The Tears of a Clown

Holly Peppe

Charlie Chaplin

I was on my second glass of Pouilly-Fuissé at a black-tie charity benefit in the Plaza Hotel’s penthouse ballroom when I spotted him walking jauntily toward me: a small man sporting a tiny toothbrush mustache, black morning coat and bowtie, high-collar white shirt, baggy pants and bowler hat.

He stopped suddenly, tipped his hat and danced in a circle, attracting a few other guests, drinks in hand. Reaching one arm above his head and then pulling it earthward, he circled again, lifted his hat and bowed with a flourish, charming the captive audience who laughed and applauded as he took another sweeping bow. When he stood up again, smiling, he looked my way and winked.

How that little flirtation led to a date is hard to say, but by the time I left the party, he’d managed to get my phone number in true mime fashion, without saying a word. I had just turned 28 and was between boyfriends, so dating Charlie Chaplin seemed like a fine idea. I had nothing to lose and besides, it would be a fun story to share with my girlfriends.

But a week later, pressing the 11th floor elevator button in a rundown building on the Upper West Side, I had second thoughts. Was I crazy, going to visit a man I’d never seen out of costume? I’d only spoken with him once, when he told me his name was Bobby Marks and invited me to his place for drinks before going to Café des Artistes for dinner.

I didn’t ask any of the questions that occurred to me later, like “Is being a mime your full-time job?” Instead, I said yes right away for all the wrong reasons: I loved that restaurant, with its famous murals lining the walls; I thought the Saturday night crowd might include a few bold names; and most important, I had no better offers that night.

There was no turning back now. When the elevator doors opened, I stepped out and peered down a dingy gray-carpeted hallway to see a baggy black pant leg sticking out of a doorway in midair, ending in an oversized rubber shoe. I let out a nervous laugh and a man’s hand quickly appeared above the leg, waving a floppy bouquet of what looked like plastic red roses. I took a cautious step forward and the man, or should I say the clown, jumped into the hallway shouting, “Tadaaa! Welcome to the circus!”

“Oh my God!” I gasped. As a child I’d seen Bozo the Clown on TV but never expected to meet him in the flesh. It was Bozo all right, with a bright white face, arching black eyebrows, round red plastic nose and huge painted smile ending in the center of each cheek. In place of ears, two dense swatches of red frizzy hair stuck straight out from the sides of his head.

I gulped and glanced at my watch.

“What time is it?” the clown asked merrily, swinging his arms as he marched toward me. When I didn’t answer he pulled out a harmonica and started to play, “Yankee doodle went to town . . .”

I backed up, smiling nervously, not knowing how to escape. Sensing my discomfort, Bozo, aka Bobby, let out what sounded like a normal man’s laugh and told me not to worry—he would change into street clothes, he said, before we went to dinner.

He bowed and stretched out his hand and led me into a living room that looked like a dance studio with a wall-to-wall mirror and wooden ballet bar. In one corner was a basket of weights and exercise bands and in the other, a card table and two folding chairs. On the table was a bottle of Dubonnet, two green porcelain mugs, a bowl of bright pink jumbo shrimp, and a small plastic container of what I assumed was cocktail sauce.

As we neared the table I winced at a rotting smell—the shrimp was rancid or well on its way. Not wanting to offend, I quickly said, “I’m allergic to shellfish!” and then, “But I’d love some Dubonnet.”

“No problem!” the clown said happily, turning in a circle and bowing toward me. “Maybe you’d prefer sardines?”

“Thank you, no,” I said as politely as I could. “I’ll just enjoy the wine.”

When he left me alone for a few moments, presumably to go change into street clothes, I contemplated making a mad dash back to the elevator but didn’t want to be rude. I could almost hear my mother admonishing me, “You made your bed—now you have to lie in it!”

Soon Bobby reappeared in a colorful striped shirt and black jeans. Without makeup he looked older and not as animated—his expression was flat and his eyes seemed a bit too close together. His face reminded me of my sixth-grade teacher who told jokes at the beginning of every class, though no one ever laughed.

