God's Clowns

Here’s a funny story. My girlfriend walks out of her office at lunchtime, and lights a cigarette. Immediately, a little Koori boy around 11 (my girlfriend has teenage kids, so she knows ages) asks her for a fag. ‘No, you can’t’, she replies. The kid starts following her down the main street of Port Macquarie. ‘What about when you’ve finished ?’ he asks.

She stops and turns to him, ‘What ?’ ‘Can I have that one when you’re finished ?’ he persists. My girlfriend explodes, ‘There’s no way you’re getting this, you’re too young to be smoking. Anyway, why aren’t you at school..and where’s your parents...blah, blah, blah.’ The kid looks at her blank. He hasn’t heard a word she said. So she puts her finger away, turns on her heel and walks off, disgusted. Then she hears this, ‘ I’ll give ya a root...? ’

In life, there are gems like this, and also other gems, sent by God to highlight the beauty in life. The spastic, the disabled, the blind, the deaf....those folk who remind us of our own fortune and fragility. They are not imperfect to God, being free of that which reduce us as humans. They are his beautiful playmates. They are Gods little clowns...

I hauled into the Olympic Park rank, on a sweltering Saturday afternoon, to find a wheelchair bound man in his 30's maybe. It was hard to tell his age, as the supervisor helped haul him into the front seat, amid much gibbering and protestation.

For he was a mess, paralysed from the waist down, yet rockin ’n rollin’ Joe Cocker style, from the waist up. Coupled with his Aboriginality, this guys got a double handicap - black and in a wheelchair. I pack it away - a modern lightweight model, with quick release wheels - then gear up.

‘Beacon Hill, eh?’ I offer as we ease away. I mentally log-in a smooth driving mission for my special passenger. A nice earning cruise up to the northern beaches, where there’s bound to be a relieving afternoon sea breeze. ‘B-B-b-be...,’ he stammers, all bobbing head, before finally spitting out in a rising crescendo, ‘...be-be-Becon h-HILL !’ ‘No worries mate’, I confirm, stopping for an early red light.

He then delivers a careful, yet tortured introduction. ‘Ma-ma - my n-name is Wu Win Winston O’Neil - wha-a-what’s yourrre name ?’. I’m impressed. This guy can handle himself. He has the natural confidence with strangers, common in handicapped people, freed of the fickle masks of vanity and fashion.

With a slow deliberation I reply, ‘I’m not going to tell you’. ‘Why-why not ?’, he demands with booming indignation. Winston is a big man with a commanding presence, who my intuition suspects is not at all useless. Just the mere fact he was out and about alone, denoted some healthy independence.

I lean over and reply softly from the corner of my mouth, ‘Cause I’m a spy !’. ‘B-B-buls-BULLSHIT !’ he fires back indignantly, ‘yor-yor-your fulla SHIT !’ I laugh my head off at his candid and animated response, finally telling him he’s a funny guy, in a bid to settle him down. Still, he’s not sure about me.

I decided to make him talk, ‘So what’s your story Winston?’. He proceeded to tell me, in fits and starts, he was born in Central Queensland and grew up in Brisbane. Adopted at birth, he was taken in by a large family who cared for him until adulthood. On enquiring of his handicaps, it seems he was born with severe spina bifida, and other obvious complications. Somehow he’d ended up in Sydney in recent years, obtaining shared residential accommodation. This came with an in-house nursing service run by the Health Department.

As I listened patiently to his story, I noticed the involuntary head motions seemed to abate somewhat, as did his stammering. After the initial introduction, he’d become more relaxed and less animated, as I prompted and prodded him on aspects of his life. While Winston was happy and comfortable to talk about his lot, he was preoccupied with stopping at McDonalds. He reminded me at every opportunity, ‘U-Yu-you got to ts-ts-stop aat Muc-Muc-Mucdonsaldds. At the d-d-drive thru’.

Bored with that, I got personal. ‘Hey Winston, you gotta a girlfriend ?’ ‘No-no-no bloody way!’ he exploded. ‘Why not’, I chided him, ‘you’re a nice guy - you’re funny and friendly’. ‘The..the..they’re to-to-too much trouble! Al-al-all ways hanging around - the-the-they give me the sh-sh-shits !' I don’t believe him. He doth protest too much. ‘So you have got a girlfriend ?’. ‘Bullshit ! We gotta gog-o-Muckdonealds. To th-th-the drive-thru’.

We get to the drive-thru where with precise instructions - he’s done this before- he guides me into the correct lane to order him a meal plus two ice-cream sundaes, one for his friend at home. Located at the end of a cul-de-sac, home is a large new house in an upmarket neighbourhood. It sits atop the plateau, commanding stunning views south down the coastline, towards Manly and the Harbour.

As I pull carefully into the large driveway, I notice a shadow hovering inside the screen door. When I stop, it opens to reveal a pretty blonde girl, around 20 years old. She’s spastic or autistic or something, and deliriously clapping her hands held high in front.

I go round to help Winston into his chair. She approaches with the excitement of a little girl, who’s been waiting home all afternoon. Her hero is returning with the ice-cream sundae. ‘Is this your boyfriend?’ I ask with a cheeky grin. She stops, breaks into spasms of gooey smiles and scrunches her hands tightly into the front of her dress, with knees together. She then raises her head to the sky, and emits the guttural bashfulness of a pubescent girl. A sound akin to feigned denials, bordering on the edge of hiccups.

There’s definitely something going on here. ‘Do you love him?’ I prompt. With that she lunges forward and throws her arms around Winston in the chair. She nuzzles her face into his bulky neck, hiding, then chancing a peek. He is receptive to her affections, momentarily relaxing his undulations, then shakes her off, ‘No-no, not now Sarah - I-I-I’ve got to have mmmy dinner. H-h-here’s your sundae’.

Recovering immediately, she takes it and goes into raptures of pure joy. She trails off behind, lost in her ice cream, as he pushes to the door. A nurse arrives to hold it open for them, and gives me a friendly wave of thanks. I stand there overwhelmed, watching Winston being pushed over the threshold by Sarah, his adoring and loyal companion.

It is indeed a blessing I leave with, knowing I’ve just had a special encounter, with some of Gods clowns. Needless to say the next nine hours is a breeze.

Comments

[kristen]

jesus. the last paragraph you wrote makes me feel sick. not a good way to think about other people really.

[adrian]

'Gods clowns' is a term of endearment, and used in the nicest possible way. How could one not possibly feel honored by such an encounter, which gave me unexpected joy and happiness. Especially given the healthy, lucky, drunken arseholes I had to deal with for the rest of that Saturday night. Indeed, these 'clowns' were one of the highlights of my year.

[slatts]

Jeez, Adrian, that's delightful. You've got a book on the boil.

[Nancy]

Beautiful Story! I take "Clown" as a good thing, the person who objected probably sees it as a derogatory comment, which it isn't unless you think it is. Clowns bring laughter, fun!

[adrian]

Thanks Nancy. I'd forgotten about this wonderful encounter as I rarely go to Beacon Hill. The detractor you refer to was actually a troll motivated by personal animosity. Never to be heard from since. Beauty sure smothers negativity.