Superhero with a Secret

y first year living in Los Angeles, I was a birthday-party clown. I struggled a lot with my identity because, though I viewed myself as a filmmaker, everyone in my life viewed me as this ridiculous day job. To make matters more confusing, being a clown is itself an identitymasking job. You wear makeup to

MPaul Davis cover your features. Sometimes I’d have to wear a mask and completely cover my face.

For certain parties, I’d have to go as a specific character. The way that would work is someone from the company would drop off costumes for me the night before a party at a designated pickup spot, which was always

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the same empty CVS parking lot at ten o’clock. It was like the worst drug deal you’ve ever seen, because instead of drugs, I was getting a trash bag filled with a costume that smelled like the broken dreams of every failed actor that’d worn it before me.

Then they’d say, “Tomorrow you’re going to be Mickey Mouse or Spongebob Squarepants.” But those are registered trademarks, so at the party I’d actually be “Ricky Mouse” or “Spongeguy Shortpants.”

One night, they handed me my trash bag and said, “Tomorrow you’re going to be Batman.” Now, keep in mind that at the time I had a giant mustache. I know: a clown with a mustache—that’s a huge red flag for parents. But I hadn’t wanted to alter my physical appearance for that job, because that would have been me subconsciously admitting I was more of a clown than an artist. So for the party, I opted not to shave. Bold choice—i know.

The next day, I go to the party. It’s at this huge public park, and I have to leave my car parked far enough away so that the kids can’t see Batman pulling up in a PT Cruiser. So I’m all the way on the outskirts of the park, and the only way for me to get to the party is to walk to it. Normally at these parties, all you have going for you is the element of surprise. You pop in through the front door: “Surprise! Batman’s here!” All the kids go crazy. Without the element of surprise, these visits are unremarkable. And my element of surprise is shot because they see me coming from, like, a quarter of a mile away. So I think, “Should I try to make an entrance for them? Should I run?” But they don’t want to see Batman sweaty and panting from a brisk jog, so I just keep walking.

That leaves me plenty of time to reflect, and I start to regret my choice to not shave. I’m thinking, “Gosh, this party is not going to go well.” Sure enough, once I get close enough for them to actually start making out

I’M SO EMBARRASSED. I WANT TO TURN AND RUN BACK TO MY BATMOBILE.

the features of my face, the entire party breaks out in laughter. I’m so embarrassed. I want to turn around and run back to my Batmobile. But then the laughter kind of merges and changes into cheering and applause. I’m not sure at first what’s triggered the change. Feeling kind of warm and fuzzy inside, I’m thinking, “Is this what encouragement and support feels like? It’s so new.”

Then I think I do want to make an entrance for these kids. I’m still about 20 yards away from the party when I just start running. They all start cheering louder, and my cape is billowing in the wind, and—mustache or

not—in that moment, I was Batman.

I run into the party, and they’re all high-fiving me. I see the birthday boy with his dad, and the dad is laughing, and he says, “You see, I told you, son. I told you Batman has a mustache.” And I think, “That’s a weird thing to have told your kid in the first place.” But then he takes me over to this huge birthday cake with a frosting Batman drawn on it, and the Batman has a mustache. I just stared at it in disbelief. I think, “That’s got to be a botched mouth,” but it’s a thick black line drawn underneath his nose and curling around the side. It looks just like my mustache.

That’s why everyone was laughing so hard when I first arrived, because when they initially brought the cake out, all the kids scoffed and said, “Batman doesn’t have a mustache.” And instead of just admitting that the cake was messed up, the parents tried to save face and said, “No, Batman always has a mustache. He just shaves it for his movies.”

Naturally, the children were dubious. Until, in a bizarre twist of fate, my mustache became the detail that confirmed what the parents had said and convinced the kids that I was actually Batman.

Those kids were at the perfect age where they still believed in miracles and heroes and that the world is an inherently good place—all the stuff that’s so difficult for us to keep believing as we grow up in a cold and complicated world.

That year, I struggled a lot with my identity; was I a filmmaker, or was I a clown? But that day, at least, there was no doubt in my mind what I was. I may not have been the hero that they ordered, and I certainly was not the hero they expected. But that day, I was the hero that they needed.

As told live At the Moth in los Angeles (July 24, 2018), Copyright © 2018 by paul davis, themoth.org.

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