The Grand Ballroom of the Hotel InterContinental was a sea of sagging satin and smeared greasepaint. This was the Tri-Annual International Clown Convention, but the gloomy atmosphere felt like a high-stakes probate hearing.

The audience was mourning the death of the circus, plus sky-high insurance premiums because of lawsuits from people traumatized by clowns. Hardly anybody hired clowns for birthday parties anymore.

Giggles the Great sat in the back row. His oversized shoes, usually a vibrant cherry red, were scuffed and dusty, pointing inward like two defeated tugboats. Beside him, Puddles — a French mime whose invisible box had clearly become a metaphor for his clinical depression — stared vacantly at a wilted carnation.

“I just don’t feel the ‘honk’ anymore,” Giggles whispered, his voice cracking.

Amid the sea of ruffled collars and shattered dreams sat Bartholomew “Binky” Snodgrass. He grieved the death of his brief, disastrous stint as a high-stakes corporate litigator.

He’d reactivated his law degree. His first week at Dewey, Cheatum & Howe had been his last. During Binky’s closing arguments on a high-profile fraud case, as he paced the courtroom floor, his brand-new, non-clown Italian loafers — two sizes too big because he couldn’t mentally adjust to standard footwear — began to squeal.

Each step was a rhythmic, rubbery squeegee-squeegee. He tried to walk on his tiptoes, but that only made the shoes emit a long, mournful whistle.

The jury didn’t just find his client guilty; they recommended Binky be held in contempt for “extreme silliness under pressure.”

On stage, the convention’s keynote speaker shuffled to the podium: Barnaby “Boffo” Bumble. The elder statesman of the industry, Boffo had survived the Great Cream Pie Shortage of ‘88 and the terrifying rise of “gritty” cinematic clowns.

Boffo addressed the audience of 300 depressed clowns. “Friends, comrades in comedy. We are in a dark place.”

A sob erupted from the middle of the room. It was Chuckles McSnort, whose signature move was a joyful backflip. Today, he was slumped so low in his chair, he was practically liquid.

“The world doesn’t want our joy,” Boffo continued. “They want ‘irony.’ They want ‘dark reimagining.’ They want clowns who live in sewers and eat children.

“Plus: the clowns in politics are stealing all our laughs!”

“However, I have a secret,” Boffo said, his eyes suddenly gleaming with a manic light. “A way to bring back the laughter. I call it: ‘The Existential Slip.’”

Boffo pulled a banana peel from his pocket. He held it up like a holy relic.

“We don’t slip on the peel because it’s funny,” he hissed into the mic. “We slip because the ground is an illusion and gravity is a cruel joke played by a silent universe!”

He dropped the peel. He took a deliberate, heavy step. He slipped.

It wasn’t an acrobatic pratfall. It was a heavy, bone-jarring thud, sounding like a sack of wet flour. Boffo didn’t get up; his back had given out. He just lay there, staring at the ceiling tiles.

The room was silent. Then, from the back, Giggles let out a tiny, hysterical wheeze. Then Puddles the Mime began to shake, his silent laughter manifesting as a series of jerky spasms. Soon, the entire ballroom was erupting in a chorus of dark, cynical howling.

They weren’t laughing because they were happy. They were laughing because Boffo had finally articulated the truth: the joke was on them, and it wasn’t even a very good one.

Boffo lay on the stage, a single tear carving a path through his white base coat.

“That’s the spirit,” he whispered. “Honk, honk.”

© Peterborough Examiner