Off Course On Purpose
Chapter 1: I’ll Have a Coke
“Oh, he’s so scared he’s shaking,” said the surgical nurse.
I look down at my hand and see that she’s right; it is indeed shaking, but it’s not fear, it’s anticipation.
I’ve had this heart condition since I was eighteen months old, and I’d long accepted that being a sick kid would be my normal for as long as I lived. But a few months ago, during a routine visit with my cardiologist, he suggested I see a specialist.
The specialist thumbed through a stack of manila file folders four inches thick, all stuffed with my old medical records, and after examining the case, recommended a procedure called an ablation. The idea, he explained, was to make an incision in both of the veins by my hips, plus another one in my neck. Then he’d slide long electrodes and a camera through my circulatory system until they reached my heart. Once there, the electrodes would burn away the excess nerve tissue that was causing my irregularities. If everything went well, my heart rate would stabilize. The doctor cautioned, though, that the procedure was no guarantee; it doesn’t always work.
I looked at my mother, who’d been with me through every moment of my years of heart-related torment, and said, “I want it.”
After that, the pieces moved into place quickly. And today, only weeks before my eighteenth birthday, we’d woken early to drive to the surgical center.
The nurses and doctors bustled about the operating room, making their preparations. A man in green scrubs, a mask, and black-rimmed glasses sat down and introduced himself. “Mr. Berry, my name is Dr. Smith, and I’m your anesthesiologist. I’ll be right here monitoring everything the whole time.”
I smiled at him and said, “I’m not gonna fall for that whole count backwards from ten thing, no one ever gets there.”
He chuckled and said, “Ah, so you’re a frequent flyer, already know all my tricks.”
“I’m sure you’ve still got a few up your sleeve,” I said.
He laughed again, then turned his attention to the various syringes laid out on his table.
I feel a cold, wet, trickling sensation down my left arm.
“Oops, my IV is leaking,” I announced.
The nurse lifted the warmed white cotton blankets I was buried in to look, “Oh yeah, we got a geyser.”
This sparked a brief discussion among the assembly, leading to a decision to have a nurse reset my IV.
Interjecting, I asked, “Is it still working, or is it toast?”
Glancing down at it again, the nurse said, “Uhh, it’s still working.”
Looking at her, I said, “I’ve been stuck thousands upon thousands of times, and I was sorta hoping this would be the last one for a while. Any chance you can knock me out and then reset it?”
The nurse pursed her lips, then looked at the anesthesiologist.
He shrugged and looked at the surgeon as if to ask, Is that cool with you?
The surgeon considered this for a moment, then nodded in acquiescence.
The anesthesiologist picked up a syringe full of milky white fluid, inserted it into my IV, and said, “I guess you were right about that count-backward-from-ten thin…”
The world shifted, and I melted into the bottomless nothing of an anesthetic sleep.
* * *
The next thing I remember is a recovery nurse rolling me into a room and telling my mom what a pleasant patient I’d been. Then the surgeon came in to talk to us.
To my mom, he said, “You’ll be pleased to know the surgery was a success.”
Her arms shot up with clenched fists pumping in triumph, and she exclaimed, “Oh my god, this is a dream, thank you, doctor.” Then she looked at me and said, “We’ve been through so much; this is the miracle we’ve prayed for.”
Then, he turned to me and said, “You’re now a normal seventeen-year-old, same as any other.”
Without thinking, I asked, “Does this mean I can even ride roller coasters, or bungee jump, or skydive, and everything else if I want to?”
My mom sighed disapprovingly at this, “Ughhh.”
He laughed and said, “Well, you should wait a little while for everything to heal, but yes, you can do all those things if you really want to, as long as it’s ok with your mom.”
We all laughed at this, and then my mom asked if it was ok to bring me something to eat.
He looked at me and asked, “How do you feel? Do you have any nausea? Would you like to eat something?”
Because of the surgery, I hadn’t eaten anything since the day before, so I immediately rattled off an order: “Colossus Burger from Jack In The Box!”
The doctor’s eyes widened. “I was thinking something more along the lines of Jell-O.”
Disappointment washed across my face, so he continued, “But I suppose it’s ok, as long as you go slowly and make sure your stomach can handle it. I don’t want you to vomit and upset the sutures.”
I felt fine, but I promised to go slowly. Then he left to attend to other patients.
“Okay, so one Colossus Burger,” my mom repeated with a big smile, “Anything else?”
“Yes, please, fries, and a large root beer. NO WAIT! I want a COKE! MOM! I can have a COKE!!”
“That’s right, you can have caffeine now. Alright, and a large Coke.”
I’d only gotten to taste Coca-Cola a couple of times before, and each time, I’d loved it. But because of the caffeine, I’d never been allowed to have it. Wow, I thought, I get to have my first real Coke.
She left to get the food, and I was left alone.
I looked around the room and took in its familiar elements. Next to me was the rolling IV stand with fluids drip drip dripping. Each droplet slowly made its way through the tubes until it flowed into my arm through the IV. Beside me was the beige hospital remote with its array of buttons. I didn’t have to examine it to know that four of them would adjust the bed’s angles and elevations. Next to those buttons would be a nurse call button and a big red emergency call button I could hit if my heart ever stopped. Then there were the ubiquitous sticky tabs, distributed across my chest, each attached by a different-colored wire, all of which led back to the heart monitor. I looked up at the monitor’s small screen and the green line that jumped in response to each of my heartbeats. Next to that was a little number that, at a glance, told anyone my heart rate was chilling at sixty-three beats per minute. Due to the frequency of my visits, I’d watched these heart-monitoring devices evolve over the years, gradually becoming smaller and lighter as technology advanced. I relaxed back and interlaced my fingers over my chest. As I did, a stabbing pain shot through my arm from the IV. The pain triggered a memory from way back in second grade, and like a movie, I watched it in my mind.
* * *
I was seven years old, the year was 1984, and I’d spent more days than I could count in the hospital under observation. So much so, I’d made friends with other kids. One of whom was a little girl who had cancer. And like me, she was always around. One day, as we played, I noticed blood had backed up in the tubing of her IV.
“Yeah,” she said when I pointed it out, “they’ll probably have to give me a new one.”
I felt awful for her. I hated needles; they always hurt so much.
She went to get it fixed, and I headed back to my room.
I didn’t know it at the time, but that would be the last time I’d ever see her.
A few days later, I asked one of the nurses about my friend. The nurse’s face got tight, and I could tell she was trying not to cry. Then she said, “I’m not allowed to give out any information about patients.”
I didn’t understand. They’d always talked to me about her before when I asked, but now she refused.
As I lay in my hospital bed later that night, I realized she’d probably died from the cancer.
She’d been so quick to smile and so positive. But now she was gone. It didn’t feel fair. It WASN’T fair. But we were sick kids, and maybe that’s just what happens to sick kids. Sick kids like her, and sick kids like me.
In a sort of detached way, I wondered how long it would be before my heart condition did the same and took me. So I set a goal for myself. I would try to live to be twenty-one. That seemed like a good age to live to, and I figured I could live a good life if I made it to twenty-one.
* * *
The movie in my mind fizzled out, and I returned to the present moment.
The weight of the countless hours and days I’d spent in hospitals crashed in on me. I’d long accepted the possibility of dying young, but now, I was cured…
I began to imagine all the things that would be different now.
No more emergency room visits.
No more blood tests.
No more daily medications.
Absentmindedly, I touched my neck with two fingers to feel my pulse, a habit I performed many times each day.
::thump bump:: ::thump bump:: came the familiar beats.
Ah, I thought, and I don’t have to check my pulse all the time; I can just live my life.
Just live my life… What a thought.
And I wondered for the first time, What is a person supposed to do with a whole life?
Chapter 2: You’re an Adult Now
The next few weeks flew by; I had my eighteenth birthday and got through the Christmas holiday, all without any notable heart issues. It would occasionally beat weirdly, as if it was trying to snap into an episode, but the nerve path it needed to do so had been burned away in surgery, so it couldn’t anymore. In these moments, I’d feel a weird pressure in my chest, and my heart would freeze — an eerie feeling because I’d sit expectantly waiting and wondering if it was going to start again. Then, a few moments would pass, and it’d kick on again.
At first, this was nerve-wracking, but once I began to trust that it would start beating again, it became normal. And this new normal was so much better than the old one had been.
So that was good.
What wasn’t good was the fact that I’d never thought very seriously about preparing for adulthood.
Most particularly in school. I’d always figured, “If I’m not going to grow up, then I’ll never go to college or have to worry about getting a job. So why waste the precious time I have doing schoolwork?”
But now I had a future to worry about, and if I was going to turn things around and try to go to college, I only had the second half of my senior year left to do it. I’d never found school difficult; if anything, it was too easy. My real challenge was staying engaged and not letting myself daydream when the lessons dragged on and on.
* * *
The drive to school was long enough for my mind to wander. And I was lost in a daydream when my mom’s voice interrupted my reverie.
“You’re going to be late.”
Looking at the clock on the dashboard of our old Toyota Corolla Stationwagon, I saw that she was right.
“Can you write me a note to excuse me?” I asked.
My mom considered the request. Then she said, “I’ve been thinking about that. Now that you’re eighteen, I’m gonna let you handle those kinds of things for yourself.”
I rolled my eyes. “Mom, if you don't write me a note, I’ll get detention!”
“You’re an adult now, that’s between you and the school.”
“Yes, technically, I'm eighteen, but they won’t recognize that!”
“It’s between YOU and the school.” She reiterated adamantly.
We pulled up to the curb where parents dropped off their kids, and she stopped the car.
I wanted to argue and tell her she was being ridiculous, but I could tell she wasn’t going to change her mind, so I just got out of the car.
She means well, but the “autonomy” she’d just granted me wouldn’t carry any weight with the school.
I walked to the admin building and stood in line behind five other students who were also late.
Flipping open my notebook, I start to write a note to excuse myself.
“Please excuse…” but then I stop because the next word decides everything.
If I write, “Please excuse me,” they’ll know I wrote it myself, give me a detention anyway, and maybe even escalate things because I’d tried to write my own note. But if I write, “Please excuse my son,” I’d be lying, committing forgery, and working the system instead of exercising my legal adult autonomy. I stand frozen, torn, unable to decide the best course of action. I don’t have long to decide, because the line of students ahead of me is shrinking. I weigh every possible option until there’s only one person left ahead of me.
Knowing it’s now or never, I write, “Please excuse my son for being late. Thanks, Sue Berry.” Then I tear it out of the notebook, fold it a few times, and put it in my pocket.
The kid ahead of me collects their detention slip and leaves; now it’s my turn at the window.
The student aide behind the glass doesn’t even look at me as she says, “School ID and note from your parent?”
I hesitate for a moment, then slide my ID through the slot at the bottom of the glass.
“No note?” She asks.
“No note,” I respond.
Without a word, she writes up a detention slip, tears off the pink carbon copy, and hands it to me. I thank her and start the walk to class.
One little lie could have gotten me out of the whole situation, but that’s not who I am. But then again, going to detention to be punished for something I’m no longer required to subject myself to doesn’t sound like me either. I thought about it for the rest of the day, still unsure what to do. And when the final bell of the day rang, I walked towards the designated detention room.
Reaching the fork in the sidewalk, I stop and look to the left. Down that walkway, I see a teacher standing outside his classroom, clipboard in hand. Two students stand before him, patiently waiting as he logs in their student ID numbers. He hands back their IDs, and they go inside. He looks the part of a high school teacher in his beige khakis and long-sleeved button-down shirt. Seeing him standing there, I’m struck by the fact that he, too, is in detention. Was he late to work this week? Is that how they decide which teachers end up with detention duty? Or is this just part of his job? What if he jumped through every scholastic hoop he’d ever been told to jump through, was never late to school, never missed a day of school, and was a model student in every way? Yet, here he is, “pulling detention.” As I consider this, he checks his watch, then, scanning the horizon for any stragglers, he spies me. Motioning towards the door, he mimes the question, “You coming?”
I smile, but shake my head. No, that’s not where I’m supposed to be, is my silent response.
He nods and steps into the classroom, pulling the door shut behind him. I know he’s also locking it to ensure anyone arriving late is denied entry, forcing them into an additional detention as punishment for missing this one. It’s a fancy game, and I’d always played along in the past. But, if I’m truly the autonomous adult my mom has declared me to be, then I don’t have to play anymore.
Taking the right fork, I walk down the sidewalk that leads off campus and head for home.
* * *
The next morning, in my first-period class, the teacher went from desk to desk passing out various papers. When she got to me, she dropped two pink notices in front of me.
“Two detentions,” she said with a tsk-tsk tone of voice.
The defenders of the system, it appears, don’t just let you stop playing the game. And I know I'm supposed to feel chastised, like I’m some sort of troublemaker needing to repent of sin, but I don’t feel bad at all. Their spell has been broken. I’m legally an adult now, and that means I’m free, even if they don’t want to acknowledge it.
At the end of the day, I did what I’d done the day before: I walked straight past detention and went home.
* * *
On the third day, I arrived at class and saw that I’d accrued a third detention.
Predictably, I skipped this one, too.
At this point, I knew they’d never have a genuine conversation with me about it. It’s not like my first-period teacher ever asked why this was happening; she just kept to the playbook.
I’d never heard of anyone refusing to do their detentions before, so I had no idea where this road would lead. Maybe I’ll just keep accruing detentions forever?
Or, maybe not, because once I’d skipped that third detention, no more detentions landed on my desk.
A whole week passed without another word, and I wondered if maybe they’d forgotten the whole thing.
Ha! Not a chance.
The following Monday, my first-period teacher dropped a yellow piece of paper on my desk. “Saturday School,” it read in bold letters across the top. Since I had denied them their three hours of detention, they now wanted my entire Saturday.
The slip was dated for the upcoming Saturday, a day I was already scheduled to work at Little Caesars Pizza.
At the start of my senior year, I’d already been trying for months to find a job. But application after application went nowhere, and it felt like no one would ever give me a shot. But then a friend put in a good word with the manager at Little Caesars, and they took a chance on me. Sure, it might only be a pizza job, but I’d worked really hard to get it, so I wasn’t about to call out to go to Saturday School.
So, I didn’t go to Saturday School.
On Monday, my first-period teacher dropped another yellow Saturday school slip on my desk, but now it had two Saturdays in a row marked on it, the additional one being punishment for missing the first.
I didn’t attend either of those, so I got a third Saturday school, which, big surprise, I skipped. After that, things got quiet again for several weeks.
Then, a lady showed up at my first-period class and told me to pack my things. I followed her to the principal’s building and was told to sit in a small room with about ten other kids.
She then announced in a you all know the drill tone that made it clear she thought we’d all been here before, “Welcome to In-School Suspension (ISS). You are allowed to work on classwork, or you can sit quietly and do nothing; that’s it. No talking, no pleasure reading, no snacking, nothing else, period. If you have a question, raise your hand, and I’ll come over to you. Other than that, you’re mine for the day.” Then she sat at her desk with a demeanor that indicated she’d be right there watching us all day.
I’d already done my Civics and English homework, and my other four classes were all electives, mostly theater or stagecraft, so I didn’t have anything immediately pressing to work on. I opted to sit quietly and stare at the wall. However, about fifteen minutes later, a teacher’s aide walked into the room and spoke with our overseer. It must have been something she needed to address, because she got up and left the room. In that brief moment, I calmly gathered my belongings, walked out, and returned to my regular class. The rest of that day was business as usual, but the next morning, the same ISS teacher showed up to my first-period class again and pulled me out a second time. She even threw me a bone, saying, “I know you and I made a deal about yesterday, but now you’ll have to do ISS for two days instead of one.” I nodded my head in acknowledgment. I wasn’t upset with her; she’s just doing her job. Arriving back at the same small classroom, I sat at the same desk I’d had the day before. And, just as the day before, the teacher eventually had to step out of the class. So I excused myself again to return to my normal classes.
Having learned the ISS routine, I knew they’d grab me out of my first-period class, so I started arriving late to school, waiting until after my first class ended, and then showed up to my second class of the day as if it were my normal schedule. This bought me a few more weeks before the administration caught on to what was happening. And that’s when a new lady showed up, this time to my fourth-period class. I assumed I was going back to ISS, but this time, I was taken into the main admin building and told to wait. After twenty minutes, one of the secretaries took me in to see the principal. He was well-liked on campus, always wore a suit, and seemed a reasonable fellow, though I’d never actually spoken to him. His demeanor was neither angry nor disappointed; if anything, he seemed perplexed as he thumbed through my file and the accompanying stack of unattended disciplinary measures.
He spoke first, “I’m not quite sure what to do with you. Other than this,” he motioned to the pile of colorful papers, “your record is unblemished.” He halted to see if I’d defend myself, but I said nothing, so he continued. “I’ve reviewed your case, and though I don't like it, I have no choice but to suspend you for three days." Again, he waited for a response, but all I did was nod my head in understanding, so he continued. “However, if you go home early today, I’m willing to count this as one of the three days, even though the day is half over; that way, you’ll only have to miss two actual days. How does that sound?”
At this, I spoke, “Thank you, sir. I very much appreciate the offer, but with your permission, I would like to start the three days of suspension tomorrow.”
