Everybody Likes a Clown*

Story Sent in by Stephen:

I don't like clowns. They don't terrify me like they do some people, but I've never found them funny or endearing. If you need makeup and a nose that honks to make people laugh, then you're probably not all that humorous to begin with.

Somehow or other, in conversation with Anne over one of our first dates, this came up. I didn't think it was a big deal, although her level of interest in the topic was ghoulish. She asked me all sorts of questions, from the curious ("Did you have a bad experience with clowns when you were younger?") to the outlandish ("Did a clown ever touch you inappropriately?") to the insane ("If you had the opportunity to kill a dozen clowns without being caught, would you?"). I guessed that she meant most of the questions to be silly, and I answered them all as best I could.

My birthday was a few weeks after we had started dating. She offered to make me dinner at her house, and I graciously accepted. The night of the dinner, she called to let me know that I should let myself into her house and make myself comfortable.

I did as she instructed. All of the lights were off, but candles were lit at her dining room table, and the table was set. Something was cooking, and it smelled good. I was flattered that she went to any such trouble, and I called for her, as she didn't seem to be around.

No answer. As she had said, I made myself comfortable. Perhaps she was in the shower. I sat down on a couch in the living room, adjoining the dining room, and waited.

A door creaked. I looked around. "Anne?" I called again.

Low laughter. What was going on?

She jumped out at me from around a corner in a full clown outfit and makeup – white face, red-painted nose, a rainbow wig, a one-piece red and yellow satin outfit with purple pom-poms – screamed like a six-year-old on a five-minute toy store shopping spree, and ran at me, arms outstretched.

I jumped back, more out of surprise than fright (really), and the next thing I knew, she was beating on me with her fists and laughing.

"Anne!" I shouted, "What the–cut it out!"

"Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" she cackled, "Now to squeeze your life out!" and she put her hands around my throat.

For a moment, even at this stage, I guessed that it was all just a game, but when she squeezed with a fair amount of pressure on my neck, I was first surprised at her audacity, and then I grabbed her wrists and pushed her firmly off of myself. Once that was done, I let go of her.

Then, the strangest thing happened. She laughed again, then froze, as if realizing for the first time that I didn't find it amusing. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"You're dressed like a clown and just tried to choke me."

"It's your birthday!" she said, a note of anger in her voice.

I rose from the couch and inched toward the front door. "Bad timing on your part. Any other day, I'd be overjoyed at a homicidal clown."

"I wasn't going to kill you before dinner," she said.

I replied, "Thanks. Will you take off the clown outfit?"

"No," she said, then giggled, then again erupted into that laugh, "Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!" and stared at me as she moved her jaw up and down like a puppet.

Clinging the the faint hope that she was just playing around too hard, we sat down to dinner. She had made pasta and salad. Both were delicious. She remained in the clown outfit the entire time, and, contrary to her usual manner, barely said a word and hurried through her meal.

Once we had both eaten, I thanked her. She said, "Bye!" and waved across the table.

I went on my way. Forever.