CAROL AND I WERE in group therapy together. He moped around much of the sessions, crying and covering his face, occasionally honking a small rubber horn when he wished to speak. During cigarette breaks, he’d flirt with me by pulling paper flowers out of my cleavage. His parents had once been famous lion tamers at Ringling and disapproved of clowns, banning him from any sort of tomfoolery, so he dropped out of clown school and hung out at Phish concerts doing improv puppets shows. Our therapist wouldn’t let him wear his makeup, so after sessions I’d let him chase me on his unicycle, wearing nothing but a bright red nose and ruffled collar.
Breaking Point: His reliance on mime during any sort of serious argument.