Coulrophobia

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The whole thing was irrational, but that’s kind of the deal with phobias. They don’t have to make sense.

Clowns terrified me my entire life. I don’t know where the fear came from. I never had a traumatic incident with a clown. Blame movies, the news or getting freaked out by Saturday morning commercials for the famous burger place that included the clown, a purple blob monster and a relentless burglar. I can’t tell you why clowns scared me as a kid, and still do.

I am 55 years old.

I’d never been married and don’t have kids. Let’s not get into all that, but I was fine with it. I had a good job and was not a sad lonely man. It’s just a path I didn’t choose to take. So, don’t read anything into that. The point is, that I haven’t had any reason to be exposed to clowns since I was a kid myself, and even then, I managed to keep my distance. Sure, I saw some at the circus. They didn’t scare me so much when they were in the ring and I was in my seat. But if I ever had to walk near them, my heart would race, I’d sweat, and my brain would just plain lock up.

Once, when I was in fifth grade, I was invited to Tommy Bartlett’s birthday party and they hired a clown to do a show in the back yard. He’d make balloon animals and tell corny jokes. Or at least that’s what I heard. I spent the whole time hiding in the bathroom, acting like I must have been allergic to the cupcakes Tommy’s mom had made. I feel bad about that now. Mrs. Bartlett was always nice.

But, really, since then, I haven’t really had a need to confront my coulrophobia - a fancy name for a fear of clowns. It’s obviously a reasonably common fear since it has a name and all. But, just because it’s not unique to me doesn’t meant I shouldn’t deal with it.

Things were more or less fine until a few months ago. I was at a neighborhood street festival with a woman I’ve been seeing, and we were having a great time. Then, I rounded a booth and was face to face with a clown. He honked his horn at me, and I froze up. My heart rate shot up, I started sweating , and I had trouble breathing. I had to sit down for about 15 minutes before I could function again.

My date - who is a therapist - was understanding, and referred me to a colleague who deals with phobias. It was kind of her, considering how badly the evening had developed.

I realized I needed to take the steps to fix this nonsense. I can’t live in fear of randomly running into clowns on the street. Obviously, this is not likely to occur regularly, but I’d now seen such an eventuality was not impossible.

The therapist, a man who was about my age, or maybe a few years older, explained to me that coulrophobia is even more common than I realized. Maybe ten percent of the adult population suffers from it. It can have something to do with their appearance of being human while also looking almost alien. Or, at this point, it really could just be Pennywise or John Wayne Gacy’s exposure in pop culture. Clowns seem scary because we see clowns do scary things in movies and on the news. The truth is that clowns are no more likely to kill than the rest of the population, but man, when they do, you’re going to hear about it.

My therapist launched into exposure therapy. We spent a couple of weeks just looking at pictures of clowns. This mildly upset me at first, but after two sessions, the pictures did not bother me.

My therapist declared I was making great strides.

It just so happened that a month into my therapy, the circus was coming to town. My therapist wanted me to buy a ticket for five scheduled performances. The arena had assigned seating, so he wanted me to start with a seat about half the distance to the stage, with the final ticket being in the front row. He told me to call him the day after each show, and told me to not buy a ticket for the final performance.

It wasn’t difficult to get tickets. Circuses don’t tend to sell out in advance these days.

The first three shows were no big deal, other than the fact that i got pretty bored with the whole thing after two shows. Look, I’m not criticizing the talent - these people are good. But, I just don’t have the tolerance to watch the same high wire and Cirque du Soleil acts repeatedly.

As for the clowns, they didn’t bother me at first. They weren’t in my face, so I didn’t freak out. And, I am willing to admit their act was amusing enough.

But by the fourth show, I was in row 3. That made me nervous and dry-mouthed. I don’t know, they seemed more real. But. by the end of their act, I was fine with it. I even managed to applaud.

I was dreading the final show for a lot of reasons. But, it turned out that the clowns would not be that big a deal. I was in the front row, and during one bit a clown rushed the side of the stage with a bucket of “water” (which was actually just a bunch of blue streamers). He ran straight towards me. He got close enough that either one of us could have grabbed the other one’s arm (or, had he been so inclined, he could have slit my throat), and then he hurled the streamers at me.

While I didn’t laugh, I didn’t break into a sweat or near cardiac arrest. At worst, I held my breath for a few seconds. This was remarkable progress.

The next day I called my therapist and told him about the show. He told me I was ready for the next step. He had arranged for me to meet one of the clowns after that night’s performance. The clown - Renard - agreed to meet me in a private dressing room at the arena a half hour after the show. I just had to show up at the will-call window and someone would escort me to see Renard.

Well, obviously, I was concerned, but I knew this was the logical and hopefully near-final step to my beating this life-long and foolish fear.

That night, I arrived at will-call a few minutes after the end of the show. Eventually, a security guard walked up to me and asked for some ID. I showed it to him, and he asked me to follow.

My legs did not want to move at first, but they managed to do their job. The guard led me down a few winding hallways, until we got to a bank of doors. He knocked on one and said, “Hey, Renard? Your guest is here.”

From the other side of the door, I heard a muffled New York accent say, “Come on in, friend.”

The guard nodded and told me I could find my out before he walked off.

I put my hand on the cold metal knob and hesitated a moment before twisting it. I opened the door to a spare dressing room with a folding chair in front of a mirror surrounded by light bulbs. Standing beside the chair was a clown with what seemed to me to be a terrifying grin.

“Hiya, pal,” the clown said extending his hand.

“Um, hi,” I said, slowly walking towards him. My forehead began to sweat. But I took his hand, and we shook.

“So, scared of clowns, yeah?”

I admitted I was.

“Nothing to be scared of. We’re just entertainers. Like movie stars, just not paid as well.”

I laughed and told him my name.

“In makeup, I’m Renard. When I get the grease paint off, you can call me Alan.”

“Nice to meet you, Alan,” I said.

“Not until the makeup’s off. That’s the rule. Until then, I’m Renard.”

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t do it again.”

My mouth opened dumbly, and he laughed.

“Just messing with you, buddy. So, why do we scare you?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it.”

“Probably because of movies. A lot of scary clown movies, aren’t there?”

“Yeah, yeah there are,” I said.

“It’s a little insulting, you know. Not going to lie, it makes me kinda angry. I’m just out here doing what I do to make kids happy, meanwhile, everyone is trying to make you think clowns are all psychotic murderers. It’s wrong, don’t you think?”

“Yes.”

“Just trying to make the world a little happier and people - people like you - twist that around like a balloon animal to make us the bad guys. Any idea how that makes us feel?”

“No. I’m sorry, Alan, I…..”

“I. Am. Still. Renard,” the clown said in a cold voice. “Let me show you something, buddy.”

He turned toward his dressing table and turned around with a bloody red knife.

Two months before I would have frozen up. But I didn’t. I grabbed the metal folding chair and hit the clown on the head with it. He dropped to the ground, and I hit him again.

Blood pooled where his head struck the black and white checkered linoleum floor.

There was no knife in his hand. It was just a plain washcloth, a plastic container of makeup remover rolled on the floor nearby.

Renard was dead.

Less than a year later I was sentenced to ten years for involuntary manslaughter. It could have been worse without my therapist’s testimony. I’ve done six months. I may get out in less than five years with good behavior. I don’t cause trouble, and no one’s really bothered me much.

But, just this week, I’ve started to hear sinister laughter at night. And, I see the occasional shadow in the hall.

My Coulrophobia is no longer irrational. I have reason to be afraid. Because, you see, there’s a clown in here somewhere.

And he knows.

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