from afar.

Our preparations are complete, the stage is set, the games ready, rigged and crooked; While we the actors enact our roles with precision, false laughter, and a hint of sociopathy, all for your paying delight.

Every night different versions of insanity happen upon the midway grounds for everyone's viewing pleasure. I’m usually far too busy working to enjoy the chaotic sights. The difference is that tonight, right now, I’m finally free and unfettered from my job. For the moment, I’m one of you, except my dollars will remain firmly ensconced in my pocket, and yours will soon become ours.

Walking the Midway I smell sugar in the air in all its wonderfully evil unhealthy goodness. Cotton candy surrounds me on all sides, firmly grasped on cardboard sticks by sticky hands that pass me in the densely-packed crowd. Its bright pink and blue temptations also lurk behind tinted glass in colorful booths that are weaving it all together. This is the Kingdom of Sugar, where sweetness rules and future diabetics stroll the midway oblivious, lost in candied bliss.

We don’t seek sugar; instead it seeks us out and forces an immediate physical response. It transcends mere desire and becomes something utterly imperative. Only the most strong-willed souls can resist its velvety saccharine allure. I’m resisting it for now, but only because my hungry eyes are fixed on a completely different prize.

Approaching a booth with similarly colored hues, I’m irresistibly drawn to the mouthwatering scent of sweet cornbread. My hunger for something beyond simple sugar prevails. After paying my dollar (the only dollar I will spend this night), I receive something tangible and edible: a delicious treat exclusive to the carnival, a jumbo corn dog!

A crisp golden brown on the outside, with a meaty juicy hotdog within. Served hot, on yet again another stick. A treat wrapped inside another treat. Wonderful.

I’ve never been comfortable eating in crowds, so I drift to an empty space between booths, to devour my prize in relative peace. My mouth waters before I take my first bite, it’s delectable. Far better than I thought it would be, and not a taste I could imagine ever growing tired of.

I’ve been a carnival clown for a good while now, but I rarely get to enjoy the atmosphere for myself. I’m either too busy working long hours, or sleeping. I do wonder if resting could be considered being busy? Absorbing this public show slowly and luxuriously is a most welcome change.

Corndog devoured with great personal satisfaction I might add, I toss the stick behind me, time to continue my stroll among the gaudily crowded public wonders. Continuing my midway ingress yet again I blend with a slow-moving crowd that’s almost as colorful as the fake wonders that presently surround them. Trained as I am to size patrons up, I do this now as naturally as breathing. It occurs as a reflex, and I couldn’t avoid doing it even should I wish to.

To my left is a young couple, pushing a baby carriage that seems to be having a rough ride over the chaotic detritus underneath, so the baby cries all the while during this bumpy ride. Annoying to everyone except the actual parents possibly, since they seem oblivious to their own baby's cries. So caught-up as they are in the delightfully gaudy surrounding atmosphere.

All part of the incessant background noise that assails me from every side, equally clamoring for my gaze and attention. I cut through the crowds quite a bit slower than my usual working pace, to take it all in oh-so-leisurely. I am a walking human sponge made to absorb the chaos surrounding me. It could very well evolve into a highly-interesting night for an off-duty clown such as myself.