Painted Smiles

The circus was once a great source of joy for me. It was one of those places where everyone could be a kid. You could recklessly abandon all your fears and anxieties, exchanging them for wonder and amazement. You could trade in your worries for a bag of popcorn, a corndog and cotton candy without having to worry about ruining your appetite. All the sights and sounds and smells of the circus seemed alive: the warmth of soft dirt, hay and funnel cakes; the pacing tigers, shuffling elephants and tightrope walkers. I can still hear the ringmaster’s deep voice and hum the music of the circus band under my breath. I can also remember the darkness under the big tent, into which we poured out all the light of our collectable flashlights like hundreds of beacons of joy.

My favorite part of the circus was, without a doubt, the clowns. Anyone could put their head into a lion’s mouth. But, could twenty lion-tamers squeeze themselves into an automobile the size of a baby carriage? Only clowns could do that. They would burst out of that little car and run around like their pants were on fire. I would laugh until my sides hurt and tears streamed from my eyes. They always did the same things and I would laugh every time. We all would. Our hearts skipped a beat as the pretty young girl somersaulted on the trapeze. We would hush and gasp as bloodthirsty tigers leapt through flaming hoops. We covered our eyes when a second dirt bike entered the spinning “Wheel of Death.” But, when the clowns came out we chuckled and snorted and laughed ourselves silly. When the clowns came out, the world around us became a much simpler and far funnier place.

The circus would come to an end with all of the performers parading around the rings, smiling and waving to the crowd. The trapezes hung motionless. The tigers were all caged away safely. Only the clowns could continue their act. They skipped along tripping each other, popping balloons and squirting seltzer bottles at themselves and at us. When they passed directly in front of me I would stand up and wave my little flashlight. I could not have been any more noticeable than any of the other kids, but I was certain that they waved back at me. They all kept walking, waving and would soon pass out of the tent, red noses, big shoes, painted smiles and all. The ringmaster would run back into the center ring where a dozen bright spotlights converged.

“Thank you all! Goodnight!” He removed his sequined top hat and bowed low. The lights went out. When they came back on, the ring was empty. Everyone got up and started to file toward the exits. I was not paying attention and soon found myself alone on the outside of the main tent. There were several smaller tents pitched all around, but I did not see any other people. I could hear the sounds of people getting into cars and driving away. I started to panic. The fear of being left behind led me up to the nearest of the smaller tents. I timidly stuck my head inside and noticed a clown sitting there with his back to me. He was shaking and it made me smile to think that he could still be laughing. Then, like a thousand broken promises, I noticed he was crying. He sat there with his head in his hands. A half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the dresser before him. In his reflection in the dressing mirror, I watched a tear run down his face. It cut through his painted smile like a scar.

I slowly withdrew my head from the tent; afraid to breathe, no longer worried about being left behind. I walked away from that crying clown wondering if I really understood what it meant to be lost.