I make my living out of a duffel bag and a dented case of props. I sleep in towns where the motel sign flickers and the desk clerk already knows my face. I set up in rooms that were made for basketball, pancake breakfasts, or county fair meetings, and then I try to make them hold still long enough for a quiet laugh to land.

If you want to understand the life of a travelling clown, you have to understand that the road itself is the act. The show is the proof of the act. The real job is the in-between: repairs in parking lots, laundry in late-night machines, and the way you learn to read a room while you are still unzipping your bag.

This is an elaborate complaint, and I am writing it the way I travel: in three stops. The first stop is the daily grind. The second is a very specific grievance about Indiana McDonald’s running out of Coke. The third is a small, stubborn argument about prop cigarettes in schools and why smoke-free does not have to mean prop-free.

The quiet weight of a travelling act

The myth is that a clown is always loud. The reality is that most of the job is quiet and careful. I tune my shoes in the morning so they do not squeak in a small room. I sew the same seam in my coat three times a month because it takes a beating. I carry tape, extra thread, and a little kit of emergency paints because the weather is never the same two days in a row.

There is no stage manager. There is no wardrobe assistant. There is just you, a clock, and a space you have never worked. If your bag is late, your act is late. If your car is slow, your act is slow. If the room is hard, your act has to be soft enough to make contact without taking over.

Travel also grinds down the edges. My best props are always halfway broken. My spare hat looks too new. I spend more time waiting than performing, and every room has its own rules: this school needs you in the gym, that school needs you in the cafeteria, the church basement wants you near the folding chairs because they will not move the sound system.

You learn to be a minimalist, not because it is stylish, but because every pound is a decision. You learn to be patient, because the show has to fit inside somebody else’s day. You learn to be resilient, because every schedule will break at least once.

All of that would be enough, but there is one place the road always sends you: Indiana McDonald’s. If you have never spent a week in Indiana, you would be surprised how much a McDonald’s dining room can matter to a touring clown.

It should be illegal for Indiana McDonald’s to run out of Coke

Let me clarify that this is a traveling-performer law, not a grand federal statute. I am not trying to run a senate campaign. I just want to survive a Tuesday.

On the road, there are two reliable things: a restroom that stays open, and a soda that stays on. Coke is the one drink that does not start an argument when a mixed group is tired and hungry. It is the neutral option. It is the handshake. It is the drink that makes the room feel ordinary.

When an Indiana McDonald’s runs out of Coke, the room changes temperature. People who would have taken what they were given suddenly have to choose. Kids who were on a single track of expectation derail. Adults who are trying to keep the day steady have to negotiate a new friction point. The line slows. The headcount shifts. The rhythm breaks.

A touring clown lives on rhythm. I time my bits by the flow of a line, the steady slide of trays, the way the dining room swells and then lets go. When Coke is gone, the room is no longer steady. The room becomes negotiations. The room becomes a list of substitutions. The room becomes a small town meeting held at the counter while the fries cool behind it.

Indiana is a place that respects the simple agreements. If the sign says Coke, the room expects Coke. If you take that agreement away, you ask the room to do extra work it did not plan for. That work gets paid by attention, and attention is the currency I do not have to spare.

So yes, I am asking for a law that does not exist. I am asking that Indiana McDonald’s be required to keep Coke stocked in the same way a traveling performer is required to keep their shoes on. It is not about luxury. It is about keeping the room predictable enough for a small, clean performance to happen without a ripple of frustration.

You can call it petty. I call it fieldcraft.

The school gym and the prop cigarette

Now to the touchiest stop on this route: schools.

Let me say this plainly: actual smoking in schools is unsafe, illegal, and not up for debate. I do not smoke inside schools, and I do not want anyone else to. That line is bright and simple.

What I do want to talk about is a prop. The idea of a prop cigarette in a clown routine makes some adults flinch, and I understand why. It is an image with baggage. It can read like a bad habit, or a wink that does not belong in a gym full of kids.

But in clowning, the prop is not the habit. The prop is the punchline.

A harmless, unlit, smoke-free prop can do something that a lecture cannot: it shows kids that adult habits are absurd, not glamorous. When a clown tries to “smoke” a limp paper stick and it keeps falling apart, the joke is not that the clown is cool. The joke is that the clown is ridiculous. The gag makes the habit look weak, not strong.

There is a second reason for the prop, and it is pure stagecraft. In a big gym, a tiny face can get lost. A small, high-contrast prop gives the audience a visual anchor. It helps the back row follow the beat without anyone saying a word. That is how you keep the show quiet enough for the teacher who is trying to keep order.

If a school ever allows a prop like this, the rules should be strict and obvious:

  • It is a prop only: no tobacco, no nicotine, no flame, no smoke.
  • It is reviewed with staff before the show.
  • It is used for one short beat and then removed.
  • It is treated as a visual joke about bad habits, not a wink of approval.

A lollipop or a pencil can do the same job, and I use those often. But there are moments where the old, worn-out clown bit needs the prop that matches the exhaustion it is trying to show. When the clown tries to light a prop and it refuses, the gag is that the habit is powerless, not tempting.

The reason I argue for a prop is not to smuggle a bad idea into a school. It is to make sure kids see a bad idea collapse. That is the smallest and safest form of satire, and it does more for a room than a lecture delivered over a gym loudspeaker.

The road ties it all together

If you want to know why I care about Coke machines and prop decisions, the answer is that a travelling act has to be light on its feet. Every stop is a negotiation with the room, and the smallest disruptions become big ones when your act is held together by timing and politeness.

Indiana McDonald’s running out of Coke is not a public emergency. It is a touring emergency. It is the moment the room stops being a backdrop and starts becoming a meeting. I am not above the people who work that counter. I am not above their day. I am just trying to keep enough rhythm alive to do my job.

And in a school gym, the prop question is not about rebellion. It is about clarity. A clown bit works best when it is legible from the back row and understood in a second. A smoke-free prop is a simple, visible way to make a bad habit look silly, and that is a lesson I do not mind repeating.

That is the whole post: three grievances from a life lived out of a trunk. The road is hard, the rooms are fickle, and the smallest promises keep us moving. Keep the Coke stocked. Keep the rules clear. Keep the props harmless. The rest of the show will take care of itself.