I looked in the mirror anxiously and saw someone I no longer recognized. The stubble on my face revealed that I hadn’t seen a razor in days, maybe weeks. My clothes hung off me like the ancient castle draperies I’d seen in horror movies. My cuffs were ratty and torn, my pants held up with twine I found in a barn. The stale, foul-smelling butt of a cigar was pinched between my thumb and forefinger, unlit, ignored. My thin, felt hat had a hole the size of my fist, and my shoes were borrowed, three sizes too big. This was the image of a man who had hit rock bottom.
I was 7 years old. And for the next three hours, I would score more candy than I had ever seen in my entire life.
It was Trick-or-Treat, and I was dressed up as Emmett Kelly, the sad, circus clown who silently won over audiences with his painted face and baggy clothes. I had just seen him on television. He performed the bit he had made famous in the circus: sweeping up the spotlight with a janitor’s broom at the end of the night. Sad, plaintive music played as he pushed the circle of light smaller and smaller, finally sweeping it under a rug or fitting it onto his dustpan. He would then bow, the lights would dim and he’d leave the stage with a shy wave.
That night, clowns became my heroes.
As I grew older, I idolized a generation of clowns: Red Skelton, Jonathan Winters, Tommy Smothers, Jerry Lewis and so many more. If someone went to great lengths to make people laugh, I saw angels in our midst.1
The sound of laughter does things to some people. Most just hear a common reaction to a humorous situation. Others, and I am one of those people, hear music. When I’ve made you laugh, it’s better than having the best seat at the symphony. Laughter is glorious.
My friends gave little thought to their costumes at Halloween.2 Most just followed their moms to Kmart and plucked the “superhero du jour” from the hooks of the overstuffed Halloween aisle.3
I, on the other hand, had curated my costume from hand-me-downs, Goodwill finds and a pair of shoes from the trash bin behind my aunt’s apartment complex. I laid my findings out at the foot of my bed. I tried on my costume 20 times that week, staring at myself in the bathroom mirror.4 I wasn’t just a kid from the trailer park down the road anymore. I was Emmett Kelly, the clown of clowns who made people laugh or made them sigh or made them go “Awwww” in that way sensitive souls do when they watch kitten videos.
When it came time to go door-to-door, I carried a sign that read “Trick or Treat” in my best attempt at circus lettering. I had taken a vow of silence in the role, and I refused to break character. After the candy was plopped into my bag, I flipped the sign over to reveal my hand-drawn message of “THANK YOU.” I tipped my hat and bowed a low, theatrical bow. I heard more than one “Awwww” that night from young mothers in my neighborhood, an indicator to me that I was clearly onto something. Women dig clowns. 5
I know what some of you are thinking: Clowns are creepy. I know. What’s up with all these scary clowns? If you’ve seen a horror movie in the last 15 years, you’ve seen a veritable parade of evil clowns. Pennywise from Stephen King’s “It,” Captain Spaulding from Rob Zombie’s “House of 1000 Corpses” and more. Even Joaquin Phoenix’s take on the Joker from the Batman franchise takes “evil clown” to a whole new level.
The original symbol and purpose of a clown — to make people laugh with glee — has been turned on its head, its bloody, murderous head, causing a growing number of people to have actual phobias of the once happy creatures. It’s called coulrophobia, and it’s no laughing matter if you have it. The sight of a clown can cause a coulrophobe to faint or have panic attacks. I love a good horror movie, but I wish they had left clowns out of it.
There are more evil clowns on the way. Halloween film trailers have been teasing us for weeks now. Horror movie makers love finding the most innocent, unexpected characters to jump scare us out of our seats. Nuns, children, kittens, dentists, even ice cream men have been scaring us since long before clowns ever entered the picture. I mean, where’s the surprise in an investment banker or a politician gone bad? Boring. We see that in the news every day. Come at me from left field with that stuff, and I’m jumping like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. 6
Grown-ups who don’t appreciate Halloween grew up in neighborhoods of retired English teachers who passed out apples and pencils. I get it, and if I could change that crummy chapter of your childhood, I would. In a casual poll of my circle of friends, I discovered that Halloween avoiders are also likely to find clowns untrustworthy. One friend, a lifelong coulrophobe, told me, “So, you’re OK with a large, grown-up man covering his face with clown white, putting on a big, red wig and towering over you silently, smiling and handing you a balloon? That’s OK?”
Well, when you put it that way … never mind. Let’s just agree to disagree.
* * *
Lucky for me, my Halloween memories are nice. I love passing out candy and seeing all the different costumes, but there’s a new housing development about a mile away with hundreds of homes close together and filled with young families. The kids have been wisely migrating over there for their Halloween treats. Last year, I only had a dozen trick-or-treaters.
