isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. I start my day at 9 AM with Bozo. His nose is red and swollen but honestly, it’s hard for me to tell if he’s been crying. This morning he is going on about the size of his shoes. Every week he asks me if they make his feet look too small. I never know how to answer. Out the tinted window—beyond the peaks of his fiery hair—I see a commotion of sorts in the parking lot as my next client struggles to extricate himself from a tangle of floundering passengers packed into his very tiny car. He is always running late. I shutter a sigh. Concentrate on the slow expansion of my lower abdomen as I inhale. I used to run a group on Tuesday nights. I thought it would be helpful for them to see they weren’t the only ones grappling with questions of identity and the commodification of art. Especially Weary Willy. And Clarabell. And Krusty as well. But with the cream pies and the silly string and the shaving cream and the water-spraying fake flower boutonnieres I just couldn’t afford the additional carpet cleaning fees every week. Ronald M. comes in just before lunch smelling of french-fries and pickles. And ketchup and burgers and Coca-Cola™ and an approximation of an apple pie. He is anxious about the way his upper spine curves forward now in photographs and having trouble adjusting to the recent companywide implementation of a sleek new interior design scheme. Where do I fit in with all this? he mumbles, pulling fabric swatches of dull grays and neutral greens from his pockets and swiping through photos of natural wood accents and subdued suspended lighting. How do I stay relevant? My stomach grumbles. I try to stay focused until noon when its finally time to squeeze the fat rubber bulb of the bugle horn to mark the end of the session. I pluck a few tissues from the faux Jack-in-the-box on the coffee table—extra strength and ultra soft—specially formulated to handle the tears of a clown—and press them gently into the bright yellow of his pleathered palm as I usher him out the door. It’s the least I could do.
