The Happy Clown

by Alice Eleanor Jones

Steven did not outgrow it. When he became too big for the curly spoon and dish and cup he demanded a knife and fork and spoon from the bureau drawer and ate his meals from the plainest dish he could find. He ate them with his back stubbornly turned to the television set, away from the morning cartoons and the noontime Kiddies' Lunch Club and the evening Happy Clown.

The Happy Clown had been an American institution for thirty years. He was on television for an hour every night at dinner time, with puppets and movies and live singers and dancers and his own inimitable brand of philosophy and humor. Everybody loved the Happy Clown. He had been several different actors in thirty years, but his makeup never changed: the beaming face drawn in vivid colors, the rotund body that shook when he laughed like a bowlful of Jellsies, and the chuckling infectious laugh. The Happy Clown was always so cheerful and folksy and sincere. He believed passionately in all the products he instructed his viewers to buy, and one was entirely certain that he used them all himself.

He gave one much more than advertising, though. Some of his nightly gems of wisdom (he called them nuggets) were really wonderful; they made one think. A favorite nugget, which people were always writing in and asking him to repeat, went like this: "We're all alike inside, folks, and we ought to be all alike outside." The Happy Clown's viewers were not children and adults, they were kiddies and folks.

After the Happy Clown went off the air the happy kiddies went to bed, to lie for a while looking at the Jolly Kitten and the Dancing Dogsie, until, lulled by the joggler, they went gently to sleep. After that came the cowboys and spacemen, carryovers for any happy kiddies with insomnia. For really meaty programs one had to stay up past ten. Then the spectaculars began, and the quiz shows, and the boxing and wrestling.

Steven did not like the Happy Clown or the Jolly Kitten or the Dancing Dogsie. Sometimes he began to grow interested in the cowboys or spacemen, but when they stopped in the middle of an adventure to talk about how they could not possibly rope the steers or shoot the asteroids without a good breakfast of Cornsies and Choko-Milko, which everybody ate, just everybody, Steven climbed out of bed and slept on the floor.

Steven did not like the records or the talking books, and when he went to kiddie-garden he viewed the televised lessons with a cold eye. For some reason which he could not have explained, he wanted to learn to read, but they would not teach him till he was seven, and so he taught himself, from the letters on the jarsies. But then there was nothing to read except the newspapers and the magazines, which he puzzled over patiently, getting most of the words right after a while. The many advertisements were easiest; they used pictures and the simplest of language.

His parents thought it was very cunning of him to look at the printing like that, so wisely, as if he could read it! He said once to Harriet, "I can read it," but she said, "Oh, Stevie, you're teasing Mumsie!" and looked so frightened at this fresh peculiarity that the child said gravely, "Yes, teasing." He wished he had a silent book. He knew there were such things, but there were none at home. There were few silent books anywhere. There were none in kiddie-garden.

Steven was not happy in kiddie-garden. The enthusiasm the other kiddies showed for the lessons appalled him. The kiddies themselves appalled him. They joined so passionately in the group play, clutching each other with their hot moist hands, panting and grinning into each others' faces. They were always clutching and panting and grinning, in large noisy groups, with large community smiles. They confused him; he could not tell them apart. Steven retired to a corner and turned his back, and when they clutched and panted and grinned at him he hit them.

The kiddie-garden monitor had to report of him to his unhappy parents that he was uncooperative and anti-social. He would not merge with the group, he would not acquire the proper attitudes for successful community living, he would not adjust. Most shocking of all, when the lesson about the birdsies and beesies was telecast, he not only refused to participate in the ensuing period of group experimentation, but lost color and disgraced himself by being sick in his corner. It was a painful interview. At the end of it the monitor recommended the clinic. Richard appreciated her delicacy. The clinic would be less expensive than private psychiatry, and after all, the manager of a supermarket was no millionaire.

Harriet said to Richard when they were alone, "Dickie, he isn't outgrowing it, he's getting worse! What are we going to do?" It was a special tragedy, since Harriet was unable to have any more kiddies, and if this one turned out wrong ...