I recently had the unique pleasure of watching Simpson’s reruns with a newly minted 13-year-old boy. He reveled in the jokes in the way only 13-year-old boys can. It was an experience I shall cherish.
The boy happens to be my godson and I am the only unmarried friend his parents have. I am also the only friend of his parents’ who doesn’t live in a suburb and drive a practical car. I am also the only friend his parents have who has attended a rock concert featuring musicians under the age of 35 in the past five years. And, as I discover, I am the only friend of his parents’ who “still” watches The Simpsons.
Which left me pondering life’s big questions. What am I doing with my life? What does it all mean?
And, GenX, what happened to you, man? You used to be cool.
I dunno. I went to bed a normal disaffected, astute, sardonic, frustrated, (marginally) employed representative sample of my peer group and woke up the only person my age who exhibits any semblance of social awareness and humor.
Video killed the radio star. Hybrid crossovers killed GenX.
Note the absence of a “talkin’ ‘bout my generation” quote. That’s something the arch nemesis Baby Boomers would do. And I will never give up, never surrender to the nemesis foe. Hey, you gotta stand for something.
Anyway. I was left alone, unattended, with the 13-year-old boy. His father had to go into the office on a Sunday for a conference Skype with his company’s manufacturing plant in China. His mother was attending a special yoga session. After the session the class was going to the beach to share their triumphs of the past month and meditate on their dreams for the next lunar cycle. Whatever. I mean Namaste.
I’d been visiting the family for three days and I’d seen 13-year-old boy three times, at meals, and had heard him utter exactly five words. His parents explained that he was mad at them - and every grown-up - because he was grounded over his holiday break. He skipped lacrosse practice and got caught by teacher, who ratted him out to the coach who ratted him out to his parents. Who revoked his internet, phone and video game privileges. The exception being Beatles for Rock Band because the family plays that together and they need him to be George.
Yeah, this poor kid was in Hell. Sure, he deserved some sort of punishment, and maybe revoking the internet and phone privileges was a good idea. But. Beatles for Rock Band? Yeah, I felt bad for the kid and embarrassed of my friends, his parents.
So the kid was moping around the house as only 13-year-olds serving a no-internet-or-phone sentence can. The teacher and coach he trusted betrayed him. All adults are now suspect. I understood. But, as his parents’ friend, I was duty bound to, I dunno, uphold their stance. Or something. I feel making him play Beatles for Rock Band with the family is harsher than necessary for an infraction like skipping lacrosse practice. But, out of respect for his parents, my friends, I didn’t let on and just stayed quiet about the whole thing and let him have his space. I tried to telepath him sympathetic messages I dared not say out loud. “Sorry your parents turned into jerks, little dude. They weren’t always this way. But I don’t like them much these days, either.”
The 13-year-old-boy chanced upon me watching reruns of The Simpson’s. I wasn’t sure if 13-year-olds still watch The Simpson’s. I presumed adolescents view The Simpson’s as an aging, unfunny relic of their parents’ era. I figured he’d think I was as old and lame as his parents. I didn’t care what he thinks of my entertainment choices, but, I was a guest in his house and he still had television privileges, so I said, “You can watch whatever you want, I’ve seen this one a lot of times.”
“Never gets old?” he asked dripping with the sardonic snarl tinged with wry humor than only 13-year-olds can pull off with perfect aplomb. But. The 13-year-old boy uttered an almost complete sentence to me. I figured he was being sarcastic. Or it was a trap.
I timidly took the bait.
“Some of the old episodes still hold up,” cautiously defending The Simpsons.
This boy and I used to be close. When I talked to his mother on the phone, he used to beg her to let him talk to me and then he'd proceed to regale me with highly detailed tales of his boyhood antics. When I visited we built blanket forts and played Red Rover with his action figures. Things his parents’ apparently forgot how to do. And then he turned 11 and, well, you know how that goes. So. There’s been some distance.
“Yeah. I don’t get some of the jokes in the old episodes,” the 13-year-old boy said in a non-committal monotone.
I decided to take the risk and try full engagement with the boy. “Yeah, sometimes I don’t remember why some of the timely political jokes were funny when they aired. The Bush the Elder’s administration is a hazy, distant memory.”
“Heh. Bush the Elder. That’s funny. Like Osric the Mighty or something.”
“Yeah, like that,” I deadpanned, letting him know I not only acknowledged that he acknowledged my joke, but also that I know he was being overly explanatory in an attempt to mock my attempt at humor.
He took my bait. He entered into actual meaningful dialog. “They should use The Simpsons in history class. The teachers could have a study guide that explains the jokes and then relate them to the historically significant issues we’re supposed to learn about that era.”
I always liked this kid.
The episode was ending and a new one was going to commence. I said, “Really, if you want to watch something else go ahead.”
“Nah, there’s nothing better on.”
“Okay.”
The next episode started and it turns out I have the sense of humor of a 13-year-old boy. We laughed at the same jokes.
And then there was a Krusty the Clown segment.
I am not fond of Krusty the Clown segments. I have issues with clowns. Okay, issues is putting it mildly. I am coulrophobic.
Severly coulrophobic.
As in, I really should get some therapy. Clowns, mimes, jesters, harlequins…KISS…they all freak the crap out of me. And yes, even and including Pagliacci, The Joker, Ronald McDonald (especially Ronald McDonald), and Guy Fawkes masks. I get real jumpy around images of any of them. I'm not crazy about polka dots, either. And it’s not just me. A lot of people are afraid of clowns. Or at least don’t like them. Which I’ve always assumed was a contributing element to Krusty the Clown and why he’s a recurring theme and character on The Simpsons. Especially the Treehouse of Terror episodes.
I didn’t say anything, nor did I laugh at Krusty.
And then he did it. The 13-year-old boy let down his guard, allowed himself to be vulnerable by admitting and exposing his naïveté.
“I don’t get the Krusty the Clown thing. It’s not that funny. Kinda scary but not funny. He’s so skeezy and he’s around little kids, that’s just gross. It’s not funny. Is it?”
“No. Skeezy, alcoholic, middle-aged, misogynistic men with lame senses of humor are never funny. Believe me, I’ve dated a lot of them. And no, they shouldn’t be around kids, either.”
The 13-year-old boy laughed. I cracked the shell, I broke through, the boy who was pissed off at the world and hating adults was actually engaging in conversation and laughing with an adult, and not just any adult, a friend of his parents’!
I knew the moment was fleeting. I savored it.
“I think that’s the point of the character and the jokes. Plus it’s a convenient vehicle for Kelsey Grammer who voices Sideshow Bob. Kelsey Grammer.”
The boy said nothing. He offered a blank questioning stare.
“Kelsey Grammer was a very popular actor back then. He was on Cheers and then Frasier.”
“Oh, my mom loves that show. Is he the bald guy?”
“Yeah. That’s him. Kelsey Grammer. Frasier Crane. Sideshow Bob.”
The boy quickly finished my thought and deadpanned, “Has been.”
I like this kid.