Looking confused, he asked, “Why do you want to start it tomorrow instead of today?”
“My sixth-period class today is drama, and since I’m a senior, I’ve been directing a group of freshmen actors for the past few weeks. My students are scheduled to perform today, and I promised them I’d be there.”
“So you want to be there for them?”
“Yes, sir.”
Leaning back in his chair, he considered my request. Then, shaking his head, he relented, “OK, you can start the suspension tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir. Today is Tuesday, so I will see you all back here on Monday.”
He looked at me for a moment, and his brow furrowed. He must have wondered how a young man who called him sir had gotten into all this trouble to begin with. But he didn’t ask, and I didn’t explain, so he said, “I hope your students do well in their presentation.”
“I’m sure they will,” I said.
With that, we stood up, and he gestured towards the door. I made my way out of his office and back to class, happy to have had the chance to advocate for my students.
Later that day, I watched them perform, and it was wonderful. I was very proud of the work they did. Then I went home, spent my three days off playing hacky sack by the pool in our apartment complex, and come Monday, I was ready to get back to school. It felt good knowing my slate was clean and that I’d be able to go to my first-period class again.
But I ended up running late that day.
Once again, I walked up to the window; once again, I refused to forge a note; and once again, the aide gave me a detention I had no intention of going to. So, the agonizing process started all over again. I racked up the usual three detentions by the end of the week, followed by the three Saturday school notices. But as it neared the in-school suspension phase, they threw a curve. In the middle of lunch break, one of the yard ladies started talking to me. When the bell rang for class, she didn’t dismiss me; she just kept talking. Eventually, all the other kids had gone to their classes, and we were alone on the quad. Then she pointed to my backpack and asked, “Are these all your things? Do you have anything in your locker?”
Thinking for a moment, I said, “Nope, it’s all here.”
“Ok, good,” she said, “Let’s walk.”
So we walked, and as we did, we talked about general life things, how long she’d been with the school, etc., and it was all pleasant enough, but I couldn’t help but notice that she wasn’t taking me towards the admin buildings as I’d expected; instead, we were headed out towards the football fields at the edge of campus.
Eventually, we arrived at the last big chain-link gate separating the campus from the real world beyond the fence. That’s where we stopped and stood, just talking. We must have stood there for fifteen or twenty more minutes before it dawned on me what was happening.
Without any preamble, I said, “This is my last day here, isn’t it?” But it wasn’t a question.
She looked at me and said, “You're gonna be ok.”
I looked back at her and said, “Yeah, I never really fit in here. I’m ready to be out there.”
She nodded but didn't say anything.
“So, this is it.”
Again, she nodded but said nothing.
I looked at her again and said, “Just to be crystal clear, I don’t have to come back tomorrow?”
With a little smile, she said, “Like I said, you’re gonna be ok.”
Her answer spoke volumes, and I understood. They couldn’t tame me, but I wasn’t problematic, so they had no grounds to expel me either. And I was never going to fit into the program the way they needed me to.
So they got together and quietly created a plan that would work for me.
A plan that set me free.
Smiling at her, I said, “Thank you, Sue, for everything. You take care of yourself.”
Her eyebrows raised, surprised that I’d called her by name, something none of the students ever did, but then she smiled and nodded.
I turned and walked down the asphalt drive that led to the street, made the turn towards home, and left high school behind forever.
Chapter 3: The First Morning
The next morning, instead of waking to the blaring of an alarm clock and scrambling to get to school, I woke naturally to the sound of birds chirping outside. It was the first time I’d ever woken up on a school day without the oppressive feeling that I had to go somewhere and do something I didn’t want to do. I lay a little longer, enjoying the feeling of just being. Looking across the room, I saw a ray of morning sunlight peeking through a crack in the blinds. The ethereal beam of energy animated tiny particles of dust as they floated in the air. These particles would race in and out of the beam’s trajectory, becoming visible for brief moments before exiting back into the shadows. I thought how similar that is to life, how we flutter about in the light for the briefest of moments before passing back into the darkness.
Reaching into the mini fridge beside my bed that doubled as a nightstand, I opened the door and took out a cold jug of Ocean Spray cranberry juice. Popping the cap, I took three big swallows, then returned it to the fridge. There’s something about cranberry juice; it goes straight to the brain and dissolves the fog of slumber. Standing, I walked to my bedroom window, pulled up the blinds, slid open the east-facing window, and leaned out its screenless frame. The warm morning sun shone on my face, and a cool breeze tossed my hair. I closed my eyes to soak it all in.
Suddenly, I felt something unfamiliar. Something warm, fresh, and expectant, something so like happiness, I had to believe it was happiness. I searched my memories, wondering if I’d ever felt anything like this before, but couldn’t think of a time. Opening my eyes again, I saw two sparrows fly across my neighbor’s backyard. They were so light, so free, with no one telling them what to do.
I wanted to be like that, but how?
I watched them from my second-story vantage, unhurried, enjoying their aeronautical dance. Then a thought came to me: From this day forward, I can do anything I want, be anything I want, go anywhere I want, I am free!
And then I knew it for sure; this was happiness.
Leaning back in, I closed the window.
Looking around my bedroom, I saw something I’d never noticed before. It was a disorganized mess, a child’s room, but today I am no longer a child, so I’m not going to live like one. I immediately set to cleaning. I washed my dirty clothes and bedding, threw away everything I didn’t need, and after pilfering some hangers from my mom’s room, hung all my clothes in the closet, something I’d never done before. Literally every item I owned passed under my now scrutinous eye. By noon, I’d evaluated and sorted every item I owned right down to the last paper clip. Then I pulled all the furniture away from the wall and used the crevice tool on the vacuum, another thing I’d never done before, to deep clean every inch of my space. And for once, it wasn’t because anyone told me to do it. I was accountable to myself now, and there would be no shortcuts from this day forward.
It was a small step towards taking control of my life, this conquering of the bedroom. But intuitively, I knew that to become lord over one’s domain, you must begin somewhere.
Now, what’s next?
Oh yes—decisions.
Should I graduate from high school? Go to college? Or skip college altogether?
Back when I started eleventh grade, I was offered the opportunity to join a program for students behind on credits. The idea was that we’d take college-level courses at the community college to catch up. These courses were free; all you had to do was buy your books. And because the college credits were of higher value than regular high school credits, you could knock out two of the required high school credits by earning just one college credit.
It was meant to catch me up, but I’d seen it as a way to accelerate my escape from school and graduate early, so I applied and was accepted. Before my senior year had even started, I’d already taken and passed a number of these college courses.
So even though I’d been escorted off campus and wouldn’t be able to finish the twelfth grade, I already had enough credits to graduate from high school. All I had to do was pick up the phone, call the college, transfer the credits, and graduate. Not on time, but ahead of time — and with credits to spare.
I grabbed my corded phone, opened my little black address book, and found the number. I started to dial, but then I stopped myself.
Do I really want to go to college?
One of the reasons I’d felt so ebullient this morning was because I was done with school, done with meaningless lists of tasks that were supposed to prepare us for life but never seemed to.
Plus, if I go, I’ll need to come up with a bunch of money for tuition, just to trudge through more classes.
Say I get through that and end up with a bachelor’s or even a master’s degree, what then? I want to start my own business. I’ve wanted that since I was a kid watching my dad run his own business out of our garage. How will taking on college debt help me do that?
I closed the address book and sat for a moment to organize my thoughts. I knew this was a crossroads, and that the decision I make today will impact me for the rest of my life.
I can’t get this wrong, I thought.
Having long been an avid reader, a book I’d read recently came to mind. It was about the tech giants and entrepreneurs of the day: people like Bill Gates and Steve Jobs, who had both dropped out of college in order to chase their dreams and do things differently.
They didn’t wait for permission to start living; they were doers, and when the time came, they set aside the distractions to get to work.
And that’s what I want: to be rewarded for being industrious and hard working, to make my own way. How cool would it be if I did it too, and not just as college dropouts like them, but as a high school dropout?
Yes, that sounded perfect.
Then, if one day I’m a successful millionaire, they can say, “That’s Bill Berry, he’s successful, and he didn’t even finish high school.”
But then, words my mom had repeated time and time again echoed in my head: If you don’t go to college, you won’t be able to get a decent job.
I admitted that she could have a point there. I’d started job hunting right after I turned sixteen, but the efforts had been largely fruitless until I got the job at Little Caesars Pizza. And while it did give me something to write in the work experience section of a job application, I knew it wouldn’t make me more desirable to higher-paying employers.
So, maybe she’s right. If I don’t go to college, maybe I won’t have any prospects.
I’ve always wanted to do “my own thing,” but I don’t even know what my thing is, and now I have to choose a path, whether I know the way or not.
It felt hopeless, and I didn’t know what to do, but then the voice in my head spoke, and it offered a choice:
“If you don’t go to college, you’ll be responsible for yourself all the rest of your days. You’ll have to make your own way every day and create your own destiny. There will never be rest, no safety net, and you’ll never be able to take your foot off the gas, but you’ll be in charge of yourself. Do you accept these terms?”
Without a second’s hesitation, the answer exploded in my mind: “Yes! One thousand times, yes!”
I waited for the voice to answer, but it said nothing. There was nothing else to say.
I couldn’t explain it, but I knew that this moment had changed everything.
Destiny had knocked, and I had answered.
Now I just have to go figure it out.
So, what next? I wondered to myself.
If I fix my truck, I’ll have greater mobility, and that would give me more options. But to do that, I’ll need to make more money.
So tomorrow, I’m going job hunting.
Chapter 4: Job Hunting
I remembered my mom once saying, “When you don’t have a job, job hunting becomes your job.” And while technically I had a job, Little Caesars was only part-time, and I needed more work.
So the next morning, I woke up, showered, and put on my nicest clothes: old jeans and a new-ish black XXL Quicksilver t-shirt that anyone with a lick of fashion sense would have known was three sizes too big for me. Then, knowing I’d be doing a lot of walking, I put on my generic skate shoes. They smelled of flour, oil, and spoiled grease after wearing them at Little Caesars, but they were the only ones I had.
Loading my pockets with keys, two pens, and my wallet, I let myself out the front door of our little two-bedroom apartment. The place wasn’t much to look at, and in a notoriously bad neighborhood, but I knew my mom was working hard to provide for us. And of the four places we’d lived since the divorce, this was the first where I’d had a room of my own. At all the others, I’d slept on the living room sofa. So despite its shortcomings, it felt plush.
I made my way to the alleyway behind our unit, passing the carport where my truck sat collecting cobwebs. The beat-up Dodge Ram 50 pickup with peeling brown paint had been a 17th birthday present from my dad.
I’d gotten to drive it for a few months before its transmission blew out. Then I towed it home, hoping to get it fixed. I even called a repair guy to come by and give a quote, but I couldn’t come up with the $1,600 he was asking for, so it’s been sitting there ever since.
Periodically, my mom would ask, “When are you gonna get your truck fixed?”
And I’d say, “I’m working on saving up for it.”
“Okay,” she’d say, unconvinced.
I was trying to save, but never seemed to get any closer. The money disappeared faster than I could make it, a problem I had plenty of time to think about as I walked for miles beneath the California sun. Downtown Escondido sat several miles away, so I set off for Valley Parkway, the east–west spine of the city where many businesses were clustered. If I was going to find work, it felt like the best place to start.
I reached a busy corner where cars were backed up waiting for the red light to change. Having arrived, I suddenly felt very self-conscious and exposed. I’d imagined myself proudly walking from business to business collecting application after application like a boss, but now that I was here, standing on the blistering sidewalk in front of all these people, I began to doubt my plan and myself.
I was scared.
I stopped and stood awkwardly, looking around, not sure what to do. Two of the intersection’s corners had gas stations, and the other had a fast-food place.
Hmm, which of these places would I like to work at? I thought to myself. And just as quickly came the answer: none of them.
That was the truth of it; I didn’t want to work at any of them. But I need a job, and all of them could potentially be a job, so I guess all of them?
I walked into the closest gas station and saw a long line at the register. Okay, new problem: do I cut to the front and just ask for an application, or do I wait in line and then ask? As I considered this, another person came up behind me, and I got nervous, so I pretended to shop to kill time. Maybe, if I’m patient, the line will die down, I thought. Minutes passed, but no matter how long I waited, more people kept coming in. I figured that if I waited much longer, the cashier would get suspicious and think I was trying to steal something, and I definitely wouldn’t get hired if he thought I was a thief. So I grabbed a small bag of peanuts with a big sticker that read $0.99 and got in line. When I got to the front, the attendant quickly rang me up and said, “That will be $1.06.”
I handed him the $20 bill I had, and he gave me back $18.94 in change.
I was on the verge of chickening out, but then, trying to make it seem like an afterthought, I asked, “Could I get an application?”
The attendant didn’t even look at me. “We’re all out. Next!” already motioning the next customer forward.
I walked out of the store feeling completely deflated. Not only had I failed to get an application, but I’d also spent money I didn’t have on peanuts I didn’t want. That $20 is all I have, and the $18.94 left over has to cover lunch and last me the rest of the day.
At this rate, I’ll be broke before I get ten applications, I thought.
I walked to the other gas station to try again. This station was much nicer, and there were two cashiers, so the line wasn’t backed up. I asked if I could get an application, and the lady behind the counter pulled out a pad of them, the kind that have gum along one edge so the pages can be torn out. Then, she peeled one off and said, “Here ya go.”
I thanked her and walked out.
That’s one, I thought. If I can get one, I can get twenty.
With this one victory under my belt, I gained a little confidence. Walking business to business, I collected job applications as if that were my job. I walked into every store imaginable, from retail stores like Levi Strauss to office buildings with company names I’d never heard of, fast food joints, and supermarkets. I was willing to try anything.
By noon, I’d collected twenty-two job applications.
Then, knowing they had sit-down dining, I walked to Round Table Pizza. I ordered a drink and a slice of pizza, and as I paid, I asked them for a job application. Once I had my food, I grabbed a booth near the back and filled out all twenty-three paper applications, including the one they’d just given me. It was tedious, but I didn’t have much to write in the “previous employment” section, so it went pretty quickly.
I got up to retrace my steps, and as I passed the register, I turned in the application to the manager and asked when I could come in for an interview. He said they’d look it over and call me if they were interested. I thanked him, then went back to all twenty-two of the other places I’d gotten applications from and turned them in. At each place, I asked to see the manager or inquired as to when I could return for an interview. Most answered the same: we’ll call you if we're interested. But two places seemed interested.
The manager at the Levi’s store said she’d look it over and call me.
The other was a blank-faced office building that did lord only knows what. But what I do know is that when I handed my application to the receptionist, she said that new employees start at $16 an hour. And for $16 an hour, I don’t need to know what they do; I’m interested!
I got interview callbacks from both, but Levi’s was a no-go. I clicked with the manager, and I felt good about the interview. But later, I heard from a friend that she’d hired someone she knew, so I didn’t really have a chance.
The interview at the office building was harder to gauge.
The interviewer asked a lot of questions, and it felt like it was going okay, but I couldn’t really get the gist of it. And it’s not like I could admit that I didn’t know what they did or what the job was, so I answered all her questions vaguely, hoping something would stick.
Then she asked, “What would you say is your favorite subject in school?”
With no hesitation, I said, “Theater and Psychology.”
At this, she visibly perked up, so I talked more about that and how, as a teenager, I’d lived up on a mountain far away from any of my friends and, having little else to do, read an entire bookshelf’s worth of my mom’s self-help books. These books were interesting to me and covered topics like relationships and healthy communication.
The interviewer ate this up and asked when I could start. Not wanting to seem desperate, I told her the following Monday would be great, and she gave me paperwork to fill out.
I walked out of that interview feeling like I could fly.
Now I had my job at Little Caesars, where I’d worked my way up from $4.10 an hour when I’d started to $5.25 an hour as assistant manager.
And, I had this new job that paid $16 an hour.
I didn’t have a clue what I’d be doing, but they thought I’d be a good fit.
The following Monday, I showed up on time and was directed to the third floor. Once there, a fast-moving man in a black three-piece suit said, “Follow me,” and took off down a hallway. I fell in behind him and was led to a large open room with high ceilings. Before us stood a call center with 30+ people seated in cubicles; some were dressed nicely, but most wore casual pants and T-shirts. One guy in particular looked like he might be homeless, with long scraggly hair and a black Metallica “Ride the Lightning” t-shirt. Of course, this was who the manager walked me over to introduce me to. Metallica guy glared over the top of his glasses, then instructed me to “Find a chair, sit down, and buckle up.”
Doing as I was told, I returned with a chair and sat.
He looked me straight in the face and said very seriously, “Now I’m gonna show you how this is done.” Putting on his headset and typing a few keys on the keyboard, he waited for something I couldn’t hear to happen in the headset.
In a new voice that could’ve melted concrete, he said, “Good morning, could I speak with Holly, please?” He paused for a moment before saying, “Yes, this is Tom, and I’m calling in regards to a survey you filled out; it says here you suffer from chronic neck and back pain.” There was another pause as he waited for the person on the other end to give confirmation, then he continued. “Well, I'm calling because it’s our understanding that YOU’RE AN ABSOLUTE FUCKING BITCH!!!” he screamed before slamming the headset down on the table.
