The May Featured Writer is Michael C. Keith
Please feel free to contact Michael at: mckradio@comcast.net
THE SADDEST EYES
by Michael C. Keith
Look not in my eyes, for fear
They mirror true the sight I see
–– A.E. Housman
The first thing Norman Reid noticed about his newborn son was that his eyes were wide open the moment he entered the world. But it wasn’t so much that they were agape as it was the expression in them that caught his attention. The baby’s eyes projected such melancholy that Norman was overwhelmed by pity and concern.
“What’s wrong with him, doctor?” he whispered into the pediatrician’s ears, not wanting to alarm his wife.
“Not a thing as far as I can tell, Mr. Reid,” replied the doctor tending the child.
“But his eyes look weird,” insisted Norman.
“Well, it is unusual for a newborn to . . .” paused the pediatrician scrutinizing the baby’s face. “To appear so expressive. My, my, he does seem to be contemplating the meaning of the universe, doesn’t he?”
“He looks upset,” observed Norman.
After the nurse had cleaned the infant, she wrapped him in a blue blanket and handed him to Lucy Reid.
“Oh, my lord, look at those gigantic blue eyes. Did you see them, honey?” asked Lucy, embracing the baby.
“Wow, beautiful, but . . ..” responded the nurse, taking a closer look at the neonate.
“Yeah, really something,” added Norman, staring at mother and child. “He doesn’t look all that happy to be out of your tummy.”
“Poor little guy,” cooed Lucy. “You’ve had a tough night, but mommy and daddy love you.”
“Welcome to the cruel world, Quinn. It’s all downhill from here,” joked Norman, kissing his son’s forehead.
“Oh, that’s not nice,” scoffed Lucy.
“Sorry, babe. It’s just that he already looks like he’s being audited.”
*****
As Quinn grew, the despair in his eyes did also. When he was taken for the entrance interview at an exclusive pre-school, the director was taken aback by his expression, which was dominated by his forlorn peepers.
“Well, Quinn, you don’t seem too happy to be here,” commented Mrs. Gilliam.
“I’m happy,” muttered Quinn, in response to the schoolmistress, who could not take her eyes off his.
“Is he okay, Mrs. Reid?”
“He’s fine. He just has . . . sad eyes, but he’s really a very happy child.”
“And enormous blue eyes at that,” continued Mrs. Gilliam, still staring at Quinn. “Do you want to attend Fairview? It’s a very nice school with lots of wonderful children your age.”
“Okay,” said Quinn. “Can I play now?”
“If your mommy and daddy say it’s okay,” answered Mrs. Gilliam, finally returning her gaze to the Reids for their approval.
“What do you think, Quinn? Want to play with the boys and girls?” asked Lucy.
“Yeah,” answered Quinn, rising to go.
Mrs. Gilliam escorted him out to the playground, which was observable from her office. When she returned, they watched as the four year-old went up to several children. Within seconds the other youngsters had left Quinn standing alone.
“Don’t worry. It takes time for little ones to connect,” offered Mrs. Gilliam, a bit awkwardly. The Reids had noticed early on that despite their son’s friendly nature, he had difficulty making new friends. Children his age had seemed put off by Quinn upon introduction, and it wasn’t until a little girl asked why he was so sad that they realized the source of the problem. The sorrow in his eyes inspired curious responses, mainly apprehension, and children responded by avoiding him.
In time, however, kids did warm up to Quinn, and once they knew him, they realized he was no different than they were. Still, it remained difficult for him to meet new peers. When the Reids were forced to move twice because of Norman’s job, Quinn was faced with the problem of establishing new relationships.
*****
By the time Quinn entered high school, he had developed several pat answers to the constant question, “What’s the matter?” Among his favorite replies, which depended on who was asking, were:
My goldfish died.
There’s no jelly on my PJ sandwich.
The price of rice in China went up.
Got a wedgie.
Someone stole my Twinkie.
J-Lo won’t marry me.
It’s just gas.
Humor was Quinn’s way of dealing with stranger’s reactions to his evocative expression––on occasion some actually wept when they first saw him. When Quinn could, he wore sunglasses to conceal what was wrongfully perceived as extreme angst. Without them his doleful mien prompted predictable behavior from those with whom he came in contact.
As early as his freshman year, however, Quinn sensed there was an upside to his situation. Girls seemed drawn to him apparently out of an urge to ease what they construed as a terrible sadness in his heart. Contributing to his appeal for the opposite sex was the fact that he was stunningly handsome. Taller than most boys his age with dark wavy hair and an athlete’s physique, he was an imposing figure. This windfall of interested females led to many satisfying encounters and, overall, contributed to a happy high school and college experience.
These relatively blithesome years came to an abrupt end when the girl he fell in love with during his senior year at Northwestern turned down his marriage proposal on the grounds that she would always doubt if he was genuinely happy with her.
“Even when you smile, you look sad. It would always make me wonder if you were really content being married,” she offered, rising from the restaurant table and leaving him alone . . . and devastated.
*****
After graduation, and still reeling from his former girl friend’s rejection, Quinn half-heartedly sought a job in the field in which he had majored––personnel management and human resources. While his academic credentials got him interviews, his sadly compelling countenance prompted the question that had haunted Quinn his entire life.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Reid? Are you all right? You look so . . . troubled,” inquired potential employers.
In the end, the idea of hiring someone who looked so distraught to deal with employee issues resulted in no job offers. Quinn was forced to move back in with his parents, who knew all too well the problem he was up against.
“There are other things you can do until the right position comes along,” consoled his mother.
