I like to think I got the job because I struck the agency as funnier than the other applicants, or at least because they liked my costume. My mother made it for me and the kids seem to like it, with its frilled cuffs, ruff collar and double rows of sewn-on jingle bells. It lends my act a classic touch that I believe plays into the currently swelling traditionalist strains in American entertainment.

My mother began her professional life as a painter, mostly of farm animals, but switched to needlework upon her transplantation to New York City from her birthplace in the mountains of West Virginia. Up to that time she had stitched in her entire life only a single square of a patchwork quilt; but she found, on rejoining her familial roots in the New York furtrading district, that she worked well in weasel pelts. That provided her a career, an income and eventually a husband, my father, Diedrich Middelbein. Diedrich had arrived in the District following the war, with the clothes on his back and an unerring eye for quality pelt. He thrived, or perhaps throve, no one now alive can say with authority, as pelt-procurer to the stars. When he met Mother, then fast becoming that era’s premier design innovator in weasel-based casual wear, their eventual partnership and, what is in the fur district the same thing, marriage, was inevitable. I was the happy product and sartorial beneficiary of that union. Mother, who herself wore day in and day out only the same loose, faded and increasingly revealing housedress, fashioned in her adolescence from an Applachian grainsack, lavished her talents on my own childhood wardrobe and sent me off to school each winter day swaddled in smartly stitched furs and crowned with any of a large repertoire of perky fur caps. Much of that wardrobe still fits me.

You don’t make lots of money as a clown. I live in a tiny one-room apartment off an alley, and step through garbage every night on my way home to dinner. But I look good.

Today’s gig was a revenge story, a payback singing-telegram-cum-thrown-pie, to be delivered ambush style at the tribute party of a widely detested showbiz lawyer. Mort (Mort The Tort) Morphy, a sour froglike little man no larger than myself, was rumored, in the parochial school we once attended together, to have been born without a soul. Having spent his subsequent career persuading others to sell him theirs, he must now have dozens to squander.

On my way to this assignment, I took my favorite shortcut through the park. It passed a large wading pool patronized, or I should say matronized, daily in summer by large numbers of sun- and swimsuit-clad young mothers and their wading-age offspring. I liked to think of these as the fruit of their loins, for reasons that I presume need no explaining. I was hungry, it being almost lunchtime, and I stopped at a pretzel vendor’s cart for a quick snack. The vendor, one Pandro by name, the filmstruck son of a filmstruck career box office attendant, was one with whom I’d formed a casual friendship rooted in common economic perspectives and a shared veneration of the early childbearing years. We talked sports and finance for a few minutes as we monitored the pool’s teeming shores for exemplars of motherly excellence. Pandro, his eye always out for the offbeat, called my attention to a twentyish redhead whose swimsuit featured a large round cutout, perhaps intended to be circular, that centered, more or less, on her freshly sun-pinkened back (now on display as she bent over a splashing toddler), and wrapped around out of sight to the front. This window afforded a view more generous than (we assumed) its wearer intended.

"Nice suit," observed Pandro, "Think she knows?"

"I prefer to think not. She a regular?"

"New to me. Maybe where she comes from, they don’t use suits."

She swung the baby around and up, and the suit, possibly borrowed from a bigger sister, hung loosely outward in the turn, exposing a rotating bonus view as it went. A veil of long red hair followed her as she whirled, finally sailing around to wrap itself against her face as the plane came in for a landing. The kid staggered on the touch-down and fell against mom, flinging its fat armlets around her gorgeously-proportioned calf, and mashing face against same. I was in mid-attempt to achieve a Vulcan body-swap with the child when my pager gave me the 15-minute warning, and I reluctantly left Pandro on his own to cover the breaking story. I had lyrics to learn.

My parents named me after the German folk hero, Tyl Eulenspiegel. I don’t know what they saw in this character, except that he was apparently a sweet memory out of my father’s childhood. Tyl, a trickster type whose last name means "owlglass", ran amok in medieval Germany suckering rich burghers, or whoever, out of their shekels, or whatever. I don’t think they were actually pushing me to become this character, but they liked his name and indulged in little restatements of the theme in birthday gifts and halloween costumes. My wristwatch, a German import I got for my ninth birthday, featured the beloved goof-off swinging his trademark mirror around the hours, an owl perched on his minute hand. I checked this watch now as I skirted the wading pool on my way to the East side tribute venue.

In the space of ten minutes, I ducked down several alleys - some trash filled enough to remind me of the alley near home - and finally arrived out on a broad avenue. I hove to the right and jingled past shoppers and cafe goers to the address of the tribute party where I was to mortify Mort the Tort. I hummed the telegram tune for the tenth time and shifted the "gift" box, inside of which was a rapidly melting ice cream pie, My hands were freezing as the pie warmed, yet another in my ever continuing lessons on entropy...

