Dozo the Clown

The first real drama in my life occurred when I was six years old.

I was camping at the time. Every year my family went on the exact same vacation. All of us, parents, me, sister (Mary Beth) and brother (Paul) would pile into our beige Pontiac Phoenix. We would hitch up the orange 1972 Hiawatha Tent/Camper, and we would strike off for parts completely known.

In time, I would grow to despise these forced tours that trapped me in close proximity with my family. But not when I was six. When I was six years old, this was the best vacation we could possibly have! Especially since our tour of duty always ended at the same place: KOA Campground in Winnipeg, Manitoba!

There is little that would distinguish KOA from any other Manitoba campground…except for one important thing. KOA is located right beside Tinker Town. To many, Tinker Town is a small, relatively cheesy, completely unspectacular amusement park. To Jim Taylor, age 6, it was something much, much more.

It was Paradise!

Camping for the Taylor family was, in no way, a luxurious experience. There was no Winnebago, no separate bunks for each member of the family, and there were certainly no dinners in restaurants. We roasted food over the fire-pit, or heated our meals from cans. And there were no paper plates or disposable cutlery, either. Everything was served on my parents' camping dishware. And everthing was washed, by hand, following every meal. This was not because my parents wanted to "rough it" or "get back to nature". Nor did it have much to do with "giving back to the Earth". It was because they were cheap. Nevertheless, to a six-year-old boy who is staying next to Tinker Town, none of this matters. A six-year-old boy staying next to Tinker Town will do anything his parents would ask.

To a six-year-old boy, all that matters is getting to Tinker Town. Only good boys get to Tinker Town.

There was only one flaw in my quest to be well behaved. I have an older sister. And older sisters beg to be teased.

This was, however, a triffling matter that I felt was easily overcome. There is an art to bugging an older sister, especially when something as important as Tinker Town hangs in the balance. Bugging your sister has to be done quietly. You must know exactly to say, and just the right buttons to push.

If done properly, your work will be rewarded by a screaming, raging sister, which will cause the parents to yell at her, not you. You must bug your sister with the precision of a surgeon. Jim Taylor, age six, understood this completely. Jim Taylor, age six, was brilliant at bugging his sister.

On this night, however, things didn't turn out quite the way that I had planned. I had Tinker Town on the mind! I was completely off my game! As a result, "Scary Breath" (one of my better names for her) was unaffected by my jabs and insults. She bit her lip and shook her head, looking quite sad. I felt myself losing ground. This was unthinkable! Never had my sister withstood my barrage of bedevilment so well! Finally one last desperate rally on my part, my sister dealt the killing blow. She looked me square in the eye and said..."I wouldn't be so happy if I were you. Not after what I heard tonight."

My sister had discovered the Achilles' heel of all six-year-old boys. Curiosity.

What had she heard? Was our family having a tragedy? Did a friend or loved one die? Was Tinker Town closed? Mary Beth refused to tell me. It was our family's deepest secret, she said. And it was such miserable news, that my heart may burst upon hearing it. I persisted! I pleaded! I promised her the moon and the stars (and half the can of Coke I had hidden in the camper) if she would only tell me what she had overheard. Finally, she consented. Heaving a heavy sigh, she sat me down on the picnic table bench and proceeded to tell me the news that would change my life forever.

"You're not really Jim Taylor." She said. "You're real name is Dozo Brown, and you come from a family of circus clowns".

And the world stopped.

In the distance, I could hear Tinker Town, but it didn't matter anymore.

Mary Beth went on to fill me in my true origin. It seems the real Jim Taylor and I were born on the exact same day, at the exact same time, at Regina General Hospital. Due to a rare administrative mishap, our bassinets had been switched, and each family, the Browns, and the Taylors, returned home with each other's bundles of joy, blissfully unaware of the horrible mistake that had occurred.

It wasn't until years later that my "Mom and Dad" discovered that something was wrong (Mary Beth explained that the real Jim Taylor would never have grown up to be such a jerk). My "Dad" did some investigating, and discovered what had happened. He contacted the Browns and beseeched them, desperately, to take me back. But they didn't want me. A lengthy court battle, ensued, but the Browns would not budge. The real Jim Taylor was far too good a kid for them to part with.

Eventually, my parents ran out of money. This, she explained, was why we always had to camp on our vacation, instead of going to Disney Land. In the end, both families decided to continue the sham, never revealing to either Jim or Dozo what had transpired.

Mom?

I was crushed! I wasn't a Taylor! Somewhere out there was my real family! And, to make things worse, the real Jim Taylor was forced to dress in silly baggy clothes and have pies thrown in his face!

I was wrung with guilt! I felt dirty and false, like an unwelcome hobo at a family picnic! It was hard to believe that, just ten minutes earlier, the biggest issue in my life was getting into some crappy amusement park. I was living a LIE!

Mary Beth tried her best to comfort me. "Don't worry" she assured me "We'll still feed you and let you live with us."

But I was not to be consoled! Perhaps the rest of my family could live with this horrible falsehood, but I would not! I ran to my "mother" sobbing.

"I know the truth!" I shouted passionately. My mother put down her book, stroked my hair, and asked me why I was upset. I told her exactly what I had heard from Mary Beth, leaving nothing out. I revealed my shame and fear that someday a strange family may come for me in the night and stuff me into a car with 30 other clowns. I speculated that this was the cause of my unusually large feet. I demanded my mother confirm the awful reality that was my birthright!

When I finished, collapsing into a tearful heap, my Mom roared with laughter. My father was called and I was forced to repeat my tale. I was growing hoarse from speaking over my parents' howls of mirth. My Dad put me on his knee and restored my identity. On this night, the picnic tables had been turned. After years of merciless taunting, my sister finally had her revenge.

My trip to Tinker Town was bittersweet, that night. It was nice to be Jim Taylor again, but the harsh lesson I learned had forced me to grow, and the place lost a bit of its luster. It was a much, much older six-year-old boy that entered Tinker Town that night. And every clown that I encountered that night seemed sinister...and vaguely familiar.

A piece of my Paradise was lost, that night, but I gained a little something, too. I learned that there was nothing wrong with being Jim Taylor. I could be something much, much worse.

I could be Dozo Brown.

I would like to say that I never bothered my sister again. But that would be a lie.

Dozo Out.