Pass the Clown

         We grew up in the smallest town on the map. A diminutive painter lived to the left of us, flourishing impressions on canvas and, on the right, a tall lean clown had lived in a little shack for years and years. This clown visited our family on regular occasions. He carried with him, wherever he went, a bulging blue suitcase crisscrossed with hanging red threads. He carried it in the hopes that he would find somewhere else to live. After a few hours visiting with my family, Roscoe - that was his name - would beg us to let him stay. But we pinched his big ears and yelled, “It's time to go, Roscoe!” and, in a circle of merriment, we would shoo him out onto the balcony where we either made him jump off or else we pushed him ourselves...I can see him now – poised on the rim and looking at us with those big violet eyes, he'd blow his nose, wave his handkerchief frantically, and it was then we ran up and pushed. Roscoe feigned dismay – solely for our amusement – since we knew, deep down, he loved his little fiasco. Why else would he keep coming back?
         There was one time when Mother permitted Roscoe to sleep overnight. He was excited as a boy who's seen his first snowfall, and he ran from one to another of us, bestowing wide sloppy kisses as only clowns can. We children were allowed to stay up late that night as Roscoe told us his life history. I remember being fascinated. But he emptied two full jars of Mom's cold cream before going to sleep and Mother refused to let him sleep overnight again. Each evening - for Roscoe had become by then a frequent visitor - we would pack him off to his shack and each morning he'd return with a suitcase that bulged less and less. Eventually, after a few months, he gave up carrying it altogether. But he looked so sad on those evenings walking home empty-handed beneath the big yellow moon. He used to remind me - though it makes me wince - of those pathetic velvet paintings.
Yes, in those days, Roscoe was always sure to return. He'd blow his kiddie-car horn coming up the driveway for, though he only lived next door, he was a great believer in scientific advancements. Then he'd ring the doorbell - sometimes as much as twenty times. We'd sit inside giggling and seeing how long he would keep ringing if nobody answered. Sometimes he'd stop ringing, and then, little by little, tufts of orange hair would appear in a window. Roscoe's eyes, all swollen and red, looking vivid in their purple circles, would look in at us mournfully.
         We were so glad to have such a funny friend, especially when, without him, things got so quiet. I don't know, but we didn't seem to have much to say to each other as a family. Or if we did, we'd say it all at once and then sort of wonder, in the silence that followed, what everyone else had said.
         Roscoe was a big help around the house, too. He had this little white poodle called Angel that he'd taught to wash windows. While Angel was cleaning and sudsing the windows, Roscoe would dance around the house with the vacuum-cleaner and march up and down the stairs with it, getting into all the little corners filled with dust.
         Dad was always a little disappointed on the mornings when he had to get to work and Roscoe popped in for breakfast. Dad would hum and haw, and stall in the kitchen for as long as possible to watch Roscoe juggling eggs or hitting himself over the head with a frying pan while Mom fell on the floor in hysterics. Dad would sigh, look at his watch, and have to leave. But first, he'd always kiss Ma goodbye - that was the sign for Roscoe to honk his horn. Was he ever fun to have around–- sometimes I think the only reason Mom and Dad ever kissed was to hear the laughter we all made at Roscoe's HONK! HONK!
         Dad never tried to make Mom laugh. He sort of depended on both of them being able to laugh at Roscoe instead. Dad was a plumber, so it could get pretty funny when Roscoe imitated him with a spanner and banging on everything in sight. Now and then he'd bust a water pipe - just for the fun of it, he was that kind of clown - so we could all have a good laugh. But after he left, Mom would yell at Dad until he'd fixed the leak and cleaned up the mess. They'd walk around with frowns on their faces the rest of the day and would mutter, “No more Roscoe - no more fun and games” then they'd slap us on the back of our heads and say, “Children - get on with your work.” Next time Roscoe visited, though, it was as though nothing had happened and they'd completely forgotten the incident. They'd take turns with his hoola hoop, call us children down for a game, and say, “Good old Roscoe.”
         Then there was my brother, Ed. He took a disliking to Roscoe, said he was embarrassed to have a clown for a relative (Mom insisted on us calling him Uncle Roscoe), and that 'Uncle Roscoe' was always interrupting him with stupid questions. Mother reminded him that Roscoe was always ready to play games but Ed scowled and said it was pathetic - being able to kick a grown man and have everybody laughing at it. So we tried to reason with him but it didn't work. He began doing things whenever Roscoe was around – things like putting elastic around the poodle's tongue. Ed would fall to the ground doubled over in laughter - and you know how contagious laughter can be - while poor Angel whined in terror. Maybe it was boredom, but Ed started visiting the city-scape painter next door; he didn't like Roscoe at all either.
         Things livened up for a while, though. Roscoe would loiter under the big oak tree across the street - pretending to take Angel for a walk. If Ed looked out the window, however, Roscoe would have to turn around and start carving his initials in the tree trunk. Roscoe also started hiding behind our shed. He was that desperate to see us. We always knew when he was there - the red ping-pong ball he used for a nose would stick out from behind the wall. We'd have to come up with all kinds of excuses to get old Ed Sourpuss out of the house. As soon as Ed was gone, there was Roscoe, Angel balanced on his shoulder, leaping around the corner on a pogo stick. We'd all kind of breathe better, and make jokes about the excuses we'd made up.
         But everything changed one day. Roscoe arrived with a tissue bouquet for Mom. Dad was teaching Ed how to shave and I was in the kitchen feeding the cat. Roscoe didn't know that Ed was home and mother told Roscoe he better go. Words were spoken, Angel wouldn't stop barking, and then All this yelling began. Roscoe was talking real fast in that nasal voice of his that got higher and higher while Mom hollered and said terrible things to him. We all ran to the living room. Mom was throwing ashtrays, lamps, plates, she was pulling pictures off the wall - and Roscoe was ducking the volley and trying to tell jokes at the same time. She ripped the bouquet into shreds. Roscoe turned grey under his paint and his eyes, outlined in purple diamonds, glimmered. He turned around and left. He didn't even have to be told to go. Suddenly Mom rushed out onto the balcony after him, “Roscoe, don't go!” but it was too late. Roscoe was going as fast as he could on a pogo stick down the street.
         We were all very quiet that day - except Mom. She went over the story again and again. “He said we were fools - all of us - you too, Ed, and that he'd been coming here all these years to get ideas for making people laugh since he'd never, never met people so idiotic - those were his words - as us.” Mom sobbed a lot, but what could we do? We were all in shock.
         Roscoe didn't visit ever again. We're not even sure what became of him except for the few shots we saw on television – he had become famous by then, so we would gather round the set, our throats growing lumps and our eyes watering, yes, even Ed's because he'd liked being able to vent his anger on good old Roscoe - and we'd sit and watch Roscoe answer the reporter's questions, and tickle children, and show Angel skipping rope. And we all remember some of the good old times but they're always mixed with this kind of bitterness. It's only natural, I guess. But sometimes, on Saturday afternoons, if we all get to feeling low what with one thing or another, Ed will sneak off, get into Mom's makeup and put on this old orange wig he picked up at the flea market. Then he'll jump into the living room - pretending he's on a pogo stick, and he'll jump up and down, point at us, and laugh. But it isn't the same.