Mitch was a little fey, but youd have to be dead to think he wasnt funny. It was his way of fitting into our backwater town.
He was the class clown, literally, as it wasnt unusual to see him sporting rainbow pants, big floppy shoes and a red, foam nose. As long as any of us could remember he dreamed of circuses and carnivals and a faraway life under the big, pitched tents. He had the stupidest gags; the squirting flowers, spinning bow ties, hand buzzers, black-inked bubble gum, homemade puppets, and rubber chickens. He also couldnt tell a joke to save his life. But Mitch had a knack for comedy of the body; dazzling pratfalls and costumed back flips, impossible contortions and diving summersaults. He could have juggled 12 bowling pins at once if he wanted. Of all things, he also had a gift for miming. He got a tattoo before any one else, a five-pointed star on the back of his neck.
Mitch spent more time in the principals office than even the principal.
While the rest of us were trying to figure out if wed grow up to be doctors or lawyers or artists or firemen, Mitch already had his calling. He was going to play under the Big Top. He was going to travel the world with the freaks and midgets and bearded ladies, with dancing bears and lion tamers, with trapeze artists and tightrope walkers, sword swallowers and fire breathing men. He was going to leave our small world behind. He was going to clown school at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College. I didnt even know they had such things.
I saw him recently, for the first time in years, during a trip back home. He was at the local Dennys getting sauced on Budweiser served up by a handsome waitress named Maple. A least 80 pounds heavier and much the worse for wear, I only recognized him by the familiar tattoo star on the back of his neck. Gone was the spark and his perpetual smile, the skinny little boy who dreamed of being a clown.
Maple called for a cab. With much effort and help from the driver, Mitch stumbled into the back of our towns only taxi. With the flick of a cigarette the driver got behind the wheel and drove away slowly, taillights fading into the night.
He was the class clown, literally, as it wasnt unusual to see him sporting rainbow pants, big floppy shoes and a red, foam nose. As long as any of us could remember he dreamed of circuses and carnivals and a faraway life under the big, pitched tents. He had the stupidest gags; the squirting flowers, spinning bow ties, hand buzzers, black-inked bubble gum, homemade puppets, and rubber chickens. He also couldnt tell a joke to save his life. But Mitch had a knack for comedy of the body; dazzling pratfalls and costumed back flips, impossible contortions and diving summersaults. He could have juggled 12 bowling pins at once if he wanted. Of all things, he also had a gift for miming. He got a tattoo before any one else, a five-pointed star on the back of his neck.
Mitch spent more time in the principals office than even the principal.
While the rest of us were trying to figure out if wed grow up to be doctors or lawyers or artists or firemen, Mitch already had his calling. He was going to play under the Big Top. He was going to travel the world with the freaks and midgets and bearded ladies, with dancing bears and lion tamers, with trapeze artists and tightrope walkers, sword swallowers and fire breathing men. He was going to leave our small world behind. He was going to clown school at the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College. I didnt even know they had such things.
I saw him recently, for the first time in years, during a trip back home. He was at the local Dennys getting sauced on Budweiser served up by a handsome waitress named Maple. A least 80 pounds heavier and much the worse for wear, I only recognized him by the familiar tattoo star on the back of his neck. Gone was the spark and his perpetual smile, the skinny little boy who dreamed of being a clown.
Maple called for a cab. With much effort and help from the driver, Mitch stumbled into the back of our towns only taxi. With the flick of a cigarette the driver got behind the wheel and drove away slowly, taillights fading into the night.
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did you ever see that SNL where j. fallon made some sort of joke, but it was all a set-up so that he would conjur the spirit of louie anderson? my old roommate HATED anderson with such a passion...he would vomit if he caught just a taste of family feud.
christ i love those two things.
maybe i'll even get paid this month.
i bought some febreeze, resolve, and some dish soap. i need to clean up some cat pee-pee when i get home.