I flew back in my chair, completely taken aback by his outburst.
He looked at me with his big, crazy eyes, then, spreading his hands wide like he was about to tell me how big a fish he’d caught, he whispered in his sweet-sounding voice, “Sometimes they hang up. But that’s all there is to it.” He turned back to the screen, which listed all the lady’s information. With the mouse, he clicked a box that said “hung up”, then clicked the next name on the list and started the process over.
I sat there for the next hour as he made call after call.
It was numbing. I started to imagine that his salt-and-pepper chin stubble was growing a little more with each rejection. Which is what I came to understand was our job: getting rejected. We’d call about some survey these poor people filled out so long ago; most of them claimed they didn’t even remember having done it. Probably one of those giveaway drawings you often see people signing up for at malls or fairs, the ones that promise you a chance to win a brand new car or cruise vacation.
I’d always heard those give-aways were just information-gathering ploys so that data peddlers could sell people’s information to telemarketers and solicitors. Nothing I was seeing here dispelled that notion.
Tom cut into my thoughts: “When we actually get someone to set an appointment, our in-the-field sales reps will meet with the customer and try to sell them a crazy expensive bed with all kinds of bells and whistles, buttons that make it go up and down, woowoo.”
Looking around the very bed-less office, I asked. “Where are the beds?”
Tom looked around as if he was seeing the space for the first time and said, “I don’t know, they must keep them in a warehouse somewhere.”
“So, do we get to go on a field trip and see one, or do they bring one in so we can all try it?”
“Nope, not likely. I've been here for three years, and I’ve never seen one,” he said.
“Not even in a picture?” I asked
“Not even in a picture,” he answered soberly. But what do you need to see it for? You’ve seen a bed before. Just set the appointment and call out; that’s all there is to it.”
Right then, the man in the black suit stood up and shouted, “Everybody UP!”
On cue, everyone in the room stood up. Tom whispered to me, “Now we all have to stand until we close a sale; it’s supposed to make us more energetic or some strategic salesy bullshit, whatever. Hopefully, we’ll get a decent list and close some of these fuckers.” We stood for the next thirty minutes, during which a handful of the other reps loudly called out, “Sale!” Each time this happened, the black-suited man would run over and take over the phone call. He’d confirm the appointment and ensure the person on the other end of the line had sufficient credit to finance the product, if they decided to buy. If everything checked out, the rep was allowed to sit down. After this happened a few more times, Tom said, “Closing the appointment is only the first step; the field rep still has to make the sale for you to get the bonus. One month, I made over 30 appointments, but only a couple went all the way. It sucks to do that much work and get nothing.”
From what I’d seen so far, I couldn’t imagine anyone making any bonus money. Turning to Tom, I asked skeptically, “Does anyone do well at this?”
“Oh yeah, see that lady?” he pointed to a woman wearing oversized glasses, a food-stained grey Minnie Mouse shirt, and grey sweatpants with elastic ankle cuffs. “That’s Bridgett. She’s the number one rep every month. You could learn a lot from her.”
I watched her for a minute, but couldn’t see anything that stood out more than anyone else. “Why’s she so good?”
“Man, she gets on the phone with these old people, and in two minutes, it’s like they’ve known each other for years. She’ll be talking about dogs with them one minute and cancer treatments the next. One time, she closed a lady whose husband had died two days before; she’s a pitbull.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” I said.
“Why not?” Tom asked flatly
“Because… That just seems wrong.”
“The only thing wrong in this office is turning in an empty booking sheet.”
“But I don’t have stories or know about cancer treatments; how am I supposed to sell this thing?”
Tom looked at me for a second, then, nodding his head towards the computer screen, he launched another call. When the person answered, he said in a collegic-sounding voice, “Hi there, is this Mrs. Goldmann? It is, oh, wonderful, my name’s Neil Goldmann.” He pauses. “Oh, I’m sure it’s no relation, but you never know. If we go back far enough, I guess we’re all related.” Then he let out a laugh so fake I couldn’t believe it. Turning to me with an exaggerated look of self-importance, he motioned to his chest with one hand in a gesture of false modesty. Then he silently mouthed the words, She’s eating out of my hand.
Eventually, the call neared its conclusion, but Tom still hadn’t closed the deal; I couldn’t actually hear her, but imagined her saying, “Well, let me talk to my husband about it. Can you call us back tomorrow?”
Tom didn't flinch. “Mrs. Goldmann, I understand that completely; after twenty-three years of marriage, you know that communication with your husband is key to a happy relationship. But I just have to tell you that the consultation with one of our reps is normally $250, but if you make the appointment today, we’re waiving that fee. Think how happy Mr. Goldmann will be when he finds out you’ve saved him $250. And the beauty of it is, there’s no obligation to buy, so if you ultimately decide not to make an investment into healthier sleep for you and your husband, the entire service and evaluation is free — won’t cost you a dime. I can promise you that, Goldmann to Goldmann.” He goes silent for a few moments, then, clenching his fist hard, he whips his elbow downwards in a victorious motion. Then he says, “Mrs. Goldmann, you are not going to regret this. I sleep on mine every night, and it’s a dream. Let me put you on hold for one second while I grab my manager and have him authorize your free consultation; you just hold on one minute.” Clicking mute on the headset, he stood up and shouted, “Sale.” The suit guy came running. Once he’d confirmed things, he high-fived Tom and went off to put a checkmark next to Tom’s name on a big whiteboard.
Tom put the headset back on and said, “Alright, we’re on the board, let’s get another one!”
“Are we just supposed to lie to them?”
Looking wounded, Tom tilted his head back and said, “Nah man, you just gotta make the sale.”
Without realizing it, I cracked my knuckles.
I sat with Tom the rest of that day and was told that tomorrow I’d be at my own terminal. I asked Tom what I should do, and he said, “Just follow the script. You'll be fine.”
The next day, I tried my best, but no one was interested in the bed I wanted them to buy, the bed I couldn’t even describe because I’d never seen one. One lady asked me what sizes it came in and what the price differences were. I didn’t know; I’d been told absolutely nothing about the product. I finally started describing it as being like a hospital bed, but for your home. Well, that description certainly didn’t go over well with the older folks. The best thing I could say about my second day is that no one cursed me out.
On the third day, I finally completed a full sheet of leads. I didn’t make any sales, but I felt a small sense of accomplishment just for getting through one. I got up from my desk and told the manager. He looked surprised, then, typing a few keystrokes on his computer, he said, “I just assigned you a new list.”
I went back to my desk.
I started with the first of the 500 new names, but no one on this list was interested in setting appointments either. I went home that night thinking the job might not be for me. As I plopped down on the sofa, I became aware that my hands hurt. But I couldn’t figure out why? I started thinking back over my day to see if something would come to mind, and as soon as I thought about sitting at my call center desk, I absentmindedly cracked my knuckles, which hurt. It hit me. After each phone rejection, I was unknowingly cracking my knuckles. And after three days of it, my hands were swollen and in pain. My first thought was that I needed to go to the store and find one of those little foam stress balls that are usually printed to look like tiny planet Earths, just to keep my hands busy. But that thought was immediately followed by, Why the heck do I want a job that causes me that much stress? Everything about it sucks; this isn't for me.
So, the next day, I no-showed my telemarketing shift. I didn’t quit; I just stopped showing up. I was done. I waited two weeks before going back in to pick up my check, and when I did, I timed it so I could sneak in midafternoon when I thought no one from the call center would see me. The payroll lady barely looked up as she handed over an envelope with my name on it. I’d only worked there three days, but when I opened the envelope, I’d made as much as I usually did in two weeks at Caesars.
I liked the money, and I needed to make more money, but doing something else. I have to find something else.
Chapter 5: The Crusher
The job hunt was back on, and with the holiday season fast approaching, I tried Mervyn’s, a local department store.
When I turned in my application, the secretary told me that they needed to hire 100 short-term employees to handle the holiday rush.
I hoped that would mean I’d get a shot at it, and luckily, a few days later, I got a callback for an interview.
I went and was hired.
They started me in the men’s department, which was a smart move. Being male, I at least knew the basics when it came to the products.
But as the manager showed me around, I realized I still had a lot to learn. He explained that my primary duty would be restocking displays whenever customers depleted them. He taught me how to navigate the stockroom and explained that there should always be an assortment of sizes and styles available on the rack. While we were working on one of these racks, a middle-aged female shopper asked if we had one of the “Blue ones in extra large?”
The manager smiled and said, “Let me go to the stock room and check for you.”
I followed him back, and he said, “This is a perfect learning opportunity. See if you can find her a blue one in extra large.”
I went through the rack thoroughly, then did it a second time, but there weren’t any more blue ones in her size.
He looked at me and said, “OK, we don’t have it, so what is the best thing we can do for her?”
“Tell her we’re currently out but will probably get more in soon?”
“That might work,” he said, “but let’s try this: Pick two different extra-large shirts, and when we get back out there, explain that we’re out of the blue but that you found two potential alternatives.”
I selected two different shirts from the shelves: one purple and one an obnoxious green. I’d picked the ugly green one, thinking it might drive her towards the purple one. Then I walked back out to the main floor and offered them to her. To my surprise, she took the ugly green one and thanked me for the help.
My manager smiled, “A lot of times, people are just trying to get something for everyone on their shopping list; they aren’t attached to one style over another. So long as it’s the right size, they’ll take it.”
“Hmm, interesting,” I said.
I’d just learned a subtle yet effective sales technique.
About an hour after that, a huge touring bus pulled up and parked illegally in the fire lane right outside the store’s main entrance. Forty+ people of Middle Eastern descent poured out of its doors and marched into the store. Once inside, they went straight to the Levi’s wall and started pulling down jeans. Men, women, and children, each grabbing three pairs apiece. I was confused because they weren’t even looking at sizes. Colors or styles didn’t seem to matter; they just took them and got in line to pay. When they reached the front of the line, they all paid in cash.
I watched as an adult placed a wad of $20 bills into a baby’s hand, then held the kid over the counter to deliver the wad to the cashier.
The manager who’d taken me under his wing walked over to where I was watching this and said, “Levi’s is a Jewish company, so they don’t sell their products in countries hostile to the Jews. It creates a black market for Levi’s products in some Middle Eastern countries. One pair can sell for $300 or more over there. So these people come in, and they already know our policy is three pairs per person maximum. Because if we let them, they’d buy every single pair, leaving none for our regular customers. Then they do it again, store after store, until they have a full shipping container. It’s how these families make their living.”
I was shocked to hear this. And until that moment, I’d never even realized that “Levi’s” was a Jewish entity. I guess it makes sense with the name, but until you know something, you just don’t know.
Once the purchases were made, everyone got back on the bus and left. I restocked the Levi’s shelves as best I could. But there were huge gaps in our stock, and many cubbies would remain empty until another shipment of Levi’s arrived the following week.
I liked being in the men’s department. The work was okay, and I was learning about style. I even started investing a little from each paycheck into expanding my wardrobe. But once the holiday rush had passed, fewer and fewer of the seasonal employees appeared on the schedule.
We’d all come aboard knowing we’d be let go, so there were no hard feelings. However, as the other names slowly vanished from the schedule, I was surprised to find mine still listed. And only a week later, I was the only remaining seasonal employee.
The manager who liked me motioned me over, and I figured this was it. With a neutral expression, he said, “Today will be your last day in the men’s department,” and with that, I knew for sure I was being let go, but then he said, “Starting tomorrow, you’ll be reporting directly to me, and I’ll let you know what needs doing. How does that sound?”
Ha! “Sounds great,” I exclaimed.
“Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then, 6 am.”
The next day, he led me to a 10-foot-tall A-frame ladder laden with cleaning supplies. He then explained that the valence that ringed the entire store needed to be cleaned. I looked up at the endless facade that gave architectural texture to the otherwise warehouse-like space. It stretched from the women’s section, past jewelry, across the men’s section, past the main entrance doors, over into the home fashions area, through the ladies’ undergarments and seasonal, back to the shoe department, and finally back to us.
Seeing my apprehension, he said, “Like this.” Then he climbed the ladder and showed me how he wanted each of the rails, which were terraced like tiny stairs, to be cleaned from top to bottom. Spray, wipe, spray, and wipe again. “Now you try,” he said.
Climbing up, I found a layer of dust so thick it looked like dryer lint. I sprayed it with the bottle he’d provided, then wiped the first little bit clean, burning through a big wad of paper towels in the process.
Seeing I had the hang of it, the manager said, “OK, let me know when you’re close to running out of supplies, and I’ll get you more.” Then he strode away.
I nodded silently and kept cleaning, thinking to myself that this was going to take all week.
It was easy work, though, which gave me lots of time to think. And, by the time I’d cleaned my way halfway through the women’s department, I was pretty sure I’d figured out what was happening: Most of the regular employees here were lifers. Once hired, they often stayed on for years. This meant that the regular year-round positions were all filled. But the manager and I had worked well together, and I figured he saw something in me he thought worth cultivating. Maybe he’s keeping me busy with these odd jobs to justify my salary until something more permanent opens up.
It was just a theory, but it was the best explanation I could think of as to why I was cleaning a valance that had clearly never been cleaned before.
As I worked, I discovered a few tricks for optimizing the task. For example, once I had a big wad of dirty paper towels, I’d use my long reach to scrub off a long swath of the worst of the dust. Then I’d hit the same area again with a fresh towel, which would then itself be dirty and allow me to wipe out the next big swath. I decided to challenge myself and see if I could clean the entire store in this one shift. But by the time I’d gotten to the end of the women’s section, I’d used up all paper towels. Rather than bother my manager for more, I went to the stock room to grab some rags and a big bucket. Filling the bucket with warm, soapy water, I returned to the task. I found that dipping, wringing out, and wiping with the rags was a much better strategy. I’d use one damp rag to get the worst off, then wipe again with the second rag. I made good time, and the fact that I’d grown up on ladders while working for my parents’ sign company certainly contributed to that.
At the end of the shift, I went to find the manager to tell him I was leaving for the day.
He asked, “So, how far did you get with the valance?”
“It’s done,” I said
If he’d been drinking coffee, he’d have spit it out: “It’s DONE? Like ALL done? You had enough paper towels? I was planning to buy more for tomorrow?”
“Yes, and no, the paper towels ran out in the women’s section, so I switched to rags and a bucket, but it’s all done now. What do you need me to do tomorrow?”
Shaking his head in disbelief, he stood up, intending to go check my work, but then stopped himself and said, “Actually, I know you did a good job. Uhh, tomorrow, let’s put you in the stocking department; they could use some help back there.”
“Yes, sir, what time?”
“6 am,” he said.
“I’ll see you then.”
The next day, I arrived at 6 am as requested, but no one was there. The store was locked up tight. So I waited out front for an hour until someone showed up with a key. This would happen repeatedly in the coming months, and though I couldn’t clock in or prove that I’d been there, my manager always made sure I got paid for the time. He was a good manager, and his belief in me made me want to always give my best.
Once the door was open, I went to the stocking department to see what they needed me to do. This job, it turned out, was all behind the scenes. Emptying trash, making sure each register station had plenty of bags in all the sizes, and, of course, they showed me how to operate “The Machine.”
Back by the loading dock stood a huge trash compactor. It had a series of large steel blocks connected to thick hydraulic arms that, together, would crush anything placed inside. Once the initial crush was complete, a second set of hydraulics would press the remaining material horizontally into a forty-foot shipping container, which was pinned and chained to the outside of the building. When they taught me how to use “The Machine,” they made sure to scare me with stories of people being maimed or killed after being careless with similar machines. But I’d grown up in a shop environment and knew to respect power tools. Plus, you had to press two buttons at once, one with each hand, then use a foot pedal to operate the crushers. You’d have to go pretty far out of your way to get hurt doing it. The one other rule, the most unbending one of all, I was told, is never take anything you find in the trash. It’s not for your perusal or personal collection. If it’s in the trash, it stays in the trash. Break the rule once, and you’re fired, no warnings. Then they pointed to a lone eye-in-the-sky camera that hung ever vigilantly over the loading dock.
I just nodded my head. It all sounded easy enough. I’m not much for taking things that aren’t mine.
The next few weeks were uneventful, and most days in the stocking department, I barely saw anyone, completely on my own and unsupervised. Then, one day, while I was tossing out some trash, I saw a pair of shoes in the bin. Looking closer, I realized it was the same brand and style of skateboard shoe that I’d been eyeing in the shoe department just a few days before. I checked the size, and they were ten and a half, my size. Weird, why would a brand-new pair of shoes be in the trash?
Knowing I was breaking one of the cardinal rules of trash disposal, I picked them up for a quick inspection. They genuinely looked brand new, and the only hint I could find as to why they might’ve been thrown away was the two tiny pebbles lodged in the tread on the bottom. My guess was that someone had returned them, and the person at the returns department, seeing they’d been worn once, threw them out.
I looked down at my own, falling-apart shoes, then at the brand-new ones that the universe was practically begging me to take.
Ughh, this is hard.
I thought about asking my manager if I could have them. I was fairly certain he’d tell me to go ahead, but I also didn’t want him to think I was trying to steal from the company. And I knew the rules; I was supposed to throw everything away.