Then, I looked at the address card, and looked at the grand building in front of me. Same numbers, same avenue name - yet something was oddly amiss. Slowly I turned around, double checking my surroundings. Yup, siree - same street, same address. But in foot high letters between the magnificently arched picture windows, it proclaimed "COUNTRY VILLA ASSISTED LIVING CENTER EAST". Well, maybe poor little Mort had slid downhill faster than any of the rest of us, I thought as I pushed open the broad door.

The denizens were wheeling their walkers lunchward, so I followed. A large woman whose name tag proclaimed "Matilda - Activities Director" flagged me down.

"You must be Joe, the singer for lunch! I love your costume! How original! Do make yourself at home!" She waved a hand at an area near the large fireplace and turned to help the residents roll in. I figured she must always have to shout and sound upbeat. In some odd way, I could relate. By now ice cream droplets were leaving a trail behind me, so as casually as possible, I dropped the "gift" in a large trash can and pulled two emergency packets of balloons from my pocket.

Now, balloons may be cliched and old hat to many, but you'd be surprised at the number of folks out there who are still thrilled by the sight and sounds of a well turned out, bright colored balloon critter squeaking into being by the deft twisting of well trained hands. Such was the case today.

Matilda introduced me as Joe, the singer and I reintroduced myself as Tyl the Clown and no one seemed to mind or care about the difference in identity. Maybe it helped that I was in top form. (Actually I was overjoyed that I had magically gotten out of the pie throwing detail.) I recounted the stories I had gathered from newspapers or friends or had seen myself: the world largest single organism under the woods in Michigan, a flock of ravens bringing down an airliner, chickens saved from a burning animal shelter by being herded into the news van, the farmer who walked across his field only to disapper into thin air and so on. It was brilliant, and all the while my hands flipped and twisted and turned out bright and funny balloon animals.

And then she walked in. The animal in my grasp exploded and a confetti of bright green balloon bits fell at my feet. The oldsters gave a collective gasp. But like a true professional, I pulled out another balloon and started on a tale about the snow monkeys of Japan snoozing in their hot springs. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her though - the long red hair, the sun-pinked baby on her hip, the perfectly snug jeans snugging as she sat down next to a woman in a blue sweater. My voice kept on going, my hands kept on working but my mind was considering this new turn of events.

Was it just a coincidence? With the hair-trigger eternal hopespring of the vocationally lovelorn, that she could have followed me here (the constant giveaway jingling of my costume would have made it easy) seemed not just possible but the only plausible explanation.

As I continued balloon twisting (I'd gone through the classics and was now improvising Art Deco-esque interlacia) and monologuing (if there's a bad weasel anecdote, I haven't heard it), I scanned the audience repeatedly just to have the excuse of momentarily eyeing my young matron and her (unappreciatively restive) offspring. Though she was apparently following my act (not an easy thing to do, I'm sure you'll agree), her attention was at least partly occupied in expertly applying a motherly counter-torque to Junior, who was repeatedly attempting a full-body fling toward the freedom of the floor. Then, just as I was executing the middle movement of a fully enveloping hypertoroid while reciting the Tale Of The Mudwab And The Viceroyessa, I saw her (through a fortunately located loop in my creation) rise and stride from the room, hipborn youngling asway, without a backward glance.

Though it now seemed not quite so certain that she'd been led here by my clown costume's come-hither cacophony, I felt I had to find out what could so providently have brought her to the same address I had apparently been mistakenly sent to. As she disappeared through the door at the end of the hall, I (by way of finale) broke into Kulervo's Farewell To The Dying Hontu and squelchingly hamster-wheeled after her through the dry-skinned sussury of my audience's applause. Once out of the room, I abandoned my balloons and pranced down the hall, occasionally cartwheeling to work off some of the inevitable post-performance jitters. As I spun past an adjoining hall, I saw her enter an elevator. I hand-sprung up some nearby stairs (I don't do this often enough - I was breathing pretty hard at the second landing) and into a hallway on the second floor.

About halfway down the hall, a crowd of middle-to-post-middle-aged men in double-knit slacks was clustered around one of the doorways. I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but then I saw a certain child's head emerge from between a pair of legs in the act of making good a four-limbed escape. No good - his head disappeared back between the legs, apparently pulled back by someone in the midst of the crowd. Seeking to take advantage of his technique, I somersaulted slowly up to the crowd (jingling in what I hoped was an offhand and low-profile sort of way) and then inveigled my way though the polyester columns on all-fours.

The crowd continued right through the doorway and it was only because the carpet changed color that I knew I was inside. After what I figured was a decent interval of acclimation, I discretely writhed to a standing position and finessed my way between a couple of tolerably sweaty paunches to the edge of the crowd. I beheld a surprisingly small room lined with yet more elderkind, and a rumpled, salmon-pink banner stretched across the far wall was inexpertly emblazoned with the words "Hope To See You In Hell, Mort!" Sitting in a crepe-paper festooned mock throne below the banner was The Tort himself, solicitously holding his stogie up and to one side as he planted an audible smooch on the head of my redhead's ever-squirming loved one, who was apparently being presented by his mama for this purpose. She then sat down in a frayed easychair and began bobbing the babe vigorously on her knee. Aside from an unmade bed and a battered beech-veneer chest of drawers, the only other piece of furniture in the room was a chrome-trim, tube-legged, grey-marbled formica-topped kitchen table.

