MY LIFE with the CLOWN

It certainly wasn’t the last time I’d fall for a clown. But as they say, you always remember your first.

My relationship with Jack began pretty early. Nothing fancy. A Super Taco here and there. A flat Scooter-Pie-sized cheeseburger slathered with tangy orange Secret Sauce and piled with pickles. A greasy, translucent envelope of onion rings.

It was a surreptitious relationship, too--the result of a pact between my grandmother and me. On our secret afternoons, with no parents the wiser, we’d visit the clown at Jack in the Box, sitting in her ’59 sky blue Buick, the engine idling high, threatening disaster as she read and re-read the menu because I was too short to see it.

Upon later reflection, I came to understand that this was--OK, is--an obsession.

For the record, my mother is a spectacular, inventive cook, but she also worked full time as a teacher. Both my father (a self-proclaimed “vegetable man”) and my mother (fastidious about vitamins, the four food groups and the like) would at times concede me an occasional swing through “the Box” as a reward for particularly gold-star behavior.

Back then you could get chicken or shrimp in a basket, as well as the standard hamburger and fry options. Regular burgers went for about a quarter, and a slice of that good old orange American cheese set you back a few more cents. The French fries have hardly metamorphosed over the years and are still a little limp and imperfect (although the spicy Curly Fries are a late-night guilty pleasure), but the crowning glory for me is this amazing combination: the ever-fabulous onion rings and that dreamy vanilla shake.

During my worst period, apparently (and I have no recollection of this, mind you) my parents avoided driving down streets where they knew Jack could be found. Even from my low perch in the back seat, I could still see him spinning in the sky, surveying the neighborhood from his decorative post on top of the box.

Jack was probably the first name, maybe the first word, I learned to spell--breaking my grandmother’s code at about age 3 or 4.

Much later, my father, I’m sure appalled by the thought of conversing with a smiling clown, would pull the car up, aligning the back-seat window with the speaker: “You talk to the clown.”

Robert O. Peterson was certainly onto something when he outfitted his standard fast-food joint with the very first two-way speaker device, hidden inside the head of a grinning clown named Jack. McDonald’s had been the burger king in Southern California since 1940, and Peterson needed something to separate his stand from the rest. The charm was part of the master plan: a skyline periodically dotted with that interminably elated clown, soaring several stories above, those multicolored rings at the base of his head like a necklace. A child’s fantasy. A toy in the sky.

I think it was assumed that this would be something that I would grow out of in time, like Lucky Charms, Pop Rocks, Dixie Doodles and “I Love Lucy.” Well, three out of five ain’t bad.

I’ve often thought that siding with Jack was a vote for the underdog, especially in a region where that other clown, the one in that yellow high-water jumpsuit, seems to hold sway. I never quite took to him.

In college, for a long-after-midnight snack, I would coerce my friends into taking a ride with me in our sloppy study-wear--sweats and P.J.s (ah, the comforts of drive-thru)--to the closest Jack for Jack’s interpretation of nachos: corn chips, refried beans, Cheez Whiz-esque cheese (and extra jalapenos, please, for me.)

While I was in graduate school, my San Francisco friends would pooh-pooh my reminiscences: “I’m sure it was for the community of friends. It certainly wasn’t for the food.” They’d roll their eyes while browning shallots for the evening’s tofu scramble.

“Heck, yeah!” I’d muttered under my breath, plotting how, without a car, I, or any of them, could have a true drive-thru moment. I was longing for every aspect of it--the way the car held traces of the scent of last night’s onion rings; finding the waxy French fry or two moored in between the seat and the gear box weeks later.

Ah, yes.

Even now, between assignments, I pull the car around those tight turns and order my new favorite: Chicken Caesar Pita with, of course, that greasy envelope of rings.

So when Jack met his unfortunate demise more than a decade ago, a cry went out across the Southland. My own. Talk about downsizing--was this any reward from a company well-served?

To truly understand my pain, and that of my Jack-loving peers, is to understand Los Angeles’ terrain. If you grew up in Southern California, you’re familiar with the hallowed ground upon which the drive-thru stands. The term itself (drive-thru, not drive-through) suggests the whole easy, breezy experience.

For those of us raised on car culture, any duty that would allow us to remain comfortably ensconced in our autos was preferred. Drive-thrus meant we wouldn’t have to scour the neighborhood for a space into which we would then have to parallel park; nor would we be turned away when the drive-in slots of a slightly older generation, at, say, Dolores’ or the WichStand or Teddy’s, were all taken up. The drive-thru allowed a lot of flexibility. Perfect for fathers and/or mothers with a brood low on blood sugar, desiring everything they see. Belted in, driving up in the car cut down on family disharmony.

