Monday, May 2, 2016

The tattooed clown





There is a small graveyard behind a non-denomination church in Amsterdam I like to stop by sometimes. If you walk all the way south on Kalisvaart Street and turn left at the end of the road, you will find a small, broken tombstone that lies towards the east end. It should look just like the others. In a weird way, it does not.


The circus


The loud discussions at the tiny neighborhood bar I’m in drown the suffocating combination of fear and anguish that was making my stomach turn. I asked for a pint of the local beer, but was brought the equivalent of warm piss instead. It is fucking white beer… Won’t send it back, however. I just asked for the menu, hoping for the biggest chunk of grease available; found only apple pie. I escaped America only to be hit by a poor Dutch version of apple pie. Won’t send it back either. Over the years, I’ve learned that things never go my way. I’m used to making lemonade off the sour answers life always gave me.

I’ve been a circus clown since the mid-fifties. Before I was born, my father took a sabbatical as sergeant from the military to join the circus for a few years. He was a violent, bohemian man who barely fit within army ranks. With no work records or permanent residence, he was able to avoid the draft and impregnate a few of the company’s staff girls. The juggler, the knife-throwing model, the trapecist… Even the tiny Jewish girl that washed clothes, picked elephant manure and helped with collecting the tickets fell victim of the sergeant’s silver tongue.

What if he had been with half the circus girls already? She felt special; cared for when he was with her. Often humiliated by friends and strangers, the sergeant was the only man that saw her for who she truly was. Hell, he was the only one that saw her as a woman despite her hunchback, crooked teeth, midget figure. He made her feel like a person, rather than the piece of odd furniture nobody knows what to do with.

News of her pregnancy spread like warm butter on the company’s rye bread. Who had been able to look past little Masha’s ugly face and body? She kept the name a secret, though all suspicion befell the sergeant.


The first birth


My mother died shortly after she managed to push me out of her entrails from delivery complications and wound infections. It is a miracle I survived. Come to think of it, it was actually a curse to remain so long in this world. My birth left no doubts regarding the sergeant’s rendezvous. Still, he denied any responsibility or connection with my existence. I was raised by the ladies of the circus. The juggler, the knife throwing model, the trapecist; they were my family. More accurately, they were the closest I had to one, as they’d never let me forget I was an outsider; nothing more than a charity case to be cast away as early as I turn 16. I had to win them over at all times, never taking anything they gave me – food, attention, advice - for granted. This is how I discovered my innate talent for making people laugh. I thought so little of myself, self-deprecation came up naturally. Mix my own feelings of inferiority with a smile, add a comedic twist and… done! The formula worked every time. It never changed. It never had to.

Desperate for company at all times, I became obsessed with comedic routines. Armed with a witty mind and keen observational skills , I was the life of the company’s gatherings since I was twelve. To me, the stupidity of daily life rarely went unnoticed. Nothing and nobody escaped my sharp eyes and vigilant ears. Anything you said or did, I could turn into a funny joke. The secret is that you could not ever get offended. It is me that is making fun of you; I’m clowny Joe. Nobody takes me seriously. Nobody should. If anything, I inspire compassion. I’m a massively skinny kid, with arms too long for my body and crooked teeth. Only one functioning eye, the other one a useless, wandering pupil included. I’m the epitome of the circus orphan as there’s ever been one; the dark child who would pray for a road accident if there was a god out there listening.


The Porky foursome


The children of the animal tamers were the meanest. They’d sometimes beat me up for no reason other than being at the wrong place at the wrong time. My looks had much to do with their attitude towards me. We often get violent towards the things – and people - we find repulsive. The last time they did it, I was in a very weird mood. I made all kinds of silly noises and sardonic remarks while their fists met my body.

- “That all you got, Jack Dem-pussy?” (referencing legendary boxer Jack Dempsey)
- “Ouch! That one made me see stars! Do it again, but this time like you mean it”
- “Your sister hits softer. Yes, I said softer. She is sweet to me”
- “Get the teeth, boys. For is so scarce lately, I no longer need them anymore”
- “Hit me in the eye! You may even fix it”

That prompted them to stop in the middle of the beating, unable to contain their laughter. Over time, the beatings stopped. We became good friends. Later, I turned into “idea man”; them into my henchmen in a new era of circus havoc. Conning unsuspected patrons, robbing wallets, touching women inappropriately while in the crowd; all this came naturally to the Porky Foursome, as this group of kids used to being rejected by society became known in the company. We were the unwanted children of the circus, despised within our own circle.