He continued, “I don’t see the big deal about clowns. They’re not funny. They’re stupid.”
“Right on brother. But I think that’s kind of the point of the jokes and the character. Springfield is filled with stereotypical pathetic losers. If they make fun of everyone, everyone’s offended, so no one’s left out, which kind of negates the offensiveness.”
The boy nodded in understanding, “Its genius lies in its simplicity.”
“Exactly.”
“But still, clowns?” the boy pressed for more information.
“Yeah, well, you know, back when the creators of The Simpsons were kids, there was this show featuring a clown named Bozo. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
“I’ve heard of him but I didn’t know he was on television,” the boy said, eyes widening.
“Consider yourself lucky. It was a freakfest. And Krusty the Clown is an obvious nod to Bozo and all things disturbing with his show.”
“Did you watch it when you were a kid?”
“I probably shouldn’t tell you this, your mother probably doesn’t want you to know, but, when we were kids we saw him live. We were in the audience for one of his shows.”
“No way! My mom went to see Bozo?!”
“Yep, it was our television debut.”
Affecting a Frasier Crane voice, the boy leaned in real close to my face and said, “I’m listening.”
“Well, first of all, you need to understand some television fundamentals.” The kid seemed interested so I told him all I know about television in the ‘70s and Bozo.
Back in the old days of television, before cable and satellite and streaming, there was a lot of local programming, like the local news. Oh, and the channels were either UHF and VHF. Channels 2 – 13 were VHF. There were three major networks and they were on VHF channels. They showed the prime time shows, soap operas and morning national news programs. The rest of the time it was usually local filler shows, like Bozo.
And then there was UHF. UHF channels were independent and usually aired reruns of old television shows like Gilligan’s Island and Leave it to Beaver, and very local programming. Also, like Bozo.
Those were quainter, more simple times and the locally produced shows were, oddly enough, popular in spite of how awful they were. Kind of like most shows on basic cable now, except they featured local, regional ‘celebrities.’ Some were actually pretty good. I was lucky to grow up with Sir Graves Ghastly who was a local Detroit guy who dressed up as a vampire and acted as emcee for scary B-movies. He was brilliant, and that’s not just my nostalgic memory talking.
But then there were the others. Someone on a phone sitting at a desk fielding phone calls from viewers with questions about everyday dilemmas like what to do if a neighbor’s tree falls on your house. Weird homemaking shows featuring some valiumed up local version of Doris Day demonstrating home cleaning and cooking tips. And Bozo.
Bozo was a franchise. There were local Bozos all over America. Some were more famous than others, one guy in Chicago was ‘the best’ Bozo. But the costume, wig*, facepaint and show format were the same everywhere. Kids filled the live audience and Bozo played games, told lame jokes, had seltzer fights with his sidekick, showed cartoons…and scared the bejeezus out of kids with his freaky weird laugh and oddly pristine white gloved hands.
Yeah, the pristinely white gloved hands was the part that seemed the most telling and sinister to me.
Bozo-mania peaked sometime in the early ‘60s, I think. Undoubtedly attributed to the late wave of Boomers’ need for something to quell their CocoPuffs induced jitters, something more lively than Captain Kangaroo.
The Bozo franchise hung on for a surprisingly long time. I remember being shocked to discover there were still local Bozos in some areas in the ‘80s.
By the time I was old enough to watch Bozo, the early ‘70s, our local Bozo was looking weary and ragtag. Even his clown makeup couldn’t conceal the growing intolerance of a room of screaming kids and one-too-many hula hoop contests.
I was already afraid of clowns and so, I rarely watched Bozo. He freaked me out. To put it mildly. I preferred the more sophisticated The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, which aired on a competing network in the early morning timeslot. However, because Bozo had a live audience, every now and then one of my friends or classmates were “lucky” enough to go to the show and be on television. So I had to watch Bozo on those mornings. I wanted to see someone I knew, a kid, no less, on television. For some reason getting on television, local television, was kind of a big deal back then. It was the penultimate status demarcation at school. Being on television was a huge achievement and Bozo was the gateway drug. Getting on television might still be a big deal for kids, but I don’t hear them talk about it with faraway longing in their eyes the way we did when I was a kid.
Like I said, I was already scared of clowns. Horrified, actually.
 |
| Ubiquitous clown paint by number. |
When I was four I was in an accident. I was okay, but banged up and in clinical shock. I was rushed to ER where I gained and lost consciousness several times. The hospital had a special “children’s room” in the ER, I suppose it was well-intended, meant to calm scared, hurt/sick children. Unfortunately it had the opposite affect on me.
The room was apparently decorated sometime in the mid-‘60s. It was the ‘70s and the décor was looking a bit shabby, or at least in need of a refresh. It was adorned with large prints of those freaky-ass huge-eyed psychodelic hobo-clowns with daisies in their hats. They were borne of the ‘60s and popular subjects of paint-by-number kits and black velvet paintings. They weren’t the sad clowns with wilting daisies (a la Margaret Keane) because, you know, it would be morose to have sad clowns and wilting daisies in a children’s room in ER. Instead, more appropriate run-of-the-mill sinister psychodelic freaky-assed hobo clowns with fresh, perky daisies in their hats juggling lollipops and dancing with poodles adorned the walls of the ER room.
I was laid out on an exam table and every time I came-to I saw an upside down freaky-huge-eyed clown from the ‘60s laughing at me and, from my clinically shocked perspective, throwing lollipops and poodles at me. I thought they were time-traveling from the ‘60s into the future to terrorize kids in the ‘70s. That would be enough to throw anyone into a lifetime fear of clowns. (Oddly, I’m not afraid of poodles. Or lollipops. I think in my mind they were victims. The clowns were using them as enticements, decoys, the lollipops and poodles were probably as afraid of the clowns as I was. )
But there was more. In an attempt to keep me conscious, every time I regained consciousness the nurses tried to coax me into talking. They had my mother try to engage me in conversation. I remember her voice calling to me though the fog of semi-consciousness. She sounded a million miles away and really echoy. But I couldn’t get my brain to focus and stay conscious.
One of the nurses had the bright idea to bring in visual stimulation. The next time I regained consciousness they talked to me and showed me things to stimulate my awareness. They didn’t know that I was already visually stimulated, tripping freaking out over the psychodelic freaky-ass clowns from the ‘60s hurtling through time and throwing lollipops and poodles at me.
I heard my mother’s faraway call to me, I came to and was greeted by, I kid you not, a huge clown marionette dangling over my head and a giant, exaggerated harlequin puppet in my face.
It was like a horrifying episode of Night Gallery. The clown marionette seemed enormous. In my impaired mental state I thought the clown had broken out of the painting and was dancing over my head. I wasn’t sure what was so menacing about that, but a psychodelic freaky-ass clowns from the ‘60s hurling lollipops and poodles breaking out of a 2-D painting and rendering himself in full 3-D regalia dancing over my head could not possibly be anything other than sinister. And that harlequin puppet? In my face? To this day the visage sends shivers down my spine, and not in a titillating way.
