The Clown in the Rain

It was the late ’60s, and my father and I were swept along with the crowd exiting a circus in San Jose. Rain poured hard and steady, the kind that flattens hair and soaks shoes in minutes. In the chaos of umbrellas and slick pavement, I spotted him—Hocus Pocus, the Bay Area’s clown celebrity, wandering alone through the parking lot.

His makeup was smudged by the weather, his wig drooping, his posture sagging as though the downpour had stripped him of performance energy. He looked less like a jester than a man burdened by his own melancholy, trudging through puddles without hurry. Then his eyes flicked toward me. For a brief moment, he shook off the fog around him, managed a weary smile, and pulled from his pocket an autographed photograph. He handed it to me silently, a token from a man who seemed at once broken and kind.

What I remember most is his expression—resigned to sadness, yet somehow still present enough to gift a child a sliver of joy. The photo, worn at the corners, became a reminder that even in rain-soaked despair, generosity can find its way through.