Three of the Porky Foursome had their manifest destiny as animal people. Best case scenario would be to become the lion tamer. The others were doomed to backstage training, feeding and manure shoveling; just like my mother. That is not me, however. I had no mentor. I had no parents. My future was in my prematurely wrinkled hands, and no one else’s. And nothing felt as fitting as a career in comedy. The circus clown was born this way.

 















Born to shovel crap


I begged the Master of Ceremony to let me add 1-2 minute comedic fillers between circus acts. After I agreed to a few unspeakable favors, he decided to let me try my luck with a rather hostile public. I had to be strategic - gather attention, keep the audience interested, then deliver an effective punchline quickly. Over the years, jokes evolved from the original self-deprecatory to the observational, to the clever, to the ironic, to the morbid, to the ultimately morose. Physical comedy gave way to intelligent, eloquent delivery touching upon subjects relevant to the adult, educated population that started to come to the show after word of mouth did its thing. Social issues, political environment, anal warts, plastic surgery, gender roles, religion… With me nothing was sacred; nobody was safe. Word of mouth did its thing. Eventually, the MC asked if I wanted to have my own act. I recruited the two shit-shovelers for a few months, but they couldn’t take it much longer than that. A lifetime of squeezing laughter off your personal misery gives you very thick skin. Some people are just born to shovel shit.


Blurry


The best jokes had titles, so I could quickly sort through them in my mind. Then, I categorized them. Initially, this process took place inside my brain. There was no record available of my routines. Then, I started to worry. A penchant for heavy drinking started to make my memories blurry. I got scared. What if I started to lose my material? This is all I have. This is what I am. But I also can’t just put them in writing and leave them to be stolen. What to do?

I saw the knife-thrower heating his instrument on a candle and got an idea. I asked to borrow one of the thinnest, sharpest knifes she had and used it on my skin. A bit of heat, some ink from the ticket-printing machine, and I got myself a rudimentary tattoo artist’s tool. My body was always with me; nobody could steal it. It was the perfect oleo for my records. And so it began. Over the course of three years, I covered every inch of my skin with words and symbols; they were all idea kickers for a joke. Towards the end, my skin had become a carefully designed summary of everything I was; of all I was. Clown makeup was not enough to cover all my tattoos, so I became known as “the tattooed clown”. The company started to get known as “the circus of the tattooed clown”; my little, temporary piece of stardom in an otherwise hellish life.

It turns out heating a knife helps prevent infection, but not intoxication by lead-based ink. I fainted at the end of an act once, and a doctor in the audience came to see what was happening. Back then, nobody knew lead could be so dangerous. Memories kept getting blurrier. I lived off the writings on my skin; a practice that came with a high price tag. Routines became predictable, mostly scrapped from what I had written on my limbs. The MC noticed. Then the public noticed…

After a while, the MC threatened to cancel my act. We argued. Bad timing on his part, for I was drinking all afternoon. As he turned away screaming I was out, I took the tattooing knife and stabbed him in the back for what felt like a million times. He tried to face me, which resulted in the knife meeting his cheek, then his eye, then his throat, then his other eye… There was so much blood covering us both, it was hard to know who was stabbed and who wasn’t. I ran to my tent, washed the blood off, picked up my few possessions, and left to never come back.


Where?


There were several boats departing from the New Orleans port that evening. It is unusual for boats to leave the port after sunset, but the city had seen a few storms lately and departures were frequent. A scrawny man covered in tattoos with a bad eye is not uncommon in the area. Also, several sailors had gotten lost in the arms of the damsels of the local brothels during the storms. Supply and demand law did its part, and a few minutes later I found myself aboard a slow vessel carrying American products to the old world. I disembarked weeks later in Rotterdam, but found the city too clean. The country’s dirt concentrates in Amsterdam. Naturally, I made my way to the European city of sin.


Memory


How was I even able to remember all this? I don’t know. Maybe I remember it all wrong. Much of it could be a figment of my imagination, except the tattoos. They are here with me as I write this, held together by the sweet embrace of Dionysius. I look at the ink and it stares back at me; my slow, beloved assassin.

I had with me some cash and a few photos of my mother when I died. My clothes had no tags. I threw all forms of identification into a bonfire the night after I made it into Holland, but I forgot to check the internal compartment of the jacket I was wearing. In it, a ticket with the title “The Circus of clowny Joe” was found by the police.


Why?


There is a graveyard behind the non-denomination church that sometimes buries the body of unknown people as a form of charity in their land. If you walk all the way south on Kalisvaart St., then turn left at the end of the street, you will find a small, broken tombstone that lies a bit to the left. It reads:

“The circus of clowny Joe”
             ? – 1987














 It is easy to die for no reason; easier when you have no purpose in life.



