A few months ago, I took a four-year-old to a traveling circus. About an hour in a clown, who communicated by tooting a sports’ whistle, volunteered four unfortunate souls from the audience, and I was one of them. “Look after the boy!” I yelled back to the lady who was seated next to us as the clown dragged me bodily into the main arena.
I stood stage aft with the others, unaware of what was about to happen, like sheep in a pasture attended by a wolf.
Nothing good could come from this.
The clown, sounding chirrups instead of words, blasted instructions and gesticulated maniacally to his stupefied flock. He strutted to center stage and busted a series of dance moves. He then turned on a squeaky heel and commanded the first volunteer, using his whistle and hands, to do the same. The first sheep strayed into the spotlight.
It was a disaster. Limbs flailed dangerously about his body and the audience cringed as they bore the heat of the dancer’s burnished face. He departed the ring in shame, leaving we three huddling, shoulder to shoulder, in the shadows.
A fate worse than death beckoned the next victim.
The next demonstration was more complex, requiring asymetrical movement patterns. The crowd bellowed at the second victim’s vain attempts to mimic the painted tormentor’s pas seul. He had started bravely but baulked when his overbite-dance grin, which was the foundation of his courage, crumbled at the heckles of the audience. The dancer’s shame fueled the crowd’s schadenfreude: blood lust was upon them.
The third dancer was a curvaceous young woman, and the clown implored her to slink to the front and dance sensually. She wiggled like a cobra, stroked her hips, and finished by blowing kisses to the crowd. Despite her crimsoned cheeks and involuntary smirk, she enchanted them all and they rose as one in appreciation.
A tough act to follow, especially with my figure.
There I stood, a sheep alone against the wolf. The flock depleted, and I awaited the impossibly difficult routine concocted in the mind of that mad, mad clown.
The clown’s painted face twisted into a grin, his yellowed teeth gleaming like old pennies. The audience waited, breathlessly, anticipating my fate: the one worse than a fate worse than death.
He thought he was better than me. My eyes narrowed: the clown wouldn’t win. Not today. Not ever.
He bounced confidently in size 22 shoes to the front of the stage. He geed-up the crowd with a clapping, running man (clown?) move. The audience joined in. Clap-clap-clap. He continued with other moves, for which I know not the names, before collapsing to the ground to do the Worm. The crowd was at fever pitch and the dancing fool rolled out of the Worm with a backwards somersault that he pushed into a handstand before landing squarely on his giant feet. He stretched his arms wide and milked the crowd for all the praise they would spare.
He turned to me once more, evil eyes glinting in the spotlight. That damnable whistle commanded me to start. “It’s my turn,” I muttered, but no one heard over the circus din.
Drawing on stolen courage, I lunged forward. I beamed a smile hoping to win the crowd’s adulation with charisma rather than their pity with my humiliation. Clapping running man, I thought as I wonkily pumped my knees to heights unseen since 1992. The crowd clapped along. I turned to each side of the ring to draw more people into the fray. Their enthusiasm swelled.
I mimicked the clown’s subsequent dance moves poorly, but I got struggled past them nonetheless. The crowd appreciated my courage and some rowdier members shouted out encouaging whoops. I was winning them over.
But now the time had come, that dreaded moment, that dreaded move: THE WORM! I have never attempted this manoeuvre. It is my understanding that it is a very dangerous dance move. I am led to believe that inexperience and over-zealousness brought about the loss of many lives in Caucasian communities in the 1980s when the Worm craze was at its peak.
Fueled by my cheering public, I scoffed at the danger. I dropped to the ground and the claps were quickly replaced by horrified gasps. A lady in the front row shrieked, refusing to believe that somebody with such obvious dancing deficiencies would endanger her life by attempting the Worm a mere seven yards from her family. A teenager grabbed the sides of his chair, gritted his teeth and drummed his canvas shoes on the ground. Damn them all, I was going to do this if it killed me, if it killed all of us.
An old man three rows back smiled knowingly. He stroked his flowing beard and nodded his approval; he was now ready to die. He had lived a good life and would shuffle off this mortal coil content in the knowledge that he witnessed the defeat of a malevolent clown.
See you in Hell! I telegraphed to the clown with my furrowed brow. I writhed and wriggled the Worm to within an inch of definition, but the unwashed masses had swung to my side. They cheered deliriously with each wave and ripple of my body. Their praise filled my soul and I felt a transformation burst through my very being, from my bones, exploding out of my skin.
I had become the Worm.
I caught the clown’s eye. He smirked. I had done it all except for the finale. The antagonist beamed a message from his beady eyes into mine: You can’t do a backwards somersault, can you, punk?
I grinned back. Oh, sweet summer fool! Little did he know that I have done years of martial arts training; this was a cakewalk. I rolled back over my shoulders, pushed up into a handstand and arched myself over, planting both feet firmly on the ground. My arms extended like a martini glass, ready to catch the worship as it poured down from the vigorously shaken public.
They roared, and the sweet liquor of adulation filled me up.
The clown clomped over in his novelty footwear, shook my hand, and blew several approving tweets from his whistle. I bowed to the four corners of the Earth, for the world was now contained in that meager tent, and took my leave. I vaulted the fence and rail, parkoured over the first three rows of chairs like a mountain goat, and gracefully dismounted into my pre-allocated seat next to my four-year-old companion.
The show went on. My moment had passed. The crowd would quickly forget their hero.
Panting, I asked Master Four: “Did you see me up there, in the circus?” He nodded nonchalantly. “What did I do?” I asked, stalking his approval like an insecure vampire. He munched on a chip, chewing it for a few moments before swallowing. Not bothering to make eye contact, he drew breath and answered: “Stood in a line with those other people.”
WHAT!