Tears melt the make-up. The salty water falls from my eyelids, wiping away the paint. The color runs down my neck, staining the collar. The puffy white thing chokes me in more ways than one. It looks like this collar was taken from Shakespeare’s closet. The baggy suit is a one piece and flies with the wind. Brightly-colored, so to bring smiles and laughter to all. The polka-dotted suit is a prison. The white frilly collar is my noose. The painted face robs me of my identity. With the make-up, I am no longer me. I become Herman the clown.

Clowning is not my dream; is it my profession. If I had my way, I would not be a small comedy skit during intermission. In this theater the play constantly changes, but the intermission is the same. Dramas about love, lust, war and everything in between have been performed here; I have never been in one. From play to play, the theater changes its actors. Sometimes they are great players from afar. Others are random people discovered on the streets. I am the clown. I never change.

As the show goes on, all get praise and applause for their performances. I get giggles and yawns. As a clown, moronic physical comedy is the standard. I fall and pretend that I've hurt myself in many different and comedic ways. Sure, the crowd laughs along, but they only remember the names of the “great” actors that played their favorite characters. Who remembers the name of the clown? Herman is not my real name. It is the character I play. No one remembers my name. How could they? It’s not in the program. Uncredited and unremembered; that is my life. The painted face suggests happiness in place of the hollowness inside my existence.

Every time the producers hold auditions for a new play, they never take me seriously. Who? The Clown? Does he think that he can act? Just tell him no. They laugh at me. I never get to audition, not once. I’m just the clown. I’m not a player. No one wants me to be an actor. An actor cannot act if no one will cast him. Believe me, I have tried, never with any luck.

The make-up comes off better once mixed with my tears. I take off my prison and go out into the cold winter air. I’m a clown. A one trick pony. No matter how much I want to be an actor, I never get the chance. I do not look the part. They've never thought of me that way. How can a clown be serious? So I’m just the clown. Doomed to my existence.

I have auditioned at many theaters. Some simply never call he back. Others let me down easy. But none cast me. I can’t really blame the theaters, though. They just want to put on the best play. The best plays do not involve me, a truth I must expect. So I will keep waiting. Waiting for my role. Hoping one day it comes. Maybe it will, or maybe I have to wait for a different theater. Every play needs actors, but no play needs me… yet. I will find that play and that theater. But right now I am Herman. Herman the Clown.

Who knows? Maybe people need Herman the Clown. They need a laugh during a serious play. Maybe I am more valuable as a clown than as an actor. The key turns and opens the door to the tiny apartment, home. I sit at the kitchen table to read yet another script for another play. Auditions are tomorrow... maybe they will cast old Herman.

Hope is something that is hard to come by after constant rejection. Nevertheless, I can’t give up on my dream. Looking in the mirror I see the face without the make-up. The funny thing when I got the job as Herman was that I enjoyed it. It has just been too long. I thought it would be a temporary thing until my acting took off. Then, over time, it became a cage. A cage of painted faces and empty laughs. Right now I am Herman the Clown. But maybe one day I could be…

Glancing down at the script and reading the characters, I see the lead.

Maybe I could be… Clemson Mayfort. One day.