Malcolm James Thornwhistle (of the Downhampton Thornwhistles) was a world renowned adventurer and part-time table shuffleboard coach.

He was best known for his discoveries of the Flushing Rapids — a swirling vortex created by a pile of dropped logs — located far upstream in the midst of the St. Joseph River. He was least known for having never coached a winning contestant in the action packed arena of tavern-sponsored shuffleboard tournaments.

While slogging his way up the Mighty St. Joe in his trusty Jon boat (powered by a 150 horse power Evinrude E-Tech outboard motor), Malcolm happened upon a group of homeless clowns. Malcolm knew they were homeless clowns because some of them held signs that read, “Homeless Clown — Will Work for Food.”

Malcolm thought they were all shiftless bums, should get jobs and ought to quit begging.

They were camped in a clearing, far removed from big top tents, balls of elephant dung or the nearest rubber nose factory. Malcolm was reluctant to get too close to the river bank, preferring to keep the prop of the Evinrude in deep water, just in case the clowns tried to pull any funny stuff.

From this distance, Malcolm could see the vigorous movements of their big floppy feet (like tap-dancing with swim fins) and hear the honking of their over-sized red noses.

“Hey, brother, can you help out a clown?” Malcolm had been bobbing in the river current for several minutes, when one of the clowns approached the shoreline and shouted out across half the river. “We’re trying to get to a settlement up river. Can you give us a lift?”

“I’m not your brother,” snorted Malcolm. “My brother is almost as good looking as I am.”

Malcolm fought quashed civility as he asked in his most courteous, yet least helpful, manner.

“Where are you trying to get to?”

Malcolm didn’t really care where they were going because Malcolm didn’t like clowns.

“We left Sarasota when the circus pulled up stakes. Now we are out of work, homeless, and our very little car has broken down. We’re trying to get to Rapscallion Manner in West Prankster.”

“Sorry,” Malcolm called out, as he slowly nosed the Jon boat upstream. “I don’t know where that place is, and I’ve got to get going.”

“Is it the color of my greasepaint? You’re prejudiced, aren’t you?” asked the clown as he ran along the shoreline in big-footed pursuit of Malcolm in his very powerful and slow moving Jon boat.

“Nope,” exclaimed Malcolm. “I’m not prejudiced at all. I just don’t like clowns. You people are creepy.”

“And you don’t think that’s being a little prejudiced?” called out the exasperated and exhausted clown (running in big shoes is exactly as difficult as it would seem).

“It’s not a little prejudiced. It’s a whole lot of honest,” bellowed Malcolm from the safety of the moving current. “I don’t have to be prejudiced to not like you. No one likes clowns. Everyone knows clowns hang out in storm sewers. It’s all over Facebook.”

With Malcolm’s last comment, the clown gave up his pursuit, sat down on the riverbank, took off his big shoes, and rubbed his aching feet.

“Hey,” Malcolm called out. “You have normal sized feet. Why do you wear big shoes?”

“I’m a clown. It’s what we wear. If we didn’t wear big shoes, red noses, pancake makeup, or fright wigs, you wouldn’t know we were clowns. Then you’d have to find someone else to dislike.”

Malcolm thought about the clown’s comment for a few moments.

“Tell you what,” he began. “If you take off the noses and big shoes, don’t try to pull any funny stuff, then I’ll give some of you a ride. How many of you can fit into my boat? It’s only 8 feet long.”

The clown smiled through his over-exaggerated painted on frown, looked at Malcolm’s diminutive dinghy, took a quick head count of all of the other clowns, shrugged at the broken down very little car, and confidently replied, “About 40 of us.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.