I started to drop them in the compactor, but then I stopped.
I can’t do it, I thought, it feels so wrong. A little part of me was dying at the thought of the waste.
I looked up at the camera and considered making a pleading motion. Maybe whoever was on the other side would have mercy on the poor guy who really needed new shoes but couldn’t afford the $65 they were asking for them. But I restrained myself.
I knew that once a month, the giant steel vault where all the trash got compacted would be taken away and its contents incinerated. I thought of the people who’d worked, like I was working, to create these shoes. So much effort, just for them to be worn once, returned, and thrown away. How many pairs of shoes does this happen to? How much is wasted each day in the name of corporate policy?
At that point, I was convinced I’d be justified in taking them, but still, I didn’t. They weren’t mine, and their fate was out of my hands.
I dropped them in the hopper and watched as “The Machine” slowly ate them.
I cast a long look at the evil eye in the sky.
I felt like I was back in high school, once again subject to a system that operated by codes and mores not aligned with my own. A place where rules mattered more than what was right; where rules mattered more than people. I realized this was not where I was supposed to be. I considered quitting on the spot, but I also felt loyalty to my manager, who’d gone so far out of his way to make a place here for me, and I didn’t want to let him down.
So I threw in another can of trash, then another, and another, doing my part, feeding “The Machine.”
* * *
A week or two later, the job threw me a new surprise. When I got to the loading dock, I found a giant pile of naked bodies piled head-high.
This giant, unmoving mass of stark white forms was twisted into shapes not even the most advanced Twister player would consider attempting. Many of the forms were missing hands or whole limbs, while others had no heads.
As if he’d read my thoughts, my favorite manager materialized at my side: “Corporate sent in two truckloads of new mannequins over the weekend, so the staff had to work late shifts to get them all switched out. These are the old ones, and they all have to be compacted.”
Then he left me to this completely innocent, but dirty-feeling work.
I walked over and picked up the closest mannequin. It was a nearly complete woman, everything intact except that at mid-thigh, both her legs had been cleanly sheared off. I thought I might remember her and asked, “Hey, weren’t you in the women’s section? Wearing a one-piece dress that was cut low at the top and high at the bottom?”
Obviously, she didn’t answer, and I carefully loaded her into the hopper. Even with sheared-off legs, she was just tall enough not to fit entirely into the lower compartment of the compactor. I’d never crushed a mannequin before and had no idea how they’d break. Do they mush? Do they pop and send shards of plastic flying off in every direction? I had no idea, so I put on some safety glasses before holding the buttons and stepping on the foot lever.
The whole apparatus whirred loudly, and the steel blocks began to move in slow motion. Not having been built for speed, the huge steel plates crawled forward, taking at least thirty seconds before they began to crush her. I knew it wasn’t a real person, but the likeness still gave me a sense of unease. Next, I loaded two forms at once; they sat in an awkward embrace as they were crushed. After that, I loaded five at once, hopeful that the increased number would create a mass of plastic that wouldn’t feel so human, but as they compacted, they got tangled into one another, clogging the works. I took breaks to poke at them with an old push broom, attempting to get more of the parts deep enough into the jaws to be crushed. Eventually, they got so stuck that I had to climb into the hopper and jump up and down on them. I looked at the eye-in-the-sky and felt its silent judgment, then, motioning towards the hopper, I mimed defensively, “There’s no other way to get them to go down.”
It took two more crushes to move the last of that group into the belly of the beast.
After that, I limited it to two bodies at a time, because it was the most efficient. Throughout, I grew ever more horror-stricken by the process. Is this what guards’ experiences in concentration camps had been like? Had they gone through something similar, but with real people? Were they sick at first, followed by attempts to make the process more efficient, just to get it over with? Did they overstep, like I had when I’d loaded all five mannequins in at once, only to realize their mistake? When I’d loaded the five, my hope had been to be faster and more efficient, but I’d only prolonged the “agony” and time needed to dispose of the five.
I could see, without wanting to, how German soldiers could have gone through a similar, albeit far more horrifying process in their quest to find the most efficient and effective ways to dispose of a mountain of bodies. I tried not to think of guards making similar mistakes, but with real people.
How could people do things like that to one another?
It took me two whole shifts, twelve mind-numbing hours in total, to crush them all.
And at the end of that second day, I clocked out knowing this job wasn’t for me. But even knowing that, I figured I’d stay on until I’d saved enough to fix my truck, or figured out what it is I’m actually here to do.
Chapter 6: Always Come Prepared
I rode my bicycle home from my morning shift at the retail store, and as I walked through the front door of our apartment, my mom handed me a newspaper clipping.
Technical theater internship program at the California Center for the Arts in Escondido, now accepting applications.
Wow, that sounds cool, I thought.
We’d moved to Escondido halfway through my 10th-grade school year, and once I’d settled in at my new high school, I’d become interested in theater, or more accurately, the backstage theater/stagecraft program. Being painfully introverted, I had little interest in going on stage or being in front of people. But the backstage work was great. I got to build sets, run shows, and learn the basics of sound and lighting. I liked it a lot, so the potential of getting a real job in the field was exciting.
Most days, I’d spend the two hours I had between my morning and evening shifts resting or getting lunch, but today I skipped both so I could ride my bicycle to the California Center for the Arts to fill out an application.
Ten days later, I got a call, and the person on the line said, “We’d like to interview you for the position.”
I felt my heart rate spike in a good way! Every other job I’d ever had was just a job; I didn’t want to be a telemarketer, or make pizza, or work retail. But theater? That could be fun, and maybe it would even turn into a career!
The voice on the phone continued, “We have two interview slots available, next Monday or Tuesday morning. Would either of those work for you?”
Quickly considering my current work schedule, I said, “Monday morning would be great, what time?”
“10 am, we’ll see you then.” ::click::
I whooped loudly in excitement. “Gaw, that would be a dream, I have to get it, please lord, let me get it!”
But to do that, I knew I’d need to stand out, that I’d have to look sharp, professional.
On cue, a movie-like memory began to play in my mind.
* * *
I was curled up on the couch under a big, hand-crocheted blanket that swallowed up my little second-grade body. I’d stayed home sick from school again, a normal part of the routine when you have a life-threatening heart condition.
My mom was watching TV, some morning show with grown-ups talking about grown-up problems, stuff I didn’t understand or care about.
But then the host brought out a kid.
His dark hair was slicked neatly to the side, and he wore a black suit that actually fit. Not the wrinkled, ill-fitting, cheap kind of suit I saw kids wear to church, either. This one was tailored and crisp, with a shiny tie and polished shoes. He didn’t fidget or slouch. He walked out calmly and sat in the guest chair like he’d done this a hundred times. And it didn’t seem to bother him that his feet couldn’t even reach the floor.
The host smiled and leaned toward him. “Good morning, Andrew. Thank you for being here today.”
“Thank you,” he said with a warm smile. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
“You’re looking quite snazzy in that suit! Are you on your way to an important meeting?”
“Well, nothing is more important than meeting with you,” he said politely. “But yes, I have an appointment with my financial
advisor this afternoon.”
That got a laugh from the audience. The host raised an eyebrow. “Your financial advisor? I’m,” she mumbled unintelligibly, “years old, and I don’t even have a financial advisor! How old are you?”
“I’m twelve years old, and in sixth grade,” he said. “But I’ve always been interested in money. I started investing my allowance when I was five and looking for opportunities to grow my nest egg.”
My 2nd-grade eyes widened at this kid doing grown-up stuff. And I found myself hanging on every word.
He went on. “Right now, I’m launching a business with a few of my classmates. We’re creating an investment plan for kids, so they can make a million dollars and retire by thirty-five.”
“A million dollars?” The host chuckled. “So that’s your plan, huh? Retire by thirty-five?”
Andrew smiled. “Sort of. My real goal is to make my first million by age eighteen. But the business comes first; once it’s self-sustaining, I can focus on expanding.”
The audience clapped. Andrew just sat there, legs swinging beneath the chair, composed, serious, and completely in control.
Then the show cut to a commercial.
I sat, frozen, staring at the screen.
He was just a kid. A kid like me. But somehow he was talking about stocks, advisors, and million-dollar goals, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He didn’t even seem nervous. He had a plan. A real plan.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, not because I was cold, but because something inside me had shifted. It was like a door in my mind had opened, and behind it was this wild new thought: What if I could do that too?
Not retire by eighteen. That part felt like superhero stuff. But be a millionaire by thirty-five? That sounded possible. Big, and a little daunting, but possible.
I didn’t know anything about money. I had a few dollars in a plastic piggy bank and sometimes got quarters for helping bring in groceries. But something about the way Andrew talked, clear, direct, goal-oriented, lit a fire in me.
I didn’t want to just watch kids like Andrew on TV. I wanted to be one.
When the show came back on, they didn’t mention Andrew again. Just another adult guest talking about something I immediately forgot.
But Andrew stayed with me. He had a dream, and he believed in it so much that others started to believe it, too.
So, I set a goal for myself right there, the first goal I’d ever set. I want to be a millionaire by age thirty-five.
I didn’t know how I’d get there, but if Andrew could figure it out, I believed I could, too.
* * *
The vision fizzled away, and my awareness returned to the present.
After all those years battling my heart, I’d almost forgotten about Andrew and my goal of being a millionaire by thirty-five, but now, it was again fresh in my mind.
Well, if I’m going to be like Andrew, I need to start being more like Andrew, I thought, but how? What was his secret?
I again envisioned Andrew on the talk show, remembering how he’d looked so professional in his suit. He’d worn a suit because he took his appearance on the show seriously, and he took himself seriously.
That’s it, I thought, Andrew’d worn a suit because it’s what you do when it matters. And this interview at the California Center for the Arts mattered.
I’d never owned a suit before, and I didn’t know where to start. But spying a department store catalog in a pile of junk mail, I started flipping through it until I found something I liked, a black double-breasted get-up that looked pretty hip. I told my mom I needed a suit, and she agreed to drive me to the store.
When I tried it on, it hung unappealingly on my rail-thin frame, not looking nearly as good on me as it had on the male model in the picture. But there wasn’t time to have it tailored before the interview, and it was better than anything else I had, so it’d have to do.
I took it to the cashier, and she rang me up. “That’ll be $321.74,” she said with a smile.
Oh, s#it, I thought, feeling the blood rush to my cheeks. I didn’t have enough money; I had at most $200 in my account. I sighed softly to myself and was about to ask her to cancel the transaction when my mom’s arm reached out from behind me.
Passing her credit card across the counter, she said, “We’ll just call it an early birthday present.”
“Oh, that’s a great present,” said the cashier, “What’s the occasion?”
“Big job interview,” my mom answered.
“Well,” said the cashier as she put the receipt in the bag, “I have a feeling you’re gonna get it.”
The cashier smiled at me encouragingly, and I smiled back, but I felt super uncomfortable because she was cute and I didn’t know what to say.
When we got back to the car, I said to my mom, “Thank you for the suit.”
“You’re welcome, now get in there and knock their socks off.”
Looking long out the window, I said, “I’ll try.”
“Try?” she challenged, “Try not. Do, or do not. There is no try.”
I laughed, “Yes, you and master Yoda are right. There is no try.”
* * *
The following Monday, I went to the interview. After checking in with the receptionist, she told me to take a chair with the three other hopefuls. These “hopefuls” were two men and one woman, all older than me, and all dressed in the simple black shirt and pants typical for theater techs. I was, for sure, the best dressed, but now I wondered whether that might work against me.
I didn’t have long to stew on it, though, because moments later, a man and woman came in and invited us into an adjacent room for the interview. I hesitated, unsure who they wanted first, but the woman waved her hand encouragingly, “Come on, all of you, it’s a group interview.”
This rattled my nerves. A group interview?! I’d never heard of such a thing, and certainly not considered it when I’d mentally run through and rehearsed every imaginable scenario in preparation for this moment. My stomach knotted in fear. I was best in one-on-one conversations, not in groups, and now there’d be an audience. I felt a droplet of sweat trickle down my armpit and glide along my ribs, uninterrupted by the too-big shirt and suit jacket hanging over my shoulders. Entering the next room, we seated ourselves around a big meeting-room-style table.
As the interviewers introduced themselves, I noticed they weren’t in suits either, more business casual, so I was certain I was overdressed. We hadn’t even started yet, and I felt like things were going wrong.
Luckily, once the questions started, my answers seemed to hit. I told them that during my senior year of high school, I’d taken three periods of drama and one of stagecraft. And that I’d been involved with every show the school produced from start to finish. From building props or stage scenery to running lights and sound, whatever was needed, I could do it. I even had a letter of recommendation from my high school drama teacher, saying I’d been one of his top students. They seemed genuinely interested in all of that, and I dared, just a little, to believe I still had a shot.
Then they hit me with something I’d never anticipated.
“So, Mr. Berry, what would you say is your greatest weakness?”
Ughhh, I was stunned to silence. I had no idea how to answer the question.
I sat there, brain whirling, waiting for something clever or witty to come out of my mouth, but nothing did. And I couldn’t see any way to turn the question’s inherent negative bent into a positive response.
Lacking anything good to say, I figured I’d just be totally honest, and tell them what my greatest weakness is, which was… Which was…?
Gah, I couldn’t think what my real greatest weakness was either.
Time passed, and the silence grew awkward, so the interviewer tried to help: “Well, what’s something you struggle with?”
But now my mind was exploding at the thought of not getting the job, and I sat there completely frozen.
The female interviewer looked at her cohort and said, “Well, let’s just move on and let him think about it.” And they did, and blessedly, they didn’t come back to ask me about it again.
When it was over, I left thinking I’d blown it. But a few days later, they called to tell me I’d been hired, and that put me on top of the world.
I asked when they wanted me to start, and they said they would only need me a few times per month.
Hmm, that might be perfect, I thought. I still had my retail and pizza jobs on the regular, so if they only needed me here and there, it’d be easier to juggle everything around.
A few days later, I attended an orientation and received a tour of the facility, where they outlined their general expectations for us. The first being, “always arrive prepared.” They said it several times, in fact. “When you come to work, always bring gloves, a Leatherman, and a flashlight. And bring them every shift, no exceptions!”
Wanting to be a good tech, I brought them in, religiously, for two months. However, we never ended up using any of these items; most shifts would find me stuck in the sound booth, with little more to do than raise or lower a slider when the person on stage below hollered up for it to be adjusted.
And the situation was similar on the lightboard. I’d find myself sitting in one booth or the other, often for hours, without hearing a single instruction relevant to me.
I came to understand that the reason for this was that the touring shows that came through all had their own people for programming the cues into the light and sound boards. And they had their own load-in and load-out crew, so there weren’t any sets for us to assemble, no scenery to build or fix, and no shows for us to run. Most nights, the most exciting thing I’d get to do was mop the stage before clocking out. So I stopped bringing my flashlight, gloves, and Leatherman, and instead brought a book to fill all the downtime.
But then I showed up for one shift and found two men on deck whom I didn’t know. Our big boss called us all together and introduced the two men as backstage veterans. Both had worked on Broadway and had résumés filled with notable achievements. We also learned that they both held college degrees, one in theater and the other in electrical engineering. Then one of the men said, “If you really want to make a career of this, you’d better get a degree and work twice as hard as the competition, because it’s one of the most competitive fields around.”
My heart sank at that, because while I was unafraid of a hard day’s work, I’d given up on ever pursuing college. I guess I’d thought of theater as a meritocracy, a place where a person who worked hard enough and pushed hard enough could rise to the top, but here were two people who’d been to the top, and they were saying this was as far as I could go without college.
After this “pep talk” concluded, our boss broke us into two groups. Half the interns were assigned to the guy with the theater degree, and the rest of us to the guy with the electrical engineering degree.
Once the others had left, our guy said, “Maintenance is one of the most important parts of a theater tech’s job; today, we’re going to learn how to disassemble and clean the three primary types of theater lights. Then, we’ll refocus and trim the beams. Basically, reset everything to its standard configuration. When a touring production that calls for custom lighting is loaded out, you always reset everything before the next show loads in.” He looked towards the backstage area, whistled to get whoever was back there’s attention, then pointed upwards. Moments later, the first electric, a heavy steel bar decked out with dozens of lights, descended from the rafters above our heads. When it had been lowered to chest level, he whistled again, and the bar froze in place. He then disassembled one of the lights, cleaned all the parts as he went, and showed us the different mounting styles and safety systems in use. He then reassembled it. He repeated this action with the two other styles of lights, throwing in anecdotes about their history, what their capabilities were, biographical facts about the people who’d invented them, ways they would most frequently break or fail, and more. It was amazing how much he knew and how well he could recall. After reassembling these examples, he instructed us to select a light and follow the steps he’d taken. We were then to repeat this process for all three light styles. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll be walking around to help if you get stuck.” This was not a difficult task for me; the way he’d shown us meshed well with my learning style, and, aside from one snafu with the beam trim plates, which I’d reinserted in the wrong order, I was able to do everything else without assistance. After we’d all finished this initial test and shown we could do it competently, he whistled again, and the second and third electrics began their descent from above. As these two additional bars arrived amongst us, we looked at the dizzying number of lights, all coated in dust and cobwebs, all needing to be disassembled, cleaned, and refocused. It felt like there were hundreds, but more likely just seventy to eighty in all, but still, a monumental task that would take us all day, and probably more, to complete. Then he broke our group in half again, making two groups of two, and explained that the first group would stay on stage with him to clean “all of the overstage lights,” he motioned to the bars that surrounded us as he said this.
