Nicotine can be a clown¹s worst enemy. Get caught smoking in front of the kids even once, and a sanctimonious mom will destroy your career with little more than a telephone and a grudge. Many of us clowns chew tobacco so no one will ever glimpse a wisp of smoke floating from our painted lips.

This morning, I was at a fourth-grader¹s birthday party in the Upper West Side . Of all people, I knew the risks of lighting up in costume, but it had been a long day and the power to transform even the biggest brats into angels eluded me. The kids stomped at my floppy size-sixteens, pulled at my wig, and lunged at my nose to see if it would honk. I twisted a final leopard into existence from a tubular yellow balloon, added the spots with a black magic marker, and stepped outside for a badly needed break.

I couldn't find my smokes, so I bought some Lucky Strikes at the corner bodega. I ducked into an alley, careful to hold the cigarette downwind to keep the smell off my wig. Closing my eyes, I concentrated on absorbing the nicotine into my bloodstream, each lonely inhalation bringing me closer to sanity. Ready to return for a final round of juggling, I was greeted by the gaping, mournful face of a fourth-grade girl.

I recognized her from the party. Even though she was the birthday girl, she had been quiet and rather distant from the others. Her tightly crossed arms obscured a unicorn stenciled on her faded T-shirt. As I hastily stubbed out my butt against the brick, I noticed a cigarette drooping from her lips. She asked me for a light.

"Hey, where'd you get that?" I asked. She reached into her pocket and showed me my missing cigarettes. "Little girls aren't allowed to smoke," I said, and confiscated the cigarette from her mouth and the pack from her hand.

She looked sheepish, and said she knew that, but explained in baleful detail the anguishes of her family life. "Just one would get me through," she said. "My daddy died last month, and now Mommy is always sad and yells at me even though she doesn't mean it. My brother--his name¹s Billy--he picks on me and stuff because Daddy's not there to stop him." She batted her eyelashes, reached into her shirt, and pulled out a locket her uncle gave her: daddy¹s picture on one side, hers on the other.

I wanted to paint tears on my cheeks. Instead, I lifted her atop a trash can, grabbed my make-up kit, and got to work. I rubbed on white base with the tips of my fingers, slowly circled on pink polka-dot cheeks with a make-up pencil, and added an oversized red smile. For the final touch, I pushed a modified red ping-pong ball onto her nose. She saw her reflection in a shard of glass, and hugged me softly, careful not to smudge her new face. I pleaded, "Now, sweetheart, can you forget you ever saw Mister Clown with a cigarette?"

She stared back at me and blinked several times. Smiling wickedly, she snatched my Lucky Strikes, and scampered out of the alley. Before I could react, she was up the stairs of her brownstone.

"Mommy, mommy, look what the clown gave me," she squealed, swinging the door shut behind her.

Maybe she was talking about her new face. Maybe stealing my cigarettes was just a gag, and she would've snuck them back to me after the party. Probably not, though. Probably her mom was thinking of calling the police. Probably, I¹d just fucked myself. Game's up, clown, I thought. I stuck my hands in my pockets, rolled back on the heels of my clown shoes, and blew out a breath that made my lips vibrate. Then I walked away, dropping my wig in the nearest trash can.