Drive-thru was perfect for a culture of drivers in love with their cars, for those who had to have a pretty good excuse to unfold out of those comfy bench seats.

And Jack’s drive-thru was the best of all. From handfuls of free balloons to give-away rubber effigies of Jack’s ‘70s entourage--Onion Ring Thing, Small Fry, Secret Sauce--in addition to special guest appearances by TV icons Paul Winchell and his wood-and-sawdust sidekicks Jerry Mahoney and Knucklehead Smiff, the Box always kept things as lively as a three-ring you-know-what.

That was until someone came up with the wise idea to smoke our hero. And no, we have neither forgiven nor forgotten.

It’s true, Jack is back. But when the company first brought him back last year, I was skeptical. Was he really coming back? Once a trust has been violated, it’s hard to rebuild it. In the campaign’s first few weeks, as you might recall, the name “Jack” was invoked with neither hide nor, er, hat of our smiling hero, who had so unceremoniously been blown to bits on national television only a few years before.

Repulsive. Now, did he really have to be sent scattering? Reduced to smithereens? Wouldn’t a pink slip have sufficed? A nice sabbatical? A trip to the Grand Caymans?

That act reduced a lot of memories to bits and ashes too--those million-plus Jack antenna balls don’t lie.

Still, I do have a lot of history with the clown. I decide to call company headquarters to investigate.

Brad Haley, Jack’s vice president of marketing communications, attempts an explanation. He hesitates.

“In the 1980s . . . we made the decision to focus more on adult market . . . using more ingredients, more flavors than products that would be geared for kids. And that’s when Jack,” Haley politely pauses, “met his demise the first time.”

And the last, he assures me.

“Jack’s back as the founder and head of the company--no pun intended,” cracks Haley, sounding suspiciously like the old G.T.O.-driving CEO himself. Hmmm.

“After 15 years,” Haley goes on, “we found that our brand image had grown--understandably--to stand primarily for just new products. We were looking for an advertising vehicle to establish a likable personality. The blowing up of Jack surfaced as one of the more memorable ads we had done, even though it was 15 years ago.”

The company had been navigating through rough times, attempting to recover from the E. coli food poisoning scare of 1993. Jack’s darker days. But, says Haley, “company sales have rebounded significantly since the campaign started.” Restaurant sales were up $29 million, 16.7%, in 1995 (compared to 1994 fourth-quarter figures), which the company attributes to the Jack Is Back campaign.

“His popularity has exceeded our expectations. We expected the campaign to be visible and very popular, but the extent to which he is accepted as kind of a credible person continually surprises me.”

This campaign, it seems, has brought Jack enthusiasts like me out of the woodwork. The company reports mad rushes for Jack Christmas ornaments and Jack trading cards (featuring Jack as serious high-school senior and getting his aerobic exercise bicycling at the beach) and Jack car antenna balls. Some even created their own papier ma^che Halloween heads.

“I guess,” Haley says, “it’s because, in a world of founder-spokespersons that do kind of silly things, a guy in a clown head is not that much of a stretch.”

Well, he’s got a point there.

And as long as we’re bringing back Jack, how about some of his greatest hits items of the past? Like the Bonus Jack . . . and Frings.

In time. In time.

For now, to attract those jaded ‘tweener-up-and-comers--the core of the business--Jack’s got a cappuccino shake to stuff in the cup-holder of your Accord. Stand back, Starbucks.

And of course, Jack’s making the rounds, becoming fast-food’s Ted Turner. Last season, he made a cameo appearance in the owners’ box at a Phoenix Sun play-off game, and he is soon to be enshrined in the Museum of TV Treasures right alongside the Pillsbury Dough Boy and “I Dream of Jeannie’s” bottle. Now that he’s on the World Wide Web (www.foodmaker.com) and has established outposts in Hong Kong, Singapore, the Philippines and Egypt (Filipinos prefer the Super Taco, hands down), has Jack’s head gotten, uh, well, too big to return to the little box to take your order?

Shirley Gines, Jack’s director corporate communications, laughs at the notion, “Jack is the company’s founder, and taking orders does not befit the image of a CEO.”

Well, OK, then.

But, Jack, understandably, is a little edgy--considering . . . “He’s always afraid that there will be explosives around,” says Haley, “so he is a lot more careful this time around.”