Memories of Prince Paul: The Hunt for Celery Tonic.

Prince was one of the 'Little People' -- a true dwarf, with a head and torso of regular adult size and legs and arms stunted to child size. He had a gruff baritone voice, much employed in cursing and trotting out such odd expressions as "Cease this constant bickering!" and "Are you a face sitter?" When in an expansive mood, he would warble his own version of Broadway show tunes, such as "I've Got a Customer for Your Face". 

It took something special for Prince Paul to remember a First of May's real name. He called most of us 'Heim Potz" that first season -- an appellation that has no etymological precedent in any language I have ever come across. 

For me, however, he found a unique name that inaugural season on the Ringling Blue Unit back in 1971: "Schmutz Finger". It's a German/Yiddish hybrid that means . . . well, you can go look it up yourself -- it has several meanings, all of them coarsely concerning a person's hygiene. 

I really don't know why he chose to nail that moniker onto me; he rarely said two words to me during the entire day for the first six months of the season. Frankly, I was a little bit afraid of him. He allowed no one to ever insult his dignity as a human being -- by that I mean that if anyone tried to lift him up like a child or make fun of his stature (which, considering this was clown alley, happened often enough) he grabbed his wood and canvas camp stool and pitched it with deadly accuracy at the offender's head. 

But a thaw of sorts occurred between him and I one summer day when his New York Times was not delivered to the top of his trunk an hour before come-in. Prince paid Rigger Mortis, one of the roustabouts, to buy and deliver the New York Times every single day. But that day Rigger forgot for some reason. Prince was incensed, storming up and down clown alley, turning the place into a Turkish bath with his steaming invective. Just by chance I happened to have bought the newspaper myself earlier that day, so I shyly laid it on his trunk. I hadn't even looked at it yet, so it was all crispy and folded neat as a pin. Prince recognized my gesture with a brief jerk of his head, then put on his half moon glasses and immersed himself in the paper while sucking on a Dr. Tung's Perio Stick. 

After the show he beckoned me over to his trunk to talk.

"What's your name, Schmutz Finger?" he asked.

"Tim. Tim Torkildson." I answered.

"What the . . . ? Tortle-twaddle, you say?" He shook his head in disbelief at my uncouth last name, and I knew I would remain Schmutz Finger to him for the rest of the season. 

"Listen" he continued, "I gotta get a new schlepper for my New York Times -- I can't depend on these #%%*#** working men anymore. You wanna get it for me or not? I hafta have it here at least an hour before the come-in. I pay for the paper, of course, and you get an extra five bucks a week for doing it."

He folded his arms and stared at me. It didn't seem like a difficult task, and I could certainly use the extra five bucks, so I said sure, and added --

"Can I get the paper when you're done with it each day?"

"Sure, kid -- why not?"  

So began my apprentice schlepperhood for Prince Paul, one of the bedrocks of clowning on the Ringling Show. 

All went well that first week. When the eagle flew -- meaning when the show paid off -- Prince made a great show of unfolding and smoothing out a five dollar bill so he could hand it over to me. 

"Keep up the good work, Schmutz Finger" he said with the lordly air of one born to command churls like myself. Resisting the urge to bow, or at least bring a knuckle up to my forelock, I quickly stuffed the money into the grouch bag I kept hanging around my neck (and yes, the grouch bag is where Groucho Marx got his nickname from -- it's a leather pouch performers hung around their necks to keep money and other valuables from developing legs and walking out of sundry dressing rooms in Vaudeville and clown alleys in the circus).

But then, as inevitably happens in these terse memoirs of mine, complications set in.

One day, as I was headed out to pick up the Times for Prince he stopped me at the curtained entrance to clown alley and said "Hey, pick me up a celery tonic while you're out, will ya? Thanks."

I nodded and left, only to halt in my tracks ten minutes later just as I got to the newsstand to ask myself 'What in the Sam Hill is a celery tonic?' 

They make tonic out of celery? Not in Minnesota they don't! 

I nodded to myself slyly -- a wild goose chase, eh? Well, Prince wasn't going to catch me with his snipe hunt! 

I bought the Times, then on my way back stopped at a grocery store for a bunch of radishes and a small carton of milk.

Just before going into the alley I opened the milk carton, dumped the radishes into it, then closed it up and gave it a mighty shake. 

I walked smugly into clown alley and laid Prince's paper on top of his trunk. Then spoke the fatal words:

"Sorry, Prince, they were all out of tonic of celery -- but they did have a radish milkshake, so here you are!" I placed the dripping carton on his trunk, next to the paper.

The next thing I knew I was prone on the cement floor, with Prince's camp stool next to me. 

As my wits cleared I could hear Prince spouting fearful imprecations at me while Levoi Hipps, the boss clown, held him back.

"Wha happen, huh?" I managed to slur.

By now the entire alley was forming a circle around my supine shape, laughing uproariously. When Levoi got Prince calmed down, he sauntered over to me and kindly explained that Prince had wanted a Dr. Brown's Celery Tonic -- an actual carbonated beverage flavored with celery that was popular on the East Coast. 

Once the little birdies stopped chirping and circling my head I went over to Prince to apologize.

"Think nothing of it, kid" he replied magnanimously. "Everybody makes mistakes -- remember Hitler?" 

Levoi Hipps brought Prince his New York Times after that.

(And if you're interested, they still sell Celery Tonic around the New York City area -- it's called Cel-Ray. I've tried it, and it's sure not worth getting clonked on the head with a camp stool!)