Ted Gogoll abandons his native New York City as often as humanly possible, but always seems to find his way back home, if for no other reason than to get a decent slice of thin-crust pizza with anchovies.

No Match for the Clown (June 20, 2010. Issue 18.)

It took a moment for him to recognize what was happening. A drunkard slipped into the alleyway alongside the cathedral and applied white paint to his caramel skin, spreading it in broad strokes, monitoring his progress in a mirror.

He moved onto his wardrobe, stepping into striped purple and yellow baggy pants over his jeans; next were the oversized red shoes. He topped it off with a shock of hair that layered reds, greens, and oranges.

Stumbling into the sun, he took a long swallow of amber-colored liquid and then stuffed the bottle back into his giant side pocket. He squeezed a horn and dozens of street children pushed aside their shoeshine boxes and circled him. A show began.

The man who observed this transformation sat alone under a cluster of fruit trees. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to conceal his sun-burned face, a condition that drew embarrassing stares on the streets. Still, there was no disguising he was a foreigner.

Some would walk unnervingly close, sneer, and call him gringo. More troubling were the very young girls, always in ponytails and housedresses with dirty feet and sandals carrying trays of pan de coco to sell. After their failed sales pitch for coconut bread, they’d ask, “Quieres hacer amor? Sexo?” He’d wag his head side to side with a half-smile, and they’d hurry off with their heads down.

The park was like any other in town, anchored by a cathedral and municipal building with a gazebo in the center. He’d sit there every morning and read La Prensa and sip a café negro, easily distracted by the women whose outfits reflected the sweltering heat and humidity.

Squawking birds flew between fruit trees. Filthy dogs chased pigeons. Most mornings saw visits by snake-oil salesmen (“Ginseng puede resolver todos sus problemas!”), bare-chested teens spitting fire, or self-trained acrobats. The clown was a rare treat not only for the children, but the men who wallowed their days arguing politics or hawking trinkets that usually went unsold.

He watched the clown chug again from his bottle, his painted face streaked with perspiration. The clown shouted something in a high voice and then erupted into a sprint, tripped and rolled over and somehow landed on his feet. Not bad, the man thought, for a guy who’s so obviously drunk.

The children hooted, and the adults stood slack jawed, clapping or calling out an answer to a question that only a clown could pose at 11 am on a weekday. His act seemed as though he’d performed it for centuries, and with the pace of things in this city, there wasn’t any need to update it. The man wondered whether the clown had raised himself on the streets like the many shoeshine children and if he now had a family waiting for him at home.

The clown summoned a woman in her early 20s to assist in a critical moment in his show. She fit the type of woman the man had continually seen in the week since his wife of 15 years unexpectedly filed separation papers and, in despair, he’d left home to explore another world.

Despite the omnipresent sun, she dressed in a pitch-black dress. Perhaps she chose the color knowing its practicality of concealing filth, not to mention how it complemented the dark tresses that fell to her shoulders and her charcoal, almond-shaped eyes. Her olive-skinned body was full, even voluptuous, and at this moment, it spoke directly to the crowd and their eyes gravitated to her breasts and hips.

She seemed to be in a humidity-induced trance. The crowd catcalled, demanding that the clown command her through a series of ridiculous movements, like hopping around while clutching both ankles, so that they could see her jiggling body in its full glory. The clown complied, repeating the crowd’s request in a high voice, and stood back and drank from his bottle. The woman’s acceptance of these instructions was curious to say the least, the man thought. Maybe she was just as bored as everyone else.

Finally, the man stood up for a closer look, exposing his deep-blue eyes to the sun, sending out a beacon to the universally dark-eyed around him. It took a minute for the girl to finally notice those eyes in the crowd, and her trance sharpened into a laser focus, stealing her attention from the clown.

The clown tossed her a small hoop, and with her attention on Mr. Blue Eyes, it bounced off her head, much to the crowd’s amusement. Her face went crimson, but women such as her exuded far too much confidence for the crimson to reach its full bloom. With her composure regained, she directed a wide smile at the foreigner, though everyone else, including the clown, took it as a personal invitation, and soon everyone smiled at her.

On closer inspection, the foreigner spied a scab under her chin—a dark knot of scar tissue as if her face had been dragged along the curb. He saw that her skin was blotchy and discolored; she also had small tufts of underarm hair. He could only imagine the horrific life she led.

He sat back down on a concrete ledge in the shade, but he was exposed long enough to draw stares—a gringo in their obscure city choked with bus exhaust, raw sewage, and rampant joblessness. Men glared at him; some spit on the ground and then glared again. He considered leaving, but the women held their eyes on him, smiling, and he couldn’t resist the attention.

The clown, reaching the zenith of his act by hiding coins behind his ears only to have them reappear in his mouth, had clutched onto the girl. The crowd applauded when with one hand he squeezed his horn as his other hand pinched her ass. Stunned, it drew an instant reflex from her, too: a full, closed fist connected with his white-painted chin.

He lost his balance and hit the pavement, the ultimate disgrace, even for a clown. His bottle shattered in his giant pocket, spreading the amber liquid through his pants as if he’d pissed himself. Many roared with dark and fulsome laughter, though others, ever mindful of their uninvited guest, turned to gauge the foreigner’s reaction in what seemed like collective shame.

The woman appeared eager for him to get to his feet just so she could knock him down again. The clown gathered himself, fury blazing in his eyes. He grabbed hold of her ankle and pulled her body out from beneath her. Her head crashed to the grimy pavement and her dress hiked to her waist. No one helped her. She was fully conscious and now frothing mad, only she was no match for the clown. The crowd thundered, “Otra vez! Otra vez!” and the clown responded with a fist to her nose, producing a hideous crunch.

Without hesitation, the man bounded to her rescue, his wide-brimmed hat flipping off his blonde head. The crowd forbade his entrance into the circle, shouting “Vete, gringo carajo!” Fists and kicks hit his body from all sides—mostly harmless knocks from prepubescent children, but also from frustrated salesmen itching for a fight with a gringo. He covered his face with his hands, but a fist broke through, fattening his lip. He just couldn’t understand the depths of this hostility.

The woman retreated from the fight once she realized the clown had gotten other ideas. The clown’s wig and floppy shoes were now gone; his painted face was smeared with sweat and blood. Seeing the foreigner for the first time, the clown’s rage seemed to coalesce as he marched toward him, a switchblade in hand.

The foreigner hadn’t seen the clown break through the crowd. He was too busy swinging both fists wildly at the men and children pounding on him like Lilliputians. Before the foreigner registered what was happening and preempt the attack, the clown had slid his three-inch blade into his stomach. It entered cleanly, as if slicing through braised meat.

Blood spread across the foreigner’s t-shirt like a spilled drink on a table. He sat alone in the center of the park; legs spread open, he clutched his wound with both hands, closed his eyes, and thought about his wife.

The woman stirred nearby, pinching her bloodied nose. The clown wobbled to the alleyway, with no apparent cause for alarm. He slowly stripped away what remained of his costume, and then his face paint.

The rampaging children dispersed, collecting their shoeshine boxes and carrying on their business as if they’d never been interrupted. For them, it had been a better show than most. They loved the clown.