Randi Kreiss

A birthday surprise goes wicked wrong

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The little boy was just 2 years old. In fact, it was the very day of his birthday party. Other toddlers and their moms and dads were gathered for pizza and cupcakes and as much fun as a room of high-strung kids and hovering adults can muster. I was there because it was my son, Jason, and my house, so I am a reliable witness to the chaos that ensued.

We did stuff in those days like Pin the Tail on the Donkey, Baby Relay Races and mostly getting the kids not to bite one another. Or at least not leave marks.

It was a bright November day. Our party was going rather well, I recall, with all grandparents in attendance, along with Auntie, neighbors, and about 10 little boys and girls who were mostly the children of our friends. We were all heavily invested in creating a good time for the kiddies.

But wait. Where was Favorite Uncle? Just then the doorbell rang, and because this was all prearranged, Auntie carried the birthday boy to the front door. And who should be there?

The birthday boy shrieked, went totally rigid and screamed hysterically. Everyone came running. And let me tell you, little Jason wasn’t the only one to wet his pants.

It was Favorite Uncle, dressed as a clown. He adored his nephew, and wanted to make him laugh. Well, not everything goes as expected. Good intentions count, but only for a C-minus when even the grandparents need a shot of booze to steady their nerves at a toddler’s birthday part.

He looked, well, let me say, simply grotesque. He channeled the persona of a malevolent clown, but then, aren’t they all? From bottom to top, he wore huge shoes, baggy pants and a brightly striped red sweatshirt. He had a fright wig stuffed under a black hat, and hideous makeup that turned him into the kind of creepy “uncle” that gets busted for unsavory personal habits. He scooped up his nephew, and, laughing, said, “It’s me. It’s me. Happy birthday.”

I don’t know if my son has ever been in therapy, but I can guess that was the moment when the tectonic plates of his mind took their first hit.

Even after Favorite Uncle stripped down to his jeans and wiped off the makeup, the kids were inconsolable, frightened out of their little wits. The clown image was disturbing and indelible.

Have you been reading the news? Finally, history has caught up with this early memory. In the headlines these days we see stories of clown sightings and clown-masked people robbing and/or attacking other folks. Drivers are posting photos of creepy clowns spotted along lonely highways. It’s a thing.

This isn’t just coulrophobia. (Yeah, there really is a word for clown phobia.) According to psychologists, clowns send a disturbing message to many people. They are masked, and their behavior is purposefully inappropriate. We can’t see who they are. Some notorious criminals (see: John Wayne Gacy, a.k.a. the Killer Clown) have used clown costumes to stalk children. Clowns present a discordant image of playfulness and secret motives. We can’t “read” them, and mostly they aren’t funny.

I mean no disrespect to Emmett Kelly and Red Skelton and other professional clowns past and present, but I don’t see the joy or the humor. Mostly I see sad faces and pathetic sight gags. Who really thinks that a water-squirting plastic daisy offers a good laugh?

Clowns fall into the same category as ventriloquists and their dummies. I might have been a well-adjusted woman if my parents hadn’t subjected me to Paul Winchell and Jerry Mahoney in my formative years. The terrifying twosome was a duet of man and puppet with no clear idea of which was which. The man had a floppy, human-sized dummy on his lap (weird to begin with, no?), and one of them would speak, and we weren’t sure which, and this was supposed to be funny? Didn’t everyone have a Jerry Mahoney doll in the bedroom that you were sure came alive during the night? You simply cannot analyze a person over 55 and not factor in Jerry Mahoney Phobia Syndrome.

Halloween is coming. With clowns grabbing all the headlines, especially in the crime columns, I expect people will be buying up big red noses and face paint. Just so you know: My house is a clown-free zone.

Copyright © 2016 Randi Kreiss. Randi can be reached at randik3@aol.com.