“I got us tickets to the circus,” I said absentmindedly some weeks ago.

“What?” my wife asked. “Why?”

“Uhh, whattaya mean?” I replied, entering my signature holding pattern while my brain caught up. “I thought the girls might enjoy it?”

“What kind of circus?” she continued.

“The circus kind?” I mustered. I proceeded to show her Facebook reels of the ads and promos. She was less than convinced.

Fast forward to a drizzly Juneteenth, and the four of us are pulled up to Oakview Mall, where the Garden Bros. Nuclear Circus was assembled in the parking lot. It was a decidedly unvarnished perspective as we parked on the backside of the operation, in full view of the large fleet of trucks, trailers, campers, and RVs.

“Oh yeah,” I thought to myself. “These people live this.”

We had hurriedly left the house just after 3 pm in an effort to drive across town in time to arrive an hour ahead of our 4:30 showtime.

We joined a growing line, and the first of what would be many vendors offered light-up wands and spinners for the kids. The click-clack plastic kind that usually doesn’t survive the day.

“I thought you said they’d open up an hour early?” my wife demanded as we stood in line, our girls joining the surrounding chorus of ‘When are they going to open?’

“That’s what I read online,” I insisted.

“Me too,” the lady in front of us offered.

Shortly after 4 pm, they started scanning tickets, and we quickly moved through the outdoor midway, as a light rain fell and ominous-looking clouds shifted overhead.

“I want to do the bouncy castle!” my four-year-old called.

“Yep, uh-huh, maybe later,” I quipped anxiously as we shuffled into the big tent.

We were met with a chaotic, compressed gauntlet of more spinning lighted wands and light-up bubble blowers. The troop of ladies hawking them nearly forced them into my daughters’ hands. Overbearing Vegas-sidewalk peddlers came to mind as we pushed past and into a larger reception area chock-full of concession vendors. They had all the classic fair fare – hot dogs, funnel cakes, cotton candy, pretzels, and more – a selling point for my girls, shared their mother’s skepticism – especially around any mention of clowns.

“Cotton candy for Ellie and a hot dog for Fran,” I decided.

Another blow to the viability of this endeavor to which I had subjected my ladies. $13 for a modest bag of cotton candy! And another $9 for a normal-sized hot dog, which I watched the vendor indiscreetly extract from a partially torn open bag of Ballpark brand franks!

“No more food!” I commanded. “Let’s go find our seats!”

As if the universe was taunting my defiant frugality, just before entering the main space, I caught a glimpse of the posted prices for the chintzy, light-up wands and swords: $23-37! The main performance stadium was very large – they said the largest circus tent in the world - and we were led to our assigned seats – front row – by an usher before being further accosted by toy vendors and more.

“I want a popcorn!” the four-year-old cried out.

“These prices would make the movie theatre blush,” I thought of the $10 small popcorn.

“Maybe later,” I replied. “Work on your cotton candy.”

“How about one of those?” the seven-year-old suggested, as a man approached with hands laden with light-up, flashing clown noses.

He feigned handing them to the girls, looking to me for approval. I shook my head no with a knowing smirk. Then he leaned in close to me.

“How about one for you?” he says dryly. The cadence of the response was genuinely funny, and I found myself laughing involuntarily. He grinned in return, revealing a broad smile that was missing a tooth – top center. I would later suggest to my wife that the combination of this guy’s flashing clown noses and missing tooth was a rather apt, poignant metaphor for this circus experience as a whole.

We waited a little longer as more folks shuffled in, but they never filled the seats. This was their third show of about eight here in Omaha, and their seats – I estimated around 2,000 – were about a quarter full. In an effort to gain my daughters’ buy-in, I revealed that I had seen a last-minute ad for the circus that featured their beloved “K-Pop Demon Hunter” music.

“Like, the actual Rumi and them?” the seven-year-old asked, cautiously optimistic.

“I guess we’ll have to see,” I replied mysteriously.

Now, I will say that the quality of the performances and production was, in general, completely mismatched with the cheap, overpriced barkers up front. They were well themed, well executed, and showed a clear dedication to art and craft.

Each act was based on a movie, from classics like Grease, Jurassic Park, and The Matrix to more recent hits like Wicked, The Barbie Movie, and the aforementioned K-Pop Demon Hunters. My biggest complaint was the entire concept used to string the movies together. This goofy, unnecessary narrative where the ringleader – Junior the Clown – was being asked by Hollywood to reshoot a bunch of lost footage of all these beloved films. A montage of famous movies as themes for each act was actually really effective. I later told my wife that they could have just called the show “A Night at the Movies”, and it would have been just as effective – if not more. As it was, each act was bookended by these short phone calls between an unseen Hollywood exec and Junior, and each and every one felt like a garbled afterthought.

For the acts themselves, there was an intriguing amount of old-fashioned and classic circus stunt appeal. As a modern circus, they’ve completely moved away from animal acts. In fact, we saw just one Boa Constrictor brought out for interaction and photos at intermission. The acts instead focused heavily on aerial performances and high stakes and thrilling feats that had my wife and me both suffering stress-test-like cardiac experiences.

Firstly, in an act as old as time, an Indiana Jones-themed archer and his lovely assistant performed a wildly effective William Tell routine. Even as refreshingly low-tech as it was, I cringed and grimaced throughout, just waiting for an accident, while he fired his crossbow and then compound bow at the balloons she held in her hands and mouth.

Another standout act that found my wife and me with our hands over our mouths, certain we were about to witness death, was a pair of these reckless, rotating, double hamster wheel apparatuses where a pair of men would spin these giant assemblies, each running inside the wheel while the whole thing spun at breakneck speed. Their controlled falls down through the wheels left absolutely no margin for error. And then, two of the men – one from each spinning death machine- climbed out onto the outside of the wheel to continue running while their mate kept the whole thing rotating faster than ever. And if that wasn’t enough, these two maniacs pull jump ropes out of who knows where and start skipping rope. As if I was manifesting the worst that could happen, I watched – absolutely gobsmacked – while one of these guys immediately started tripping over the rope. His leg was completely snagged. I’m prepared and ready to cover my daughters’ eyes, certain that this man is about to fall to his death. But at the last minute, he dislodged the rope and recovered. But what else is there to do then besides to pull black bags over their own heads and continue a few more ill-advised revolutions? Thankfully, their illusion of haphazard insanity was only that, and soon they were safely back on the ground, bowing and waving.

Overall, it was a good time, but what an interesting juxtaposition of cheap, half-hearted vending and classic, legacy-honoring entertainment – a Venn diagram of boldness either way. As a child, I would have been – and I hope my daughters were – captivated. But as an adult, I left feeling a confusing combination of thrilled, swindled, stressed, and inspired. But I also felt fairly certain that this was a singular experience I could have found nowhere else.

Matt Hebert is an engineer and self-published author. His dopamine-fueled creative pursuits have spanned from chicken keeping, sand sculpture, acting, and public speaking, but writing is nearest and dearest to his heart. He lives in Bellevue with his wife and two daughters. You can find him on Instagram at @jerkofalltradeshebert or email him at matt.hebert.books@gmail.com

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