Where are the clowns, the song asks. Quick, send in the clowns.
Don't bother, she's here. Here at Panera Bread in North Hills. Only problem, I don't know what she looks like. Cotton the Clown and I agreed to meet for lunch by phone, so I know the voice but not the face. I decide to table-hop, asking each woman sitting alone whether she's Cotton the Clown. Heads shake no, and eyes speak sorry. Well, if Cotton's not here, maybe she's there.
Yeah, there she is coming through the door, Cotton the Clown without the Clown. No red nose, pink wig or white face, but plenty of stage presence that gives her away. Earrings and necklace match, outfit loose and flowing, makeup made perfect. "Are you Cotton?" I ask. "Yes," she says. "You must be Marian."
Trays full, counter service is quick at Panera Bread, we find a table. "Oh, the people before us cleaned up after themselves," Cotton says. "I like that." Wonder what else she likes. Audience approval, I suppose. "How can you tell people liked your performance?"
"I don't do performance," Cotton says. "I play off people." Good going, Marian, your first question tanks. "But aren't some people afraid of clowns?" I ask, hoping this question lives longer. At least it does with me. Force-fed circuses by a well-meaning mother, I rejected them on first take. Didn't think lions and tigers should be caged, but the power-hungry lion tamer who crack-whipped them into submission should. Thought trapeze fliers were show-offs and have had acrophobia ever since I saw one fall. But most of all, I was afraid of the clowns. They weren't real - nobody is that happy. Cotton didn't know my history, but apparently she knew others'.
"Sure. I know some people are afraid of clowns, but I tell people it's fine to be afraid. I've seen the most apprehensive child melt when I play my guitar."
Cotton's comfortable now, so I ask what her secrets are for a smooth show. "Keep the conversation going even when face-painting. Never zip anything completely closed, you can't get out of it quickly. And know how to push people without making them mad."
"That's hard," I say.
Cotton's raised three kids alone so she knows hard. She started small, "I was full of compromises while playing Mommy," she says. "I began at Caribou Coffeehouse. Played nine years there. One time I played for two people," she laughs. Cotton did stand-up, retirement parties, taught herself to play guitar, and by the time she played Dorton Arena, Cotton was a Clown.
I ask why she picked Cotton as her stage name. "I had a standard white poodle named Cotton. I had to put her down when she was 16 years old." Cotton looks away, her eyes nostalgic, wet. I look away, too, in search of a safer question. I find one.
"Who's your standard hire?" "A lot of TV people hire me as a clown for their kids' birthday parties," she says, and adds, "The best parties are always when parents are with their kids."
I know now what Cotton the Clown looks like and who she is. I'm still scared of clowns, still prefer the real person, like Cotton: sad some of the time, happy most of the time, and grateful for life all of the time. Fueled by chicken soup and chunks of crusty Italian bread, our lunch lasted almost three hours, some of Cotton's stories so intimate, I took no notes.
"People need to be acknowledged," Cotton says. "Suggestion for your readers: Go to a nursing home. Anyone can go to one, go to the front desk and ask who needs a visit."
If only for an hour, if only for a moment, dear Lord, please send in your clowns.
