"A Day at the Circus" by Gregory Smith
We were standing in line to buy tickets for the circus, one family standing between us and the ticket counter. Little did I know how this family would leave a lasting impression on my life.
It was my tenth birthday and my father wanted to do something special for his “little girl.” He suggested either the movies, a baseball game or the circus. Although I dearly loved each option (my home away from home each summer was Yankee Stadium, and I adored the silver screen so much that I became an actress), I picked the circus.
Like many a child back in those days, I dreamed about running away with the circus. The allure and adventure of traveling from town to town in the summertime was enticing. One could always go to a movie or a ballgame, but the circus, especially the proclaimed “Greatest Show on Earth” only came around once a year. My father and I took the train from our home in Connecticut to New York City for a Sunday afternoon performance. The fact that we were in bustling Manhattan on such a sun-splashed day in early May was thrilling enough, but to think we would be watching the performance in the “World’s Most Famous Arena”- the “new” Madison Square Garden- was a bonus.
The family ahead of us in line consisted of eight children, all under the age of 12, and their parents. The way they were dressed led me to believe they didn’t have much money. Their clothes were sparkling clean, but the attire appeared out of style and ill-fitting, with patches sewn on the sleeves and trousers.
The children were extremely well-behaved, holding hands and standing in pairs behind their parents. From the chatter, they were hardly able to contain themselves. It was easy to tell they had never been to the circus before.
The father and mother stood proudly at the front. The mother was holding her husband’s hand, looking admiringly at him, giving him a “my knight in shining armor” gaze. He smiled, radiant joy on his face, very proud.
The ticket lady asked how many tickets the father needed. He gleefully announced, “I want eight children’s tickets and two adult tickets, please.”
She revealed the price and the wife let go of his hand, her head drooping as the man’s lip quivered. Leaning in closer, he asked, “How much did you say again?”
She repeated the grand total and he replied, “That’s what I thought you said,” gulping timidly. “Isn’t there a children’s discount for the matinee performance? General Admission is fine with us. We don’t need reserved seats. We are perfectly happy sitting in the back.”
“So is everyone else,” the ticket lady replied. “General admission is sold out. No children’s discounts available. Three dollars a head.”
“What about a veteran’s discount? I was in the war, you know, the ‘Great War’ in 1917. In fact, I was a medic in the war,” he claimed.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she answered, trying to remain patient. “No discounts available. Only reserved seating at regular prices.”
Clearly, he didn’t have enough money. How was he supposed to turn around and inform his heartbroken kids that he couldn’t afford the long-awaited tickets?
“Between gas, parking in the city, and money set aside for snacks…well, we seem a bit short,” he mumbled, taking out a white hanky and briskly wiping his forehead. “We counted on the discounts, you see. I never expected…”
“I would love nothing more than to stand here and listen to your sad story,” the woman answered sarcastically. “But, in case you didn’t notice, there’s a whole line of people waiting behind you to get into this joint. Now, do you want the tickets or not?”
Seeing what was happening, my father coyly reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a $20 bill, and casually dropped it on the ground.
By the way, we weren’t rich, by any means. But we had nice things, nice clothes, and we could occasionally go to pricey events like the circus without fear of eating macaroni for the next week. Still, $20 was a lot of money back in 1925.
My father bent down, picked up the $20 bill, tapped the man on the shoulder and said, ‘Excuse me, sir, this fell out of your pocket.”
The exasperated gentleman was wide-eyed, accepting the money in this embarrassing situation, not as charity, but as one kind person helping another. He looked my father in the eye, took my father’s right hand in his trembling hands, and blurted out, “Thank you, sir. This really means so much to me and my family,” his eyes clouding with misty tears.
“I did nothing,” my father said. “I merely pointed out YOUR money on the ground.”
“You’re a good man, sir,” the gentleman stated as he paid for their ten tickets. “What is your name?”
“Errol,” my father replied. “Errol Greenleaf.”
“I’m Henry. Thank you, Mr. Greenleaf. I will say a prayer for you. Come on, family.”
I loved my father dearly. But after this day I had a newfound respect and admiration for him. He really was a “good man” and I had seen it myself.
“Daddy,” I said as we walked into the arena. “You are a nice man.”
“Me?” he said, a devilishly dimpled grin on his face. “Don’t tell anyone else. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
********
Sitting inside Madison Square Garden, we soaked in the enormity of the arena. There we were, at the circus. The aroma of roasted peanuts, stinky cigars and fresh animal manure overwhelmed our senses. Children of all ages, sizes and shapes scampered everywhere.
Many in the crowd cooled themselves with fans or their paper programs on this warm afternoon. My father asked me to think about what I wanted to eat before the show began. I wanted everything! The assortment of foods made my mouth water. Everything from cotton candy (also known as fairy floss) to Circus Peanuts (banana-flavored marshmallow candy) to the usual fare of hot dogs, hamburgers and French fries.
A professional photographer was roving the audience and asked to take our picture. “Say cheese!” he asked before the flash went off. He got our address and promised to send us the finished photo (for a fee, of course).
“That will be a nice memento of your birthday with dear old dad,” my father said, paying the photographer. Cynical me thought, “What if he keeps the money and never sends the photo?”
I never did see the photo; I had long forgotten about it afterwards.
Daddy and I shared a Cracker Jack as the lights dimmed and the performance began. We were enthralled to see the elephants, the jugglers, the tumblers, the lions and the various clowns make their grand entrance into the middle ring of the circus floor. We were thrilled by the high-wire artists and the daredevil trapeze flyers.
Then it happened.
Daddy had purchased a hot dog slathered with onions and mustard. When the elephants made their grand entrance into the center ring, marching elegantly and majestically, we noticed a little brown monkey that was sitting on the back of the lead elephant, like a jockey riding a thoroughbred. The monkey was dressed in modern-day flapper attire with a beaded beret on its head. It looked ridiculous, and I remember my father leaning over to the man next to him and saying, “Looks like my mother-in-law!”
He was laughing when all of a sudden, he began to cough, gasping for air, his face turning a bright shade of red.
“Daddy, are you alright?” I asked, lightly hitting him on the back.
He tried to garble, “I’m fine… Just went down the wrong pipe.”
But he wasn’t fine. Far from it. His watery eyes began bulging and his attempts at breathing were short and shallow. He grasped at his throat. There was a look of panic in his blue eyes, a look I had never seen before.
I gave him my lemonade and asked him to drink. The people next to us yelled, “Is there a doctor in the house?”
“Stand back!” someone ordered. “Give him air!”
“What shall we do?” another voice shouted. “He’s having a heart attack!”
By now my father was slumped over his wooden chair, quickly losing consciousness. His face, lips and fingernails were rapidly turning a ghastly shade of gray.
What a frightening, surreal scene it was - our section of the grandstand in the dark, in shock and disbelief, my beloved father slipping to the ground, trying to take what might be his final breath, while I was on my knees, crying, as the merry music from the calliope continued playing.
Laughter and sighs of awe erupted every few seconds from the crowd while tears ran down my face. All I could think of was, “I did this. I wanted to come to the circus for my birthday. This is my fault!”
I watched as all signs of life left my father.
Then, as this terrifying episode played out for what seemed like an eternity, a man rushed to my father. Yes, it was a man; that’s all my mind could process at that exact moment. He loosened my father’s tie, unbuttoned the top button on his shirt, and quickly ripped open his vest. Then he picked my father up from the floor and stood behind him, thrusting with his two arms and hands on my father’s abdomen, again and again, five violent thrusts, my father’s body slumping forward.
A spotlight shone on our section of the bleachers. The performance had stopped and the music had ceased playing. I glanced down at the center ring and noticed everyone- the ringmaster, the clowns, the artists and jugglers- were gazing up at us!
Flying out of his throat, dislodged from his trachea, came the object that was choking my father- a hunk of chewed wiener, still clinging to a moist piece of bun.
Immediately, the color began returning to my father’s face. He coughed again and again, which was a good sign, thick mucus and leftover food particles emerging.
“Bring everything up! That’s the way, Mister Greenleaf! You are alive- now breathe! Breathe fresh, clean air!” the stranger commanded. “Let’s get him up!”
Several men took my father under his arms and practically dragged him to his feet, setting him in his seat.
“I don’t think an ambulance or hospitalization will be necessary,” the stranger proclaimed. “I’ll stay with him until he is fully conscious and feeling more like himself.”
It was only then that I recognized the hero who had saved my father’s life- it was Henry, the gentleman in line, the fellow with eight children, the man who could not afford the expensive circus tickets. I didn’t recognize him because he no longer was wearing his spectacles.
Daddy was becoming more and more alert as time passed, looking more like himself as the blood and the oxygen were rushing through his body again.
Someone got a cue to start the performance again, the happy music blaring from a brass band as though nothing had happened.
Henry remained kneeling next to my father, wiping his beady brow with a white hanky. I was ready to thank him for saving my father’s life when a man wearing a trench coat cut in front of me.
“Hey, buddy!” he loudly addressed Henry, holding a notepad and a pencil. “I’m a reporter at the Times. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“A reporter?” Henry replied nervously. “Well, I do need to get back to my family…”
“This will only take a minute,” the reporter said. “What made you rush in and save this man? Are you a doctor?”
“No. I was a medic in the ‘Great War’. I wanted to be a doctor but my parents couldn’t afford it. I was merely in the concourse, getting popcorn for my children…and, for me too…when I heard someone yell for a doctor.”
“Where you from, pal?”
“New Rochelle, New York.”
“Married?”
“Absolutely!” he said. “I have eight children. My family is my life. Speaking of which, they’re going to think I got lost so…”
“What sort of first-aid were you administering to this distressed man?” the reporter inquired. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“I’m sure you haven’t- I invented it,” Henry said. “It’s my own, personal technique to use on a choking victim. I call it the ‘Heimlich Maneuver’. That’s my name, by the way- Henry
Heimlich.”
“He was lucky you were here,” said the reporter.
“Some things are just meant to be,” Henry reasoned. “Actually, I was waiting in the ticket line with this gentleman and his daughter. He was kind enough to give me twenty dollars so I could take my family to the circus. I don’t know if I would call it ‘luck’ - more like destiny.”
********
More than sixty years later, I was in Cleveland, Ohio, doing an off- Broadway play. Opening night had gone exceedingly well, and I was alone in my dressing room. I was preparing to hit the town with the rest of the cast to celebrate when I heard a soft knock at the dressing room door.
A tiny old man stuck his head inside the door. “Hello, Miss Greenleaf? May I come in?”
“Yes. What can I do for you?” I asked.
“I just wanted to meet you. I’ve been a big fan of yours for a long time,” he gushed.
“How sweet! Please come in. I hope you enjoyed the play.”
“Oh, I most certainly did,” the gentleman replied. “Would you please sign my program? I would be most grateful.”
As I accepted his program, he continued, “I must say, Miss Greenleaf, I wanted to meet you for another reason too. Oh, nothing nefarious, I assure you. Dear Lord, no.”
I chuckled as I grabbed a pen from my purse. “What’s your name?”
“Henry.”
“To Henry,” I began my greeting.
“Henry Heimlich,” he finished.
I looked up and gasped. “Henry Heimlich? Not ‘the’ Henry Heimlich, the physician?”
“The one and only,” he confirmed proudly.
“This must be fate, Dr. Heimlich! I’ve thought about you many times over the years. I remember meeting you when I was a little girl. It’s so good to see you again!”
I wrote on his program: “To Henry, Nice to see you again.”
“You say we met before?” he asked meekly.
“Why, yes. You saved my father’s life using your famous technique. It was back in 1925. You were in New York City with your family. Madison Square Garden, to be exact. At the ‘Greatest Show on Earth.”
“The circus?” he muttered, a confused look on his face.
“Yes. I was just a little girl. You were there in line just ahead of my father and me, with your wife and children. You didn’t have enough money to buy tickets, so my father ‘accidentally’ dropped a twenty- dollar bill on the ground. He pointed it out to you and claimed it was yours, that it had come from your pocket. Don’t you remember?”
“I’m sorry. Miss Greenleaf,” he murmured. “I don’t remember the incident. But I do remember your father. Errol Greenleaf was one of the kindest souls I ever met.”
“See? Then you do remember! You’ve probably saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives- directly or indirectly- because of your first-aid technique,” I said. “I can’t expect you to remember one isolated incident.”
“And you say I saved his life?” he asked.
“Yes, you did. My father was choking on a piece of hot dog. Your swift action dislodged the food from his windpipe. It was like a miracle when you showed up. I never did thank you properly that day. You disappeared into the crowd with a reporter and our paths never crossed again.”
“And how is your father now?” he inquired.
“He was killed in the war - World War Two, that is. But, because of you, he led quite a happy and healthy life until the war. He was there to walk me down the aisle when I got married. Those are memories that can never be taken away. I owe you much more than an autograph,” I said sincerely.
An idea came into my mind as I thanked him.
“Listen, we are going out for a late dinner. Would you like to come with us? You could meet the rest of the cast and we could talk some more,” I offered.
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Greenleaf,” he said gently. “But someone else should take credit for saving your father’s life in 1925. It certainly wasn’t me.”
I stood there, stunned.
“Why, it had to be you!” I said assuredly. “I was there. I witnessed everything. I even recall the date- May 5th, 1925. It was a matinee performance. The only thing that confuses me is: how did you know the little girl at the circus was me, the actress?”
“Miss Greenleaf, I’ve never been to the circus in my adult life,” he said firmly. “It could not have been real. I was born in 1920. I may have been to the circus during that time…but as a child. And I didn’t have eight children. I have four. And my treatment didn’t exist in 1925. I should know. I invented it.”
“You saved my father’s life. That’s all I know,” I persisted.
“No, Miss Greenleaf. I tried to save your father’s life…”
“Tried? No, you succeeded! You did save his life!” I insisted. “You claimed you were a medic in the ‘Great War’.”
“It’s true that I was a medic during the war, but it was World War Two. I was stationed in the European theater, to be exact. In fact, I lived through the infamous ‘Battle of the Bulge’.”
“My father died during ‘The Battle of the Bulge’,” I said softly.
“I know,” Henry said, taking my hand in his. “I was there when he died. When I asked you how your father was doing now, I just wanted to make sure it was the same Errol Greenleaf who had died on that battlefield. Good old Errol! We were in the same platoon together. He talked about you all the time, how proud he was of his ‘little girl.’”
“What?”
“That’s why I had to see you, Miss Greenleaf, while you were in Cleveland. I tried to save your father, but he was badly wounded. He died in my arms. “
I nearly collapsed. I found a chair and sat down.
“Your father asked me to give you something,” Henry said. “And now I’m able to fulfill his final request.”
With that, Henry reached into his coat pocket and handed me a yellow, worn photograph- the same photo taken that day at the circus by the professional photographer.
********
Fate can be a funny thing. Fate can cross the barriers of time, through parallel worlds, worlds we never knew existed. As Henry Heimlich once said, “Some things are just meant to be.”
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