Release the Clowns

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There is a local theatre group in San Luis that has, as part of its contingent, a group of clowns. They perform on the weekends in the plaza where the theatre is located, entertaining the crowds and collecting pesos in a hat. Street clowns are treacherous creatures, preying on the weak and helpless, the slow of wit or the outsider. Little children are merely props to them in their quest for laughs. Now, I won’t specify which of the above categories I fall into, as I may fall into more than one.
One evening while casually strolling through the plaza, I noticed a crowd of happy, laughing people, circled around some activity. Naturally my curiosity was aroused and I innocently went to investigate. I walked to the edge of the crowd, and it was almost as if they parted like the red sea, allowing me entrance into their inner circle. The clowns were waiting, ready to pounce and use me for their wicked purposes. Why they picked me I am not sure. Maybe I looked funny to them. Maybe it was my American clothes or blonde hair.
“Americano!” they shouted in unison, as everyone turned to look at me with expectation and amusement in their eyes. There were two clowns, two against one. So that’s how you want to play it huh. Well, bring it.
“Si,” I replied.
“Habla usted espanol?” one of them inquired.
“Sorry, no espanol,” now feeling ashamed to be in public and not speak the language well. I understand a lot of the words, but have not made the transition to speaking them yet. This was going to be ugly.
“Where are you from, senor?”
“Earth,” I replied, “the North American continent, approximately 42 degrees north latitude.”
My answer surprised them, as intended. No clown would get the best of me in any language. Most of the rest of the exchange was lost on me; my initial volley scored the only point I would make, being outnumbered by street performers who were used to thinking fast and recovering their composure quickly.
From the crowds continual laughter at everything the clowns said to me, I am apparently quite funny. Were they laughing at me or at the clowns? There was no way to tell. Laughter is a universal language that is reactionary, pure and innocent. It is the progenitors that dictate the tone, and determine the amount of cruelty to inflict. I hoped it was the clowns. My egocentrism is just affluent enough in my humour to raise suspicion that I was under attack. Escape crossed my mind, and then a yearning to understand and then escape once again when I realized that understanding would not come. The options of fight or flight meant that to understand would be to fight, and to run away as fast as possible be an act of cowardice. So I stood there, smiling and laughing when the crowd laughed, trying to answer the clown’s volleys with my own, and hoping for a quick death.
Finally, like a sponge that has been squeezed dry, I was tossed aside, released on my own recognizance as the clowns sensed they had wrung every possible bit of dignity from me, dispersing it among the people and transforming it into laughter. Clowns are a despicable lot. I want to be one. To wield that kind of power is to know true happiness at the expense of others, without the consequences, hidden as they are behind those rubber noses and floppy shoes.

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Comments

[glen]

Clowns scare me
I am sure they were laughing with you and not at you... glen