Why People Hate Clowns

(In 1976 I had made the move from Tucson to Phoenix to work with the Arizona Commission on the Arts as a writer in residence. I had gotten a job funded through the Comprehensive Employment and Training Act {CETA} that paid me to work on my craft, the only criteria being that I had to use some of my work week working with the community.  I did poetry readings, workshops, held classes in a variety of locations, and developed a children’s program of storytelling and performance.  For the children’s performance, I created a costumed character, The Miraculous Mr. Smith and his fantastic friend, Frank Frank, the honest fish. Cleaning out my studio recently, I found my costume and with it a plethora of emotions, from the sublime to the nauseating.)


I was heading home, driving west on Camelback from a meeting at the Scottsdale Center for the Arts to set up a series of readings and workshops, when I stopped to pick up a woman hitchhiking.  She was carrying a big purse and plopped down in the seat of my ’64 Chevy Impala. I merged into traffic and she started a conversation.

“Hi,” she greeted me. “What do you?”

“I’m a writer!”  I exclaimed proudly.  “What do you do?”

“I’m a hooker,” she said.  “Want a blow job for 20 bucks?”

I fought to keep the car on the road.

“I’ll do you good for $20.”

“What about disease?” I countered, always the health conscious individual.

“Don’t worry,” she said, fishing around in her purse. “See,” she said, holding up a big bottle of Listerine.  “Nothing to worry about.”

I continued driving.

“$15,” she offered.  “I’ll do you good for $15.”

“How much to fuck?”  I asked, curious.

“Oh, I don’t fuck,” she said.  “My husband doesn’t want me to.”

“Oh,” I thought to myself.  A woman with principles.

“$10.  I’ll do you good for 10.”

I figured I had nothing to lose, so I asked her the question that was always on a man’s mind in such a situation.

“Spit or swallow?” I asked.

“Spit,” she spat the word out.  “What you do think I am, crazy?”

At this point I withheld comment.

“Turn left at 32nd,” she said.  “There is a church up there.  We can use the parking lot.  I’ll do you good for $5.”

After I made the turn, I pulled off the shoulder onto the dirt.  “I’m sorry,” I said.  “I’m really not interested.  Sorry.”

As she got out of the car, she started screaming at me. “You asshole!  You ASSHOLE!  I just wasted 30 blocks.”  She started beating on the top of my car with her fists and then with her huge bag.

I pulled away quickly, inadvertently spraying gravel and dirt on the angry, Listerine-swilling hooker with the big purse.  In my rear-view mirror, I could see her throwing rocks at me, but I gunned it and didn’t look back.

Now, I could tell a children’s story, but I wasn’t very good with the performance thing, especially when I branched out into a full white-faced, red-wigged, red-nosed and -lipped clown with a bag of magic tricks that always went wrong.  I had just left the worst performance of my short-lived career. I thought it would be funny if I had some kids from the audience tie me up to a chair with the clothesline I had in my bag.  I wouldn’t be able to get out.  Funny as hell, or so I thought.  Well, they tied me up all right, and the curtain came down with me struggling to get out, but my wig flew off and the make-up on my face smeared all over the place when I tipped over, and an adult had to find a pair of scissors to cut me out.  Embarrassing and, in the end, not my best moment.

As I was heading south on 19th Ave, my wig askew, my make-up ruined, the sleeve of my costume ripped where some kid tried to yank me up after I fell over, who did I happen to see hitchhiking by the side of the road, but the angry, Listerine-swilling hooker with the big bag?

I pulled over.  She jumped in.  She looked at me.  I leered at her, the way only a clown can leer.  I merged into traffic.

“I’m a clown,” I offered by way of introduction.  “What do you do?”

“I’m a waitress,” she stammered.

I knew better.

We stopped at a red light.  “Hey,” I asked.  “You ever make it with a clown?”  I smiled lasciviously though my smeared red lips.

She hopped out of my car, and for the second time in a month, slammed my door.  She ran toward a Circle K.

“Hey!”  I screamed at her.  “I’ll do you good for 20 bucks!”  I screamed louder.  “Hell,” I screamed, “I’LL DO YOU GOOD FOR 5 BUCKS!”

She disappeared into the store.

I felt pretty good about myself.  A little revenge for the beating my car took.  I turned to my left and in the window of the car stopped at the light next to me, I saw the horrified face of a little girl.  I tried to wave, that funny clown wave that clowns always do, but she covered her face with her hands. When the light changed, I floored it through the intersection.