The Red Clown

Mads, my Norwegian companion, and I were eating at the Armani cafe on Newbury Street, when we saw a man dressed as a clown in a big red suit handing out flyers. He was pontificating against the vices of consumerism. A couple of the cafe workers were moving to push him away, but I insisted that he be allowed to come and sit at our table.

He was hesitant, but at the same time curious, so he sat down. He introduced himself as Trotsky The Red Clown, avowed communist. I knew I had my work cut out for me, but my day was free, and I always loved a challenge. This clown would be corrupted at any cost.

I first took him to the Adriano Golschmied store, and had him try on a pair of jeans. Despite only having big red shoes to wear, he couldn't deny how hot he looked in quality denim. I of course bought them for him.

Like a cocaine dealer, handing out my wares for free knowing full well I'd have a fullfledged addict, I took him to many more establishments of fine dining and clothing. I made him try a $40 bottle of Cabernet Savignon (only $40!) along with his preferred two-buck-chuck. I didn't even make it a blind taste test. The clown was hooked in a heart beat, and even The Great Bob Dylan and his penchant for cheap wine could never bring him back.

I saw him a few weeks later in the North End, wearing instead of clown make-up and wig, a Prada cashmere sweater and a salon-styled faux-hawk. He was inside a cheese shop complaining furiously that it was a travesty that they didn't have 6 year aged Parm, and how the hell did they expect him to make fettucine alfredo without it. I turned to Mads, and we high-fived.