GRIM

How I met GRIM

My sister asked me to go with her to my nephew's birthday party. Eight years old, twenty kids screaming, a piñata badly hung in the yard. I went out of obligation, the kind who stays with a beer in hand in a corner waiting for time to pass.

While watching the kids run, I noticed a guy leaning against the wall on the other side of the yard. Arms crossed, frowning, staring at the piñata like it had done something personal to him. He had the most bitter face I'd ever seen. I assumed he was another dad forced to be there, one of those counting the minutes to leave.

I walked up to him to make conversation, more out of solidarity than any real interest.

"Are you one of the dads?"

"No, kid. I'm the clown."

I looked at him properly. He had a red nose sticking out of his shirt pocket. No makeup, no wig, no costume, nothing. He was the clown hired for the party and he looked like he was at a funeral.

I spent the rest of the afternoon watching him work. He did tricks without enthusiasm, told jokes in a wake-voice, moved among the kids like walking through mines. And the strangest part: the kids adored him. They didn't laugh at him, they laughed with him. There was something honest in his bitterness that the kids picked up on before the adults. He didn't fake joy. And for a clown, that was revolutionary.

At the end of the party I walked up and offered him a job. I told him at FaceWTF he wouldn't have to fake anything. He asked me three questions, in this order:

"Do I have to be nice?"

"No."

"Do I have to laugh?"

"Never."

"Can I complain?"

"All you want."

"Okay, kid."

Deal closed. Now he's at FaceWTF. He complains first, helps second, and calls everyone "kid." People come back for exactly that. Because he's the only one who doesn't lie to them with a smile.