Introduction

First of all, I want to thank everyone who’s subscribed and/or shared my newsletter. We’re at 100 subscribers! I can’t believe it! Thank you, thank you for sticking with me. If you’re feeling kind today, maybe share this post with a friend or on social? I appreciate all of you.

Second of all, I’d like to introduce a short story. This one is based on growing up in Chicago watching Bozo Buckets on WGN. Bozo was the only clown I never thought was creepy. But that doesn’t mean he has to stay that way.

Boofo Buckets

The next thing I remember, I’m standing in a brightly lit room, so bright the stage lights sting my eyes. Stage lights? Yes, yes, that’s what this room is, I’m on some kind of sound stage. There is the stage below my feet, there the faceless audience in their chairs, there the cameras, the boom mics, and the spotlights.

“Hehehehe!”

The pitchy giggle peals across the room and that’s when I see him.

The clown.

No.

Not the clown.

Boofo.

Boofo the clown is standing about ten feet away from me in his trademark clothes, his red and white polkadot jumpsuit, baggy and shiny; his big red shoes; his scarlet bowtie; his saggy white makeup, askew black eyebrows, squeaky red nose; and his hair, two big swathes of red on either side of a bald pate.

I remember Boofo. Used to watch him every Saturday morning on Kid’s Corner on WGN Chicago. All the kiddies would gambol around and squeal at Boofo’s antics as he stomped about with Frank the Hobo and Large Maria. Haunts of my youth pantomiming silly sketches only a ten-year-old can truly appreciate, with big fake hammers and impossible puzzles.

But oh, therein was the glory! There were the Boofo Buckets!

And there, I see now, are the Boofo Buckets before me. Five slop buckets in a line between me and Boofo.

As though no one had existed until that moment, the scene comes alive before me. The audience claps, claps and screams even though their faces are smooth as eggs, and Boofo takes his skinny microphone and announces, “Georgie Porgie, you’re up! Let’s play Boofo Buckets!”

Electricity frizzles into my finger tips. I find myself standing on my toes, straining towards the Buckets.

I never got to go on Boofo’s show.

I never got to play the Buckets.

Is this my chance? My dream of redemption?

“Georgie,” says Boofo, “are you ready to play? Do you know the rules?”

“Yes, Boofo!” I cry, my voice cracking like a pre-pubescent teen’s for the first time in years. How could I forget? Every child who got to play Boofo buckets had the opportunity to throw a ball into each successive bucket. Every bucket you hit would win you a prize, but if you missed, that was it.

Game over.

Boofo repeats these instructions to the audience. It occurs to me that I should feel something about them, some kind of trepidation, but Boofo is here, large and bright, and it seems I can come to no harm in his presence.

“Come now, Georgie. Let’s try the first bucket.”

A heretofore unseen attendant hands me a soft red ball, a Boofo’s nose kind of ball but denser. I grin. The first bucket is close, scarcely more than a foot away. With my long man’s arms, I drop it in.

The crowd goes wild! Lights and spinners explode in excitement. I’ve made the first bucket!

“Would you like to see what you’ve won?” says Boofo.

“Yes!” I squeal.

Out of nowhere, an attendant brings a Pretty Pony Playset in its old-timey box out from behind his back. I clap my hands. I don’t care that it’s pink. I won! It’s a major award!

“Now, Georgie, it’s time for the second bucket,” says Boofo. “This one is a little harder, so concentrate.”

I grin. I know what I’m about. I sink the ball into the second bucket, this time earning myself a Tipsy Tommy Toolset. From the third bucket, which requires a careful arc, I get a four piece home cookware extravaganza.

“Come on, Boofo!” I cry, emboldened by my victories. “Make it harder.”

Boofo belly laughs in that raspy cigarette-branded voice. “Alright, Georgie. Let’s try the fourth bucket.”

The fourth bucket. When I practiced in my driveway, praying to get on Boofo’s Buckets, I could never get past the fourth bucket.

Carefully, I arc the ball towards the bucket and

Damn! It hits the rim and bounces askew into the audience, who groan their kind disappointment.

I am not concerned. I smile and wave like a Roman dictator on Triumph.

“See you next time, Boofo,” I say, then close my eyes and go back to sleep.

#

The next thing I remember, I’m standing in a brightly lit room. I’m in the sound stage again. There, the faceless audience. There, Boofo and his buckets.

Strange. I don’t usually dream in doubles.

But it’s fine, this is fun, reliving a childhood I never had between mom’s homemaker depression and dad’s drinking problem.

I nail the first bucket. Get myself a prize.

The second is an easy swish. For that, I earn another prize.

But I get cocky. This time, I go wide of the third bucket.

Warm-cheeked, I vow to do better next time and—what am I saying, this is a dream.

“Bye, Boofo, my man!” I say, and close my eyes.

#

The next thing I know, I’m in a brightly lit room. A sound stage.

Weariness weights down my limbs. Should I be weary if I’m asleep? But it’s without that spring in my step that I walk up to the edge of the buckets.

“Okay, Boofo, let’s get this over with. Gimme the ball.”

The attendant does, and I hit the first bucket. Don’t even pretend to pay attention to the prize. My eyes sting; the audience sounds far away and grating now.

I hit the second bucket. Ugh, I could nap right here, right under these spotlights.

I hit the third. And, as usual, I miss the fourth.

Thank Christ, I’m tired! I don’t even say goodbye to Boofo as I close my eyes.

#

The next thing I know, I’m—fuuuuuck how am I back on the soundstage?

There’s something strange about it now. The prop houses in the back look cardboard. The faceless audience bare their fangs. And Boofo, wonderful Boofo, is askew, his eyebrows crooked, his smile a Glasgow grin, as he welcomes me to step up to the first bucket.

“This is bullshit!” I yell, slapping aside the hand of the attendant with the ball. “Let me wake up!”

Boofo’s lips spread into a smile; gooey strands of lipstick paint string between his lips. “Oh, Georgie. There is no waking up.”

“What are you talking about? This is a dream.”

Boofo laughs. “Hehehehehe!” The laugh starts out high pitched and then becomes this guttural death metal growl.

“Oh no, Georgie. The world is ended, Georgie. It’s just you and me. You and me. Now, let’s play Boofo Buckets!”  

I pinch myself. I slap my cheeks.

Nothing happens.

Nothing happens.

Because this isn’t a dream, and I’m never waking up.

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