Bartleby the Clown

It was rather hilarious, what happened to Bartleby the Clown.

It was just past midnight on a dull and dreary winter’s eve, and here we all were, half asleep in the emergency room. That’s when (surprise!) the ambulance bay rattled open, and the circus rolled in.

What a show! There were spinning red lights and the whirly-whirl of sirens and the jesters in blue marching and winking at us, and in the middle of it all was dear old Bartleby himself, all trussed up in his finest clothes with his clown shoes dangling off the end of the gurney. His paint-smeared face rolled past the crowd, smiling, smiling. A nurse reached over and squeezed his red rubber nose. It squeaked and brought a roar of laughter from us all.

“Get a load of this clown!” someone said.

“What did Bartleby do this time?” another voice asked.

“He got hit by a pie,” said the paramedic.

“A pie?”

“Yes, a pie,” the paramedic said, pointing. “Take a look.”

Sure enough, there it was: the crimson cherry filling and honey crust oozing from Bartleby’s frizzy orange hair, coating half his face in gooey red.

“What a quack!” someone roared.

“Come on, fellas! Wheel him over here!” yelled a doctor.

And on they went, the clown and this boisterous crowd, down the long hall to the big trauma bay. They burst through the swinging doors, and the nurses inside took one good look at dear old Bartleby and exploded into laughter.

“A pie!” someone hollered. “It was a pie!”

They hauled old Bartleby onto a gurney and begin snipping off his clothes. The suspenders zanged like rubber bands as they whizzed off. The shirt ripped and spilled red handkerchiefs onto the floor—an endless stream of ruby red delight. The belt buckle sprayed cold water in the nurse’s face. And all the while Bartleby smiled at the ceiling with his big painted smile, his face a shade of blue, his lips purple-hued, as if the joke was on them!

More doctors and nurses came into the big bay, gathering ‘round to see old Bartleby.

“Tell us a joke, Bartleby!”

“Yeah! Why so quiet, Bartleby?”

“I’ve got an idea!” shouted an anesthesiologist. “Let’s give him some laughing gas! That’ll spruce him up!”

Cheers erupted as the gas mask was slipped on Bartleby’s face, and gas was pumped into his mouth.

“Turn it up!” someone shouted.

The knobs of the gas tank squeaked as the doctor cranked them wide open. Soon enough everyone was woozy and laughing. Oh, what a night, what a night!

Then one grinning young doctor staggered by the gurney and asked, “Eh, Bartleby? Why the long face? What’s the trick?”

A sudden hush fell over the room—until, cautiously, the young doctor clambered up onto the gurney where old Bartleby lay in repose, and he began banging on the clown’s chest with his fist. This lasted only a few moments before the doctor stopped, his eyes growing wide.

“Why did you stop?” someone shouted.

“I’ll show you…” the young doctor said. He reached down into Bartleby’s open blouse and pulled out a pink rabbit, alive and kicking.

The crowd gasped. They roared with applause.

Oh, Bartleby, you’ve outdone yourself. You’ve fooled us all.