“Yeah, maybe I can get a job with a freak show,” snapped Quinn, and then a notion struck him that immediately improved his mood.
He had always loved the circus, especially the clowns, and what a wonderful one I would make, thought Quinn, with mounting enthusiasm. When he Googled “circus clowns,” he found one in particular that filled him with inspiration and encouragement. Studying Emmet Kelly’s “Weary Willie” image made him wonder if he wasn’t somehow related to the famous clown. His sad eyes were his own, he concluded. It was a turning point for him, and he was convinced it would lead to his true calling. Over supper he declared his intentions.
“You want to go to what . . . Clown school?” responded his father, nonplussed.
“He’s joking, Norman” said his mother, eyeing her son curiously.
“I’m completely serious. It’s where someone who looks like me belongs, but I’m really happy about it, so please don’t try to talk me out of it,” beseeched Quinn.
The Reids bit their tongues while their son enumerated the many benefits of his newly chosen career path. In the end, they agreed to fund his post-graduate education, which took him to Merrill’s Clown College in Sarasota, Florida.
*****
Upon his arrival, the school’s director, Mr. Cronin, took note of his extraordinarily doleful eyes and quipped that he may not need makeup unless he wished to portray a happy clown.
“No,” proclaimed Quinn. “I want to be the next Emmet Kelly.”
“Well, young man, that is a lofty but noble aspiration,” responded Cronin, with the honk of a clown’s brass horn attached to his desk.
The Merrill program consisted of courses in clown characterization, physical clowning, performance, costuming, and ensemble clowning. It was everything Quinn hoped it would be, but finding work as a professional clown was to be a challenge. Many of his classmates planned to take an entrepreneurial route and start their own clown businesses. That was not what Quinn sought. He wanted to find work in a traveling circus. However, none of the major circuses, including Ringling Brothers, Big Apple, Cole Brothers, Cirque du Soleil, Clyde Beatty, or Shrine Circus, were hiring. But just when Quinn was about to give up hope, he landed an interview with a tiny circus in Minnesota, called Zany Town Entertainment.
“So what’s your persona?” asked the manager, Johnny Cooper, before Quinn had a chance to take a seat in the motor home that served as the circus’s office.
“Sad Sammy,” replied Quinn, handing the grizzled looking, middle-age man a photo of himself in full custom.
“Well, I can tell the name suits you. And what does Sad Sammy do?”
Quinn explained his planned routine while the circus manager listened intently.
“Okay, you got it, “ said Cooper before Quinn had finished talking. “Go down to the clown trailer and introduce yourself to the others. We’ll be pulling out for Duluth in three days, and you’re going to need some rehearsing, son.”
Quinn was not only surprised but also delighted that he was hired on the spot. He had anticipated going through a series of interviews and presentations. By the time the circus hit the road, Quinn had sharpened his act with the willing help of three other Merrill clowns. Though he had opening day jitters, his debut went without a hitch. After the show, Quinn’s fellow clowns uncapped a bottle of champagne to celebrate. It was the happiest moment of his life.
“To the new Emmet Kelly,” toasted his colleagues, their glasses held high in a salute.
*****
From Duluth, the circus traveled to Pierre, South Dakota, and then down to Kearny, Nebraska. Each big top performance provided Quinn tremendous satisfaction. It felt so wonderful to see people laughing at him instead of looking at him with pity. It was the experience he had always hoped for, and he’d never felt better about himself. After shows, he would often slip into town in his costume in pursuit of further approbation. His treks were met with some resistance from the head clown, Dopey Dan.
“People who come to the circus like clowns, but there are some folks out there that get freaked out by us. They call it Coulrophobia, fear of clowns.”
Despite the warning, Quinn continued his after-show appearances, encountering nothing but delight from people he encountered. He was intoxicated by the pleasure his presence provided the public when he sauntered about the streets. Occasionally he was even recognized by his clown’s name, and this added to his joy.
“I love it, I love it!!” squealed Quinn rapturously
*****
Before returning to the circus one fateful evening, Quinn stopped by a convenience store for a soda. The clerk’s reaction to him was a surprise. The dark skinned man––who Quinn took for Indian––looked at him with unmitigated horror. Fear of clowns, he wondered?
“What’s the matter?” Quinn inquired.
It was the question he had been asked his whole life, and he could not help but recognize the irony in it coming from him.
“You get out!” ordered the store clerk.
“I just want this coke,” replied Quinn, reaching into his pocket for money.
“You evil. I know you devil.”
“No . . . I’m Sad Sammy, the clown. I make people laugh,” demurred Quinn, and then his world went dark as the terrified merchant unloaded a sawed-off shotgun at him.
When police arrived at the scene, they questioned the distraught clerk.
“I thought he was going to hold up the store in that scary disguise,” he explained, as Quinn’s body was removed from the premises.
At the town morgue, the coroner’s assistant removed the makeup from the face of his newly arrived client. Just an ordinary young man, he thought, peering down at the robbery suspect.
As he lifted Quinn’s left eyelid, his other lid opened unassisted.
“What!” gasped the morgue worker, noticing the pupils of the cadaver’s vast, rueful eyes contract.
This is no ordinary corpse, he realized, sighing deeply.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, fighting back tears as Quinn’s eyes widened.
Michael C. Keith is the author of two short story collections, an acclaimed memoir, and two-dozen non-fiction books. He teaches communication at Boston College and is the recipient of several awards in his professional field. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and PEN/O.Henry Award. His third story collection (Of Night and Light) was published by Blue Mustang Press.
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