I screamed. Loud and long. My mother was later told it was the most blood curdling, horrifying sound everyone working in the ER that afternoon had ever heard.
The visual stimulation worked, I stayed conscious. Petrified, but conscious.
So.
Yeah.
At age four I developed some really deep issues with clowns. I know. I should get some therapy for that. Writing helps. It’s cathartic. Progress.
Consequently, like I said, I wasn’t into Bozo. Or any other clown. I didn’t watch the Bozo Show. But, if one of my friends or a classmate was going to be in the audience I white-knuckled my way through it.
And then one day at my weekly Brownie troop meeting I was faced with the news that I would have to confront my fear.
Our troop leader had a very special announcement. She and the co-leader had made arrangements for us, the whole troop, to be in the audience for a live broadcast of the Bozo Show! You might think this news was met with uproarious squeals of glee from the Brownies.
That might have been the case in the ‘50s and ‘60s, but many GenX girls of the ‘70s were already weary and jaded. A few girls squealed with glee. Mainly the dumber, slower girls. And the girls who were dying to be on television and saw this as their big break, a golden opportunity to make inroads to acting on an After School Special, and from there it was just a couple family sit-com appearances and they’d be riding that train to Jodi Foster status. And the rest of us just kind of sat there nonplussed. Bozo. Yay.
The Brownie troop leader handed out permission slips to take to our parents. Being on television held no allure for me. And being in the same room as Bozo really held no allure for me. I walked home from Brownies contemplating “losing” the permission slip. No permission slip = no Bozo. Easy math. But my mother was friends with mothers of other Brownies and she’d probably hear about the Bozo outing and wonder where my permission slip was and I’d have to either lie and say I was irresponsible and lost it or fess up about not wanting to see Bozo. Neither option was appealing. I’d get in trouble for being irresponsible or I’d be teased by my brother for being afraid of clowns. It was a lose-lose situation. There was a third option. It was winter in Michigan and I walked to school, which meant snow boots. Which meant a dorky totebag to carry my shoes. I stuffed the permission slip deep into the totebag thinking I could “forget” to retrieve it and give it to my parents; or, it would be smooshed beyond recognition, rendering it an impermissible permission slip.
Which was a brilliant plan. That worked for a day. When I got home from school the next day, the permission slip still deep in my totebag, my mother greeted me with The News. She knew. She’d been asked to drive and be a chaperone for the troop when we went to see Bozo. Crap. Curse those other Brownie mothers. Not only was I going to have to go to Bozo’s Bigtop Nightmare, my mother was going to be a chaperone. You know what it’s like when your mother is a field trip chaperone. No fun.
Fortune shined one beam of light my way. My mother was not a morning person. She is a wonderful, attentive saint of a mother in every capacity except that she couldn’t coherently function until 8 AM and she had to have at least one pot of freshly percolated coffee cursing through her veins before she could be relied upon to operate heavy machinery like a car. The Bozo show went live at 7:30, audience members had to be at the studio by 6:45 AM sharp, which meant we had to leave the school parking lot by 6 AM, which meant my mother had to be up, dressed, coffeed, coherent and on the road by 5:45 AM. That was never going to happen. At least not for Bozo.
I was off the hook about having my mother as a chaperone. But I did have to “remember” that I “left” my permission slip in my totebag.
I didn’t want to go. As Bozo Day grew nearer I started pleading a case to my parents. They already figured out I didn’t want to go. They knew I wasn’t a fan of Bozo. They knew I tried to “forget” my permission slip. They knew I was horrified of clowns. But, they were big on the whole “being part of a group means making personal sacrifices” and “there’s no I in TEAM” lessons. Being a Brownie meant going along with the groups’ wishes instead of selfishly abandoning them. Wherever the troop went, I went. End of discussion.
They tried to convince me that there were other aspects that would be interesting. I would get to see behind the scenes at a television station. I would get to see the cameras and the production people. I might even get to see the control room. I would get to learn all about making a television show.
They were right, that was kind of interesting.
And so it was that I suited up and went to the Bozo show.
Four station wagons of Brownies drove through the crisp pre-dawn Michigan winter morning. For such a jubilant occasion, with such young children, my car was exceptionally somber. Some of the girls fell asleep. The rest of us just sat there, riding along in our Brownie Bozo caravan, staring into the starry sky. I remember praying at one point, asking God to cause a power outage rendering the Bozo Show out of business for the day. Didn’t happen.
My arch foe was a girl named Renée. She went to my church, she was in school with me and she was in my scout troop. Worse, her last name and mine fell next to each other alphabetically, so if there were alphabetical seating arrangements being enforced I had to sit next to her. But it wasn’t all that togetherness that made Renée my arch foe. Renée was a spoiled, conniving, manipulative, opportunistic bitch. Imagine Veruca Salt. Yep. That’s Renée.
Except there was no Mr. Salt spoiling his kid rotten. Renée’s dad died when we were three. Which is an awful thing. Horrible. I acknowledge this and still feel sad for Renée. But. Renée learned very early in life that she could parlay her father’s death into pretty much anything she wanted.
And the rest of us kids learned we had to be forever sympathetic toward her and relinquish all The Good Things to Renée. Renée got first choice of everything. Because her dad died. Renée got to wear the cutest costume in the Christmas pageant at church. Because her dad died. Renée got: Lead roles in class plays, singing parts in choir, best seats at the movies, extra merit badges in scouts, primo locker assignments, and choice scholarships. Because her dad died. If Renée wanted the last cupcake, Renée got it because her dad died. Renée mysteriously won every contest, drawing, raffle and prize. And everyone knew it was rigged because her dad died. But she got a new bike, roller skates, toys, and even a television, prizes won because her dad died. She used to brag about it. By second grade she routinely admitted it smugly to the rest of us kids, mockingly.
One year there was a new bike up for grabs at a community raffle. Most of us really wanted that bike and begged our parents to buy tons of raffle tickets. The second that bike went on display in the local hardware store window, Renée started saying, “I can’t wait to get my new bike! I’m going to win it. People feel sorry for me so I win everything.” She really was a brat. And yes, she “won” the bike.
I know, I know, I sound like a bitter, jealous, resentful shrew. And I had my dad, and so what if Renée got the fancy cookie or the good tennis racket in gym or prettiest horse at camp? She didn’t have a dad. I know, I know.
But. Renée worked it. She worked it hard. She could turn on the tears like no one I’ve ever known. She routinely got less than perfect grades on spelling tests, but she’d cry and say, “But, but, I was sad because my dad died and I guess I was so sad I forgot how to spell dog.” And every year, every teacher would fall for it and give her another chance to take her spelling or math test. I knew she was scamming because I had to sit next to her and she never practiced or studied. And she routinely tried to cheat off me.
But what really turned me against her was that she made fun of a super nice kid who sat on the other side of me. Robby. She called him poor and stupid. To his face. He may have been poor, but he wasn’t stupid. In fact he was really smart at math and he was good at drawing dogs and horses. He was quiet, but I liked him. I shared my crayons with him. Which is a pretty big deal when you’re 7 and the only status items you possess are a Malibu Barbie with tan lines and box of 64 crayons with built-in sharpener. I was pretty sure Robby and I had an unspoken understanding. We liked each other. We were friends. We both hated Renée.
