by M. E. Eadie
***
Training wasn’t anything like they expected. Spike was immediately disappointed when he saw the trampoline net being set up along with the trapeze and support ropes. They watched with some envy, as some of the troupe began their practice. It looked so easy, so freeing. He had expected to be immediately swinging through the air, but instead was told to wait for Holdfast, who was going to be their first instructor.
“Ahem,” said Holdfast coming up behind them, clearing his deep voice. “May I have your attention?”
“Hold on, hold on,” chirped Magenta fulsomely bustling up to them and pointing at Melissa. “Maestro wants her for a cherub.” She stroked Melissa’s hair with a big hand. “You lucky girl. Unfortunately, because of our numbers, or lack of numbers, most of the angels are going to have to be dummies, but Ofelia has just told me you can sing?”
Melissa nodded excitedly full with the prospect of being able to fly.
“That’s wonderful. You’ll be working with Ofelia,” said Magenta ushering her away in a mother-hen fashion.
“Why can’t we be cherubs too?” complained Spike wistfully. “They get to fly!”
“Because,” responded Holdfast, soberly poking a big finger gently into Spike’s chest, almost knocking him over, “you don’t have it in you. But what you do have in you is the capacity to make people feel.”
“Feel?” protested Spike. “I thought clowns were supposed to make people laugh!”
Holdfast rolled his eyes toward the heavens in an appeal for divine guidance, and when none came he took a deep breath and began his lesson. It was a slow, smooth routine that began with him holding his old drab jacket, full of moth holes, in front of him. He regarded it sensitively, rotating it so that he could see all sides. Then he tenderly folded it into a small pillow shape, sniffed it, and placed it to his big bearded cheek, and began to waltz slowly in a circle, as though embraced by a loving companion. Rhea and Colin couldn’t help but laugh. At the sound of the laughter, Holdfast came out of his routine and flicked open the coat. His eyes were sparkling.
“Why did you laugh?” he demanded cheerfully.
“Because it was funny?” offered Rhea.
“Why was it funny?” Holdfast was looking directly at Spike. “There was no white face, no painted nose, no outlandish clothing, no big shoes, no flower that squirts water, none of that. So, why was it funny?”
“We never expected you to do anything like that with the coat,” said Colin.
“Exactly!” said Holdfast excitedly. “This old thing is just a hole-infested jacket, but again, what was funny?”
Spike’s forehead was furrowed with more thought than Colin had ever seen. Then, his entire face illuminated. The furrows disappeared. “It was funny because who would’ve thought a big guy like you would fall in love with a stupid old jacket.”
“Exactly! To make something funny, truly funny, you have to establish a relationship between you, the audience and the props that you use. Things that can be deeply tragic can also be deeply funny. Now hold on just one minute, while I get your props.” Holdfast bustled away to his own elaborately decorated caravan, and stooped to get inside. After a few moments of rustling about, which made the entire caravan sway back and forth with his weight, he returned holding a black felt box in his hands. He extended it to them as though he was presenting a gift. “Go ahead, stick your hand in and pull something out.”
Colin noticed that there was a hole in the top of the box. He looked apprehensively at Rhea and Spike who seemed unwilling to be first, so he slipped his hand into the dark hole. There were a number of objects within the box, none of which felt familiar. He fumbled around, feeling each of them before his fingers wrapped around something familiar. It made his hand tingle and left him with the impression that the item had some form of consciousness, although when he pulled it out of the box, it was just an orange.
Spike pulled out a toothbrush, and Rhea drew out a rose that kept changing colors, sometimes pink, sometimes blood red, sometimes blue. Both Colin and Spike stared at her with envy, wondering what an orange and a toothbrush had to do with being a clown or developing relationships for that matter.
“I know what you’re thinking, but what you need to do now is to use those skills that you’ve been developing, you’re ability to see beyond the superficial. Hold your prop in front of you and look, really look.
Colin held the orange up to his nose, turning it with his fingers, examining it. It seemed like a normal orange, nothing special about it. Then, exactly like the water on the glass, he was falling into the detail of the orange, becoming smaller and smaller. His world began to fill with the pungent, cleansing odor of citrus--of possibilities. In this world of floating citrus scented clouds, he saw a boy holding the orange like it was the Holy Grail, a sacred object. The boy talked to it, rolled it, took it for walks like a pet. He witnessed him peeling it, savoring it, and dancing about with it perched precariously on his head. Ultimately he divided it and shared it, little tiny bites with people who appeared out of the mist like clouds. But as each person was about to take a bite, their little slices became whole, entire oranges. The effervescent humor of it bubbled up into his nostrils and spouted in contagious laughter. He had never known an orange could create such humor. Then he was back, staring at the orange he held in his hand, amazed at its pure simplicity. He would never be able to look at an orange in the same way ever again.
Spike was staring with terror at his toothbrush, while Rhea was on her knees crying. Their experiences seemed to have been somewhat different than his.
“What’s the matter? Are you all right?” asked Colin extending a hand to touch Rhea on her shoulder.
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, her red eyes pleading with Holdfast, who was nodding sympathetically, for some sort of explanation. “I didn’t know things that are so beautiful could be so sad.”
“Yeah, or something so boring could turn into a nightmare!” said Spike thrusting his toothbrush back at Holdfast wanting to be rid of it. “It was everywhere. It wouldn’t leave me alone. It kept chasing me, trying to clean everything. Tell me that clowns don’t get chased by giant toothbrushes, please?”
Holdfast shrugged. “Did people laugh?”
“Yeah, but…”
“Life can be sad, embarrassing, joyful, and in all of these things there is the potential for humor.” He focused on Rhea and explained, “When people are made to be sad, they appreciate the things that make them happy many times more than a red nose or a flower that squirts water. Our job is to make people laugh, if only for a moment … of course in a tasteful manner.”
Holdfast touched a little flower that had appeared on the lapel of his old coat. Water shot out of it in a stream, hit Colin, Spike and Rhea directly in the faces, soaking all three of them, reducing them to rolling balls of laughter on the grass.
“However, in the right context,” laughed Holdfast, his big, booming voice causing the air to vibrate, “flowers squirting water can still be pretty funny!”
