Life can be a challenge. Sometimes our best advice on how to cope comes from conversations with ourselves.

However, engaging in this activity can take its toll on those within earshot of our discussion. This can have unexpected consequences, as seen . . .

Through The Eyes Of A Clown
 

      
     “Funny how life happens. The unexpected materializes with no warning, while the expected often disappears into a great sea of nothingness. Well, enough about philosophy. I have to concentrate on what’s happening now, as fleeting as it might be,” I reflected aloud.

     Serena, my assistant, works in the next office, with our interoffice door wide open. We’ve been together six years. She’s gotten used to my “talking to myself.” Still, that doesn’t prevent her from taking little jabs at me, thus chalking up points in our battle for office supremacy.

     “What are you jabbering about in there, Joshua?” she blurted.

     “Nothing your little brain would be able to comprehend,” I responded with a dose of sarcasm.

     Poking fun at each other’s eccentricities has become a special game we play. On slow days, it helps pass the time. It also doesn’t hurt on days when I have to sink my teeth into a complex problem, which mystifies me. Serena’s words, when hearing my musings, bring me back to my senses and the reality of the matter before me.   

     I’m good at my job as Chief Operating Officer at Matthews, Lopez, and Chin, one of our city’s larger management consulting firms, but need this office jousting to distract me from my daily stresses and to release my frustrations in a socially acceptable manner. And maybe, my current need for these games relates to the fact I will celebrate my fiftieth birthday in less than a week. Old age appeared out of nowhere and it frightens me.

     Since childhood I’ve had a passion for clowns—drawing them, collecting prints, and writing short poems about them. They hang on my wall in my office and sometimes I even talk to them. Serena knows of both my passion and my interactions with these amusing beings that help to keep me young. She teases me about this, but also supports me. In fact, earlier in the day, she suggested I visit a clown club website a friend had told her about. She informed me that the club, housed in a local building not far from our office, held meetings and social events for clown enthusiasts. Since she knew I had no plans for this evening, she insisted I try it out.

     My Internet search produced this rather interesting website, “The Clown Conspiracy Club.” This intrigued me. The site headline read, “Behind the Costume Lies the Real You. Being is Believing.” I printed off the homepage and stuffed it into my briefcase.

     Yes, I’m passionate about clowns. But being one for real, I don’t know if it would be a fit. This, however, seemed to be what the club’s webpage invited viewers to do. 

     Now I’ve tried clowning, sort of, in my distant past. Dressed in my colorful, plaid clown suit, I became the center of attention at my daughter’s eighth birthday party. I thought I’d done an admirable job. However, my wife, at the time, didn’t care for it, but at least my daughter liked it. 

     A short time later, I reprised the role when I played a clown at the tenth anniversary celebration at Parimus College, the Bay Area community college at which I served as a Board member. I did it with such expertise that I got my picture plastered on the front page of the Oakland Tribune, with the caption, “Joshua Ames, Establishment Clown.” This produced many laughs on campus, as some faculty believed the caption had, indeed, captured my essence.  

     “But ‘The Clown Conspiracy Club,’” I muttered. “What in the world should I expect to happen at this place?”

     Serena yelled, “You’re doing it again.”

     “Hey,” I responded. “It’s more interesting than talking to you.” I listened for a reply, but heard only a rustling of papers. “I guess the win goes to me this time,” I shouted to her and laughed loud enough so she could hear.

     Nothing eventful happened the rest of the day. I gathered some papers from my desk, stuffed them into my briefcase, where I had put the club homepage, and walked through the door to Serena’s office, the exit to the hallway. 

     She glared at me. I gave her a menacing stare in return. In a smug manner I said, “Good night ‘my love.’ I’ve got some bigger clowns than you to deal with this evening at the ‘Clown Conspiracy Club.’”

     Although I’d taken her suggestion to heart, she looked bemused. It appeared she was deep in thought trying to zing back a reply that would give her the final points for the day, but couldn’t come up with one. Not receiving a retort, I began to leave the office, when . . .

     “You will soon see who the biggest clown is, almighty clown collector, would be jester. It will knock you off your feet. Beware of what you see, ‘Through the Eyes of a Clown,’” she chortled.

     I dismissed her remarks as a vain attempt at one-upmanship. I thought no more about it. I left the building, got into my late-model Lexus, and began to drive. As I approached the freeway onramp, my mind kept seeing that interesting website, “The Clown Conspiracy Club.” What would it be like to go? I pondered.

     Engrossed in thought, I veered out of my lane. A loud horn blared from the car behind me and returned my mind to what it should be focused on—driving. I swerved away from the onramp and pulled to the side of the road. I grabbed my briefcase from behind the seat, opened it, and removed the page I’d printed. 

