Today I am learning that a clown costume protects you from exactly nothing. Ninth Avenue is freezing, and my getup is no match for November's sharp wind. It's a typical Sunday morning in autumn, alternately cloudy with an occasional grin from Mr. Sun that lights up my white-and-pink polka-dot jumper, the obligatory oversized red shoes, frilled cuffs and collar, dirty white gloves, and of course my painted face, cherry tomato nose, and rainbow wig. Although the silk bodysuit is baggy, it becomes misshapen whenever I wear anything warm underneath. Besides, when I get back into the restaurant there won't be time to change, and with thermals on I'd sweat my facepaint off during service.

I'm working, handing out four-by-five cards promoting the restaurant's Circus Brunch (“Bring the Kids! Frozen Bloody Marys! The Greatest Brunch On EARTH!“) to passersby. If I cared, I'd worry about getting sick.

The reactions I provoke out here mystify me. A short, dark-haired woman hurries by, lugging two Balducci's shopping bags. She shoots a sly, deeply disdainful look at me, as though my presence is an insult to decent society, or as if a clown assaulted her last week. The corners of her eyes convey it all — she doesn't think I notice.

Here comes a balding white guy who looks like a bank executive; he doesn't even try to hide what he's thinking. He gives me a jowly, open-mouthed glare, as though I were proffering steaming turds instead of coupons for free drinks or extra waffle toppings. What should I expect from someone who dresses like he's going to work on a Sunday morning at 9:00 a.m.? I wish I had something meaningful to throw at him.

These two typify most people's responses: the stolen glance of disapproval, clumsily masquerading as guarded curiosity, or the surprised glare, full of undisguised outrage. (The expression says: “Didn't the mayor get rid of all the clowns in this neighborhood?“) As the morning progresses and parents come out with their kids, I get some direct interaction. A woman wearing a black coat with gray fur trim comes by with her little girl, five or six years old and lashed into a stroller. The woman points the stroller at me like it was a lawn mower. “Say hi to the clown, Cherise!“ Cherise and I share a dour look of mutual empathy; it is the most gratifying personal exchange I've had all week.

People seem to expect some exotic reward for their eager, phony smiles. Nothing depresses me more than the patronizing smile of a child who has been indoctrinated to kiss up to clowns. I find myself wishing for one kid to run up and kick me right in the groin. I'd gladly shake that child's hand and give him a stack of “Free Bloody Mary“ coupons.

The only honest reactions come from very young kids and dogs — their opinions are not prefabricated, and they seem genuinely challenged about what to make of me. Usually their curiosity lasts for ten to fifteen seconds (sometimes longer in the case of a sensitive child). Maybe the dogs catch some lingering kitchen scent on my shoes, but then they're off, following the next sight or smell. Only a few dogs bark, even fewer young children laugh or cry; they are simply curious. They almost make me wish I gave a fuck.

“Circus Brunch! Today and every Sunday at Zap-rooders! Greatest Brunch on Earth!“ My costume is flimsy, and my smile is painted on. I am freezing my nuts off.

*****

“When I was a child, I thought as a child and spoke as a child,“ my father loved to say. “But when I became a man,“ always an emphasis on the man, “I put aside childish things.“

This was Dad's constant refrain, whether I left building blocks in a pile on the living room carpet or complained about wanting to stay up to watch Quincy. Sometimes he'd say it apropos of nothing, just his aloof commentary on my innocent playacting or after one of my frequent tantrums — a private joke he deigned to share with the world. It gave him great satisfaction to trot out the quote in as many different circumstances as possible.

My mother offered little help, usually reacting with a quick snort or “Hmmphf!“ and shaking her head, though I was never sure whether this was directed at me or at my father's comment. They were not in the habit of telling me what they thought; there was an operative emptiness in our lives.

By the time I was nine years old, “I put aside childish things“ had been pronounced over my head at least a hundred times, while I screamed in my bedroom or capered on the carpet next to my father's indifferent, tasseled loafers. I decided to become a clown when I realized that Dad would never explain what he meant by the phrase, no matter how many times I asked. I had seen clowns on television, and my Aunt Jane and Uncle Paul took me to Ringling Brothers; something about clowns captured my imagination. I realized that my becoming a clown was a rebuttal that would confuse my father as thoroughly as he had confused me.

