THE ORPHAN'S MOON

Nobody talks about this event and those who actually participated in it claim they don't remember it or that it never happened so-shut-up-Torkildson-and-stick-to-writing-limericks.
But it did happen and I aim to tell-all. First, though, you need some background on circus publicity.
Now Ringling left no stone unturned, no clown undisturbed, when it came to promoting itself. The publicity department would send an elephant over Niagra Falls in a barrel if that could glean just a photo in the newspaper. The big circus stars knew all about this and consequently had it written into their contracts that they had final approval of all publicity stunts concerning themselves. If they didn't like the idea they could veto it. Period.
Not so the lowly clowns. Our contracts specifically pointed out that we were on call 24/7 for any and all ideas the publicity gurus might come up with for us. This wasn't neccessarily a bad thing -- it got me on the Tonite Show, on Phil Donahue, and even an appearance on Sesame Street. But it also meant that I had to get up at ungodly hours to put on my makeup and fly around some metropolis while the pilot did a traffic report. Don't ask me why the publicity department wanted a clown on board during a fly-by traffic report at 7 in the morning -- but they did, and I was the unlucky wight picked to do it. I nearly lost my Barnum's Animals when the plane went into a stunt dive.
The clowns were always being asked to give up their precious free time to go visit hospitals, nursing homes, libraries, schools -- anyplace that might garner some free media coverage. But the media was getting jaded with Ringling Brothers. They'd seen it all before so they stopped covering a lot of our clown appearances. Naturally this sent the publicity boys into a tizzy. They had to come up with something new that would get the flashbulbs popping and the videocams rolling or face having to find honest work somewhere else.
We got word of their latest brainstorm in Raleigh, North Carolina, on closing night. Our next stop was Baltimore. Clown alley was looking forward to the long, leisurely train ride up there so we could catch up on our sleep. But Charlie Baumann, the fearsome German Performance Director, spoiled our dreams by striding into the alley to announce that all clowns must take their costume and makeup with them on the train that night and be in costume and makeup the next morning at eight o'clock sharp as the train slowly went past the largest orphanage in Baltimore. The publicity finks had arranged for all the adorable little orphans to be out by the tracks as we went past and the clowns would be waving madly from the vestibules and windows. The media had been alerted and, sensing enough schmaltz in this thing to grease even a Congressman's palm, they had responded enthusiastically. It would get national coverage, not just local coverage!
A low mutinous murmur went round clown alley, but no one dared contradict or argue with Herr Baumann. Sullenly we took our things with us back to the train that night.
Most of us clowns lived in one car, which we affectionately nick-named the Iron Lung. There were twenty roomettes in it, just big enough for a sink and a murphy bed. As the train moved out that night we kept our doors open to grumble across the hallway to each other about this raw deal. The more we grumbled the madder we got and the madder we got the thirstier we got. Many bottles of beer had to be downed to quench the outrage. By the time the train creaked into the sunrise near Baltimore we were a pretty happy bunch, glad to use our god-given talents to brighten the lives of those poor little orphan kids with no momma and no poppa -- god bless 'em! The swaying of the train made us a tad unbalanced as we applied the greasepaint and stumbled into our baggy pants.
Then, just as the train slowed almost to a standstill someone, I can't remember who, had a brilliant idea. Instead of waving at the poor little orphan kids, which is not something they'd remember very long, why don't we moon them? They'll talk about that the rest of their poor lonely lives! In our crapulous state this appeared as sheer, unadulterated genius.
So we did it. As soon as the poor little orphans hove into sight we dropped everything covering the southern hemisphere and stuck our fannies out the windows and vestibules. It was chilly work that raw spring morning, but it was all for the poor little orphan kids -- god bless 'em.
True to their word, the national media were out in force. After a quick double-take they began recording this truly historic circus moment. I'd swear on a stack of AA manuals that I heard them licking their chops and baying like wolves in delight.
Mission accomplished, we straggled back to our rooms, washed off the makeup, and, most surprisingly, everyone decided they needed a nice long nap after breakfasting on aspirin and Pepto Bismol.
That evening one mad German came storming into clown alley to put the fear of god into us. Almost speechless with teutonic rage, Baumann finally spit out that by heroic efforts the media had been dissuaded from using any of its priceless footage. The scandal had been averted, but heads, clown heads, would have to roll. He demanded to know who the ringleaders were. We gazed back at him, not exactly as innocent as angels -- more like hungover dimbulbs -- and honestly answered that we didn't know, we all thought it would be kind of a good idea. He snarled and brandished his whip (he was also the tiger tamer), then stalked out. Feeling too punky to worry about it, we finished our makeups and got on with the show.
Strangely enough after that the clowns were not called on very often to do publicity anymore. I guess the publicity guys had run out of idea for us.
I keep my eye peeled whenever I'm on eBay for some of those photos to show up. Some day they will, and I bet the bidding among circus fans will be astronomic.