There was an incident involving Robby, Renée, me and some unwisely chosen words a few days before the Bozo field trip. It wasn’t my initial intention to misbehave so badly I’d lose Bozo field trip privileges, for a brief shining moment it looked like the silver lining in my punishment cloud was that I would not be allowed to go on the Bozo field trip.
Unfortunately, in the end, all the adults involved took my side in the kerfuffle and I was granted permission to attend the Bozo show as planned. Great.
Renée rode in a different car to the Bozo show. I think the mothers orchestrated the riding arrangements so that Renée and I were separated. However, my chaperone/driver was the last to arrive at the television station. When we arrived we saw the rest of the troop already gathered and buddy-ed up in the parking lot. We always had to buddy up. Choose a buddy and hold her hand up when an adult demanded it. I had a stable of go-to buddies in my Brownie troop. I wasn’t friends with all of them, but, we were all united in our dislike of Renée so if for no other reason, we buddy-ed up so avoid having to buddy up with Renée. This sounds far more calculated than it was. There were no clandestinely whispered plans or strategy sessions. It was just an unspoken understanding.
When our car pulled into the parking lot and I saw we were the last to arrive and all the other girls were assembled, I knew I was in danger of buddy-ing up with Renée. There were five girls in my carpool car. Two were twins who always buddy-ed up together. The other two were friends outside of Brownies. They almost always buddy-ed up together. I would have to force a chasm between those two if I was to have any chance of not having to buddy up with Renée. One of them was sleeping so before the car came to a stop I asked her friend, who was awake, if she wanted to be my buddy. “Sorry, I already promised Lizzy.”
Rats. I hadn’t counted on a premeditated buddy-ing up scheme.
I’d just have to be the first to race over to the troop and find someone else. Surely not everyone was buddy-ed up, yet.
That morning in the Bozo Show parking lot, somehow, some freakishly awful twist of fate left me and Renée the last two standing without a buddy, so we had to buddy up. I didn’t mind buddying up but I’d recently reached the age where I no longer wanted to hold hands with anyone. Well, maybe Robby. But especially not Renée. I hated the hand-holding aspect of buddying-up. And so it was that I filed into the Bozo show holding Renée’s hand.
Our Brownie leader, who was friends with Renée’s mother, made her usual bee-line to the Person in Charge. In this case it was the producer of the Bozo show. We all saw her going through the usual motions, gesturing toward Renée, telling the Person in Charge that one of the kids didn’t have a father and, wink-wink, a little special attention was in order.
I know it’s a cliché statement, but even as a kid I was surprised how small the studio was. For all Bozo’s big top hijinks, the space allocated was really small. There were bleachers off to one side of the studio, a small floor, a couple huge cameras, the infamous glass window with all the important people behind it sitting at a giant control board, and that was pretty much it. We filed in with all the other kids from the channel’s viewing area. There was a Cub Scout troop, a Sunday school class and some kids from a school we’d never heard of. That made them seem exotic to me. Some guy gave us instructions to pay attention to a box behind the cameras that had lights on it. We were to laugh when a yellow light came on and clap when a blue light came on.
I knew it! I knew no one really thought Bozo was funny or applaud worthy! The whole thing was rigged! The home viewing audience was being duped! I knew people who’d been to the Bozo show and no one mentioned the respond on demand aspect. So I figured there was some sort of secret oath we’d be forced to take at the end of the show. “I solemnly vow to uphold the secret of the laugh/clap light box and never tell anyone about it, ever.” Bozo and his cronies were growing increasingly sinister in my mind.
I was kind of lost in the reverie of musing about the audience participation scam this racket was running when out came the clown himself. I know it’s difficult to walk in those enormous shoes, but he walked with such an exaggerated swagger that I thought he was going to fall. Maybe that was part of his schtick. But all I could think about was his feet. If it was so difficult to walk in those enormous shoes, why not just get smaller shoes? Problem solved. Or, if his feet really were that big, maybe there were some sort of handicapped shoes he could get to help him walk better. My sister had to wear correction shoes, they helped her walk better, surely Bozo could be helped with the aid of some correction shoes.
And then I snapped out of my clown shoe reverie and realized what was happening. At the beginning of each show Bozo chose a Butchie and a Belinda. One boy and one girl from the audience were called upon to act as Bozo’s helper. In return for their child labor, at the end of the show the Butchie and Belinda were allowed to go to the big toy chest and choose a toy. Sometimes there were even extra prizes for the Butchie and Belinda.
But. To be a Butchie or Belinda you had to deal with Bozo, mano-a-mano, or mano-a-clowno, as it were. Toy chest and prizes be damned, that was definitely not for me.
I just wanted to get through this ordeal and get back to school so I could put it all behind me. I forgot to pay attention to the box with the lights on it hadn’t laughed or clapped on cue. And then I realized it was really dark and all the kids were crazily raising their hands. There were spot lights moving over us.
Ah, right, this is the search for Butchie and Belinda. I was definitely not raising my hand. So not raising my hands that I put them under my thighs to hold them down lest some subtle movement be misconstrued as a bid for Belinda-ship.
Renée, seated next to me, was confidently you-hooing the producer. “You hoo, over here, I’m right here! I’m the one the Brownie leader told you about! You-hoo, right here!” I told you, the girl was a brat who knew how to work it. She was no stranger to emotional coercion. The spotlight landed on one of the exotic kids from another school, and, yep, we had our Butchie. The rest of the boys were disappointed and quieted down, sullen, their dreams of being Butchie broken. The spot lights were still moving over us. The other girls were frantically waving. Renée was you-hooing. It seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time to find a Belinda when we all knew it was going to be Renée.
Or…maybe…Renée wasn’t going to get her way, for once. I was musing about the poetic justice of that when the boy sitting behind me, one of the Cub Scouts, smacked the back of my head and said, “It’s you, the light’s on you!”
Oh crap. No. There’s been a mistake. Renée is supposed to be the Belinda. Renée wants to be the Belinda. She’s begging for it. The light couldn’t be on me, it had to be on Renée. The spotlight guy messed up and got the wrong girl. I tried to scootch out of the spotlight and pull Renée into it. But the Cub Scout next to me wouldn’t budge. To be fair, he didn’t know about Renée and her dead dad and how she won everything and was chosen for everything and that the spotlight landed on the wrong girl. And I didn’t have time to explain it to him.
Renée was doing everything she could to literally steal the spotlight. This happened a lot on the Bozo Show. The few times I watched it there was usually a kid close to the spotlight who tried to usurp the chosen child’s glory. Bozo’s sidekick never fell for it and always helped the originally chosen Butchie and Belinda down from the bleachers.