Monday, August 24, 2015

Final Copa Mundial: Italia-Francia, Julio 9 del 2006

 
El dia tan esperado! La final de Fussball! Un polaco de nombre Paultz - nos hicimos amigos en la borrachera del partido Alemania Portugal - insistió en que fuéramos al Olympicstadion temprano, tipo 11AM, para sumarnos a la turba de fanaticos que se congregarían en el previo al magno evento. Accedí, y a las 11:10AM estaba ya más puesto que un calcetín.
 
Nos lanzamos raudos y veloces al estadio (poco más de una hora de viaje desde el campamento) y, ya estando ahí, nos bebimos unas Berliners con Lambwurst (salchicha de cordero) jinto con unos italianos escandalosos pintados hasta el cu... tis.
 
De ahí, el partido. Fuimos al Fan Fest (una fiesta afuera del estadio con pantallas gigantes), donde conocimos a Silvio y Kevin; un nicaragüense adoptado de niño por un noruego que ahora lo llevaba a Alemania y un canadiense atípico en su amor por el fútbol si lo comparamos con el coterráneo promedio y su pasión por el hockey.
 
Es increíble el poder de convocatoria que tiene el fútbol. Antes de darme cuenta, este evento al aire libre hervía de fanáticos de ambos equipos; pero además habían multitud de ingleses, australianos, españoles, ecuatorianos, mexicanos (no se imaginan cuantos)y hasta de países que no fueron al mundial como Bulgaria, Canadá, Finlandia...
 
Yo me instalé estratégicamente junto al kiosko de venta de Berliner (ya le tomé el gusto, y además es muy barata). Ahí, pedí mi cerveza correspondiente y fue lo último que pagué esa noche. Entre Silvio y Kevin iniciaron una especia de concurso de embriagamiento colectivo que tenía muy poco que ver con el fútbol. Empezaron a comprar cerveza por litro para todos los que estábamos en los alrededores.
 
Conclusión: me contaron que el segundo tiempo estuvo muy bueno. Los tiempoes extras, junto con la expulsión de Zidane, pasaron frente a nuestros ojos como un borroso suspiro. La tanda de penalties fue el éxtasis, con gente saltando y abrazándose eufórica cada vez que alguien (el que sea) anotaba (o fallaba) el disparo. El tiro final, sello de la victoria italiana, hizo estallar en gritos de locura a los cientos que se habían congregado en el lugar. Silvio, Kevin, Pawet y yo trepamos a una mesa a gritar "Italia!, Italia!, Italia!" con un empeño que envidiaría en tifosi más recalcitrante de Nápoles. Todo el mundo se pintó de verde, blanco, rojo... y azul. Fue el caos más organizado que he visto.
 
Creo haber visto los tenues rayos del sol anunciando el nacimiento del nuevo día cuando regrese al hostal (si! conseguí un lugar mucho más decente para quedarme esa noche!)...

Sunday, August 23, 2015

A homelesson for real men


A beggar asked me for a dollar. I asked him about the meaning of life. He seemed confused. That makes two of us. He very quickly realized he was the sanest of the pair and left without even saying goodbye. He has a lot to learn about homeless manners. A homelesson in bummanners? God, I'm in bad creative shape today...

I kept walking down the street towards the nearest water hole, and away from the noisy Bourbon street. My shoes' heels tapped loudly on the sidewalk. There was no hesitation as to my ultimate destination: oblivion. I needed a generous dose of goodbye-pain juice, and was utterly determined to get it.

Why would any sensible person question this practice? Some of us are just unable to graciously handle the unfiltered reality we are forced to endure on a daily basis. A bit of help at the hand of Bacchus is all we can hope for. Some days, we may even need a tight hug from him, the kind that may break our back but leave us in a perfect state of denial.

A lonely drinker will catch the attention of the barman if the venue is not too busy. I wasn't ready to talk about my problems, which frankly pale in comparison to others'. He was ready though. Seemed like the night had not been as demanding, and he had tasted most of the cocktails he served.

His name is Jenko, and he is Ukrainian. Well, he is American now. He has a face hardened by the sun, and a big vertical face scar from a wound that barely spared his left eye. His arms were long and muscular, covered by tattoos. One was a reference to Ukrainian mythology. Another one was a threatening goat with a fish tail ready for battle, symbolic of his astrology beliefs. He is a Capricorn.