     My eyes focused on an event calendar for the club. I scanned the listings and discovered a meeting scheduled for 7:00 p.m. this evening. It seemed to be an open invitation to anyone interested. Serena believes I would like this place. She even suggested I go tonight. “But am I up to it?” I mumbled.   

     I pulled the car back onto the road and headed home. Ten uneventful minutes later, I arrived at my house in Bedford Hills, overlooking a serene valley. I purchased this small, two-bedroom ranch style, with a meager yard, after my divorce six years ago. During the drive home, I confirmed my decision to visit “The Clown Conspiracy Club.” I feared what I might be getting myself into, but my curiosity got the better of me.

     When I entered the house through the door from the garage, I saw the light flashing on my answering machine. I pressed the play button. A message from Serena blared, “Hey boss man, the clown club beckons you. Don’t let yourself down. You need to relax.”

     Well, this further reinforced the decision I’d already made. “Okay, I’m going,” I yelled, in an effort to expel the tension of the day from my aging body. I picked up the phone and called Serena on her cell and left a message that I would be going to the club this evening.

     I showered, threw on some casual clothes, a blue knit shirt and gray slacks, and rushed to the kitchen and gulped down a ham and cheese sandwich. I then jumped back into my Lexus and drove to the club, about twenty minutes away.

     Arriving, I turned into the parking lot. It surprised me to find an empty parking space to the right of the club’s front door. While this pleased me, it also heightened my anxiety level a bit about attending the meeting. I became suspicious, for I always have trouble finding a place to park.

     I sat in the car for a few minutes trying to muster up the courage to go in. The flashing neon sign announced, “The Clown Conspiracy Club,” which felt both inviting and threatening at the same time.

     I stared at the front door. No bouncer or guard, I thought. Umm, as a private club, there should be one. Using caution, I got out of the car, walked the short distance to the door, opened it, and entered the lobby. A myriad of pictures of clowns of all sizes and types hung on the walls. To the left of the inner double-door entry, a huge poster sat on an easel. Encircled by clowns, an arm, adorned in clown garb, beckoned me to come in.

     I opened the door into an unlit, pitch-black hall. Then, without warning, horns blasted, bells chimed, and lights of all colors began to flash. Someone grabbed my arm. I tried to jerk it back, but to no avail. I wanted to scream, but nothing came out of my mouth.

     At last, I managed a few words. “What, what are you doing to me?” I squealed. 

     A voice, coming from the heavens above, rang out, “Do not protest, you are ours, follow our lead. Take the path down the hallway to your right.”

     “God! How do I get out of this?” I moaned.

     The voice continued in a loud, deep tone. “You have entered the inner sanctum of “The Clown Conspiracy Club,” a world of the unknown, the crazy, the mystical—a world of your own making.”

     In utter terror, I screeched, “I don’t want to be here. I’ve made a huge mistake.”

     “Please,” the voice stated in a harsh tone, sending a throbbing sensation through my head.  “Please, do not protest.”

     Ushered down the corridor and through a small theater-like door, I entered a dark enclosure. Then small lights began to glow on the sides of a carpeted aisle. The room appeared to be a small auditorium with the seats arranged in a semi-circle. Although I couldn’t see well, it felt as if I was not alone. An eerie silence pervaded this very frightening new world I’d been forced to enter.

     My captor pushed me into a well-padded seat. I gripped the arms of this comfortable chair and dug my fingernails into the upholstery. My stomach hurt—a deep, awful pain. I felt like throwing up. And then, the creepy silence gave way to a booming voice from above.

     “Patrons be aware and beware, you have entered a very special place,” the voice echoed through the arena. 

     Then, the forum became ablaze in lights. But it wasn’t lights I witnessed. Eyes, hundreds of eyes, glowed and stared at me from a parade of both decorative and menacing clown faces.

     I loved clowns, but not so many all at once. I had to get out of here, but I couldn’t move. Nothing about this made sense to me.

     Then Serena’s words, which I’d dismissed, came back to haunt me, “You will soon see who the biggest clown is, almighty clown collector, would be jester. It will knock you off your feet. Beware of what you see, ‘Through the Eyes of a Clown.’”

     Without warning, boisterous laughter and thundering applause jolted me from my seat. The crowd stood and pointed at me. But why? I thought.

     Then it all became clear, as a larger than life radiant beauty, a clown of loveliness beyond compare, stood before me on center stage. Her eyes sparkled. A broad smile appeared on her beautifully made-up clown face. Displayed behind her, a large neon sign read, “Happy 50^th Birthday To A Great Boss And Friend.” 

     Then with a smirk on her face, Serena gloated and spoke with a bit of sarcasm in her voice, “Who gets the final win today? This should keep you from talking to yourself. Happy Birthday!”

Copyright © 2013 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.