On our local Bozo Show, Bozo’s sidekick was a hobo. Hobo Bob. It’s as sad and gruesome as you are imagining. Unkempt hair, charcoaled-on face stubble, oversized and patched clothes, a stick with a bandana fastened to it. Someone once told me Hobo Bob was actually the weather man on the evening news. I didn’t believe it then, but it makes a lot of sense now. Hobo Bob handled all the props on the show. Seltzer bottles, oversized horns with big red squeeze bulbs, bouquets of fake flowers, giant umbrellas, oversized pocket watches, fishing poles with tires hooked to them, hula hoops…the guy had an endless stash of props. He emerged with a long, oversized cane, like they use to pull bad talent off stages in comedy skits. I’m reasonably certain he intended to help me down from the bleachers with the cane, but, he jabbed my stomach with it more forcefully than necessary. I grabbed the cane and moved it toward Renée. As much as I loved the idea of stealing Renée’s thunder, for once, there was no way I was going to spend a half hour next to Bozo, assisting him. Uh-uh. Not me, no way. Hobo Bob’s jabs turned into yanks. He was yanking me via the oversized cane down from the bleachers. I let go of the cane just as Hobo Bob was winding up for another big yank. I didn’t intend to send Hobo Bob hurtling backwards, but that’s what happened. There was no light prompting us to laugh, kids were screaming in genuine laughter. Bozo (and the producers off camera) apparently thought they had a real live wire in me and rolled with it. They laughed at Hobo Bob and Bozo himself came over to the bleachers to “help” me down.
In a last ditch effort to give Renée the Belinda glory she so desperately wanted, I stayed seated and pushed her forward on the bleachers. She didn’t resist. I was giving her a shot at Belinda glory and she was going to grab that brass ring and never let go. I knew she’d never say thank you, either, but in this case I didn’t care. I did not want to be anywhere near the big shoed, yak haired freakfest that was Bozo the clown.
Unfortunately Bozo and the producers were looking for a kid who makes good television. My antic with the cane and Hobo Bob were the sort of pluck they liked in a Butchie and Belinda. Hey, this was very early morning extremely local television, it didn’t take much to excite the producers. Bozo was not having Renée as his Belinda. Apparently there was no getting out of this. Bozo himself came over to the bleachers (an almost unprecedented move, Bozo rarely went near the kids in the bleachers), and reached up for me. The Cub Scouts behind and next to me shoved me toward him. I lost my balance on the rickety bleachers and to his credit, Bozo’s white gloved hands caught me.
So there I was. Belinda for the day.
Oh, lucky me.
I looked for salvation in the kid who was chosen to be the Butchie. Unfortunately, that kid was either tired or stupid or camera shy and proved utterly useless to me and Bozo. Our job, as Butchie and Belinda, was to assist Bozo and Hobo Bob. Oh, I forgot to mention, Hobo Bob was apparently mute. He never said anything, just made facial expressions, gave exaggerated head nods and shakes, and gestured a lot. And was quick with the props. I remember him looking at me and the Butchie kid and shrugging a lot. I had no idea what that was about, but I really didn’t understand any of this whole Bozo thing anyway, so Hobo Bob’s shrugs were just another mystery to me.
However.
I was there in uniform, representing the Brownies of America. And I took an oath and I learned the rules: I was not to be rude. So. I felt obligated to uphold the honor of the Brownies. I had to be a model citizen. So, when Hobo Bob shrugged at me, I did the only thing I could think to do: I shrugged back.
Bozo and the producers ate this up. I remember a guy with a clipboard off to the side of a camera making big motions with his arms. Bozo and Hobo Bob seemed to understand what the motions meant. Apparently it meant, “More!” because Hobo Bob kept shrugging at me and then Bozo started shrugging at me, so I shrugged back. Bozo tried to bring the Butchie kid into the mix, but the doltish lad just stood there, drowsy eyed. In my memory he was picking his nose, but I’m not entirely sure he was actually picking his nose. He seemed like the kind of kid who would just stand there picking his nose, so in my memory he was picking his nose.
Bozo finally introduced a cartoon and the shrug fest ended. Hobo Bob went over to the bleachers and made balloon animals and sent them flying to the kids in the bleachers. Butchie and I were told to stand on Xs made out of tape on the floor. Unless instructed otherwise by Bozo or Hobo Bob, we were supposed to cover the X with my foot at all times. Apparently the cartoon ended because Bozo sprang to life and told Hobo Bob to get a few kids from the audience to play bucket ball. The producer had lined up a bunch of sand pails. He gave me and the Butchie each a bucket filled with red sponge balls. We were supposed to hand Bozo the balls, and Bozo, in turn, would hand them to the kids playing bucket ball. Six kids were in a line waiting to toss sponge balls into pails. The farther away the bucket, the bigger the prize for getting a ball into it. The game was timed, and each kid could make one shot at a go, then return to the end of the line. The faster each kid threw, the more chances they’d all have to get a ball in a bucket. So Butchie and I played an integral role in the success of the kids playing the game. If we were slow to hand Bozo the balls, we slowed down the game and hence reduced the chances the kids had to throw balls.
It occurred to me that a vindictive Butchie or Belinda could do some damage to the other kids’ chances at these games; likewise, a sporting Butchie or Belinda could help out a friend engaged in one of Bozo’s contest. Maybe hand the balls a little faster for a friend, a little slower for a competitor. I was pretty sure this was not what was meant by teamwork in the lessons at our Brownie meetings. Didn’t matter, I didn’t know any of the kids chosen for this game. (imagine that! Renée wasn’t chosen for a game, either!) Hobo Bob produced an enormous bell like an alarm clock bell and the game was on. I handed Bozo sponge balls from my pail at a feverish pace, careful to stay on my X. The kids playing the game were fast, too. Most of them completely missed the pails, but a few threw so hard the ball went into a pail and bounced out. Oh the heartbreak of Bucket Ball. My pail was almost out of balls and I was worried – what would I do when I ran out of balls? Then I realized the Butchie kid had wandered off with his pail of balls and had not been handing Bozo any balls. I didn’t know what to do. Leave my X and get Butchie’s pail of balls? Tell Bozo I was out of balls?
When my pail was empty and Bozo turned to me for another ball shrugged and showed him my empty pail. This got a huge laugh from the bleachers, but Bozo was not amused. The guy with the clipboard was trying to motion the Butchie kid back to his X, but the kid didn’t get it. Looked at Bozo, then to Hobo Bob, then at the kids about ready to pee their pants over the disastrous turn the Bucket Ball game was taking. I knew I wasn’t supposed to leave my X, but, we needed Butchie’s balls. Bozo was making small talk with the girl who was next in line to throw, so I made a break for Butchie. I grabbed his pail of balls out of his unsuspecting hand and dashed back to my X. The game of Bucket Ball continued. But the Butchie kid started crying. And not just whimpering. He was wailing. Apparently he thought the pail of balls was his to keep, a prize for being chosen a Butchie. He was one of the exotic kids from another school. They seemed a whole lot less exotic once Butchie started crying about his balls.