                                                             Jenko when he was 40 years old

Despite his rough looks, Jenko had the kind of tender heart that makes a person vulnerable to emotional disappointment. He lived a few years with Mary Kate, a young girl from Chicago, in what seemed like an act of rebellion towards her parents. He was 40 years old. She was half his age. He felt their souls were so close, their age difference was but a detail. She inspired him to become a better man. She told him there was good money in bar-tending; so he took the exam, quit his clerical job at a local bank and became a bartender. Over the years, her demands for a better material life kept increasing. Jenko couldn't keep up. But he was deeply in love, so he saved, got in debt and even modified his spending habits just so Mary Kate could be happier with more and more expensive gifts.He even stopped paying for his health and dental insurance. All that mattered to him was Mary Kate.

One day, Jenko came home early after a fire in the kitchen had the bar close before its usual. He bought orchids on his way home, her favorite flower. Figuring she might be sleeping after her pilates class, he tip-toed into the apartment not to wake her up. She was pretty much awake, as was their neighbor Boris. They did not notice Jenko walking in, so he was able to witness everything. And there he stood, punishing himself for being so stupid. How could an experienced man like him have been so trusting, so blind?

He walked out of the room, picked all the clothes he could find and left to never come back. Mary Kate tried to find him for some time, while secretly hoping he would never return. But she wouldn't recognize him even if she saw him. Jenko roamed the streets of New Orleans for years before a new local government program assigned temporary apartments to the homeless of a shelter Jenko frequently found the night at. He met Bill there, a one-legged war veteran that convinced him to take advantage of the free shaving benefit offered by the program and look for a job. - As he told me this, I wondered why Bill wouldn't follow his own advice but decided not to interrupt -.

Jenko has the right balance of bouncer and affable bartender. He was hired within days of his job-seeking endeavor. He is also a loyal and grateful man. He has thus stayed at the same bar for the last 15 years. The owner loves and trusts him. He has paid Jenko's medical bills when needed, and has no intention of ever firing him. We both know Jenko will only leave Woodrow's bar feet first, and I just met the guy.

I could have sworn there was a tear at the corner of Jenko's good eye when he spoke of Mary Kate. But that is probably not the case. He is a man's man; the kind you see portraying the bad guy in spy movies. Still, there is something about this hardened man that forced me to think of the tenderness that can be found within otherwise rough exteriors.The man knows about suffering after all. Is unrequited love the ultimate pain inflicted to one's soul?

I asked for the check. My flight was set to depart early the next day, and I had gotten where I was heading already. Time for a few drinks at home while preparing my luggage before hitting the sack. Jenko said "it is nathin'" in the thickest Estern European accent since we started talking. "Therapy" - he said to me. "Same thing" - I replied, throwing a couple of twenty dollar bills on the table. He smiled, realizing there was no room for argument there.

There is no power that will have me come back to that bar. The joy of seeing my new friend Jenko again would not compensate the despair of finding out he is gone. I would rather imagine he is still there, handing out the origin and solution of all our problems,while  proudly wearing his bouncer-therapist smirk. I hope he is ok, but even if not I know he can handle it. He is a man's man after all.




Wednesday, July 22, 2015

The departing bus



And just like that, we parted ways.

There are three truths: what I saw, what she saw and what happened. The last one is, counter-intuitively, the least relevant. In the end, I insisted on ignoring the facts. Reality still yells at me pretty loudly. But my reality departs from yours in more than one way.

Life was good. I was the luckiest of guys. I kissed her and she kissed me. Ain't that a kick in the head, as Dean Martin always sang?

When nurturing a garden, perfect moments can be experienced but not preserved. It all comes and goes. Paraphrasing Ferris Bueller, if you don't stop to smell the roses once in a while, you will die without having actually lived. Yet, we insist in getting too attached to them. Then, we interrupt our journey to contemplate them, or attempt to bring them with us. But roses rot. It does not matter how much you water them or the amount of sun they get. They will still die in our hands if we attempt to keep them forever. As it turns out, it is not the rose's thorn that hurts the most. The real killer is its ephemeral nature.

A brief story was meant to follow this introspection. It had it all: love, lust, confidence, strength, mistrust, betrayal, disappointment and acceptance. It was meant to present you with a slice of human experience that would have felt quite familiar to some. But it is also testament to how good we have it as a society nowadays. Instead of worrying about war, famine, or even unemployment; we worry about love, or lack thereof. That is what songs and poems are written about. There is no story to follow these thoughts...

We are always looking for the best, brightest, most rewarding of experiences in life. It is our ruin that when we get it, we end up longing for what we had and lost.