41-2,p20

MORE COMEDY!

Wild In The Streets!

(The Hourly Record of One Man's Search for Spare Change in the Wild and Wooly World of Mercenary Clowning)

by Arnie Bernstein

"What sort of clown are you?" she asked.

"Huh?"

The well dressed matron repeated herself. "I said, 'what sort of clown are you?' There's three types, you know -- the traditional, the auguste and the character. So what type are you?"

"Mercenary," I replied and flung three torches willy-nilly to emphasize the point.

I've spent three summers working Chicago's streets as a comedy juggler. In that time I've learned a lot, had some heartbreaks and picked up a few quarters. What follows are some excerpts from my diary, chronicling this downtrodden, chewinggum-on-the-bottom -of - your-shoe-on -ahot-sticky-July-kind-of-day life.

12:32 p.m.

Makeup on, red nose in place. Bag packed. I board the southbound subway, heading to the Goldcoast art fair. Amazed commuters and sneering punks stare at me, expecting something profound. I pop a few ping pong balls out of my mouth, then bury my face in a Dostoyevsky paperback.

1:05 p.m.

Arrive. Find empty comer and set up equipment. Place Teddy Bear behind an empty coffee can and hang up sign which reads, "Please help me send my bear to college." Teddy doesn't complain. He's a real trouper.

1:10 p.m.

Kids begin gathering. I love the youngsters, little sprouts in this weed garden called life. Pick up three balls and fire away. The yo-yo. Reverse cascade. One over two. The kids eat up simple tricks like sticky lollipops.

1:55 p.m.

Am well into the act. Have demonstrated various ball combinations, club tricks and torches. The latter frightens overgroomed yuppies, much to my delight. One heavy-set guy with the words, "Born to Boogie" tattooed on his chuncky bicep, stands reverently in amazement. He's my kind of guy!

2:10 p.m.

She appears like a dream out of the crowd. Flaxen hair, azure blue eyes and lips that pout unmercifully. She watches me toss the objects, my hands engaged in a dance with gravity. Gracefully she walks to Teddy, reaches into her "I've been to Miami" coin purse, and delicately places a shiny new nickel in my pot. It must be love!

Time to go into action! I slip into my double-entendre patter. It's cute for the kiddies and oh-so-naughty for the adults. Taking two balls and a torch, I begin.

"What most people don't realize," I tell the eager group (with my eyes fixed on Miss Miami), "is that the pioneer of modem psychoanalysis, Sigmund Freud, was also an accomplished juggler with his own unique style. For the younger audience members, this is called, 'two balls and a club.' For you older, more sophisticated people, this is 'Freudian juggling.'''''

I toss the objects and garnish laughter from my audience. But Miss Miami has disappeared. In trying to find her, I drop a ball. The audience is disappointed but I reassure them that "it's just a Freudian slip." It'll take a healthy dose of Freud, Jung and maybe even some Reichian mumbo-jumbo to cure my tattered heart over the disappearance of Miss Miami.

2:37 p.m.

Having recovered from the clubbing ml'heart took, I plunge onward. Teddy's pot is jingle-jangling with the distinct sound of coins hitting a rapidly-growing pile of loose change. The crowd thins out and I take a break. I play catch with an admiring five-year-old, using a rubber chicken. Someone's gotta be a public idiot in the streets to amuse wayward kindergardeners. And I'm just the man!

3:15 p.m.

Time for a little action. The art fair has gotten too complacent. They've actually accepted me throwing balls, torches, apples and vulcanized poultry as part of their decor. Nix on that! With determination on my face and dreams of a Harvard cum laude leaping in Teddy's shredded Styrofoam brain, I pull out the big gun. "Three objects aren't so hard to juggle when they look alike," I tell the crowd. "But let's try mixing things up and see what happens."

I retrieve one small blue bean bag and a mid-sized beanbag. Then I bring out the bowling ball, letting the three-eyed monster bounce on the pavement for effect.

The collective gasp would have sucked the air out of the Astrodome. A bowling ball?! Is this man mad?! "Now ladies and gentlemen," I tell them, "in order for this trick to work, I need everyone in the audience who believes in fairies and Mutual of Omaha to clap their hands."

The line takes a moment to sink in, but I'm rewarded by a few hands banging together. The rest are gore freaks, eager to see my head explode like a melon when the bowling ball hits it. I disappoint them by zipping off a few passes, but most of the audience is delighted. Cameras flash. Change lands at Teddy's feet.

7:56 p.m.

Home. Makeup curdles in the shower drain, red nose sits in a drawer and Teddy watches me count the take. It's been a good day! I sink back, exhausted, onto my bed. I drift off to sleep and dream of Miss Miami. We are getting married, riding down the aisle on unicycles, then taking vows beneath a canopy of clubs that two people toss over our heads. Life is sweet!