I was still wary of Bozo and hated all of this. I gritted my teeth every time I handed Bozo a ball and under my Brownie uniform, my legs were trembling in fear. Being that close to a clown was freaking me out, I’d hoped for some sort of alliance with the Butchie but that was obviously not going to happen, and, oh yeah, I wasn’t even supposed to be here, Renée was supposed to be the Belinda. It was only because I had to buddy up with her and ended up seated next to her and the spotlight person got mixed up as to which one of us had the dead dad that I was standing there next to a giant, yak-haired clown who freaked the crap out of me. Renée. Always Renée. Even when she finally wasn’t chosen for something, she still managed to mess with me and my life. The one time another I got chosen for something and it was the last thing I wanted. Assisting a clown was my idea of torture in an inner circle of Hell. Then and now.
I know, I know, plenty of kids would have given anything for that opportunity and I should have been grateful. But. It was a clown! A giant, yak-haired clown in white gloves!
After the Bucket Ball game concluded there was a commercial break. The kids returned to their seats and the Butchie was escorted back to his X. He was given a giant rainbow swirled lollipop and told to lick it excitedly. I didn’t understand this then, but now I realize it was the producer’s way to salvage their poor choice of Butchie. The kid was clearly not up to the task. So they opted to make him look cute instead of useful. Which of course meant I had to shoulder all the responsibility of assisting Bozo. I thought it was very unfair that the kid who couldn’t even manage to stay on an X taped on the floor and cried over losing a bucket of sponge balls that were meant to be used for a game was given a giant colorful lollipop and relieved of his duties, while I was left to pick up his slack. Little did I know then that I would deal with that exact scenario many, many times in my life.
More kids were called from the audience, another game was played - something like pin the tail on the donkey - Bozo and Hobo Bob did a magic trick involving several scarves coming out of Hobo Bob’s sleeve and a boutonniere that squirted water at Bozo. Because the Butchie was consumed with licking and slurping his giant rainbow swirled lollipop (and there were now colored sticky smudges all over his face and hands…those kids from the other school lost all remaining exotic luster), I had to gather the scarves and stay out of the line of Hobo Bob’s boutonniere fire. At the end of the magic show Hobo Bob presented me with a bouquet of fake flowers produced from his hobo hat. As soon as they cut to commercial a producer came over and snatched the flowers out of my hand. But the Butchie kid was still licking and slurping his rainbow swirled giant lollipop.
More kids were chosen for the closing Hula Hoop sequence. Renée was not among them, but a couple girls from my Brownie troop were chosen. Cameras were back on and Bozo addressed me and the Butchie kid. It was time for our trip to the big Toy Chest. We got to choose the toy that was our form of payment for services rendered on Bozo’s Big Top. I didn’t think it was fair that Butchie got to choose a prize because he didn’t stay on his X and didn’t help Bozo whatsoever. Plus he was already given a giant rainbow swirled lollipop. For breakfast. (Insert life is unfair soliloquy here.)
The giant toy chest was indeed giant. And at first glance it appeared to be brimming over with toys. However, as we neared the toy chest I was able to get a closer look.
A) There was a false bottom in the toy chest. It was brimming over with toys because there was a shelf a couple inches under the opening. There weren’t many toys in there.
B) All the toys were Bozo themed. A couple Bozo games. A few Bozo books. A bunch of small penny candies with Bozo on the wrapper. Bozo magic tricks. Bozo stickers. A box of 8 crayons with Bozo on the box. A Bozo puzzle. A Bozo wig (shudder). A Bozo doll (double shudder).
Lame. All of it. Lame. I always wondered why the kids on the show always chose such stupid prizes. And why they didn’t root around deeper in the toy chest for something better. Now I knew. There was no “deeper” in the toy chest. There was nothing better.
I didn’t want any of it but I didn’t want to be rude so I just grabbed a book and stepped aside so the Butchie could choose the prize he didn’t earn. The kid seemed to come to life at the sight of the toy chest. Maybe the sugar kicked in and he was awake, now. Maybe he’d been in a stage-fright induced paralysis and was now snapping out of it. Whatever the case, the kid was now Mr. Personality. He gabbed with Bozo and Hobo Bob, making a big deal about which prize to choose, the dude was really working every publicity angle for Bozo, making it seem like such a great honor to be Bozo’s helper and getting to go to the big toy chest. He finally settled on the Bozo wig. Seemed appropriate to me.
Hobo Bob reached into the toy chest and Bozo told me to close my eyes and hold out my hand. I was petrified of what might happen. A giant clown, a mute Hobo, a kid with a Bozo wig, live television…I mean, who would dare close their eyes on that freak show? But, I was in uniform and the girls in my troop and Brownies the world over were counting on me to be brave and do as instructed. I felt Hobo Bob’s sweaty hand cupping mine, and then a bunch of crinkly wrappers placed in my hand. A bunch of penny candy. And weird penny candy. Those icky rootbeer barrels, cinnamon disks, and some sort of sugar coated gum drops that looked really old and stale. I got better a better candy haul when I visited my great aunt in a nursing home.
And then the music started playing and the hula hoop kids were instructed to hula hoop to their little hips off. Last hoop hula-ing got a prize. I tried to telepath to my friends that the prizes sucked and not to worry about losing. But they gave it their all and one of them ended up winning. She was given a Bozo coloring book. I knew she was disappointed. We’d talk later, on the ride home.
After the show Bozo and Hobo Bob were in a sort of receiving line. All us kids filed past them and Bozo thanked us for being his guest. This was as close as many of the kids were going to get to Bozo, and many of them were either starstruck into a gawking silence or wanted settle in for a long chat with Bozo. So Bozo just smiled and pushed them along to Hobo Bob who shook their hands and pushed them out the door into the office of the television station.
Renée was a couple kids ahead of me in line so I could see and hear her. When it was her turn to greet Bozo she said, “I was supposed to be your Belinda.” She then looked at Hobo Bob and, I swear, she said, “You were supposed to pick me. You got the wrong girl. I know you can talk. Why did you make her (pointing at me) the Belinda? She didn’t even want to do it! She doesn’t even like Bozo! She’s only here because our Brownie troop came. She said she’d rather be home watching Rocky and Bullwinkle!”
Oh crap. Just when I thought the nightmare was almost over and I could unclench my teeth and breathe again, Renée went and put me in the spotlight…again.
Crap.
I threw up a little in my mouth and I peed a couple drops in my pants. How dare she? C’est la guerre, Renée, c’est la guerre.
Hobo Bob did a big mock gesture of shock. Then did the “for shame” scraping tut-tut thing with his forefingers at me.
What could I say? I pretended to be suddenly very interested in the Bozo book I got from the toy chest and started flipping through the pages as if I was a librarian and it was a riveting new book. At least that was the look I was hoping to affect.
For a yak haired clown with white gloves Bozo was pretty cool about this. He laughed his stupid scary laugh and then pushed Renée along to Hobo Bob. She was still blathering on about how she was supposed to be the Belinda, it had been arranged before the show, but no one was listening. Everyone was watching to see what would go down with me and Bozo and Hobo Bob.
