Chuckles honks

I sat in the back of the cop car, hands cuffed. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right. We'd been caught honkin’ again. The officers drove off, heading to the circus court tent. The ringmaster was sitting inside, the squeaky gavel in his hand and the lion jumping back and forth through the flaming ring behind him.

Picture by Anthony Fomin

‘Chuckles, Klutzy, Pogo, Bozo, Slinky, Phlegm, Patches, Cheeks, Tickles, Razzle Dazzle, Wacky Willie and Giggles. You've all been accused of clowning in public, aggravated tomfoolery, extended honks and juggling without a permit. How do you plead?’ he drawled.

The twelve of us held our breath, our red noses swelling from the pressure. The ringmaster knew instantly how guilty we all were.

 I didn't know about everyone else, but I’d been clowning for years. The first time I put on the red nose, I was 16. It took a few years for me to find a circus, but I eventually did, and I hadn’t taken the nose off since.

The ringmaster looked out at us, our noses getting redder, and slammed the oversized inflatable gavel down with a squeak.

‘Guilty!’ he cried out, and the officers came over and tied us up together with 45 feet of handkerchiefs they pulled out of their sleeves.

They took us to a clinic. We were each taken in separately. When it was my turn, they took me into a small room. There was a small steel table in one corner, and a window into another room that seemed to hold some items taken from the others who had gone before me. Wacky Willie’s whistles, Slinky’s slinky, Tickles’s feather wand – I could see it all.

They started by asking me to take off the white make-up. I resisted, but eventually I relented. Next, they took my juggling pins. I was hesitant, but I put them on the table. They gave me some jeans and a grey t-shirt, and I got changed into them, but the staff wouldn’t let me put my squirting flower on it. The only thing they let me keep was my red squeaky nose, but they did tell me I’d have to give it up soon enough.

‘Chuckles, we have to let you keep the nose because we’re not sure if it would be safe to take it off after this long, but soon we’ll have to take it and just let you detox.’ They pulled a clipboard out of a drawer in the table. ‘You’ll need to sign this saying you won’t allow anyone else to borrow it as well.’

The staff led me to a room; it wasn’t big, but it had enough room for me. A single bed in the corner, a chest for my clothes and belongings that weren’t related to clowning. It was fine, but of course I missed my colourful circus tent.

The first few weeks were the hardest. The clinic took my nose after just a few days. That had been the worst day I could remember, at least since I’d started wearing it. After those first few weeks, I fell into the swing of things. I saw the others occasionally. William was the first to be discharged, wearing a nice suit and tie. We all came out to see him off. He’d gotten some work with a marketing agency, and the clinic had found him a nice apartment close to the city.

A few months after we’d been brought in, it was my turn to leave. The clinic had found me a lovely job in accounting. The remaining ex-clowns came to see me off. The cab the clinic had called dropped me off at my new home. It was fine, but there wasn’t any colour. I guess that was the point.

It’s been three years now since I was released from the clinic. I still go to Clowns Anonymous every week. It’s been hard to adjust to life outside the circus, sitting at a desk and doing math all day. I try to avoid the office supplies − they could all so easily be juggled.

I go to see the circus perform whenever they’re in town. I sit and wish I could join them, the slightest honk in my heart fading as I go home.