Then he looked at me and the tech beside me and said, “You two will do the same, except you’ll work on the catwalk.” He pointed to the giant steel grid suspended from the theater ceiling, high above the seats where guests would sit to watch a show. With a sly smile, he added, “Hope you’re not afraid of heights.” I looked up at the grid and realized I didn’t even know how to get up there. I’d never been on a grid before. Luckily, the other tech I’d been paired with had been interning for longer than I, and she seemed to know all about it, so I just nodded and pretended like I knew what I was doing. He didn’t say anything else to us, but started directing the two techs who would be staying with him to get going, so she and I made our way offstage. The girl tech led me to a series of steel ladders, which, unlike a normal ladder, had no incline to make them easier to climb. They were ninety degrees straight up. I was usually quite comfortable on ladders, but these felt so different from the ones I’d used before, making them unnerving. We climbed a series of these, one after another, until we were sixty or seventy feet above the ground. Once there, we began with the first bank of lights. To my surprise, they were all turned on.
I shouted down, “Hey, can you turn these off so we can work on them?”
Looking up into the beams of light where my voice had come from, the technician shouted back, “Nope, you need to be comfortable working with lights that are turned on, that way you can focus and trim them appropriately without needing the lighting tech to sit at the board all afternoon flipping switches for you.”
“Got it,” I yelled back.
I reached out to start working on the first light, but it was HOT. Theater lights put off tremendous heat, and all the casing and surrounding parts quickly absorb that heat. The bulb itself you couldn’t touch with a bare hand — and I don’t mean just when it’s hot — I mean not ever, even when it’s cool. If the oils from your skin get on the bulb glass, the temperature difference can cause the bulb to shatter when it reaches full temperature. You have to wear clean gloves to even touch the bulbs.
Looking over at the girl technician I was with, I saw her putting on heavy work gloves. And once donned, she began to disassemble her first light. As she did, a cloud of dust — or was it smoke from her gloves — filled the light of the beam. She cleaned the parts, reassembled the unit, and called down to ask how he wanted it trimmed.
Looking up at us, then surveying the stage, he yelled back, “Trim it so the curtains at audience left don’t catch any of the light.”
She adjusted one of the trim levers, and I saw the light that had been hitting the wall and curtains on the left side of the stage slowly retreat as it was blocked by the steel plate inside. Then she started the second light.
I reached out to work on my light and immediately felt the parts burning my fingers. I pulled back, regretting deeply not having brought my gloves.
A little hopelessly, I said to the female tech, “I don’t suppose you have an extra set of gloves?”
“Nope, every tech should show up to every shift with a light, Leatherman, and a pair of gloves.”
If I wanted sympathy, I wouldn’t find it here, and besides, she was right, and I knew it; I’d shown up unprepared.
I briefly considered going back down to the stage to ask if anyone had an extra pair I could borrow. But if I did, even more people would know I’d shown up unprepared for work. And most likely, no one would give me a pair; I might even be sent home as punishment for my carelessness. Or what if they let me go entirely? The guy just told us how competitive this market is; there’s no room for mistakes. By now, the girl tech was well on her way to having her second light cleaned and focused. Unwilling to fail, I reached forward and grabbed my light to start the disassembly; I could hold a part for about a second before it started to cook me. But cleaning required holding the parts for much longer than that. I continued anyway, feeling my flesh sing, but I powered through it, switching my grip every few seconds to spread the heat to different points on my hands and fingers. It gave me an incentive to work quickly, and I admit I wasn’t cleaning the lights as thoroughly as I should have, but I managed to finish my first just before the other tech finished her second.
Calling down to the head tech, I asked, “How would you like this one?”
Looking up, he said, “Cut it so it’s not hitting the proscenium arch.”
I adjusted the lever until the light was properly cut, then moved to the next. Just five more hours, I told myself, just gotta get through five more hours.
As I cleaned the lights, my thoughts wandered to memories of Little Caesars.
* * *
The most popular item on the menu, aside from pizza, was “Crazy Bread,” essentially a ball of pizza dough cut into strips and baked. When it came out the other end of the oven, the veteran workers would place a thin sheet of wax paper over the sticks and pick them up barehanded. They’d then place them on a wire rack, where they’d be bathed in garlic butter and sprinkled with Parmesan cheese. Then they’d pick them up again, barehanded, and put them in a paper bag.
It was the easiest job, so whenever new workers were hired, they always started at the Crazy Bread station. And when it was time to teach them how to make the bread, the veterans would always show them the technique I just described. But the thing is, a normal human off the street can’t pick up Crazy Bread sticks straight out of the oven; it burns the shit out of your hands. The newbie would try, of course, and more often than not, reflexively drop the sticks on the ground and have to start over. They’d be awestruck as to how the veterans could handle the bread so easily, and everyone would laugh because we’d all gone through the exact same orientation. Once they’d been properly hazed, someone would show them how to unload and prep the bread with hand tools so they wouldn’t get burned.
But if they stuck around for a few months, their hands would get used to the heat, and soon enough, they’d be handling the boiling hot breadsticks barehandedly just as easily as the rest of us.
* * *
Snapping back to the present, I made the connection. I’d been handling breadsticks almost daily for the past two years, so I built up a tolerance. And were it not for that tolerance, there’s no way I’d have been able to clean the lights without gloves.
Still, the lesson was learned, and I never again showed up without my light, Leatherman, and gloves. Scorched fingers aside, the tech theater internship was by far the best job I had.
My bosses and coworkers were great, and we were doing something we wanted to be doing, which was different from my other jobs. The others were just jobs; there was no loyalty to anything except the paycheck.
I wanted theater to become a real career for me, but they couldn’t schedule me enough for it to be anything more than a part-time position (I’d asked), and my internship was only for one year; after that, they’d cut me loose, and it would be the end of it.
I guess I’ll just make the most of it and learn as much as I can.
Chapter 7: Mucho Trabajo
A few months after I’d started working as a tech theater intern, my boss, the one who I’d asked for more hours, stopped me in the hall, “Hey, would you be interested in helping out with banquet service?
I knew about the banquet building; it was separate from the theater, but in the same complex. And I’d heard they hosted special events and weddings, that kinda stuff.
He continued, “I know you’re looking for more hours, and the shifts are flexible, so if you’re interested, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
I thought about it for a second. It wasn’t theater, but it was at least close to the theater, so I told him I was interested.
The following week, offers for several banquet shifts appeared on the schedule. Wow, I thought, just months ago I’d been pounding the pavement, praying someone would give me a job; now here I am, working four part-time jobs all at once. This will surely help me build the capital I need to get my truck fixed. And with that increased mobility, I can start moving up in the world!
I double-checked that I was available for these new shifts and, seeing that I was, accepted them all.
I’d never worked in banquet service before. Little Caesars didn’t have a dining room, so I’d never served anyone before. But I figured there would be some training and they’d show me what to do.
HA!
When I arrived for my first shift, the place was a madhouse; guests were arriving within the hour, and no one had time to show me anything. I asked a manager for guidance, and he said, “Yeah, that’s your table.” He pointed to a round table draped in a white tablecloth and said, “Just do what the waitresses do,” then he split.
So I waited by my table, and when people sat down, I poured them water and tried to copy what the other staff were doing. There were no menus to contend with; the dinner was predetermined, and everyone got the same series of dishes. I tried to interact with the people at my table, but whenever I’d try to make eye contact or break in, they’d make a show of not even acknowledging my presence, continuing their conversations more intently and at a higher volume until I buzzed off.
The only exception to this was when I tried to serve a man his entrée from the left side.
He threw up his hands in exasperation and said, “You’re supposed to serve from the right,” emphasizing that side with his right hand, “and pick up from the left!” which he then emphasized with his left.
I pulled the plate back and moved around to serve him from the proper side. As I did, a woman far past an age that necessitated the amount of makeup she’d applied for the evening looked at me like I was an idiot and shook her head disapprovingly. Their exaggerated self-importance planted a seed of disdain in me for haughtiness and pomp.
The best thing I could say about that first night is that it passed quickly — one long whirlwind of setting up, serving, clearing, and breaking down. At the end of the night, I walked down the server’s corridor feeling quite used up. I could have lain down on the dark red tiled floor and slept right there, filthy as it and I were. But there was still work to do. I hefted a large, oval-shaped plastic serving tray loaded with dirty dishes, balanced it on my shoulder with both hands, and tried to load it into a large metal rolling case so it could be taken to the dish area. I’d already loaded dozens of these with no mishap, but I was tired now, and one of the dish stacks tipped over and spilled a silver gravy boat full of now fermented raspberry dressing onto my cheap white tuxedo shirt. The sweet, fruity rank of it filled my nostrils for the rest of the shift. Through all of this, no one paid any attention to me, and I got no breaks; it was just go, go, go. Once the dining room had been cleared, I started rolling the big silver carts full of dirty dishes down to the dishwashing area. Each time I did, a young Hispanic guy would meet me and, with a genuine smile, take the roller cart into the wash area. He was the only person who was friendly all night, so the next time I dropped off a cart, I made a little joke about something.
He smiled but also shrugged, indicating that he spoke no English.
In my very limited Spanish, I made an exaggerated show of wiping my brow and said, “Mucho trabajo” (Lots of work, or at least that’s what I think it means).
He smiled and pointed towards the dish area, saying, “Mucho, mucho!”
Then we both laughed and continued doing our jobs. It wasn’t lost on me that the only person who’d treated me like a human being all night was the Hispanic dishwasher who didn’t speak the same language as me.
Finally, all the dish carts were delivered, and I had a moment to examine the big raspberry-dressing stain on my shirt. As I did, I noticed a large black stain on the top of my left shoulder too; baffled at first, I tried to figure out what had caused it. Then I noticed that many of the other servers had the same thing, notably on just one shoulder—the shoulder they rested the trays on as they carried them back and forth through the dining areas. Walking over to one of the trays, I flipped it over and saw a thin layer of black mold on its bottom. Anytime one of us picked up a tray and rested it on our shoulder, the black stain grew. I shook my head ruefully; I was tired, sweaty, moldy, and had been baptized into banquet service with rancid raspberry dressing. I was soooo ready for this night to be over, but it was my first day, and I wanted to make a good impression, so I looked around for something more to do. As I did, the leading manager, a tall, thin, wiry guy whose legs always walked a little faster than his body ever seemed able to keep up with, came over and said, “I think we’ve got it from here; you can punch out.” Then he shambled away without waiting for an answer.
As he went, I couldn’t help but notice that neither of his shoulders had any of the telltale black mold staining.
* * *
With the addition of these shifts as a banquet server, my schedule was so full that I stopped getting days off. Every day was now a workday. And most days, I worked doubles; I’d have a morning shift at the retail store and a banquet shift that night. Or, I’d work the morning shift at Little Caesars, then have a tech theater event at night.
I was making more money than I ever had before, but I was working very, very hard to do it.
* * *
About two months after I’d started working as a server, I showed up for a shift and clocked in as usual. And also, as usual, it wasn’t clear what I should be doing, so I went and sorted silverware with one of the more seasoned waitresses. I’d learned to go to her whenever I wasn’t sure what to do because she would take time to teach me. But today there was no teaching; she was going on and on about some new guy, Ron.
Apparently, Ron had come on board a few days earlier and was already gaining a reputation. From day one, our manager had given him a lot of responsibility. Ron was now in charge of the main banquet hall. Ron was consulted on decorative options and even took the lead on the cheese platters.
She didn’t say it, but it was clear she felt passed over.
I wondered about this as I rolled silverware in cloth napkins. Maybe Ron had worked here before, then taken a leave of absence, and only recently returned? Or, maybe he had a ton of experience working in similar places? Who could say why some people get advanced while others don’t?
Our wiry manager walked up and interrupted my reverie, “I’m gonna team you up with Ron today, he can teach you a lot.” Then he walked away, clearly intending for me to follow.
I chased after him, but threw a glance over my shoulder at the waitress. She shook her head side to side disapprovingly, but then waved me on encouragingly as if to say, “It’s not your fault, go.”
Catching up, I was led towards an un-extraordinary-looking man with shaggy blond hair and a three-day stubble stache.
“Bill, this is Ron. You’ll be with him today.”
Ron greeted me with a genuine smile, and we shook hands. As we shook, I noted that his handshake was confident without being overbearing; it was a good handshake.
The manager sped off, and Ron and I got straight to work setting up folding tables. We’d only done a couple when the manager returned and asked Ron if he knew where all the linens were kept.
Ron nodded his head and said, “Yeah, boss, what do you need?”
The manager told Ron that after we had these tables all set, the tables in Room 2 needed to be dressed.
Ron nodded his head in understanding, “We’re on it, boss.”
Ron and I continued setting up tables until the manager was out of sight; then Ron walked over to one of the waitresses whom I knew had been working at the Center for several years and said, “We’ve been told to dress all the tables in Room 2.”
He didn’t ask her any questions; he just stated aloud the task we’d be assigned.
In response, the waitress dropped what she was doing, led us to the linen closet, and explained everything we needed to know to get the job done. I was dumbfounded. Ron had acted like he knew exactly what was expected of us when he’d actually had no clue. He continued this routine throughout the night as various tasks or assignments came our way. No matter what it was, Ron always acted as if he knew what he was doing, and because of his confidence, everyone believed he did.
I was fascinated by this behavior and watched everything closely. But finally, after yet another of these incidents, I blurted out, “Ron, what’s your secret? You’ve only been here three days, and you’re practically running the place?!”
Ron looked surprised, then with an easy smile, he said, “I used to be in the military, and it’s important to always say yes, even if you don’t know what it is exactly that you have to do. As long as you understand the gist of what is being asked, you can always find someone who can show you how to do it. All the boss cares about is that you get it done, so say yes, then do whatever it takes to get it done.”
He’d said it in his own way, but Ron was applying the “fake it until you make it” principle. And after watching Ron for those few hours, I finally understood what that expression really meant.
Technically, Ron never claimed to be anything he wasn’t; he just stepped up and took responsibility for things. As long as he thought he could handle whatever request was being made, he said yes. And by doing so, Ron made our manager’s job easier.
In response, the manager continued to give him more responsibility.
And because of that willingness to say yes, Ron had bypassed people who were more experienced and arguably more deserving of promotion.
This blew my mind because I’d always thought leadership was granted because of your actual abilities in a given area, but maybe that’s backwards.
By saying yes to everything, Ron exposed himself to more opportunities to learn. And while the rest of us waited to be ready before stepping up, Ron stepped up and figured out the readiness part later.
That mindset, more than skill, had accelerated his growth.
* * *
I thought about it all night, and as I rode my bicycle home, I decided that from now on, as long as I was certain I could figure something out or find the answer, I would say yes and figure out the how part later.
Chapter 8: What Am I Doing
Months passed without a single day off. And before I knew it, the holiday season was upon us again.
Mervyn’s asked me to come on full-time to help handle the rush. The California Center for the Arts had extra shows that needed technical help. The banquet center was booked solid with holiday events. And people were so tired from the season’s chaos, the pizza orders never stopped.
I said yes to as many of the requests as I physically could, maniacally bicycling from one side of town to the other as I raced from job to job trying to meet the needs of all my employers.
I killed myself all winter to keep up.
And now, finally, the moment I’ve been waiting for.
I tear open my December statement from Bank of America.
Statement period, December 1996
Total Deposits for the month $1621.98
Current Balance $43.22
Disappointment hit me like a blow.
This was supposed to be my best month ever, and technically, it was. $1621.98 was the most I’d ever earned in one month. But to maintain the non-stop schedule, I was spending my earnings as fast as they came in. I didn’t have time to meal prep, so I was eating out nearly every meal. Then, I splurged on some cassette tapes to try and make the commutes across town more bearable, plus a million other little expenses that I couldn’t remember because they were too insignificant.
But once all those expenses were added up and subtracted from the total, I was left with just $43.22.
It didn’t make sense.
I was doing everything I was supposed to do. Work hard, don’t call in sick, go above and beyond, and you’ll be successful! Isn’t that the promise?
I did all that, and I still hadn’t saved enough to fix my truck.
It felt like I was pouring money into a bucket that’d had its bottom sawn off.
I looked down at the bank statement with its neat little summary of my spending and earnings and thought, “I should do a summary like that for the rest of my life, with everything calculated, on one page, just to see where I’m at.”
Grabbing one of my ever-present drawing pads and a pen, I mapped it out:
Bicycle Mileage Chart:
My house to the pizza place: 3.3 miles east
My house to the retail store: 1 mile west
My house to the theater: .5 miles north
Work Schedule:
4-5 days per week, retail store
4-5 days per week, pizza place
0-2 days per week, theater
0-4 days per week, banquet server
My most frequent double was Mervyn’s to Little Caesars. I'd ride 1 mile to Mervyn’s for the morning shift, then home to change, before riding 3.3 miles in the other direction to get to Little Caesars, and then ride back home again. That was 8.6 miles on my one-speed BMX bike in addition to my two, six-hour shifts.