And on this table was the biggest pie I had ever seen.

I'm a cake man myself. Pie's never been my game. It kind of goes back to my younger days in New York, with all those damned weasels. They kept me warm, all right, don't get me wrong, and I was grateful. You wouldn't think it, but little people get cold easier than ordinary folks, and to boot I matured in the years they were calling "The Neo-Pleistocene" in the Northeast: winters fit to kill a man, or boy, if he didn't have a few pelts laced round his middle.

So you see, Mother did me an excellent turn with those fur suits she kept churning out for me; that wasn't the problem. It was the weasels -- or more correctly, the weasel hunters. Or even more correctly, one particular weasel hunter named Shadro P. Akins who was the orneriest old nimrod this side of Elmira. She wouldn't sell me her dog.

Shad's beautiful bergamasco was the dog of my dreams. A little on the order of a woolly mammoth, only a tad smaller and just as sweet-tempered, for all his bulk. Bergies are not generally known for being mild mannered; there was one I met on a gig up in Sodus (that was a drive, but the pay was good. I remember another fellow on that bill was a juggler named Charlie Van Loan. He was one of those who juggle wildly differing objects to show off their prowess: like, say, a bowling ball, a pencil and an apple -- meanwhile gradually eating the Granny Smith or Jonamac 'til there's nothing left but the core, and then tossing that out into the crowd as they take their bow. A cute act. So at the 3 o'clock I volunteered to stand in for the bowling ball, and Charlie handled the switch with alacrity; never took a bite out of me once) -- no, I misspoke, it wasn't Sodus.

It was Burlington, Vermont (a drive, but the pay was good), I remember distinctly because I'd ridden my specially outfitted VW (it's a small car, but not that small) North through Mt. Pelier, and the setting sun was glinting off that golden Capitol dome they have up there as I high-tailed it through town not more than a mile or two ahead of my pursuing ex-wife, Sissy Van de Sompel.

But I digress.

It wasn't very kind of me, mind you, to digress at this point in the story but there you have it. The redheaded mama must have caused my thoughts to wander off my mission just the slightest. How unprofessional of me. The pie! Of course. Now only if I could manuever into ambush position.

I sidled my way past Mort as quietly as my jingle-prone bells would allow. Fortunately he was occupied with the vision of her redheaded lovelinesses' all too revealing plunging necklined cotten-knit paisley print top and didn't notice my less than camouflaged image slink past him. My stealthful moves weren't missed however by the little bundle being bounced on his crimson tressed mother's fetching faded blue denim draped thighs. The tyke sank his youthful mouthful deeply into my right calf as I lunged for the huge pie.

This insult to my fur bedecked leg only served to strengthen my determination. In a jealous rage I heaved the pastry home into Mort's briefly surprised prominence. My client's ends accomplished, I changed my immediate objective to a more personal pressing one: How do you pry loose a bulldog-stubborn youngster from your weasel-covered leg without causing some concern in the mind of his beautiful redheaded mother?

EPILOGUE:

As I sit here in my cold cell it occurs to me that I may have made a few mistakes in my life. On the occasion of the grand pie fling it turned out that my subconscious recalled better than my oft distracted conscious[1] that Mort was a rival of mine from our old parochial school days for the affection of the naturally curly-haired, redheaded little girl[2] that sat across the aisle from me. Mort sat behind her and had a distinct advantage over me in that he could more easily reach those long wavy braids to dunk them in his ink well. Who would have guessed that she actually preferred his hair-dying attention to my more polite conversation about the unique qualities of the bergamasco breed of cuddly dogs. Alas, as you can probably surmise, that little redheaded girl in her adult apparition, chose to respond to my jealous rage by charging me with felony grand pie throwing with intent to disfigure her dwarfish husband[3]. The resulting sometimes amusing but mostly embarrassing long drawn out trial was the social event of the time, attended by many of the elite[4]. But hope will out. Some day, if I ever get out of this miserable place, maybe she will still have some feelings for a once young and vibrant smallish clown.

NOTES:

[1] I always suspected that I might be slightly schizophrenic, and now, with the help of the prison psychiatrist, I am sure of it. My mostly subsumed jealous personage had hired my more level-headed clown self to carry out the pie throw against Mort. When I received the order for the pie job as a night letter, I should have known that it was me that was ordering my services. I always wanted to send a night letter but never before had had[5] the occasion. My jealous personage naturally knew this, having access to the most deep recesses of my little clown brain.

[2]Apologies to Charles Schultz and Charlie Brown.

[3]What would you expect from the wife of a lawyer?

[4]Shadro P. Akins was also there for some reason. Maybe she changed her mind about selling me her dog.

[5]Or, more correctly, "had had had".

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