CAPABLE OF WEALTH
Quibble hides the clown in his closet. In a few weeks the clown harvest will be closed and it will be too profound a preponderance of administrative legerdemain to fit one post-harvest clown into clowndom bureaucracy. To earn his keep, every night he bursts from the closet and does a little routine for Quibble’s entire family. There is not much new material, and the show grows stale, but everyone applauds lightly, and the clown believes he is meriting his keep. Quibble is certain that during the last days of the harvest, one more stray clown will fetch a premium price.
COMPANIONS
Many rumors come of the logic that clowns had to come from somewhere. Presumably, as faithfully as citizens, they are God’s creatures, but the science of their replacements and expansion has no documentation. Perhaps God creates them whole, at a time and place beyond our observation. They are known as male and female, and a few more driven men and Jersey’s wife have dithered with compatible clown sexes. If there are such, we do not mingle sufficiently, or fearlessly , enough to notice children. If eventually clown-spawn is discovered, what rights do we allow them, and might they be repurposed?
COMPLICITY
Clowns have gotten into the attic. Must have climbed the legacy oak, trotted over to the roof, pushed open one of the vents. For all their perceived silliness, clowns can be practical occasionally. All we have in that attic are trunks of things that should have been put out as rubbish a decade ago. Perhaps our clown guests can make something of it. I would be glad to see grandmother’s flower hat bent nearly into shape and used in illicit skits. We could invite ourselves into the attic to see a performance. And then turn them over to the authorities.
DISCRETIONARY TRACK
Quibble’s dog learned to follow clown scent. No matter where clowns are hidden, upwind or downwind, splashed in warm make-up or cold, the dog can smell one a county away, track him through anything short of running water. Clowns know of this dog and have tried every trick to outdo him. They place garlic between their toes, drag the carcasses of cats behind them, wear pants drenched in alcohol. For the dog, at least, the scent of clowns bleeds true. Quibble rents the dog to landowners who believe their property is clown infested. Just ensure the dog knows your smell.
TRADE
Some would prefer the land clownless. There would be advantages. No rogue performances by clans of clowns roaming unnecessarily through town. No sudden annoyances by the sound of exploding cigars. No mothers warning sons of the lure of lady-clowns, while fathers smolder of embarrassment. But others argue that, for all their miseries, there is clown commerce to be conducted. Supplies for clownherds. Seasonal work with the clown drives. Black-market trade in water shooting daisies, red noses, peppermint striped bowler hats. It is easy to opt for morality, until the cash stops coming in. Think of the traffic in oversized shoes.
WORKING JUSTICE
I am not sure there is such a thing as a retired clown. Reformed, perhaps, but performance remains in the blood: no age nor condition will blunt the drive, kill the appeal of make-up, make casual conservative clothing seem appropriate, popping out of nowhere to befuddle the unsuspecting with performance seem unkind. Traits are ingrained: they need to be rooted out, not lain aside due to age, length of service, aggregate number of victims clowned. A retired clown is simply a clown proposing to hide in plain sight. Do not let him excuse himself as retired. Look for genuine contrition.
DoubleSpeak 