After a short, quiet walk to the restaurant, we were seated at a corner table and Bobby started talking excitedly about how much he loved living in New York after growing up in Pittsburgh. I acted attentive but felt restless and slightly guilty for being there at all. Before long a handsome young waiter saved the day by delivering two glass flutes of complimentary champagne.

Bobby and I raised our glasses in a perfunctory toast, but moments after we took a first sip, his pleasant demeanor disappeared and his face twisted into a scowl.

“Have you ever had a change of heart?” he demanded with near-frightening intensity.

Before I could respond, he lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. “Five years ago I found my soulmate and we fell in love. I met her in Wisconsin at the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College—yes, there is such a thing—and we clicked right away. We both enjoyed putting on costumes and make-up and making kids laugh—and we both understood that being a clown was a lonely business.”

He sniffled and took a breath. “Her name was Angel, and I thought she was sent from Heaven to give me a shot at happiness. We sat in class together and she stayed at my place every night during the three-month course. But she kept declining my invitation to move in—she said she liked her independence, which should have been a clue to me, but I missed it.

Just before classes ended, out of the blue she told me she’d had a change of heart. Just like that, no warning at all. I said I didn’t know what that meant. She said she’d fallen out of love! I told her I didn’t understand that either. We’d always talked about moving to New York to find work, but she said no, she was going back home to Ohio.

I told her I could join her there, and we could market ourselves as a duo, a husband-wife team. Married or not, we’d be great, I told her--we could come up with all kinds of gags.

But she didn’t even want to consider that,” he said, his voice cracking. “She said she wanted to go home on her own, and then she warned me. “Don’t follow me or it will be worse for you!’”

He lowered his head and inhaled a long breath to steady himself.

“That was the end of it! Despite my pleading, the gig was up and she was gone from my life. It broke my heart and my spirit.”

Poor guy, I thought, reaching across the table to touch his hand. He was a rejected lover suffering from heartbreak. “I’m so sorry to hear this,” I said gently. “What a sad time for you.”

Suddenly his face brightened and he blurted out, “Maybe not! Maybe you can help! Maybe you can help me get her back!”

I froze for a moment. “What do you mean?” I asked quietly, shaking my head. “I certainly can’t get involved in your love life.”

But he was just getting started. “When I saw you at the Plaza, I knew I’d be aiming high to ask you out, but ol’ Charlie comes through every time! You seemed like a nice person, so I figured that after hearing my story, you might help me get Angel back! You could call and talk with her, woman to woman. She’d be jealous that you care about my happiness and start thinking about what she lost. You know—maybe she’d have another change of heart and take me back! I could pay you to call her if you’d feel better about the whole thing.”

He smiled a strange, self-satisfied smile.

“The nerve,” I thought, furious. I took a few sips of champagne. “You mean you picked me up at a party so I could call a woman who rejected you and make her jealous?”

He didn’t flinch. “Exactly! I know my plan will work! I just haven’t found the right person to do the job yet.”

There was no way to muster sympathy for this pitiful clown now—he’d crossed the line. “You mean you’ve asked other women to intervene too?”

“That’s right,” he said smugly. “I hook’em with my Charlie act every time.”

I didn’t know if I should call the police or a psychiatrist, but I did know, to my relief, that this date was officially over. “Thanks for thinking of me but I’m not interested,” I said coolly and rose to leave.

“But we haven’t even ordered yet,” he said in a small voice. “No nightcap at my place?”

I avoided his gaze, picked up my purse, and walked quickly toward the door without glancing back.

Out on the street in the crisp fall air, I felt suddenly liberated and laughed out loud as I imagined my mother’s familiar voice again, scolding me playfully.

“Serves you right!” she was saying. “No one to blame but yourself!”

Holly has taught English in the U.S. and Italy, worked abroad with a medical nonprofit, and managed a PR firm in Manhattan. She has been writing about the Jazz Age poet Edna St. Vincent Millay since the 1980’s, when she lived with the poet’s sister, then 92, at Millay’s former home in upstate NY. Her essays about Millay’s life and work appear in the Penguin Classics, Harper Perennial, and Yale University Press collections of her poetry. She is also co-author of two Scholastic YA books and the memoir of Eve Branson, mother of the colorful British entrepreneur.