But I never intended to become a clown for life. That is, when I began to study clowning, I had no intention of making it my life's work. I've never performed in a circus — one does not get recognized as a serious actor by working for Ringling Brothers. Clowning was an early manifestation of the acting urge, the childish “Ma, look what I can do! Look! Look! “ that drives so many performers to the stage. Nothing in the literature suggested a lifetime commitment and guaranteed typecasting. (If only Aunt Jane had taken me to see The Godfather instead!) In my teenage years I took a couple of classes, became proficient with balloon animals and props. I worked birthday parties on weekends and throughout college, where I studied acting.

After school, I followed the traditional career trajectory for actors and found myself with dupe pad and crumb scraper in hand, rattling off specials and pushing the expensive Merlot. I auditioned a lot, landed a couple of small roles, but nothing that allowed me to quit restaurant work. I quickly removed clowning from my resume, after bored casting directors would demand that I do tricks for them and then not even give me a callback. (Of course, I should have known — there's no call for juggling in Long Day's Journey Into Night.) Waiting tables always reminded me of working children's birthday parties somehow, the de rigueur obsequiousness and necessary patience; I suppose that experience prompted my success in restaurants. In less than three years, I was greeting and seating people at Pagliacci's, one of Soho's hottest bistros. It was there that Ferrie found me and picked me to work at his new place.

My boss, the owner/manager/director, David Ferrie, caused a stir when he opened Zapruder's, a theme restaurant based on the famous Super-8 footage of the Kennedy assassination. The place gained national attention, and we have since been rewarded with a steady stream of irony-addicted hipsters, cool enough to enjoy the transgressive concept but low-brow enough to eat during a graphic (albeit tasteful) reenactment of an assassination.

Ferrie lit upon the idea when Oliver Stone's JFK movie first came out, and all of his theater projects and half-successful restaurant ventures were precursors to Zapruder's. I gladly accepted the call for a crucial role, believing I'd never again be typecast as a clown: I play Lee Harvey Oswald.

The way Zapruder's dinner service works is this: we have three seatings (six, eight, and ten o'clock), and for each I greet patrons at the door and show them to their tables. After everyone is seated, TVs around the room show newsreel highlights of the Kennedy administration (Cuba, Berlin, and Marilyn) and old commercials to set the mood, and orders are taken by our waitstaff, all in Secret Service regalia (dark suits and Foster Grants). After the salads and the appetizers are served, the lights go out and the main show begins.

From the darkness at one end of the dining room, a tight spotlight is fixed on Jack and Jackie, riding in the sawed-off rear half of a limo drawn across the floor by an ingenious pulley system. The audience sees only the First Couple smiling and waving until, when they are halfway across the floor, a second spotlight illuminates our quasi-cubist rendering of the Book Depository, mounted on the wall behind the banquette at table 5. Some patrons gasp at the rifle barrel protruding from the dark window; others jump when the automatic flash and recorded gunshots go off. The limo is dragged quickly into the kitchen, and in the ensuing darkness we hear Walter Cronkite's voice saying “From Dallas, Texas, the flash, apparently official, President Kennedy died at 1:00 p.m. Central Standard Time, 2:00 Eastern Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago.“ After a few moments of oppressive silence, the lights burst on, the music resumes, and the Secret Service swarms out with everyone's main course. Dinner conversation usually centers on whether there were three shots or five.

Ferrie is a brilliant showman, I'll give him that. He's a lousy director, a shitty boss, but he knows what people want. He knew the assassination wouldn't be enough, so after dinner, perhaps to give everyone a sense of closure and some measure of justice, the lights once again go dark. Two waiters drag me into a pool of illumination at the center of the dining room and Nardo, the pantry cook, bursts from the kitchen in costume and does a Jack Ruby on me. (I have perfected Lee Harvey's pained, sniveling wince from the famous photo, and I find myself dropping it into conversations outside of work like an exotic foreign word. It's my stock response to “How's it going, Dave?“ or “What happened to that girl you were seeing?“)

The applause for our scene is apocalyptic. Care to see a dessert menu?

