He never put on his own makeup. Not once in all the years I knew him and I was with him from the beginning, working small time circuses in dusty West Texas towns all the way to arenas jam packed with rabid fans. Charlie could make the world laugh and applaud and offer thunderous standing ovations - but never could he put on his own makeup. Like a turtle on its back, helpless to the task of righting itself, Charlie had an inability to face the mirror - and it was a telling sign of a sinking soul. My name is Tim, I was Charlie's makeup artist and I want to tell his true tale at last.
***
The Inspector at work!
It's magical when you discover you have world class talent. At first you sort of look at it sideways, not daring to believe, then gradually with a mixture of excitement and trepidation you find that yes, the stars have aligned for you and you be "gifted". It's a bit like finding a knapsack of endless cash on your back, something wonderful that never leaves you and pours forth infinite gifts. The feeling of specialness, of being continually connected to forces greater than yourself, puts a dreamlike glow around you, naturally drawing in those who want to share that dream.
Others see your magical star, thinking it a shortcut to their own, or believing that time with you heals them as nothing else can or for some just to steal a piece of your light for a dark life craving to be known. Like faces popping out of the dark on a funhouse ride, the star man is assaulted by false eyes without understanding and the surrealness of it is a ticklish part of the magical ride. But it also isolates him, cuts of him off, no one wants to hear the star man's reality is anything other than perfect. He is obliged to live the dream life the dirty masses can not, to prove life has hope and meaning.
I have a theory that God makes us 99% perfect - but that imperfect 1% can take over your life and kill you in the end if not fixed. And oftentimes, without explanation, Charlie would offer up to me, "It's killing me, Tim. It's killing me." He'd confess this with eyes closed, exhaling the thought in the eternal struggle show preparation required. I never responded, merely continued applying his makeup, knowing I was the lone soul to whom he could confide without repercussion - being both within his world and without.
Not all chains can be escaped
In a way, that made me the most important person in Charlie's life. But I was married, with a life of my own and Charlie's demands at times put a strain on me and mine as no one really understood why it had to be me to take off on his tours to do such a simple act as his makeup. Yet I could offer no real defense. I never repeated the admissions Charlie said to me - didn't feel the need to - and if I had, I knew it would not have been Charlie I betrayed, but myself. To be honest, without my own life to retreat to, I could not have borne his words as he disintegrated over the years, crippling himself. I witnessed the one thing every clown hides the most: his tears.
In the entertainment industry, my job as Charlie's makeup man was a running gag. "Hey Tim, you gotta help him put his underwear on too??" Every clown puts on his own makeup, almost as a point of pride, but it bothered me not to be tending the only clown who did not. Charlie was the best - they were "the rest", competent but rarely transcendent. And yet, Charlie's continued helplessness on this point made me wonder if he was ever going to win the battle on the imperfect 1%. Like a nation's ill-conceived war, elusive success was always just around the corner.
Reality was, long ago he had ceased to be Charlie the Person and assumed the life of Charlie the Act. Slowly but steadily he withdrew from personal relations, engaging in outrageous acts of self-destruction, making wild accusations of betrayal and sabotage. I think he viewed relationships as a liability, as if they would rush the stage and scream to the world Charlie was not the funny man he portrayed. Like a mute sentinel, I watched this journey to nowhere - and to Charlie, my silence was truly golden.
Sabotage!
Entertaining on the outside, raging on the inside. The more Charlie withdrew, the angrier he got, railing at prop men or any other poor bastard who happened to be standing in his way. Never me, though. Not once. I was like a tree in the desert whom the scorching wind moved around but never burned. The outbursts gave Charlie a "reputation" with insiders but really he was just cruelly lonely and I saw these pleas for help go unanswered. Big money was to be made off Charlie, which bribed his witnesses into silence - most of all himself. No one feared the magical star he'd followed all his life would stop shining more than he.
Please, no one say a word!
But what of healing? Healing means what? A collapse of the empire? What if he tried it but healing never came? Could he ever make it back to the stage? Eventually, the question was answered by the easiest of all answers: Could Charlie still sell tickets? That's all Charlie wanted to know too. I'd seen in his interviews when asked what courage it took to perform night after night and how he praised himself to face it year after year but I shook my head in disgust. Cowardice ruled the life of Charlie the Clown - and it left him a fragile fellow.
What would of the world have said if they knew the Charlie I knew? After the shows, as the lights shut down, so did the light in his eyes. His brow furrowed and lines of pain creased his eyes as the mask faded away. I was never sure he was even aware he spoke out loud as his admissions flowed forth to me. Once, in a breath of realization, he sighed, "I have nothing to offer." He proclaimed this with the roar of a standing ovation in the background. Part of me wanted to scream, to drag him back onstage and say, "Confess it to THEM!" But Charlie was stubborn on fixing that 1%.
Stubbornness is the breeding ground for desperation, which lends itself to ever increasing absurdity. Charlie role-played as a slave to dominatrixes , pleasing his mistress regardless of the pain inflicted. To his mistress he showed an unswerving worship, deigning her infallible, a god that must exist in his mind - much as Charlie was to his adoring public. Biting the apple of this illusion, he released himself to the lie. Charlie was dying - and getting off on it. Worse, he welded elements of it into his act - often getting him the loudest laughs - and Charlie the Person was laughed at before all the world though none knew it but me. How could this end well?
I told the inquisitors I had no idea what the note meant. Yes, Charlie was dead, but even then I still felt compelled to silence before these uncaring vultures picking over his remains. His final words were simple: "No way out" - and I cried with the thought of his trapped soul solving its problems with a bullet. Point came where he could no longer keep up the act and he'd be left to face Charlie the Person. The seemingly simple act of not facing the mirror - transforming from eccentricity to charade to choking ruler of his life - eroded him into despair. All the applause in the world couldn't save him from that. Charlie had indeed followed his star - but that's not the only star to follow in the midnight sky.
Later, I thought back to the early days, the brash, young, cocky full-of-life Charlie, the fast rising star strutting off the stage walking on a cloud, his ebullient manager clasping him in victory, "You're a raging smash, Charlie! They love you!" But Charlie only smirked and dismissed him with a wave of his hand. "Don't be silly. It's not me they love, it's the act."
Kagemusha