Doing that five days a week added up to nearly 45 miles a week; multiply 45 miles by 52 weeks, and that equals 2,236 miles a year.
By keeping that schedule for a full year, I’d ridden over 2,000 miles just to make a measly $5.15 and $6.50 an hour!
I’d always been thin, but this cycling regimen had dropped my 6'5" frame down to 165 pounds. I looked sickly.
Not knowing what else I could do, I decided to set a goal for myself: Make enough money to fix the truck before January 1 the following year, or I have to sell it.
This plan condemned me to another year of this insane work-and-cycling schedule, but getting the vehicle fixed and expanding my range seemed like the only way to get ahead.
Just one more year, I told myself, keep going, you can win the game of life. You just have to refuse to let anything break you or slow you down.
Chapter 9: The Wall
The last year slipped past so quickly that I barely noticed it was gone — along with my twentieth birthday, which was forgotten, even by me. I was working a double that day, and it wasn’t until close to six in the evening that the thought surfaced. Hey, it’s December 15th, my birthday. That realization lingered, because it was the first time I had ever forgotten it. Every birthday before had been something to celebrate, another milestone in the journey towards adulthood, but with how hard I was working, it no longer seemed to matter. What mattered was getting up and keeping on.
Now it’s January 1997, and I know the routine:
Work my morning shift at the retail store, clock out, and ride my bicycle home for “lunch.” At least, that was the intention. In practice, those breaks became naps. I took every second of sleep I could steal, and when the alarms went off, I’d spring up, pull on my still-dirty Little Caesars uniform, and race across town on my bike. Once there, I’d clock in and immediately make myself a medium pizza. I’d coat the raw dough with calorie-rich garlic butter and stack it an inch thick with toppings. When it came out of the oven, I’d head to the back of the store, sit on the big bags of flour we used to make dough, crack open a two-liter of Mountain Dew, eat the entire pizza, and start my shift. By the end of the night, the Mountain Dew would be gone, its caffeine and sugar fueling the madness. The store closed at 10:00 pm, but since I was managing, I rarely left before 10:45 or 11:00 pm. Then I’d hop on my bicycle and ride home. Hot or cold, rain or shine, it didn’t matter. If I needed to be somewhere, I rode.
Then I’d be up again at 5:00 am the next morning to repeat the process.
I believed I had infinite reserves, that I’d always be able to dig deeper, but you can only borrow against tomorrow for so long before the loan comes due.
One day, as I was making this normal transition between the morning and evening jobs, I set two alarms to make sure I’d wake up on time from my nap. But when I did wake, it was dark outside. I’d overslept, somehow sleeping through both alarms. Grabbing my phone, I saw three missed calls from the pizza place. I didn’t even listen to them; I knew what they’d say. Instead, I called the store.
A tired-sounding voice answered, “Little Caesars Valley Parkway, pickup or delivery?”
“Hey José, it’s me, I’m so sorry.”
“We got slammed tonight, and no one else was available, so I had to cover for you. I had plans tonight, but I had to cancel.”
“I’m really sorry. Do you want me to still come in? I could help with closing?”
“Doesn’t matter, the rush is over.”
I was about to say more, but the line clicked. He hung up on me.
The store would be closed in another ninety minutes, and I knew my presence wouldn’t really make any difference now. But I threw on my uniform anyway and ran down the stairs to my bike. Then, riding as fast as I could, I crossed town to the store. When I walked in, I weathered José’s angry glare, punched the clock, tied on an apron, and headed straight back to the dish area.
What I found there made my eyes bulge: a literal mountain of pans and trays, stacked taller than me.
In preparation for this monumental task, I pulled the stoppers on all three sinks to drain them and start fresh.
Big mistake!
The grease trap, which had been temperamental for months, belched a foul mixture of oily slurry and clumps of half-rotten food from beneath its steel lid. I tried breathing through my mouth to ease the gagging, but that only made it worse as the spoiled corn oil stench coated my throat. The yellow ooze with rainbow film spread across the floor like the Blob. And every few seconds, another wet glurp pushed more foulness up from below, as if satan himself were in there, clawing to get out.
With everyone already pissed at me for being late, I knew I was on my own. So I prepped a mop bucket with copious amounts of bleach and Simple Green, then swabbed up as much as I could.
I filled the sinks with hot water and soap. Then I scrubbed like a medieval skullery boy. The pans had hard, baked-on crud, and nothing came easy.
After two hours, I was soaked from head to toe with sweat, grease, and dishwater.
I’d made a sizeable dent, but was far from finished.
Grabbing a steel putty knife that was kept for this very purpose, I scraped it from heel to toe along the bottom of my shoe, dislodging an insole-shaped layer of gunk from its bottom, a task I repeated on the other foot.
Then I bent over and rested one elbow on the sink for support, while the other hand aimed a stream of hot, steamy water over the soaped-up pans. I forced myself to keep going. But for the first time, I admitted that I couldn’t keep this up; I’ve never hit the wall like this before; I’d always had enough in the tank to keep going before.
But this… It’s a wake-up call…
I washed dish after dish and pan after pan, and at some point, started repeating that old saying in my head: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over, all the while expecting a different result.”
I need to do something different, but what?
I didn’t know…
But I have to figure it out, and soon…
Chapter 10: A Way Out
A few days later, I parked my bicycle in the break room at Little Caesars. Then I started my medium pizza, two-liter of Mountain Dew, sit on the flour sacks, and eat routine.
I was run down and essentially useless until the caffeine and calories kicked in. Luckily, the big boss turned a blind eye to my slow starts because he knew I’d skip my fifteen-minute breaks later in the shift.
As I sat there, the morning manager stopped by to chat before clocking out.
“Billy Boy, Billy Biilly Bo Billy, I’m ready to split on out of here. You got this?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I think we can handle it.”
“Alright, alright,” he said. “Oh, have you met the new delivery driver yet? He can juggle just like you, and he’s real good too.”
“No, I haven’t. What do you mean real good?”
“Speak o’ the devil,” my manager said, looking towards the front door of the store.
A young man wearing an ill-fitting Little Caesars delivery driver shirt and cap walked towards us.
My manager said, “Yo, Dustin, you gotta bust out some of those juggle juggle moves, I want you to show Billy Boy here.”
“You want a show?” Dustin responded, turning his cap backward as a show of getting into character. Then he made his way to the walk-in cooler, where the pizza dough was stored. Opening its door, he reached inside and grabbed a large, twenty-ounce dough ball. Then he took it to the sheet-out table, where the dough balls were flattened for pizza making. He picked up a wheel cutter and sliced it into five equal-sized pieces. As he worked, I got the distinct impression that though he was new, he’d already been asked to do this a few times. He then dipped the five pieces of dough into a bath of bleached flour to neutralize their oily stickiness. He then formed the five lumps into spheres and began to juggle. All five dough balls rose into the air, one following another, deftly dancing around one another in a gravity-defying display. It was amazing, and I knew how difficult it was, so I expected him to drop or for the balls to collide with each other and blow out, but they didn’t; he was solid.
“Whoo whee, we got ourselves a circus right here at Little Caesars; it’s a Caesars circus up in here,” my manager whooped.
In response, Dustin started throwing tricks — one hand sent the balls higher and over the top of the others, changing the pattern. I’d never seen anyone change the pattern with five before. It looked effortless, like magic, but better than magic because it was real.
“OK, Dustin,” my manager interrupted, “wrap it up, you’ve got a delivery.”
Dustin stopped the pattern, easily collecting the five dough balls into his hands.
We all clapped, and Dustin made a show of taking a bow, placing one hand behind his back and the other in front of him as he did so.
Then he turned his Little Caesar’s hat back to face forward, loaded two pizzas into a red delivery bag, and headed towards the door. As he walked away, I noticed that when he’d put his hand behind his back to bow at the end of his show, it had left a little white splotch of pizza flour on the back of his shirt.
Then he was gone.
My manager looked at me and said, “I told you he was good.”
“Yeah, he is,” I responded.
“I guess you’re not the best juggler on staff anymore.” He said, laughing as he walked away.
Yeah, I guess not, I thought to myself.
Back when I’d first come on at Little Caesar’s, I’d casually mentioned that I could juggle and had been asked to do a similar demonstration as Dustin had. I’d juggled two of the wheel-style pizza cutters and a less-than-terror-inducing old butcher knife they kept in the kitchen for cutting blocks of cheese. Everyone had been suitably impressed, and I’d been known as the house juggler ever since. But I’d never learned to juggle more than three. And Dustin was only the second person I’d ever seen who could do five.
I felt myself fading from the present, traveling back to fifth grade, drawn into one of my movie memories.
* * *
It was a Monday morning, and I was sitting at my desk when a student volunteer dropped a colorful catalog in front of me. Curious, I picked it up. Inside were pictures of brightly colored juggling balls, juggling pins, spinning rings, plates, and, near the back, a shiny chrome unicycle. And stapled to the back of the catalog was a mail-order form.
I thought to myself, Wait, you can just order this kinda stuff and learn how to do it?
As if hearing my thoughts, our teacher spoke.
“Boys and girls, this week we’re going to have a special guest. His name is Jonathan, and he’s a circus performer. You’ll see him outside during recess and at lunch, where he’ll be teaching juggling and other circus skills to anyone who wants to learn. Then on Friday, he’s going to do a performance for us in the cafeteria. If you want to order anything from the catalog, have your parents fill out the form you just received and bring it back by Wednesday. Then your juggling equipment will be delivered on Friday.”
The prospect of learning to juggle caught my attention in a way I recognized. I had always been fascinated by things that moved: airplanes blazing trails across the sky, RC cars zipping around, hackey sack, chain reactions of dominoes, marble runs, Rube Goldberg machines, and, of course, soccer, which I played compulsively. Anything to do with motion and timing spoke directly to my soul, and I’d happily lose myself in any of them whenever I could. My mom had noticed this early, even noting it in my baby book:
“He can lie in his crib for long stretches, completely absorbed by the spinning, wind-up mobile above his head.”
Movement soothed me then, and it soothes me now. And juggling felt like an ultimate act of immersion, a way to become one with this movement I loved. I suddenly felt like I was exploding, and I knew I had to try!
The moment the recess bell rang, I leaped out of my seat, but instead of running to the soccer field like I usually would, I ran to look for the juggler.
Spying a guy in colorful patchwork pants with long wavy hair and a scruffy brown beard, I knew I’d found him.
Jonathan was talking to the sixth-grade teacher, who was shakily maintaining a juggling pattern. Jonathan smiled and pointed, clearly giving tips. Then, when the teacher dropped, Jonathan took the props to demonstrate, quickly gliding into different moves and trick variations.
I wanted so badly to step forward, but I froze. My shyness took hold, and my body locked up with a paralyzing fear that I wouldn’t know what to say, or worse, that everyone would turn and stare at me. So, despite my excitement, I watched from a distance, too shy to approach.
At lunch, I tried again, but by the time I’d found Jonathan, he was already surrounded by kids. I hovered nearby, pretending to tie my shoe, hoping to be invited in, but no one noticed me. And I couldn’t force myself to step into the circle. I hated being shy; it felt like a defect that kept me from doing things I wanted to do. And I knew I missed out on countless opportunities because of it — opportunities like this — but I just couldn’t push myself past it.
The rest of the week was equally frustrating: I’d run out at every break, desperate to learn, only to find myself held back by the same paralyzing fear. And because I stayed so far back, no one realized I wanted to try. So I just watched, picking up what I could.
When Friday arrived, we went to the cafeteria for the performance. Jonathan cracked jokes, did tricks, danced around the stage, and made us all laugh. His energy was magnetic, and I was enthralled by the many colorful objects as they whirled through space and time.
Then came the finale.
He picked up five colorful balls.
Five? I thought, That can’t be possible!
He shuffled his feet nervously, wound up, and threw them all straight up at once! Then, screaming at the top of his lungs, he ran off stage. The balls crashed to the ground, and we all laughed, because of course, he’s not going to juggle five!
But then he came back, calm and confident. He collected the balls and did it for real, juggling all five. It was beautiful; smooth, controlled, precise. We all clapped excitedly. And in that moment, I knew something more surely than I’d even known anything before.
When I grow up, I want to be a professional juggler.
* * *
The memory came and went in an instant, so fast that when I returned to the present, I could still see Dustin through the store’s front windows, loading the big red pizza delivery bag into the back of his car.
Then he drove away.
I stood frozen beside the 400° pizza oven, in my body, but my mind far away. I’d forgotten that I’d ever dreamed of being a juggler; forgotten the weeks I’d spent teaching myself, forgotten the countless hours spent in the backyard practicing. And how I’d loved every second of it, the feeling of working through the movements, the rhythmic slap of the objects hitting my hands, and the feeling of the patterns as they etched themselves into the folds of my brain.
But, much as I’d enjoyed it, I also knew it was a silly dream; no one can actually make a living juggling, right?
Just moments before, I’d been exhausted, completely beaten down by the endless grind. But now energy coursed through me. My senses sharpened, colors became brighter, sounds sharper, and I could even smell the woody scent of the folded pizza boxes beside me.
My brain began to spin a meteor storm of thoughts and possibilities.
Could this be what I’ve been waiting for?
Is this what I’m here to do?
* * *
Later in the night, there was a break in the delivery schedule, and I had a chance to learn more of Dustin’s story. He said he was in college and performing regularly, doing local gigs and earning money as a juggler, magician, and fire-eater.
“You can eat fire, too?!” I exclaimed in amazement.
“Yeah, blasts too!”
“What’s a blast?” I asked.
“It’s where you take fuel in your mouth and spit it at the flame so it makes a giant fireball.”
Wow, that’s crazy. I thought. And he talked about it so nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. I was amazed.
I kept asking all kinds of questions about juggling, like how much he practiced and whether he had any tips for juggling four balls.
He was very patient and gave me some pointers.
* * *
The next morning, I showed up at Little Caesars over an hour early and started work right away, quickly dumping big bags of flour into our giant electric mixer, adding the yeast and water, and running it until I had a huge ball of pizza dough. Pulling the whole from the mixer, I quickly cut and weighed pieces to size, sixteen ounces for medium, twenty ounces for large. Once cut, each piece was kneaded, rolled into balls, and placed on an oiled tray. These would proof overnight to become the dough balls for tomorrow’s pizzas.
Some guys were super fast at this, but I never was. Mostly because I hated making dough — it was boring and repetitive — so I’d procrastinate. And on most days, I’d barely finish before the afternoon shift came in.
But today would be different.
By noon, with my early start, I was sliding the last tray of dough into its rack.
This left me with sixty minutes of uninterrupted practice time before the afternoon crew arrived.
Grabbing a cold ball of dough, I cut it into four pieces.
Despite the time I’d spent practicing as a kid, I’d never learned to do four balls, and I was determined to put Dustin’s tips to work.
He’d said, “Four is just two in the right hand, and two in the left hand, done at the same time.”
That tip alone was a huge help because when you juggle three balls, they switch hands. Right-hand throws go to the left, left-hand throws to the right. But with four balls, the right hand throws to itself, and the left to itself, which was a completely different pattern.
I gave it a try, but it’s a disaster; all the dough balls crashed into each other.
After fifteen minutes of practice, I’d gotten a few short runs. But the pattern would grow narrower and narrower until it collapsed in on itself. It was frustrating, but I kept at it, and soon enough, something clicked. Multiple times, the balls found their groove, and it would go, go, go.
With only an hour’s practice, I could now juggle four balls.
Buoyed by this progress and still wanting to practice more, I handed things over to the afternoon shift manager, then rode my bike to a nearby sporting goods store to buy five crocheted hacky-sack footbags.
I’d been a big fan of hackey sack in high school, and often played for an hour or more per day. So I’d gotten pretty good at it. My thinking in buying hacky sacks to practice juggling was that I’d not only get juggling balls, but also have five new hacky sacks. So whether I ultimately ended up catching them in my hands or kicking them off my feet, I’d have plenty of uses for them.
Or at least that’s how I convinced myself to spend $100 I didn’t have on five hacky sacks. ($20 a pop, yeouch!)
Once I got home, I started working on five.
When you add more items, the throws need to be higher. Making higher throws gives you more time to get the objects into play. But this created a problem; I’m 6'5", and whenever I threw five in my low-ceilinged bedroom, they’d bounce off the ceiling. I needed a way to solve this, so I placed a pillow on the floor in the corner of my room. Then, kneeling on the pillow, I tucked a second pillow under my butt, then sat back on my heels. A few test throws confirmed this position gave me enough ceiling height, and I resumed practicing. From 5 pm to 2 am, I sat and threw those five bags into the air, and every time, it was chaos. They hit the wall; they hit each other. My throw heights were uneven, with some too high and others too low. And when the throws did go out halfway decently, the hackey sacks still popped out of my hands, or I’d miss the catch entirely.