Despite being cynical enough to build a dining experience around the assassination of a beloved leader and savvy enough to make it a critical and commercial success (by both culinary and theatrical standards, incidentally), Ferrie has a sappy streak. He's got a restaurateur's underbelly, as vulnerable and quivering as the yolk of a poached egg: he has always dreamed of doing brunch. Never mind that Zapruder's was a goldmine, and there was no need to open the place on Sunday mornings with a whole separate menu; the lily was his to gild and we were his faithful employees. Besides, as much as I enjoyed the role, I wasn't getting many tips as Lee Harvey. Nobody wants to tip an assassin.

Surprise, surprise: there were problems right from the start. We couldn't do the same show during daylight hours because a) too much outside light bled into the performance area for the spotlights to create the proper effect, and b) nobody wanted to sit through an assassination over breakfast, or right after church, or while nursing a hangover. We tried to be creative, mixing it up a little, but after the third Sunday, when a touching reenactment of the President's interment and the lighting of the eternal flame failed to draw even a half-capacity crowd, Ferrie came over to where I was cleaning up behind the bar.

“Jeez, Lee,“ he sighed. Although my name is Dave, he always calls me Lee. “What are we gonna do here?“

“I don't know. I thought we did okay.“ I did okay — the tips alone were more than I netted on an average weeknight, even though brunch wasn't all that busy.

“Maybe we've got to try something different, another theme. Now that we've put him to rest.“ He unbuttoned his pseudo-zoot suit jacket, the color of Colman's Mustard, and slumped onto a barstool.

“We could just do a regular brunch, no theme,“ I suggested.

“No, no. We've got a theme for dinner, maybe we need a contrasting theme for brunch. The holidays are coming up pretty soon ....“

“Think about it, Mr. Ferrie. We can't shoot Kennedy Tuesday through Saturday and then have Christmas on Sunday morning.“

You're right. Maybe something a little more ... generic, not seasonal but still kind of upbeat.“

He must have been depressed, or feeling nostalgic. And, flattered that he'd confide in me, I humored him. “Well, I don't know how we'd pull it off, but if you want to make it family-oriented, I can make balloon animals. I used to be a clown.“

For a moment I bristled, angry with myself; I had vowed never to talk about clowning. I had gotten out, I was putting it behind me.

“A clown? That's it! A circus brunch! Fantastic!“ And Ferrie danced around the bar to give me a hug. “You're gonna be the star: Zappy the Zapruder's Brunch Clown!“

The realization that I'd once again be trapped beneath rainbow wig and rubber nose hit me like a double shot to the head. I felt myself rush forward, then spring sharply back.

Circus Brunch at Zapruder's Restaurant is as awkward as it sounds, a radical mismatch of dining experiences. Zapruder's regular decor is a moment frozen in the national psyche: matte black walls, with huge, grainy black-and-white prints of the Dealey Plaza crowd — sunglassed and shirtsleeved Texans saluting their president on a beautiful day. They are a homogeneous array of wholesome folks, the mighty (and whitey) congregation of the Church of Square, peppered with beehive hairdos, sinister-looking Instamatics and Super-8 cameras, several individuals who might be loyal citizens or suspicious nutjobs, and a small boy with a crew cut holding a miniature American flag.

For Circus Brunch, these images are haphazardly covered by painted backdrops featuring familiar circus scenes — an elephant on a squat pedestal (the kind you only see under elephants), a tiger caged in one of those old-time railroad car-cages, a few generic vistas of shadowy risers and spectators off in the stands, with the suggestion of trapezes in far-off murky rafters. Brightly colored streamers and metallic gold bunting have been enthusiastically deployed. Songs from Barnum, The Music Man, a few Sousa marches, and a healthy dose of klezmer music pour a desperate glee into the air.

But all the glitz and stridency is not enough to hide the room's prevailing atmosphere. Plus, there is no way to cover up the wall-mounted mock-up of the Book Depository, so in the midst of our three-ring brunch, we have the facade of a neo-classical brick warehouse. I suspect P.T. Barnum would not have approved.

*****

God, it's freezing out here. Here comes another little family unit: Mom, Pop, and Junior (age six), walking assurance that the species Yuppie Vulgaris will survive another generation. Mom's in a ThermaFleece warm-up suit, low-style but high-price, Eddie Bauer or Lands' End. Dad sports an immaculate L.L. Bean duck-hunting coat and corduroy pants. They seem to be in a rush, and Junior (wearing a fleece top and corduroy pants, a pre-divorce compromise no doubt) is dragged along almost as an afterthought, with a woollen Sherpa cap drawn down tight over his ears. He levels an empty stare at me as his dad absently plucks a flyer from my gloved hand. I recognize Junior's demeanor immediately: he has the bearing of a child who knows that complacent acquiescence is the only way to deal with parents.