When it was my turn I looked up from my book with a casual, “Oh, is it my turn already?” kind of look. I just said, “thank you” to Bozo, who wordlessly shoved me along to Hobo Bob. I thanked him and he wordlessly shoved me toward the door.
Whew. Got through that.
Now to deal with Renée. She was waiting for me in the office. Our troop was mostly assembled. We were still waiting on a few girls (the hula hoopers) to greet Bozo and Hobo Bob and then we’d rush back to school, hopefully in time for the opening bell. Sometimes kids who went to the Bozo Show arrived late to school. This was allowed. When the teacher called their name during attendance someone would say, “He’s at Bozo today!” and the teacher would disdainfully say, “Oh yes. That’s right. Bozo.” But our Brownie leader promised our parents she’d have us back in time for the start of school. There would be no dallying at the station.
I knew this. And I knew the longer it took the remaining girls to get through the receiving line, the less chance we had at taking the studio tour that was promised to us after the show. The first two tour groups had already completed their tour and three other groups were assembled and waiting. If we were the last group in line I knew our leader would never allow us to wait for the studio tour.
And that’s exactly what happened. The one thing I really wanted to do and nope, no studio tour. No behind the scenes info for us. I knew I couldn’t protest this because, after all, I’d been chosen to be the Belinda and in the eyes of the other girls I had nothing to complain about. While we waited for the last girls to arrive, Renée took the opportunity to lash into me. “I was supposed to be the Belinda! I was just about to go and you cut in front of me.”
“I did not take cuts! Those Cub Scouts pushed me! I didn’t want to be Belinda!”
“You shouldn’t have let Bozo catch you!”
Wait. I was supposed to fall down a steep set of bleachers so that Renée could be the Belinda? I missed that detail in the Bozo Show instructions.
Renée then did something really stupid. She slugged me in the arm and called me a stupid poopypants.
There was an audible gasp in the room.
Slugging, hitting, poking, pinching, pushing…none of that was allowed in our Brownie troop and committing any of those offenses was cause for dismissal from the troop. And name calling wasn’t thought to highly of, either. Especially something as awful as stupid poopypants. “Young ladies do not refer to hygienic matters,” our leader used to say. We were to be discreet about our bathroom needs and never mentions words relating to any bodily secretion except to a parent or medical worker. Booger, snot, poop, pee, oozing puss…young ladies do not refer to these things nor do they use them as insults to others. If she’d said it once, she’d said it a hundred times. (There was a girl who insisted on referring to boys booger butts…she had a lot of brothers so our leader tended to ignore her most of the time, but occasionally she reprimanded the girl for her use of the words booger and butt.)
But the slug and the stupid poopypants comment? Wow. Renée was really asking for it.
She slugged me hard enough that my arm was still stinging. She packed a serious wallop. I always suspected that about her. There’d been an incident in gym class where she shoved an older boy off the pommel horse. I was pretty sure she wasn’t the dainty flower she made herself out to be.
And.
Okay, yes, I’d peed a couple drops in my pants during the reception line confrontation, but I was reasonably certain the matter was contained and under control, and I certainly did not poop my pants.
Her accusations were unfounded.
Our leader hadn’t seen the slug, but she heard Renée call me a stupid poopypants and came over to intervene. I saw her coming so I didn’t retaliate to Renée. I just silently stood there giving her the stink eye. If I was so stupid, why did Renée try to copy my worksheets and tests? Hmmm?
Our troop leader came over and gave us a stern warning.
“Girls, we are in uniform. You are representing Girl Scouts the world over. And you are young ladies. And ladies do not talk that way, Renée. We’ve talked about taking turns, and giving other kids a chance, haven’t we Renée?”
Whoa. Yes, she was talking to “us” but she was clearly addressing Renée. Because “we” hadn’t had much discussion about taking turns. That was covered the year prior. With the exception of Renée we were all pretty good at taking turns. So clearly there’d been some private counseling going on between our leader and Renée.
Ha! Who’s the stupid poopypants now, Renée?!
One of the other girls, one of the twins, I think, spoke up. “Renée hit her!”
Our leader had a look of mortification and then anger.
“What?! Did Renée hit you?”
Now it was Renée giving me the stink eye.
I didn’t care. This could be an opportunity to get Renée ousted from the troop and out of one area of my life. I timidly nodded my head.
“Where?!”
I pointed to my arm. Our leader rolled up my uniform sleeve and, sure enough, the area where Renée slugged me was still red from the impact. I’m exceptionally pale and I bruise easily, which embarrasses me, but this was one instance where I was grateful that my skin show impact bruises so quickly. I was fairly certain by the time we got to school I’d have a purple fist-shaped bruise where she hit me. You picked the wrong girl to mess with, Renée.
The other mothers, the chaperones, had by now converged on the crime scene. I heard them whispering. I picked up bits and pieces, “name calling” “hitting” “needs so much attention” “such a horrible tragedy, it’s always the children who suffer so badly when a parent dies.”
Whoa. Wait a minute. Were they really going to let her off the hook for hitting me and calling me stupid poopypants because her dad died? Who’s the real victim, here?
Bozo and Hobo Bob entered the room behind the last of the kids in the receiving line. Bozo thanked everyone for being on the show and told us to enjoy the tour of the studio. Hobo Bob had a stack of signed photos of Bozo for everyone and a frenzy broke out as the kids clamored for a photo of Bozo. I certainly didn’t want one, but Renée tried to make a break for it. Our leader grabbed her and said, “We are not finished here.”
Bozo and Hobo Bob must have figured there was something going down between us, they were privy to Renée’s earlier outburst and they obviously saw my uniform sleeve rolled up and the huddle of mothers around us.
This remains with me strongly to this day because it was the first time an adult treated me like an adult. Hobo Bob caught my eye and shot me a look. And I knew exactly what he was trying to tell me. “I know that girl is a meanie brat.” Okay, he probably intended to imply that she was a psycho bitch, but I wasn’t familiar with that vernacular yet, and the closest translation is meanie brat. But I knew, and I still know, that Hobo Bob purposely tried to let me know that he understood. He knew Renée was a problem.
And what happened next confirmed it. Bozo came over to see if everything was okay. He laughed his scary laugh and said, “Whoa ho ho! Did our Belinda hurt herself?”
He startled me and I was so scared of clowns that Renée’s name calling was about to come true. Hobo Bob must have figured out Bozo scared the crap out me, almost literally. He headed in our direction and slipped between Bozo and me and…broke his silence. He got down on one knee and asked me if I was okay.
There was another audible gasp in the room.
It’s a miracle! Hobo Bob is cured! He can talk!! Maybe now he can get a job and he won’t have to be a hobo!
Apparently Hobo Bob transferred his inability to speak to me because I couldn’t form any words. Mainly I was still freaked out about Bozo. But hearing Hobo Bob speak was a bit alarming, too. Wait til the kids at school hear about this! I just nodded. Because apart from being petrified of clowns, I was okay. I was used to Renée’s insults. True, she’d never hit me, but in hindsight I kind of always knew it would happen sooner or later.