I knew I had a knack for this, but five was really hard. As much as I wanted it, I knew it wasn’t going to happen in one day, no matter how much I practiced. Calling it a night, I began to unfold from the kneeling position. My body protested, sending pins and needles to show its anger over having been twisted into a pretzel shape for so many hours. I went slowly, letting my circulation return, until I could regain my feet. Reaching down, I picked up the black pillowcase-encapsulated pillow I’d been kneeling on. As I did, I saw two long, pill-shaped sweat stains where my knees had been. I guess I’d never realized how sweaty knees could be before. The pillow I’d placed behind my knees was in a similar state, though its sweat pattern defied description, amoeba-shaped maybe. I threw both of them in the dryer and went to sleep without pillows.
After that, every night when I got home from work, I’d find that corner and plop down to practice five-ball juggling for two hours; that was the rule. No matter how tired I was, no matter how early I had to wake up the next day, I made practice my priority.
It took thirteen more days of that before I experienced my first real runs with five balls. And on the fourteenth day, I got twenty-two catches.
The progress felt amazing, but I wanted more.
I was ready for more.
* * *
For the next few weeks, whenever our shifts aligned, Dustin and I would talk about juggling and performing, and we eventually became friends.
One day, after I’d told him about my progress with five, he even invited me to his house. Once there, he juggled, showed me some magic tricks, and even ate fire, which was so cool. I was blown away by it all; here was a guy who wasn’t that different from me; we were both working at the same pizza place, both just starting to figure out life, but he was somehow making money from juggling. So, I asked how, and he explained that he’d landed an agent who sent him out to do events. He said he’d started out by twisting balloons, another skill I’d had no exposure to.
I wanted to learn it all, and kept asking questions. But when I started asking about agents and getting work, his answers got really vague.
I guess it makes sense not to want to help a potential competitor when you’re trying to make opportunities for yourself. But he was so much better than me, I couldn’t imagine he’d feel threatened.
So I asked if he would ever consider teaming up, but that only exasperated the situation. I imagine he felt that he had lots to give and only things to lose by working with me.
And who could blame him? What did I have to offer? I could only juggle a little. And other than the five hacky sacks I’d bought, I didn’t even have gear. All the props I’d ordered back in elementary school had long since been lost or broken. So if I was going to get better, I needed to get some props.
I asked Dustin where he got his equipment, but he wouldn’t tell me. It took another month of my asking before he finally acquiesced and gave me a beat-up old catalog. It was for a company out of New York, which I had never heard of, called Dubé. Flipping its creased pages, I saw photo after photo of amazing, colorful props, clubs, balls, rings, scarves, cigar boxes, and more.
I thanked him for the gift, but he shrugged and said, “That’s pretty old; the prices might be outdated.”
But I wasn’t worried about that; to me, it was a holy item, a tiny lifeline to this world of object manipulation. A world I knew little about, but one I deeply wanted to become a part of.
Chapter 11: When Are You Gonna Get Serious?
As soon as I got home from Dustin’s, I pored over the catalog.
I loved everything!
I wanted one of everything!
But I had to limit myself because I was so broke. And after some painful concessions, I’d narrowed it down to the absolute essentials.
Totaling the items, I wrote out a check and mailed it off to Dubé
The next few weeks passed so slowly, and then a big box finally arrived. I ripped it open and found my beautiful props inside. I juggled the clubs first, which felt great. I’d had a set of American single-piece injection-molded clubs as a kid, and they’d been great to learn with. But these new ones were completely different. They had a sleek Euro design, a hard body that slipped over a wooden dowel, and a soft-wrapped handle with rubber knobs at each end. Thinking ahead, I’d ordered four of them, since you can’t learn to juggle four clubs if you don’t have four clubs.
I decided right then that four clubs would be my next big challenge.
My mom watched all this with bemusement; it wasn’t the first time I’d become obsessed with something. She’d humored my ten-year soccer phase, even letting me play on three different teams at once for a year. She’d seen me through a skateboarding phase, the hacky sack phase, a flatland freestyle bicycling phase, even the starting my own businesses phase when I was ten years old; she’d supported me through it all.
Then, a few weeks later, another box of props arrived, and still, she didn’t say anything.
Then a unicycle appeared, and again she said nothing.
Then I bought a six-foot-tall giraffe unicycle.
Which admittedly was a stretch, since I couldn’t even ride a regular unicycle yet. But it looked so cool, I couldn’t resist!
Then, one day, she walked in, and I was standing behind the sofa, watching an episode of Saved By The Bell on TV, while balancing on a rolla-bola board — a plastic cylinder with a board on top that I’d just made because I could make it more cheaply than buying one out of the catalog.
She burst out, “Why are you buying all this juggling stuff?!
“I didn’t buy this, I made it!” I shot back.
“You need to get serious and start working on yourself! Or go to college! Or get your truck fixed! How much have you spent on all this anyway?”
“Over $2,000,” I admitted, “but it’s gonna be ok, all I have to…”
She cut me off, “$2,000!! With what you’ve spent on all this juggling crap, you could have fixed your truck! How are you affording this?”
“Well, I was actually thinking of selling the truck.”
“Sell the truck?! WHY!?”
“To help pay for all the juggling stuff.”
She rarely got angry, but this threw her over the edge. “You know, maybe it’s time you started paying some rent. If you have all this extra money to spare, you might as well be helping me make ends meet.” Then she disappeared into the kitchen to make herself something to eat.
I wanted to explain; I wanted to tell her: This is me taking things seriously, that this is me trying to make something of myself. But she couldn’t hear it, couldn’t see what I could see, so I let it go. And who could blame her? What parent wants to hear their child say:
“I want to be a professional juggler.”
I couldn’t expect it to make sense to anyone else, but it made sense to me.
I called the local newspaper and placed an ad in the classifieds for my truck.
Two weeks later, a gentleman came by and handed me $1,300 in cash.
The tow truck he’d brought with him winched my little Dodge Ram fifty out of its spot in the carport, then tied it down and hauled it away.
I looked down at the $1,300 with dreamy eyes. When you’re starting a business, cash isn’t for spending, it’s for building. And I now had 1,300 “get stuff done slips.”
I’ll need a costume soon, I thought, and eventually, a prop table.
Chapter 12: Roger the Juggler
A part of me kept hoping Dustin would change his mind about teaming up, but I really didn’t think it would happen. And I knew I needed to find other jugglers.
There was a rumor of a juggler named Roger who street-performed on Carlsbad Beach, so I decided to try to track him down.
There wasn’t any real plan, just a vague hope that I’d spot him practicing in a park or catch sight of the VW Bus I’ve heard he lived in.
So whenever I could, I’d borrow my mom’s car, drive up and down the coast, weaving through side streets, looking for some guy tossing clubs in the air. But these searches turned up nothing; he was a ghost.
I kept trying, but the weeks went by without any luck. And with no way to look him up or track him down, I gave up.
Two weeks later, on a rare evening off from work, I asked my high school sweetheart to the beach to watch a sunset.
We’d met during my junior year of high school. I’d been sitting in my last class of the day, drama, daydreaming about something. But then, I saw her walk past the long line of windows with her waist-length, flat-ironed blonde hair blowing behind her in the wind. She stopped at the door to talk to another student, and my heart hammered against my ribs. She was average in height, thin, with a fast, friendly smile and sparkling blue eyes—a total California girl, but with a gentleness that made her feel approachable.
Up till then, my every attempt at romance had ended in awkward silences or the dreaded “you’re like a brother” speech. But that day, I somehow overcame my introversion and, despite not knowing what to say, walked over and said “Hello.” That was it. No smooth lines, just a greeting.
The next day at lunch, she found me while I was playing hackey sack with friends and asked to borrow a dollar. I gave it to her, assuming I’d never see it (or her) again. But the next day, she tracked me down and paid me back. It wasn't until months later that she confessed she’d given me back the exact same dollar bill—she had just used it as an excuse to talk to me. That “loan” was, as far as I could tell, the best value any young man has ever gotten for a dollar. She was wonderfully supportive of everything I was doing and seemed to understand that the time I spent working and practicing was necessary to finding my place in the world. It made moments like this, our rare times together, extra special.
As the sun hovered over the horizon, we settled in on the concrete seawall. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I remember thinking nothing could make this moment any more perfect, but then out of nowhere, there he was: the ghost I’d been chasing, unloading gear and setting up to do a juggling show right in front of us.
Finally!
I felt the familiar, restless pull, and I squeezed her hand, a silent apology for interrupting our date, and stood up.
She gave me a supportive smile that said, “Go ahead,” so I walked up to introduce myself as a fellow juggler.
Roger looked me over, sizing me up, “Can you pass clubs?” he asks.
“A little,” I say. “My friend Dustin and I have done it a few times.”
“Can you juggle torches?”
“Oh no, I’ve never done that.”
“But you juggle clubs, right?”
“I do.”
“Alright, then you can juggle torches.”
Without another word, he turns to the dozen people sitting on the concrete seawall and shouts, “This guy’s a juggler! So we’re gonna do something special.”
He reaches into his case and lifts a set of well-used juggling torches into the air.
“We’re gonna light these on fire, then pass them between us.”
We’re gonna do what?! Terror grips me, and my stomach jumps into my throat. The voice inside my head starts screaming, Wait, I’ve never performed before, no, I can’t, I’m way too scared! But it’s too late, the crowd is already leaning in, intrigued.
He launches into a bit about needing a lighter. Someone holds one up, so he takes it, puts it in his pocket, and immediately asks for another one. When someone else offers one, he takes it too, and then, with a grin, he pulls the first one back out, getting an easy laugh from the crowd.
He flicks the lighter, and the torches roar to life.
He tosses me one. I catch it. Two more, and it’s go time.
He yells the universal signal for we’re starting, “Hup!”
We start.
From the moment I make the first throw, I feel the difference. And I don’t just mean the heat; the flames create drag as they spin, shifting the weight of the torches, so every throw feels unpredictable.
I know I should be terrified of the fire. But I’m so much more afraid of messing up in front of all these people. And the fire, intense as it is, pales in comparison to the pressure of the audience’s eyes on me.
Then, as soon as I think I might be getting the hang of it, I drop one.
Doh.
I scramble to pick it up, and we start again. The crowd cheers, impressed despite the mistake.
Roger yells, “Hup,” again, and we stop.
And just like that, I’ve performed in front of an audience for the first time.
Roger started into his next routine, so I returned to my girlfriend on the seawall, my heart still pounding with adrenaline. As I approached, she gave me one of her winning smiles, then whispered, “You were so good.”
She always knew what I needed to hear.
Roger continued his show, doing all kinds of cool tricks, but his finale is the best: he balances on a giant green walking globe while juggling torches.
After he takes his bow, I go up and drop five bucks into his hat, “Great show,” I tell him. Then, hoping this might lead somewhere, I add, “Would you want to get together and practice sometime?”
He smiles appreciatively but shakes his head. “These days, the show itself is my practice.”
Then a woman walks up, and he shifts gears instantly, flashing a grin and flirting with her. Within minutes, they plan to meet at a bar after he packs up.
I don’t want to give up just yet, so I throw out one more offer. “Well, what if we did a show together sometime? I could help you juggle fire.”
Roger pauses, then picks up his black top hat and holds it out so I can see inside.
I guess that there’s maybe forty bucks in there, or maybe less.
“There’s not enough money in there for me,” he says. “So there’s definitely not enough for both of us.”
I nod. I get it. “Thanks anyway,” I say, then turn and walk away.
Once again, I felt like I wasn’t even in the running, and I knew I’d have to find another way.
I believed I had potential, but you can’t get by on just potential.
Chapter 13: Meeting a Master
I’d learned a lot from watching Roger’s show. And I now knew that a street show, performed at sundown by the coast, could earn me about $40 in tips.
Mervyn’s was only paying me $6.50 an hour, so it’d take six hours to make the same $40.
A street show could be a start, but that alone fell far short of what I’d need to make this a career. If I were to have any hope of performing professionally, I needed to expand my skills, and adding fire torches to the repertoire seemed like a great way to do just that!
Flipping through the same juggling catalog Dustin had given me, I picked out the juggling torches I wanted, and then noticed on the same page a product I’d never heard of before: Fireballs.
From my earliest juggling explorations, I’d always been partial to ball juggling, so the idea of juggling flaming balls was too good to pass up. I impulsively added a set of three to my order sheet.
Then I wrote a check, sealed my order and payment in an envelope, and sent it off.
When the box arrived, I immediately went out front of my apartment to try the Fireballs. They were essentially spiral balls of wire, dipped in silicone to dissipate heat. Each ball had metal caps at both ends, where the wicks were attached to its hollow interior. Each cap had a small hole through which fuel could be injected to saturate the wicking material tucked inside.
Lighting them up, I juggled them for the first time. My first thought was that they weren’t very nice in the hand; their size and feel made advanced trickery challenging. And though the silicone wrapping helped dissipate the heat, they didn’t stay cool for long. Anything more than thirty seconds, and your hands begin to burn.
Hmm, not the most practical prop, I decided, but still, I’m glad I understand how they work. I blow them out and refuel for a second burn. As I do this, I hear a man’s voice from the second-story window of the apartment next to the one I live in, “Is that hard to do?”
I looked up but couldn’t see anyone through the window screen, so I asked, “Do you know how to juggle?”
“Yes,” he shouted.
“Well, if you can already juggle, it’s essentially the same. You just have to keep them moving so you don’t burn your hands. Do you want to try?”
“I do,” he said. “I’ll be right down.”
I continued my refueling exercise. A few moments later, I heard the sound of his apartment door.
Then, a Hispanic-looking man with short dark hair approached. He wore a plain black t-shirt, loose-fitting black cotton pants, and slipper-like black shoes that looked to be made of felt. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties, and he spoke with no accent.
“Do you want to try with some regular beanbags first to warm up?” I asked.
“No, I want to juggle those,” he said, pointing at the Fireballs.
With anyone else, I might have insisted he try the beanbags first, if only to see that he was, in fact, a competent juggler. But there was something in his manner, a confidence in his stride, so I didn’t argue.
He reached out for the Fireballs, and I placed them in his hands. Then I lit them, and he started juggling, quite competently, in fact.
“Have you juggled fire before?” I asked while he was still juggling.
“No, never!” he laughed.
“Well, that’s pretty good.” As I said this, he dropped; I’d broken his concentration by talking to him. But I quickly grabbed the drop and handed it back so he could continue.
“Man, they’re starting to get hot!” He said.
“Yeah, stop anytime you want to, or just drop them, and we’ll extinguish them.”
“Ok, here, I’ll throw you one,” he said, throwing me one simultaneously.
I caught it and, with a big blast of breath, extinguished the flame.
He copied me and blew out the other two before handing them back.
“Thank you,” he said, “that was exhilarating.”
“Of course,” I said. Then asked, “Did you just move in? I thought that apartment was empty?”
“No, we’ve been here for four years now.”
“Really? We’ve been here for a while, too, but I’ve never seen you.”
“Well, we keep to ourselves mostly. So why are you out here juggling? I see you almost every day with your unicycle and stuff.”
“I want to be a professional. Perform, do gigs. Or, at least, that’s the dream.” As I said this, I absentmindedly, and with a wince, reseated my right shoulder into its socket.
Noticing this, he asked, “What’s wrong with your shoulder?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s stupid, really. I tried to slam-dunk a basketball one time in high school, and it’s been a little fussy ever since.”
“Ah, well, since you let me juggle, let me do something for your shoulder. It’ll help it heal. Come with me.” Then he turned and walked towards his house. His tone was one of authority; he wasn’t asking me, yet there was no threat in his tone, and I felt completely safe. So I followed him up the walkway and into his home.
There were no lights on inside, and the interior was dim, illuminated only by the trickles of light that had wormed their way through the holes and creases of the window’s horizontal blinds. There was a distinct herbal medicine smell, like a cross between Vicks VapoRub and an Asian restaurant. Not unpleasant, just crisp. Looking into the living room, I was surprised there was no furniture, not even a table; the floor was completely clear. But there were dozens of black-and-white, eight-by-ten photographs ringing the living room. I walked over and looked at the first photograph, and was surprised to see an old Asian man standing next to Arnold Schwarzenegger. Then I went to the next photo, and the same old Asian man was next to Jean-Claude Van Damme, then Chuck Norris, then Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, Sylvester Stallone, and on and on. Every action hero you could think of was on the wall. My host said nothing as I did this; he just watched.
I’ve never been one to get star-struck; I can appreciate people’s work without being a fool about it, but this was admittedly pretty incredible. Then my new friend spoke over my shoulder, “Do you notice that they are all standing behind him in every photo?”
I hadn’t noticed before, but I did now that he pointed it out. “Why is that?”
“It’s a sign of respect,” he answered. “In Chinese tradition, you stand behind whoever is the most respected and revered of the group.”
“Why is he with all these people?”
“Because he is Shifu; he is their teacher.”
“Teacher of what?” I asked.
“Many things.”
“Is he your teacher?”
“He is.”
“What did he teach you?”
My new friend looked at me, or maybe it was through me, like he could see something more than eyes alone are intended to see.
“I want to show you something,” he said, then walked up the stairs to the second floor. I followed, sensing it was what he’d intended.