They stop just beyond my little orbit, waiting for the light to change, and Junior turns for one last glance. And I don't think I'm imagining a flash of innocent curiosity on his face, unmasked for a quick, vulnerable moment.

My own family, as far as I can tell, enjoyed an enchanted period of harmony and balance before my arrival. I was the youngest of four, by a long shot. My sister Denise, the next oldest, was six years my senior; the two boys, Brad and William, three and five years older than she. As the photos will attest, there were camping trips and visits to far-flung places where everyone laughed — even Mom and especially Dad. The constant, optimistic sunshine flattered the robust boys as they cannonballed into Adirondack lakes, it cheered Denise's inaugural ride on her white-and-pink Huffy Roadster (teetering from training wheel to training wheel), and it shone generously on the King and Queen, who smiled and waved confidently at the future. Dad's hair was more brown than gray back then, but otherwise he's looked basically the same for three decades: tall, long-limbed, forever exuding patrician grace and dignity. He looked like a tanned statue of the prominent, successful cardiac surgeon he was, so handsome and trustworthy that you'd be glad to have his hands in your chest cavity. Mom has also held onto her looks, though not quite as well as Dad. Back then she was really glamorous; a blonde Liza Minelli, they all used to say.

When I came into the world, it seems that the photos and home movies became less festive, more like evidence. Any scientist will tell you that alcohol is colorless and odorless and, thus, does not show up on film. Mom lost her figure after I was born, and wrinkles encroached on little crow's feet; Dad's confident air morphed in successive photos to more closely resemble the ironic detachment he showed me. I have long suspected that they were considering separation when I came along, and afterward wished they had gone for the big D (divorce) rather than the little D (David). To spare me their overt resentment, they withdrew as far as they possibly could.

After a couple of years of consistent alienation (my perfectly executed wacky-walk chases and three-point tumbles never elicited more than the “When I was a child“ quote from Dad), I found clowning provided ample distraction from my hollow home life.

It wasn't until I was twenty-five, at a friend's ill-fated wedding, that I learned “I put aside childish things“ is from the First Letter of Paul to the Corinthians, a passage which also includes the line “Love is patient, Love is kind.“

The Big Moment is fixed in my memory like a strip of overexposed home-movie footage, faded and grainy and stressed from repeated viewings. November 17, 1987: Dad's heart-to-heart with me about college and money.

“David, we need to talk.“ Dad sits at our kitchen table in the waning autumn afternoon. “Come on in here.“

This is unprecedented! Dad is instigating a conversation with me! It can't be good.

“I know you've been thinking about schools, and we've discussed a couple of places.“ (Discussed is a strong word for what we did. More like semaphored or memoed, a communication consisting almost entirely of clipped and coded fragments.) “Your mother tells me you are most interested in Yale Drama School or Juilliard. For acting. Is this correct?“

I nod slowly. A wave of lethargic dread surges in my chest.

He looks away, his eyes full of a deep regret that I have never seen before. “Well. Let me start with the big thing. I don't know how much you follow the markets, champ“ (this champ is a first as well), “but we lost a lot in the latest market correction. And it looks like, well it looks like we're not going to be able to afford our retirement and your tuition.“ He is silent for a moment. Then he trembles, straightens himself, and locks his gaze on mine.

“Now if you were considering another career, maybe medicine, like William, or law, like Brad, we might find the money, grants or even loans, to get you into someplace like Yale or Princeton, because we know you'll eventually be able to pay it back. But frankly, Son, we can't in good conscience support you while our retirement hangs in the balance.“

In his eyes, I see his abject hypocrisy, the way he pretends his betrayal is somehow a therapeutic act of kindness that I should be grateful for. I know I wouldn't get into any of those places with my grades, but with the financial help that Brad and Bill had (and needed to get into their schools), I could go almost anywhere. His deep brown eyes, calm in their knowledge and understanding of my pain, stare back at me as though crushing my aspirations qualifies him for sainthood.