Our leader handed Renée over to one of the chaperone mothers with instructions to “take her to the parking lot.” We all knew what that meant. Renée was going down.
Hobo Bob told me I was the best Belinda they’d had in a long time and that it was nice of me to fill in for the Butchie when we ran out of balls during the Bucket Ball game. Further, he said I saved the game. Wow! Someone noticed! Okay, it was a sweaty palmed guy dressed as a Hobo, but still, someone noticed!
I still couldn’t talk, but I didn’t know what to say anyway so I just smiled. My Brownie leader spoke for me and said, “Thank you. She’s a bit shaken up from all the excitement. Thank you.”
Bozo returned with a photo. Great. He offered to personalize one for me. I just smiled a weak smile. He leaned over a table and signed the photo. I didn’t tell him my name so I wondered what the photo would say.
It said, “To the best Belinda, your pal, Bozo!”
My Brownie leader said something like, “Well, now, isn’t that nice?! Thank you Bozo. *thank the nice clown, dear*”
I eeked out a “Thank you, Bozo” and Bozo and Hobo Bob left the room.
All the other kids were staring at me. I felt incredibly self conscious and in desperate need of getting out of that room. It was already clear to me that we were not going to be allowed to take the studio tour. I just wanted to get in the carpool car and get back to school and put this behind me.
Our troop leader instructed the remaining chaperone mothers to gather the troop and have us buddy-up. She’d send the other mother in when it was time for us to head to the cars. It seemed like a long time passed before the other chaperone mother appeared to take us to the cars. Because Renée was already in the parking lot I didn’t have a buddy. This was a rare time when a three-some buddy was allowed. I buddy-ed up with the twins and filed out with my specially signed Bozo photo tucked into my Bozo book. I really didn’t want either – in fact the last thing I wanted in my bedroom was anything adorned with a clown – but now that photo seemed like a badge of honor, a talisman of my triumph over Renée. It occurred to me that I might come out of this as somewhat of a hero, a legend on the playground, the girl who was chosen instead of Renée. At the very least, I was certain word of the morning’s events would spread through the school by lunch.
Renée was in the car with our Brownie leader. The rest of us piled into our assigned carpool cars. The ride back to school was much livelier than the ride to the studio. We recapped and assessed every nuance of the show and the aftermath, including the revelation that Hobo Bob could talk. That was going to be huge back at school. Huge. And the fact that he broke his silence to me? Well, that was by far the hugest thing that ever happened to me.
We arrived at school just as the assembly bell was ringing. We filed into the school and into our respective classrooms and at our desks before the pledge of allegiance started. There were five girls from my Brownie troop in my class. Me, Renée, the twins and the girl who called boys booger butts.
Unfortunately the other three girls sat on the other side of the room, so I was left on my own to deal with Renée. I ignored her. Robby wanted to know about Bozo. I told him it was stupid. I knew Robby wouldn’t have an opportunity to go to the Bozo show, and I didn’t think he’d want to go, anyway. I showed him my Bozo book and the specially signed photo. “Whoa!!! You got to be the Belinda?!!”
Robby blurting out anything was not too dissimilar from Hobo Bob talking. Robby was quiet and when he talked it was in a voice almost as quiet as a whisper.
The whole class turned their attention to me. I could feel Renée’s icy gaze piercing into me. I beamed and held up the photo of Bozo as evidence.
Most kids in my class weren’t big Bozo fans, but, this was unprecedented on two very significant levels.
1) Our school, our class, had a Belinda! That was huge.
2) It wasn’t Renée who was chosen to be the Belinda! That was even more huge. The classroom was buzzing. How did I pull off that coup?
The twins and the girl who called boys booger butts spread the tale. The part about Renée slugging me and calling me poopypants was glossed over during the classroom account, but I knew it would hit the grapevine during gym class and lunch. By recess everyone would know Renée hit me and that’s why Hobo Bob talked to me.
I left my Bozo book and Bozo photo in my desk at lunch. The book was more suited for a kindergartner, I was embarrassed to have a book so far beneath my reading level. And the photo of Bozo freaked me out. He seemed even more sinister in black and white. I buried him under the book and buried the book under my phonics books.
When we returned from recess, a crowd had gathered around my desk to see the photo up close. I opened my desk and moved my phonics book and the Bozo book…and my Bozo photo was gone. I rummaged through my desk, took out everything, my classmates helped me look for it, but, it was gone. The girl who called boys booger butts immediately accused Renée. It seemed likely and probable, but we had no proof. The girl who called boys booger butts told our teacher that my Bozo photo was missing from my desk. The teacher told the class that if anyone knew of the whereabouts they could return it to her anonymously, no questions asked. They only need to leave it on the counter next to the hamster when we went to music class. If it wasn’t by the hamster at music class, there would be a desk inspection during music class.
A desk inspection was a pretty big deal. Usually it involved bubble gum or Pop Rocks, both of which were not allowed in our class, and both of which were routinely brought to school and clandestinely passed around. Or, as clandestinely as you can pass around bubble gum and Pop Rocks.
The photo never surfaced. The desk inspection proved futile, although a strip of Zotz were uncovered in the desk of the boy who sold various types of candy on the playground. (Zotz, Pop Rocks, Jolly Ranchers, Bubble Yum…that kid had the good stuff.) So no surprise there.
I never knew if Renée was the one who stole my Bozo photo, but the reality is that I didn’t care. I didn’t want the photo and I didn’t know what I was going to do with it. I certainly did not want it in my bedroom. Whomever stole it did me a favor.
But. If it was Renée it speaks volumes about her. If it was her, I sometimes wonder what she did with the photo. Did she take it home and pretend she was the Belinda mentioned in the special autograph? Did she tell people she was the Belinda mentioned in the autograph? It would be like her to lie about something like that – something that could easily backfire on her if she lied about it to someone who saw the show and knew she wasn’t the Belinda.
She got in a lot of trouble for hitting me. She wasn’t expelled from our Brownie troop, but she was put on a probation. One more incident and she was out. She didn’t start behaving better, she just became more wily and deceitful.
My godson seemed to enjoy the story. It passed some time during his no internet or phone internment and beat having to play Beatles Rock Band. I didn’t tell him that his mother was the girl who called boys booger butts.
Deeper cuts. If you really want to freak yourself out, here are some clown art links. Caution, NSFC, Not Safe for Clourophobes.
Leighton Jones is the man behind the brush that painted many of the familiar clown images that plague clourophobes' sleep.
Robert Owen is also responsible for many of the "classic" scary clown paintings.
In case you're not a clourophobe and you don't understand why so many people are creeped out by clowns, perhaps this will shed some insight into the fear. If this doesn't give you pause for thought, you are one brave soul. John Wayne Gacy, yes, that John Wayne Gacy, enjoyed painting as a hobby. Many of his works feature clowns.
Margaret Keane, the mother of all big eyed beings. There's going to be a biopic about her called "Big Eyes." Tim Burton's producing it and it's going to star Reese Witherspoon. Don't say I didn't warn you.
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Not So Silent Bob says: