Meeting Soupy Sales
I was the one unhappy kid at the Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus. Madison Square Garden was serving as the ersatz big top for the greatest show on earth. It was packed to the rafters with ladies, gentleman and children of all ages, including those children who had nagged their parents incessantly for weeks, maybe months, after catching a glimpse of the grinning clown cruising by on the side of a bus or on a subway placard. Yes, the circus was in town, and while everyone else in the arena was thrilled to be there, I felt as though I had been kidnapped, held against my will in a prison that smelled of popcorn and animal dung.
It wasn't that the fat lady wasn't corpulent enough, or that the sword swallower hadn't jammed enough knives down his throat. It wasn't that the Chinese acrobats hadn't performed dangerous enough feats of daring do. The band of clowns piling into, and out of, a tiny car barely large enough for the smallest of shriners was intriguing, yet not enough to take my mind off something else. That something else wasn't that I was going to have my spleen removed in 48 hours. It was something no amount of cotton candy, or tigers jumping through flaming hoops, or even a unicycling bear could distract me from thinking about. I was missing the Soupy Sales Show.
I was six years old and I had my routine. After my mother roused me out of bed at 7AM, I ate a bowl of Cream of Wheat with two spoonfuls of brown sugar. Then I walked to Roosevelt Elementary school to attend first grade with Miss Nicoles. My mom picked me up at 3PM and brought me home to a nutritious snack of either sliced lunchmeat on white bread, or Spagettios. If the weather permitted I would play with some neighborhood kids, or I might ride my bike in front of the house. Otherwise, I stayed inside and drew, maybe whipping out a few masterpieces of my house, cat or hamster. At 5 o'clock every day, rain or shine, I would watch Soupy Sales. The circus, while stimulating, was not part of this routine. This daily habit was my security blanket and my parents, well meaning though they were, had ripped that blanket from my little hands.
A vague cloud of guilt hung over me as I watched the elephants gingerly stepping over a girl in a sparkly swimsuit. I knew my sulking wasn't pleasing my parents. They really were trying to show me a good time before I was admitted to the hospital. It could not have been easy dealing with a sickly child. Trying to provide me with a normal life despite my infirmities must have added pressure to the to already difficult challenge of raising three children. There they were, doing their best, and I was glowering at all spectacles, human or animal, paraded before me. I would much rather have been sitting on the floor in front of our bright 18 inch black & white General Electric television set watching Soupy than a troupe of plate spinners any day. I was ungrateful. I admit it.
The show concluded with a wave of the ringmaster's top hat, and we made our way out passed what used to be called the Freak Show. Now, of course, it would be the Co-Op of Individuals who are Proud to Display Their Stunning Variety of Physical Challenges. Whatever you choose to call them, I had no interest in them or their odd growths. Even as a six year old I questioned the dubious gender of the bearded lady. My older brother's curiosity was piqued by the baby chicks and six-inch alligators. These used to be sold along with T-shirts and other souvenirs in the hallways outside the arena. "Hey, we could get one alligator and a few chicks," my brother said. "Then when the chicks get too big we can feed them to the alligator." No one wants mature chickens in their living room, but all boys knew that an alligator of any size would be a welcome guest in their bathtub. My mother put the kibosh on that idea by saying, "I don’t want anything with feathers or scales into the house, thank you." Those cute little animals, stolen prematurely from their parents, were on a fast track to the trashcans and sewers of New York City. Rumor has it, many of those alligators survived and the 16-foot amphibians still reside deep beneath the city and nosh on the occasional maintenance worker.
We piled into the station wagon, my brother brandishing his flashlight with a tiger head on it, while I pouted. No mementos were going to cheer me up.
We were taking a different way home. Normally, we would drive up town, past Harlem and over the Alexander Hamilton Bridge, but tonight we were going down town. I couldn't think of any reason why we were deviating from our normal route. I imagined different scenarios. We were on our way to the I-Hop for silver dollar pancakes. A family, hungry after a trip to the circus, could eat a mint in silver dollar pancakes. Maybe, we would go to the East village where my dad would treat us to ice cream and grumble about the kids with their long hair. Though every trend indicated otherwise, he was sure this rock & roll was a passing fad. I was mulling over the many choices I would have to make. Regular vs. sugar cone, the many flavor choices, to go for sprinkles or crunch coat. I had made it as far as selecting French vanilla, when the car slowed and we came to a stop in front of WNEW-TV, channel 5. Home of the Soupy Sales Show.
"We don't know if he is still here," my mom told me, "but I'll go in and see." I perked right up. I was happy just sitting in the car in front of the building where my idol worked. I felt like a pilgrim going to Mecca. It had been a long and difficult journey, but the struggles had made me stronger and more appreciative of arriving at this final destination. I watched as my mother entered the building. Soupy had probably walked through that very door. My hopes of a potential Soupy encounter had raised to heart thumping levels. It was dark but I could make out some movement in the lobby. My mom, the greatest mom on earth, was probably talking with Soupy himself. Once he heard of my impending spleen removal he would come out to the car with Whitefang and Blacktooth, his TV playhouse dogs, and wish me a speedy recovery.
The large glass doors swung open and there was my mom, Soupyless. "He's not there. The show was on tape today," she told me. I was sad, but not as sad as I was watching those big shoed clowns kicking each other in the butt a few hours earlier. I had been that close to meeting Soupy, and if the show hadn't been on tape that day then I would have met him.
Two days later I was admitted to Cedar Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. It wasn't as bad as some of the hospitals I had been in. There was only one other bed in the room and the kids had wheelchair races in the hall. It was fun for about 24 hours.
My operation was in the afternoon. My dad thought that it would be hysterical to get a Q-tip and some iodine and write "cut here" along with a dotted line on my stomach for the doctor and his staff would find once I was in the operating room. At the time it seemed sort of funny, and yes, it lightened the mood, but thinking about it now it seems like a crummy thing to do. Subjecting a child to some indignity for the sake of a good laugh.
The operation went off without a hitch and recuperation would have been a snap if it hadn't been for one annoying problem. A problem worse than most anything short of a staff infection. The classic Only When I Laugh Syndrome. I could not laugh without it causing excruciating pain to my abs. As a kid who enjoyed the occasional knock knock joke this moratorium was already difficult for me, but it got worse.
The kid in the bed next to me had been in the room first and explained to me that after he checked out I was welcome to watch whatever I liked, but until then, he had dibs on the TV He was older than me so, of course, I listened. It didn't appear that this would be a problem since he declared he wanted to watch the Soupy Sales Show. As 5 o'clock neared, it was clear from the pain I was already in, giggling in Soupy anticipation, that actually viewing the show was out of the question. He wasn't budging though, he wanted to see Soupy, so I would just have to find somewhere else to go. I had to roll myself in my wheelchair down the hall to one of the other kid's rooms to watch Superman on channel 11. What good was all this modern medicine if I couldn't watch my favorite show? My brother didn't help matters by telling me that I could contract something worse than I already had, like meningitis or consumption because "you never know what the kids in those other rooms might have."
I returned home, meningitis free, a couple Soupyless weeks later. One morning my mother ran into the room I shared with my brother and handed us each a large manila envelope. There was a big red channel 5 logo by the return address. Inside was a letter from Soupy thanking me for watching the show and being such a loyal fan. There was also an 8 x 10 glossy photo signed by Soupy himself. I was so happy to receive this almost holy Soupy Grail, I didn't even mind that my brother, who wasn't as loyal a fan, received one too.
Soupy's photo received a place of honor, taped beside my bed, his was the first face I saw in the morning and the last I saw before I fell asleep at night. For the next week I slept well knowing that Soupy was watching over me. My brother gave me that week of harassment free recovery before he delivered the bad news.
I was proudly showing off my most prized possession to one of my brothers friends, "and he signed it, right here." Then, my heinous brother, never missing an opportunity to cut me down to size, chose that moment to pull out his photo, already dog-eared from being crammed unceremoniously in his junk drawer. "He didn't sign it. Look, these signatures are exactly the same. A machine did it. You're such an idiot." I don't know if it's possible to imasculate a six year old, but he came close. "Let's get out of here," he said. As they walked down the stairs, I heard him muttering about how much he hated sharing a room with his little brother.
When I left for college, my parents sold the house, "it's just too big now that you kids aren't home." My mom held a garage sale and sold every object for the same price, 25 cents. TV, 25 cents. Coffee mug, 25 cents. Childhood memories, 25 cents. I have no idea what actually happened to my beloved photograph. I assume it was snapped up by some enthusiastic six year old, who through the wonder of reruns discovered the beauty of an expertly thrown pie to the face.
It wasn't that the fat lady wasn't corpulent enough, or that the sword swallower hadn't jammed enough knives down his throat. It wasn't that the Chinese acrobats hadn't performed dangerous enough feats of daring do. The band of clowns piling into, and out of, a tiny car barely large enough for the smallest of shriners was intriguing, yet not enough to take my mind off something else. That something else wasn't that I was going to have my spleen removed in 48 hours. It was something no amount of cotton candy, or tigers jumping through flaming hoops, or even a unicycling bear could distract me from thinking about. I was missing the Soupy Sales Show.
I was six years old and I had my routine. After my mother roused me out of bed at 7AM, I ate a bowl of Cream of Wheat with two spoonfuls of brown sugar. Then I walked to Roosevelt Elementary school to attend first grade with Miss Nicoles. My mom picked me up at 3PM and brought me home to a nutritious snack of either sliced lunchmeat on white bread, or Spagettios. If the weather permitted I would play with some neighborhood kids, or I might ride my bike in front of the house. Otherwise, I stayed inside and drew, maybe whipping out a few masterpieces of my house, cat or hamster. At 5 o'clock every day, rain or shine, I would watch Soupy Sales. The circus, while stimulating, was not part of this routine. This daily habit was my security blanket and my parents, well meaning though they were, had ripped that blanket from my little hands.
A vague cloud of guilt hung over me as I watched the elephants gingerly stepping over a girl in a sparkly swimsuit. I knew my sulking wasn't pleasing my parents. They really were trying to show me a good time before I was admitted to the hospital. It could not have been easy dealing with a sickly child. Trying to provide me with a normal life despite my infirmities must have added pressure to the to already difficult challenge of raising three children. There they were, doing their best, and I was glowering at all spectacles, human or animal, paraded before me. I would much rather have been sitting on the floor in front of our bright 18 inch black & white General Electric television set watching Soupy than a troupe of plate spinners any day. I was ungrateful. I admit it.
The show concluded with a wave of the ringmaster's top hat, and we made our way out passed what used to be called the Freak Show. Now, of course, it would be the Co-Op of Individuals who are Proud to Display Their Stunning Variety of Physical Challenges. Whatever you choose to call them, I had no interest in them or their odd growths. Even as a six year old I questioned the dubious gender of the bearded lady. My older brother's curiosity was piqued by the baby chicks and six-inch alligators. These used to be sold along with T-shirts and other souvenirs in the hallways outside the arena. "Hey, we could get one alligator and a few chicks," my brother said. "Then when the chicks get too big we can feed them to the alligator." No one wants mature chickens in their living room, but all boys knew that an alligator of any size would be a welcome guest in their bathtub. My mother put the kibosh on that idea by saying, "I don’t want anything with feathers or scales into the house, thank you." Those cute little animals, stolen prematurely from their parents, were on a fast track to the trashcans and sewers of New York City. Rumor has it, many of those alligators survived and the 16-foot amphibians still reside deep beneath the city and nosh on the occasional maintenance worker.
We piled into the station wagon, my brother brandishing his flashlight with a tiger head on it, while I pouted. No mementos were going to cheer me up.
We were taking a different way home. Normally, we would drive up town, past Harlem and over the Alexander Hamilton Bridge, but tonight we were going down town. I couldn't think of any reason why we were deviating from our normal route. I imagined different scenarios. We were on our way to the I-Hop for silver dollar pancakes. A family, hungry after a trip to the circus, could eat a mint in silver dollar pancakes. Maybe, we would go to the East village where my dad would treat us to ice cream and grumble about the kids with their long hair. Though every trend indicated otherwise, he was sure this rock & roll was a passing fad. I was mulling over the many choices I would have to make. Regular vs. sugar cone, the many flavor choices, to go for sprinkles or crunch coat. I had made it as far as selecting French vanilla, when the car slowed and we came to a stop in front of WNEW-TV, channel 5. Home of the Soupy Sales Show.
"We don't know if he is still here," my mom told me, "but I'll go in and see." I perked right up. I was happy just sitting in the car in front of the building where my idol worked. I felt like a pilgrim going to Mecca. It had been a long and difficult journey, but the struggles had made me stronger and more appreciative of arriving at this final destination. I watched as my mother entered the building. Soupy had probably walked through that very door. My hopes of a potential Soupy encounter had raised to heart thumping levels. It was dark but I could make out some movement in the lobby. My mom, the greatest mom on earth, was probably talking with Soupy himself. Once he heard of my impending spleen removal he would come out to the car with Whitefang and Blacktooth, his TV playhouse dogs, and wish me a speedy recovery.
The large glass doors swung open and there was my mom, Soupyless. "He's not there. The show was on tape today," she told me. I was sad, but not as sad as I was watching those big shoed clowns kicking each other in the butt a few hours earlier. I had been that close to meeting Soupy, and if the show hadn't been on tape that day then I would have met him.
Two days later I was admitted to Cedar Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. It wasn't as bad as some of the hospitals I had been in. There was only one other bed in the room and the kids had wheelchair races in the hall. It was fun for about 24 hours.
My operation was in the afternoon. My dad thought that it would be hysterical to get a Q-tip and some iodine and write "cut here" along with a dotted line on my stomach for the doctor and his staff would find once I was in the operating room. At the time it seemed sort of funny, and yes, it lightened the mood, but thinking about it now it seems like a crummy thing to do. Subjecting a child to some indignity for the sake of a good laugh.
The operation went off without a hitch and recuperation would have been a snap if it hadn't been for one annoying problem. A problem worse than most anything short of a staff infection. The classic Only When I Laugh Syndrome. I could not laugh without it causing excruciating pain to my abs. As a kid who enjoyed the occasional knock knock joke this moratorium was already difficult for me, but it got worse.
The kid in the bed next to me had been in the room first and explained to me that after he checked out I was welcome to watch whatever I liked, but until then, he had dibs on the TV He was older than me so, of course, I listened. It didn't appear that this would be a problem since he declared he wanted to watch the Soupy Sales Show. As 5 o'clock neared, it was clear from the pain I was already in, giggling in Soupy anticipation, that actually viewing the show was out of the question. He wasn't budging though, he wanted to see Soupy, so I would just have to find somewhere else to go. I had to roll myself in my wheelchair down the hall to one of the other kid's rooms to watch Superman on channel 11. What good was all this modern medicine if I couldn't watch my favorite show? My brother didn't help matters by telling me that I could contract something worse than I already had, like meningitis or consumption because "you never know what the kids in those other rooms might have."
I returned home, meningitis free, a couple Soupyless weeks later. One morning my mother ran into the room I shared with my brother and handed us each a large manila envelope. There was a big red channel 5 logo by the return address. Inside was a letter from Soupy thanking me for watching the show and being such a loyal fan. There was also an 8 x 10 glossy photo signed by Soupy himself. I was so happy to receive this almost holy Soupy Grail, I didn't even mind that my brother, who wasn't as loyal a fan, received one too.
Soupy's photo received a place of honor, taped beside my bed, his was the first face I saw in the morning and the last I saw before I fell asleep at night. For the next week I slept well knowing that Soupy was watching over me. My brother gave me that week of harassment free recovery before he delivered the bad news.
I was proudly showing off my most prized possession to one of my brothers friends, "and he signed it, right here." Then, my heinous brother, never missing an opportunity to cut me down to size, chose that moment to pull out his photo, already dog-eared from being crammed unceremoniously in his junk drawer. "He didn't sign it. Look, these signatures are exactly the same. A machine did it. You're such an idiot." I don't know if it's possible to imasculate a six year old, but he came close. "Let's get out of here," he said. As they walked down the stairs, I heard him muttering about how much he hated sharing a room with his little brother.
When I left for college, my parents sold the house, "it's just too big now that you kids aren't home." My mom held a garage sale and sold every object for the same price, 25 cents. TV, 25 cents. Coffee mug, 25 cents. Childhood memories, 25 cents. I have no idea what actually happened to my beloved photograph. I assume it was snapped up by some enthusiastic six year old, who through the wonder of reruns discovered the beauty of an expertly thrown pie to the face.