My family's monetary largesse, solid and constant as a glacier, is receding in my hour of need. When Dad's voice breaks on “I'm sorry,“ I realize he feels martyred — not so much by his inability to offer me the support he gave my brothers (thus relegating me to an ignominious community college), but because of his fear that someone might find out. Dad really believes that this hurts him more than it hurts me.

My memory speeds away like a wounded motorcade; the film catches and melts in the projector.

Too late to worry about it now. But if I had made it into Yale or Juilliard, you can be damn sure I wouldn't be handing out these fucking flyers. It's getting close to service time, and I'm numb with cold. Time to go back inside.

*****

While I thaw in Zapruder's humid kitchen, Nardo tells a joke:

The World's Greatest Father — literally, like he's got the T-shirt and coffee mugs and plaques and everything — he's a great guy, and he decides to take his family to the circus. So he brings them out — his wife, his daughter, and his son — buys them soda and peanuts and popcorn, they're having a ball — of course! He's the World's Greatest Father, right? So, at one point, after the lion tamer, this clown comes out, and he starts doing a routine, juggling and dropping the balls and shit, and then he stops and says, “Okay now, folks, I'm gonna need a volunteer from the audience!“

Of course, a whole lot of screaming kids throw up their hands. But off in the second row, World's Greatest Father sits with the family, and his son goads him into raising his hand. He gets the clown's attention, gives him a wink and a nod (maybe flashes him a twenty, y'know), and so the clown picks him. He steps down into the center ring, and of course all the kids are upset that the clown chose an adult. The clown senses this, so to pacify the crowd (the kids are his intended audience, after all), he proceeds to tear WGF apart in front of everyone. I mean, he insults his clothes, cracks wise about the fact he upstaged all the kids who wanted to be the clown's assistant, all that — it's like the clown is Don Rickles in disguise.

Anyway, WGF is totally humiliated in front of everybody — especially his young son who might never again believe all the trophies and plaques about him being the World's Greatest Father. Devastating.

So. He decides to enroll in comedy school, night classes, right? He specializes in insults, because he knows that the circus is gonna come around again next year and when it does, he's gonna get up there and face off with the clown and show him who's boss. The World's Greatest Father aces the course, becomes a master of comebacks and put-downs, and hangs his diploma with all his other awards.

And sure enough, the circus comes around again the following year. His son has matured quite a bit, but WGF is sure that now he can erase last year's humiliation from his son's eyes and win back the coveted title, at least in his own home. “Honey, are you sure you want to do this?“ his wife, his darling wife, says. “You bet, sweetheart. I'm doing this for our family and for fathers everywhere.“ World's Greatest, not necessarily World's Smartest.

Anyway, the time comes for the clown segment of the show, and WGF is ready. He practically shoves the screamers out of the way to get the clown's attention. The clown, malevolent sonofabitch that he is, recognizes him, remembers what a thrashing he gave the guy last year, so calls him down again.

“Hey, kids! Look who it is! It's Mister Droopy-Pants from last year! Nice tie! Ha-ha! How are you, you big bayy-bee?“

The World's Greatest Father steps into the ring and takes a long look at the packed gallery as the crowd goes quiet. With a confident smile, he winks at his son. Then he clears his throat, faces his waiting nemesis, and delivers his knockout line:

“FUCK YOU, CLOWN!“

*****

During the week Nardo works the pantry, meaning that he does salads and desserts; but for brunch he has been promoted to the line, the theory being that he won't be able to screw up eggs and pancakes too badly. But the promotion to a position of nominal authority has given Nardo license to show off a little, and he quickly establishes the punch line as the recurring theme of the shift. When I walk into the kitchen, it's clear he has repeated the joke several times, but my appearance makes it brand-new, and the rest of the kitchen staff seems to agree with Nardo that the line gets funnier every time he brays it. They are hooting so loudly that I am positive someone in the dining room will hear.

I march through the swinging doors, already juggling four beanbags and a saltshaker, and wander into the dining room, veering toward the tables that have kids (more than half do). The room is packed — Circus Brunch is a success. I'm finishing my swing through the back half of the room and heading toward the front when I freeze. There, taking off their coats and shuffling around the vestibule, are Mom and Dad.

Pretend astonishment is a classic clown routine, a specialty of mine. I drop my juggling material and hide my genuine shock with clowning surprise. I rub my painted eyes, gawk at them and point, one hand on my head.

