“How many clowns have to die before you realize you’re not suited to this profession!” The ringmaster let go of the doctor’s shirt and fell back in his armchair. His face was red from screaming.
It was true: another clown had died on the doctor’s operating table. While removing Jojo’s burst appendix, he had zigged when he should have zagged. Of course, Koko’s syphilis could have been easily treated with penicillin, but he’d thought Koko was just having an allergic reaction to the new clown suit. And, well, there was nothing to be done for Louie—Ellie The Elephant had stomped him so thoroughly, they had to scrape his body off the ground with spatulas.
Yes, the doctor had made mistakes, but he would learn from them; next time, he would know syphilis when he saw it, and he now knew where the appendix was located. He couldn’t resign his position; medicine was the only thing he felt a passion for.
“You’re better at keepin’ the trucks runnin’, doc,” said the ringmaster. “Why don’t you focus on that for awhile?”
Like an acrobat ignoring the great height of his endeavor, the doctor reached out for the trapeze and jumped. “I’d rather be a mediocre doctor,” he said, as he flailed through the air, “than an accomplished mechanic.”
