DOINK THE CLOWN
WORKS BIRTHDAY PARTIES
Michael Chin
The flyer says Doink the Clown works birthday parties. Glossy, weighted stock, full color to highlight the contrast of the red smile against the white paint on his face, the blue around his eyes, the flurry of wild green hair. Smaller print notes he’s as seen in the WWF which means the World Wrestling Federation before the World Wildlife Fund grappled the acronym from them in the courtroom. Ask Doink at a party, and he’ll tell you a good joke about how the fix was in for wildlife, how even a strongman can’t outwrestle a bear.
Doink the Clown tells jokes at bar mitzvahs. He contorts long balloons into animal shapes. Most of them wind up looking like soft pretzels, a callback to when Doink stared into a camera at ringside, vowing to twist his opponents into pretzels. One of his signature holds saw him make good on this promise, sitting on a seated opponent’s shoulders and pulling up on his leg until he cried uncle. He’d kick their own feet to their faces if the man was flexible enough. All in good fun.
Doink the Clown doesn’t work many weddings, but when he does they’re for rich folks who can afford separate entertainment for au pairs to take the kiddies too while mommy and daddy throwback double shots and cut a rug on the dance floor. Doink scrubs the paint off after he performs and mooches hors d’oeuvres off the catering staff. He thinks one day, when the wedding’s big enough for no one to be sure if he might be guest, and after he’s had a few shots of liquid courage, he’ll slug the DJ, steal the mic, and sing a round of “My Way” or “Stand By Me” a cappella. He’s got a good voice.
The real, original Doink the Clown ODed on painkillers. The WWF had replaced him twice over by then. The beauty of Doink was that anyone might hide beneath the paint. The beauty of Doink was that the original could keep playing the character on the indie wrestling circuit, too, those last years of his life. If the WWF lawyers came calling about their intellectual property, he’d lean into plausible deniability. That he had an alibi. That it could’ve been anyone beneath the paint.
Doink the Clown could be a lot of things, but he’s most at home on those indie shows. Twenty-five years since the WWF days. Ten years after the original Doink died. Five years after he took his first booking for the grand opening at a used car dealership, handing out little stuffed giraffes to the first fifty kids through the door. He may get most of his bookings from birthday parties, but he’s at home grappling, the equivalent of a pro wrestling cover band, working the original Doink’s signature spots. There are fans—younger, or more casual—who don’t know the difference and assume he’s the genuine article.
A potbellied father brought his daughter to get an autograph after one of those matches in a high school gymnasium. Doink could tell the girl was frightened of the clown visage, could smell the stale stench of Budweiser on her old man. “I watched you when I was her age,” he said. “You still move great for an old man.” Doink might have corrected him, but what’s a clown for but keeping childlike wonder alive? He thanked the man and signed his name with the D big enough to draw a smiley face inside.
The original Doink was a villain, and this Doink the Clown honors that spirit. He cheats in the ring and picks his spots outside it. Like when he winked at the girl and offered his most wolfish smile, only to watch her hide behind her father’s leg. Like when he gave the man his business card and told him he works birthday parties. Doink held the girl’s eyes with his, the blue paint around them peeling with perspiration. He knew he was at his most grotesque. I’m only a phone call away, he said. I’ll be waiting.
Michael Chin grew up in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He has published three short story collections and, most recently, his debut novel, My Grandfather’s an Immigrant, and So is Yours (Cowboy Jamboree Press 2021). Visit miketchin.com.
WORKS BIRTHDAY PARTIES
Michael Chin
The flyer says Doink the Clown works birthday parties. Glossy, weighted stock, full color to highlight the contrast of the red smile against the white paint on his face, the blue around his eyes, the flurry of wild green hair. Smaller print notes he’s as seen in the WWF which means the World Wrestling Federation before the World Wildlife Fund grappled the acronym from them in the courtroom. Ask Doink at a party, and he’ll tell you a good joke about how the fix was in for wildlife, how even a strongman can’t outwrestle a bear.
Doink the Clown tells jokes at bar mitzvahs. He contorts long balloons into animal shapes. Most of them wind up looking like soft pretzels, a callback to when Doink stared into a camera at ringside, vowing to twist his opponents into pretzels. One of his signature holds saw him make good on this promise, sitting on a seated opponent’s shoulders and pulling up on his leg until he cried uncle. He’d kick their own feet to their faces if the man was flexible enough. All in good fun.
Doink the Clown doesn’t work many weddings, but when he does they’re for rich folks who can afford separate entertainment for au pairs to take the kiddies too while mommy and daddy throwback double shots and cut a rug on the dance floor. Doink scrubs the paint off after he performs and mooches hors d’oeuvres off the catering staff. He thinks one day, when the wedding’s big enough for no one to be sure if he might be guest, and after he’s had a few shots of liquid courage, he’ll slug the DJ, steal the mic, and sing a round of “My Way” or “Stand By Me” a cappella. He’s got a good voice.
The real, original Doink the Clown ODed on painkillers. The WWF had replaced him twice over by then. The beauty of Doink was that anyone might hide beneath the paint. The beauty of Doink was that the original could keep playing the character on the indie wrestling circuit, too, those last years of his life. If the WWF lawyers came calling about their intellectual property, he’d lean into plausible deniability. That he had an alibi. That it could’ve been anyone beneath the paint.
Doink the Clown could be a lot of things, but he’s most at home on those indie shows. Twenty-five years since the WWF days. Ten years after the original Doink died. Five years after he took his first booking for the grand opening at a used car dealership, handing out little stuffed giraffes to the first fifty kids through the door. He may get most of his bookings from birthday parties, but he’s at home grappling, the equivalent of a pro wrestling cover band, working the original Doink’s signature spots. There are fans—younger, or more casual—who don’t know the difference and assume he’s the genuine article.
A potbellied father brought his daughter to get an autograph after one of those matches in a high school gymnasium. Doink could tell the girl was frightened of the clown visage, could smell the stale stench of Budweiser on her old man. “I watched you when I was her age,” he said. “You still move great for an old man.” Doink might have corrected him, but what’s a clown for but keeping childlike wonder alive? He thanked the man and signed his name with the D big enough to draw a smiley face inside.
The original Doink was a villain, and this Doink the Clown honors that spirit. He cheats in the ring and picks his spots outside it. Like when he winked at the girl and offered his most wolfish smile, only to watch her hide behind her father’s leg. Like when he gave the man his business card and told him he works birthday parties. Doink held the girl’s eyes with his, the blue paint around them peeling with perspiration. He knew he was at his most grotesque. I’m only a phone call away, he said. I’ll be waiting.
Michael Chin grew up in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He has published three short story collections and, most recently, his debut novel, My Grandfather’s an Immigrant, and So is Yours (Cowboy Jamboree Press 2021). Visit miketchin.com.