Dad looks directly at me and puts a reassuring hand on Mom's shoulder, guiding her to the table. He doesn't recognize me; he is only getting her away from an awful, over-emoting Brunch Clown, in the way that decent people instinctively protect one another from mimes.

I collect my juggling equipment, do my exaggerated high-kicking run to the wait station (the Grassy Knoll during dinner), and tell the waiters that I'll be handling table 17. I grab an unruly handful of string balloons, like rainbow night crawlers, and head back onto the floor. I stop at a few tables on my way there — don't want to be too obvious — to make a couple of balloon figures (ignoring what the kids want, casting glances over my shoulder toward Mom and Dad's table). “Giraffe. Here you go.“ Between making a rabbit and a sunflower (a little girl is crying, so I try to do something a little special — she doesn't care), I get a busboy to bring water and menus to my folks.

My head reels as I do a manic dance in size 35 shoes, through sensuous clouds of bacon and hash brown aromas, all the while edging nearer to table 17. When I get close to Mom and Dad, I start spending more time on the animals. I over-inflate the balloons — not so much that they'll pop, but enough to make them squeak extra loud. I do a lot of unnecessary manipulation to increase the noise.

Hear me now, Dad, Mom? Look! Look at what I can do! It's a fucking unicorn! Like this sound? (The squealing is absolutely horrendous.) You'll probably be needing your first Bloody Mary, Mom — you want that regular or slushie?

Finally I can wait no more, and I pocket the remaining balloon worms and turn to them.

“Good morning, welcome to Zapruder's. How's everybody doing today?“ I'm overexcited, but I try hard not to show it. To a stranger it would seem I'm merely crazy about my job.

Mom and Dad just murmur and avoid eye contact with me. They are a little uncomfortable talking to clowns, maybe, or a bit hungover.

“Need more time? Would you like a balloon animal?“

“No, no,“ my father says. “We'll have a couple of Bloody Marys, not frozen, please, and I'll have the eggs Florentine and my wife will have eggs Benedict.“ He looks up from the menu and right into my eyes.

“Great,“ I say. Eye contact, at last! “Hi, how you doing?“

“Fine, thanks.“ No recognition.

My heart leaps when I see Mom reach across the table and take his forearm. She sees! She knows! A mother knows, no matter how hung over or how crazy the costume! It's a mammalian thing! I knew she'd spot me!

“Don't forget about the decaf.“

“Oh, right — can we get two decaf coffees as well?“

“Of course.“ I turn and shuffle away, stunned and out of character. I put in the order for the Bloody Marys at the bar, then head into the kitchen.

“FUCK YOU, CLOWN!“ sings the entire kitchen staff in unison. Over their spontaneous applause, I place the order for my parents.

“I need a ticket for that order, clown,“ says Nardo. Even if he wasn't my assassin on weeknights, I'd hate his guts. I swipe a pad and pen from a passing waiter and fill it out. I am too numb to say anything else.

Mom and Dad don't recognize me. Nothing — not even “My son used to be a clown,“ or “Our youngest used to enjoy that.“ They didn't even recognize my voice! They have no idea I work here, as far as I know. They must be in town for some shopping, or a play.

I am sweating now, and my mouth is dry. “Two coffees,“ I say, placing the cups in front of them.

“Are these decaf?“ Dad demands sharply. “We ordered decaf.“

“Pardon me, you're right.“ I quickly scoop up the cups and run off to get them decaf. I should have lied, let the caffeine burst their hearts.

When I bring the steaming decafs back, Dad stops me for a moment. “C'mere, look at me,“ and he gazes into my eyes.

I'm here, Dad. I'm right in front of you, behind the nose and under the wig.

“Are you sure you're feeling all right? If you're sick, I don't want to catch whatever you've got.“ He turns to Mom. “Don't want to catch Clown Fever!“ They laugh and glance at me expecting a reaction. As I walk away, my mother says, “He's an awfully strange clown, isn't he?“

“Well, very few survive in captivity.“ Dad, you wry ghost.

That's it. I'm going to confront them. I'll bring them their damned eggs (should I poison them? with what?), then I'll drop the bomb on them. They'll be mortified — their thirty-three-year-old son, a clown, in public! And I'll really let them have it: “Here I am, Mom and Dad! Your son, the clown! And if you're wondering how this happened, guess what? You drove me to it! You made me what I am today! Thanks a million!“

But I can't say all that now. Besides, it's a bit of an exaggeration. And Dad would only use the opportunity for the ultimate “childish things“ moment.