I was dressed up as the Grim Reaper, sickle and all, to pass out candy last year. I’d pull up my rubber skeleton mask when the younger ones approached to let them know there’s a nice guy — a clown, really — underneath. It’s fun, Halloween. The neighbors come over, we hang out. I pull my little fire pit into the front yard and make a fire. We eat the leftover candy.
This year, I think I’ll dress up as Emmett Kelly again. It’s been a while. I miss that guy. And it’s high time I start laughing again. I’ll make a little sign that says, “Happy Halloween” on one side, and, “You’re welcome,” on the other. You know, in keeping with the clown’s vow of silence and all.
And who knows? I might hear another “Awwww” or two.
Footnotes to assist you on your way to self discovery
1 Legendary comedian Buddy Hackett would go to great lengths for a laugh. He hosted weekly luncheons for comedians in his Beverly Hills home. Along the foyer were dozens of framed 8-by-10-inch photos — not of his celebrity friends but of Los Angeles-area dry cleaners, mostly Asian guys. The photos were signed, with love and gratitude, to Buddy Hackett. Los Angeles dry cleaners all have signed photos of celebrities hanging in their lobbies, so Hackett thought, why not return the favor? He hired a photographer to visit a few dozen dry cleaner operators and take their photos, had them developed, returned to have them signed and hung the photos. It was the first thing his guests would see as they came through the door. Now that’s a lot to do for a laugh, but it paid off when he’d hear his friends’ laughter.
2 I once put on my friend Randy’s Incredible Hulk mask as we were trading our loot on the living room carpet. I could barely see through the eye holes. It smelled like plastic fumes and remnants of a Bit-O-Honey that Randy had been gnawing on for 10 minutes trying to get it to soften. His costume hung loosely over his skinny frame, and it made me sad, “The Once Incredible Hulk,” emaciated and malnourished, his skin just hanging off his bones. The costume was meant to be stuffed with pillows, but Randy couldn’t be bothered with that. He had bigger fish to fry. Candy was waiting.
3 One year I wandered to the Halloween aisle a few days before Trick-or-Treat. It looked like a bomb had gone off. Pieces of superheroes were strewn about in limp piles, tangled together like they’d been fighting right up until the blast.
A ginger-headed 5-year-old boy stood holding his mother’s hand, bewildered as they surveyed the damage.
Two Kmart employees showed up and scowled at the mess. One was about 17 years old, his face a haunting blend of acne and freckles. The other was a thin, elderly man with his front teeth missing. He was like an inverted first-grader, but with wrinkles and nose hair. Both dutifully wore their red vests with name tags.
“Wow,” said the teen.
Refusing to bond over this with the teenager, the old man walked away with a grunt. He came back moments later with some coat hangers and a large silver flask in his back pocket.
4 Attention to detail is paramount when dressing up as a clown, and footwear is often what divides the men from the boys. I discovered this later in life when I rented a clown costume for the birthday party of my then-5-year-old son, Buddy. It was an extra 20 bucks for the big clown shoes, and I balked, thinking they were probably a trip hazard, anyway. “I’ll just wear my Nike running shoes,” I thought. “They’re white with red swooshes. They’ll be fine.” I wore them all the time and even got a matching pair for Buddy. We called them our “Same and Same Shoes.”
After I burst onto the scene in full Bozo regalia — face paint, wig, baggy white one-piece suit with red and blue yarn balls dangling off me — all the kids squealed with glee … except my son, who looked me up and down, locked eyes on the shoes and ran to his mother in tears.
“This is a bad family in which to be afraid of clowns,” I thought disappointedly.
Buddy then pulled his head from his mother’s lap and yelled, “That clown stolen my Daddy’s shoes!” and then, “Where’s Daddy?”
Despite my attempts to warm him up to me, Buddy watched me suspiciously for the duration of the party and kept looking toward the door for his father’s arrival.
5 Not all women, certainly. Some are attracted to bad guys, the dangerous types. And, hey, whatever floats your boat. But look around in 20 years at your friends who married the clowns. They’ll still be laughing. Clowns just get funnier. Dangerous guys, if they don’t have psychotherapy, ride off into the sunset on a Harley you helped pay for.
6 When the head fell out of the boat in “Jaws” (it’s terrifying), I jumped so high in my seat that when I landed — on my wrist — I cracked it in two places. I sat through the rest of the movie while it swelled up to the size of a cantaloupe. I wore a cast for six weeks. Now, that was a jump scare. Thank you, Mr. Spielberg.