I take another look when I'm at the Grassy Knoll, gazing at them across the length of the open floor. Another thought strikes me like a sudden slug in the belly: What if they recognize me but are only pretending they don't? Fuck it, I'm going to tell them off, costume be damned. If they can't handle the truth from a clown, they can go to hell.

Heading for the kitchen, I prepare myself for the refrain from Nardo and the crew. Instead, I walk into an uncomfortable stillness. Ferrie is there, buttoned into another zoot suit, this time the color of waffle batter. His eyes shoot beams of rage at everyone in the room; even the cooks seem sheepish.

“What the hell is going on? Huh? I got patrons telling me there's some kind of fucking party going on in the kitchen, then I hear you guys screaming from across the dining room? What is this, some kind of joke?“

I say nothing.

“What were you even doing in the kitchen?“

“Placing an order,“ I murmur.

“What? You're waiting tables? You're the fucking clown! You aren't supposed to be waiting tables! Who told you to do that?“

“They're my folks. They've never been here before.“ I feel suddenly dizzy, feverish.

“Well,“ Ferrie a little subdued, now, “whatever. No more tables though — we need you on the floor entertaining the kids. They're getting kind of loud out there.“

“Table 17 is UP!“ Nardo announces, slapping the pickup bell.

I pick up the dishes and kick out through the swinging kitchen doors.

*****

Here I come, with breakfast and retribution for all. Oh yes — finally, the chickens are coming home to roost. Ferrie can fire me if he wants, but I'm going to serve Mom and Dad and create a fucking disturbance. It's going to be the end of the Circus Brunch.

I'm cruising, gliding even in these ridiculous shoes. I feel strangely light, numb, and thin, as though I am made of pipe cleaners. I am floating toward their table with the inevitability of a Lincoln convertible when I'm assailed by a reedy voice.

“Excuse me, sir? Do you work here?“ A distraught mother rushes to my side, her hand lightly touching my right biceps (such as it is — I've got Lee Harvey's build, for sure). “Tommy, my son, he's stuck up in that display. Can you see him?“

Yes, of course I see him. Little head of blonde curls poking out of our Depository window. There's not enough room for an adult up there, but an intrepid five-year-old can squeeze himself into position just fine, as Tommy has demonstrated.

I put down my parents' food and go to retrieve the boy. “Come on down, son, that's not a place for playing. You might get hurt.“

“No!“ He ducks back into the window, pushing aside the dummy rifle barrel. He is crouching in there, seeming more ominous than mischievous.

“Tommy, boys that climb into the Book Depository —“ (what the hell does that mean to him?) “— boys who climb up there where they're not supposed to be don't get any balloon animals!“ My secret weapon, my potent trump card. Hostage negotiations, Ringling Brothers-style. I am the powerful and influential clown.

Tommy stands up in the window, and I see he is more like an eight-year-old, maybe nine, with a cruel sneer that my peers didn't hone until they were at least eleven or twelve. He is cradling something in his right hand, and before I get another word out he has scored a direct hit. I am covered in goo — slippery white chunks, yellow liquid, oozing and mixing with my greasepaint. An egg. A poacher he stole from his grandma's or someone's plate and cradled it safely into the Texas Book Depository.

“Fuck you, clown! “ he shrieks with delight. He must've heard the boys in the kitchen. Khachaturian's “Sabre Dance“ is playing over the sound system, and it is clearly audible since everyone has stopped talking to witness my shame.

The awful silence of the crowd lasts only a millisecond longer, and then everyone — from Tommy's mom to the crying girl with the sunflower to Ferrie, standing beside the kitchen door, to the phantom faces in the trompe l'oeil peanut gallery to the grainy Dealey Plaza folks behind the paintings — everyone bursts into raucous laughter.

The only two people not enjoying this moment are Mom and Dad; they quietly ignore the whole scene. Another server has delivered their eggs, and I catch a glimpse of them taking their first bite as I crumple to the floor in a fever swoon. I am a pile of multicolored rags, makeup, and empty balloons; slipping into blind sleep, I wonder if I will ever become a man.