He opened the door to one of the bedrooms, and I followed. As I passed the threshold, I was stunned by the simplicity and complexity, and how those contradictory descriptions seamlessly combined in this one space. To the right was a small, simple bed. No frame, no blanket, just a sheet over a narrow mattress. A small nightstand was beside the bed, with one or two personal items on top. Under the window was a low-slung table draped with a decorative cloth. On this table were two black-and-white eight-by-ten photos of my new friend. In both, he wore a black Gi and practiced martial arts. Next to this table on the floor was a simple cloth sack nestled inside a short wooden box. Then, my eyes began to scan the walls. Hanging on simple nails was every martial weapon imaginable. Swords, sai, a bo staff, nunchucks, a chain with a heavy metal handle attached, a three-sectional staff with chains linking the sections, various knives, and more. And none of these items looked like the cheap flea market, Look how cool I am; I bought a sword, type junk.
These were legitimate weapons.
“Do you know how to use all these?” I asked.
“Yes, weapons are my specialty. He…” he motioned down the hallway as he said this, “thinks I have too many, says it brings bad energy to have them, but I don’t care, I like ‘em.” Then he picked up two pairs of nunchucks and began to move. These ‘chucks had wooden handles connected by nylon cordage, so as he worked, the only sound they made was the whoosh-whoosh sound of the air being cut; the speed he generated with his swings was dazzling. He swung them high and low, turning side to side and doing it all in a tiny space without hitting the walls or giving me the slightest sense of fear. He was in absolute control of the weapons.
“Man, I’ve never seen anyone move them that fast. My brother had a set years ago that he’d play with, but nothing like this.”
Without slowing his movement, he asked, “Did your brother’s set have cordage or chain linking the handles?”
“His were chain,” I answered.
“Yeah, chain is clunky, loud, and slow. And you can wear through the metal; cordage is the way to go.”
“You can wear through the metal?” I asked skeptically.
Still chucking at lightning speed, my friend looked at me and nodded, “Yes, I’ve worn through several sets of chains.”
Given his matter-of-fact tone and obvious mastery, I didn’t actually doubt it. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out a pack of gum. “Want one?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, “You can put mine on the table.
I did so, then unwrapped mine and put it in my mouth. Then I looked around for a trash can for the little silver foil wrapper.
“Hey,” he said, “ball that wrapper up and throw it at me.”
“Ok,” I said, wadding it up, “just say when.”
“Whenever you like,” he answered.
“Anytime at all?”
“Yep.”
I held the wrapper in my hand, watching as the handles of his ‘chucks whizzed by at skull-crushing speeds. Then, when he seemed relatively committed to a complex sequence, I quickly threw the wrapper at him.
THWAAP, he batted the wrapper straight back at me.
“Pick it up,” he ordered.
I did, then threw it again, this time harder.
THWAAP, he knocked it away again. I was stunned.
“Pick it up,” he repeated.
This continued, and I threw it several more times, but each time he defended perfectly, effortlessly. I’d of called it some “Matrix-level shit,” except this was 1997 and that movie wouldn’t be released until 1999.
From down the hallway, I heard a voice yell angrily, “Hay, whut yu doin! No fighting!!”
“We’re not fighting,” my friend retorted, “I’m just showing him some stuff.”
A little old Asian man, maybe in his 60s, but definitely the man from the photos downstairs, leaned his head in through the doorway to look at me. Then he told me, “Yu tell him tu, no reason all these weapon. Yu tink this help yu bad guy come?”
My friend answered, “Yeah, I’m about to drive off a bad guy right now.” Then, he turned and assumed a fighting stance toward the old man.
The old man’s eyes widened, then he shouted, “Oh, yu wanna mess wit me mudduh fukkuh?! Yu tink yu bad!” He turned and marched down the hall with purpose, then returned a moment later, waving a large semi-automatic pistol. “Yu tink yu toys stop a bullet, yu tink yu gang banger?!”
My friend dropped his nunchucks and held his hands up placatingly, but the old Chinese man continued to push him and yell at him threateningly. My friend fell to the ground with hands raised to defend himself, so the old man looked at me and said, “Yu see eveyting, it self defence, he attack me.” Then he turned back to my friend and shouted, “I kil yu, I don’t care, better than what happen I not find yu! Stupi Mexican!”
Now, they both broke out laughing, the kind that occurs between the closest of friends. Somehow, even though I barely knew either of these men who were brandishing deadly weapons, I never once felt any fear; there was mirth in the exchange.
The old man offered my friend his hand and helped him up, then he looked at me. “Whu yu?”
My friend answered for me, “He’s our neighbor. He let me juggle, so I brought him up. His shoulder is hurt. Can you help him?”
“Ohhhh, I see yu on funny bicycle.”
My friend jumped in again, “It’s a unicycle.”
“No, funny bicycle, I say, yu say yes Shifu.”
“Yes, Shifu,” my friend answered.
Looking back at me, he said, “Wish shoulder?”
I pointed to my right one, and he grabbed at my shirt, tugging it he said, “Take off.”
Then, to my friend, he said, “Get Jow.”
My friend responded, “There’s some in the drawer.”
Opening the drawer of the tiny table next to the bed, the old man saw many jars and began to shout again, “Five jar, yu steal from me!”
My friend again laughed and said, “No! Well, yes, but I need them!”
“Five jar! Yu tief, never change!”
I had my shirt off, and the old man grabbed my shoulder and moved it through its normal range of motion. He did not ask me what happened or where it hurt; he could feel everything he needed to. And to my surprise, his inspection was painless. Then he lifted my arm and had me hold it just so, then he lifted under my arm and, with a quick jerk, seated it more deeply than I’d been able to myself. “How feel?” he asked.
I moved my arm up and down a little, then said, “Wow, it’s great, thank you.”
“Good,” he answered, then he unscrewed the cap from one of the jars and began to rub a strong medicine-smelling ointment into my shoulder. “This make heal,” he said.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Dit da Jow,” he said in a tone that indicated everyone in the world knew what that was.
“Oh,” I answered.
When he’d finished rubbing in the ointment, he told me, “No shirt, Jow stain.”
I nodded and thanked him, then he left.
Looking at my friend, I asked, “How’d he know how to fix my shoulder?”
“He apprenticed under a Chinese doctor when he was young.”
“So he’s a doctor and a martial artist—that’s impressive,” I said.
“And a farmer, a blacksmith, a politician, and a diplomat. His father sent him to live with other masters for training; it was the old way.”
“He’d go live in other people’s houses? Like a worker?”
“No, like a son. And the sons from these other families would go to live with his father to do the same. All families of the aristocracy did this; it created political stability and deep bonds. When those boys grew to be men and were charged with ruling the country, they would be less likely to go to war with a family that had once taken them in and treated them as one of their own. It was that way for centuries, but then Mao Zedong came to power and began his revolutionary purges. My Shifu was young then, so he fled; he escaped over the wall, and eventually made his way to England. After a few years there, he received a letter from the queen that granted him special passage to the US.”
“The Queen gave him a letter?”
“Yes,” he said, standing up and walking into the hallway. He lifted a framed picture off the wall where it had been hanging and held it out for me to see.
Under the glass was a very ornate and official-looking legal document; it had a picture of a woman wearing a large crown, whom I ventured to guess was the queen. All of the writing was hand-calligraphic and looked a little like the copies I’d seen of the US Constitution, but much fancier. At the bottom of the document was a signature in ink, differently colored from the rest of the writing. I didn’t have time to actually read it, but it looked exactly how I’d expect a Queen’s letter to look.
“So he came to the US, then what?”
“He opened a school teaching martial arts, and when he was discovered, he started choreographing fight scenes for action movies. Right around then, he found me. I was just a street kid getting into trouble, fighting, and stealing, and I didn’t have anybody. So he took me in, set me straight, and I’ve been with him ever since.”
“Like he’d been taken in by those other families,” I said.
“Yeah, just like that,” he said.
“Okay, explain this to me, then. How did he climb the wall and escape if he was just a little kid? He’s what, sixty years old, maybe sixty-five?”
My new friend laughed at this, “sixty-five?! Try eighty-five!”
“He’s eighty-five? No friggin way! He looks way younger.”
My friend looked at me and asked, “How old do you think I am?”
“Mid-thirties?”
He laughed again, “I’m fifty-three.”
“No way!” I exclaimed, “How? You both look so much younger.”
My friend cupped his hands together, and I could tell he was trying to think of how to explain something complex but in a quick and easy way.
“We eat simple, exercise, regular training, meditation, the things you’d expect. But it’s also important to balance the body’s Chi.”
“What is Chi?”
“The body is made of energy, and with training, you can learn to control that energy.”
“Right,” I said; despite what I’d seen so far, I could not hide my skepticism.
Reaching under the table by the window, he slid out a couple of magazines that had been stowed there. The covers said “Kung Fu Magazine.” Opening one of them, he quickly found a page and held it out to me to read. On it were a series of black-and-white photos showing his Shifu standing in a robe, holding a coconut. Then, in the next photo, he raises his arm; in the next, his arm is traveling down with such speed that the camera only catches the blur; in the next, the coconut explodes from the impact, sending shards and liquid spraying out. Then, on the next page, there was another series of images, which were of the old man’s hands. I couldn’t figure out what was happening except that the latter photos looked foggy. “What’s happening in these pictures?” I asked.
“He’s focusing his Chi energy, generating so much heat that his fingertips are smoking.”
I looked even more closely at the photos. The quality wasn’t the best, kind of grainy, so I didn’t really believe it was smoke. Plus, now that I was studying juggling and magic, I’d learned some of the techniques magicians used to do their tricks. So I just figured the old Shifu was mixing in a bit of trickery for show. But that said, everything else I’d seen had been exactly what they’d said it was, impossible as the story seemed.
“Ok, seriously, how does one train that?”
“Well, one way is to learn Iron Palm. That’s what he’s doing with the coconut in the photo, but it takes a long time, lots of discipline, and a lot of Jow.”
“So what is Iron Palm, and what is Jow made from? Is it like Tiger Balm?”
“Jow is an herbal ointment made from special or even secret ingredients. There is a similar version you can buy here in the US, and yes, there’s Tiger Balm, but neither of those is the real stuff, so he makes his own, which is why he gets so mad when I take the jars.”
“And Iron Palm?”
“See that bag over there?” He pointed to the cloth sack next to the table that I’d seen earlier. “Pull it out from the wall and kneel in front of it.”
I did as he instructed.
“Now, hit it with the palm of your hand.”
I did. “Ouch, that’s hard!”
“Yes, it’s currently filled with small river stones. But when you begin, it’s filled with sand, and you strike it with the right palm, left palm, right butt of hand, left butt of hand, right back of hand, left back of hand, then roll your hand over, tuck away the thumb, and hit it with the knife edge of the top of each hand.” He demonstrated as he explained. “Now you try; just do it softly at first.”
Sitting straight, I began to repeat the pattern, hitting the bag with my right then my left, slowly gaining in speed and confidence as I fell into the pattern.
“Yes, just like that, now breathe,” he said.
“How long do I have to do it?” I asked.
“A year,” he answered.
“A YEAR!” I stopped hitting it.
“Yes, and each month, you change the filling, gradually making it harder and harder. So you start with sand, then small pebbles, wood chips, small river stones, etc., and by the end, you can do it with a solid piece of rock. But you have to rub Jow into your hands every day, breathe, meditate, and not miss any days because if you do, you have to start over.”
“And you’ve done this all the way through?”
He nodded, “Several times.”
“And then you can break coconuts with your bare hands?”
“I’ve seen a guy who could punch holes in cinder blocks after becoming a specialist in Iron Palm.”
“And he didn’t get hurt?”
“No, but he used real Jow. People here try to do it without having access to real Jow, and they mess themselves up.”
I was deeply fascinated by all this, but I noticed the light coming through the blinds had dimmed. I’d lost track of time, and the sun was going down while all of my juggling props were still out in the front area. “Hey, I don’t mean to run, but it’s getting late, and I gotta go grab my juggling stuff.”
“Yeah, alright, but I have a question for you: why don’t you believe in Chi energy?”
“I was raised Christian, I believe in that and nothing else,” I said confidently.
“Do you know what Jesus’ primary message to the world was?” he asked.
“None come unto the Father but through me?” I answered.
“Yes, he said that, but no, what was his real message?”
“Uh, I dunno,” I answered.
“Be cool,” he said.
“Be cool?” I asked.
“Yeah, be cool. Love your neighbor as yourself—that’s being cool. Don’t steal or covet—be cool. Treat others as you want to be treated—be cool. In fact, if you study any major religion that has ever existed, they all have the same message: Be cool.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I said.
“Well, it’s just something to think about.” He stood up and headed for the stairs, so I got up to follow him.
As we reached the bottom and turned towards the exit, he said, “I really appreciate you letting me juggle the Fireballs, so I want to show you something. This is not something I ever show anyone, that’s not what it’s for, but I think you’ll understand.”
Stepping into the kitchen, which was now quite dark, he raised both of his hands in front of himself, palms up. Then, he began to breathe deeply, loudly, and with purpose. With each inhale, he would rub his fingertips together the way you might if you were balling up a paper straw wrapper. Then, on the exhalation, he would slowly separate fingers, drawing them outward the way one might if they were wrapped ‘round with a heavy rubber band. He repeated the exercise for about thirty seconds, then I began to see little flashes of light emanating from his fingers, like miniature LEDs darting along the lines of his fingerprints. He intensified his breathing, and the light became brighter; now, when he separated his fingers on the exhalations, the fingerprint pads on all ten of his fingers actively glowed. Not like a flashlight, not like some manmade source would. It was more delicate, the way a grouping of fireflies would light up if they all turned on at once, or how the bioluminescent algae look when they’re illuminating the surf off San Diego during a full moon. It was magical. He continued the demonstration, and on the final handful of breaths, I saw tiny sparks fly between his fingers, similar to how you can occasionally see the spark from a shock of static electricity when it’s discharged in dim light. Then, his breathing began to normalize, and as he did so, the light in his fingers dissipated. A few more moments passed, and he stood still in front of me, hands still raised in front of himself. He opened his eyes.
I spoke first, “I mean no disrespect, but would it be ok if I felt your hands?”
Without a word, he held his hands a few inches closer to me, indicating his blessing.
I reached up and felt his fingers, feeling the tips where the light had been, searching for some glow-in-the-dark fluid or some tiny device that could have emitted the light. But there was nothing there, nothing that could have created the effect, and his hands never left my sight. I dropped my hands in puzzlement.
“How?” I asked, dumbfounded.
He said nothing, only looked at me.
“It’s real?” I asked, though it wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” he said simply.
“How?” I asked again.
“The mind and body are more powerful than you can imagine, but they must be trained.”
I nodded, hoping I’d understood, but not certain that I had. Then, I turned and walked toward the front door. Stepping outside, I turned back to look at him once more, “Thank you; you’ve given me much to think about.”
He nodded and started closing the door, but I stopped him. “Hey, what’s your name anyway?”
He looked at me and said, “Miguel. What’s your name?”
“Bill,” I answered.
“Bill,” he repeated, then he gently closed the door.
* * *
As I walked down the darkened walkway to collect my props, the night felt different, though nothing around me had changed.
Then a phrase I’d never heard before surfaced in my mind.
Humble Greatness.
And it fit…
Chapter 14: Jonathan
During several of our conversations, Dustin mentioned having an agent, but he never said where he’d found him or how much he made from the gigs he was working.
But he had one, and he was getting gigs, so I figured that if I was really going to do this, I needed an agent, too.
I just had to figure out how to find one.
Everyone was talking about this new internet thing, and how you could find anything on it, and that seemed like a good place to start. So on my way home from a morning pizza shift, I stopped by a grocery store to grab one of the free AOL CDs.
When I got home, I fired up the cheap computer my mom had bought when she went back to college. Then I inserted the AOL disc and double-clicked to start the install.
I knew that the internet worked over the phone line, so I double-checked to make sure my mom didn’t need to make any calls, then clicked the button to dial in.
The modem made its distinctive, “urrrr EEEE urrr NNNGGGG CRRRRcrrrr KEEEEEEE grrr nnnnnng ding ding ding,” sounds, and then the computer speaker chirped, “You’ve got mail,” and a little mailbox with a red flag popped up. I clicked it to see what I’d gotten, but the “mail” turned out to be just a welcome message from AOL.
From there, I found a search field and tried to look up local agents or entertainment bookers, but nothing came up. I tried searching for some other things too, just to see what it could do, but it seemed most businesses hadn’t yet bothered to get themselves listed.
So, I grabbed a good old-fashioned phone book.
Flipping through the large Yellow Pages, I found the section that featured local entertainment agencies. Some of the ads were much larger than the others, and I knew from when my parents had listed our family’s sign business in the Yellow Pages years before, that those bigger ads cost extra. I extrapolated this to mean that the bigger ads were from bigger, more successful agencies, so I didn’t start with those.
Instead, I looked for the simple single-line ads, the ones with just a business name and phone number listed. Sliding my finger across these, I landed on “A Plus Entertainment.”
I had no idea what to say, so I was beside myself with nerves, but I dialed the number anyways, and a nice-sounding lady answered the phone. After exchanging hellos, I said, “Hey, I’ve got a party coming up, and we wanted to hire a juggler. How much would that be?”
The lady said she’d have to get back to me after getting some quotes and asked for my phone number.
This froze me cold, and I started freaking out internally. I don’t actually want to book a juggler, I just wanted to know what they could make, and I thought she’d know, but she doesn’t, and I really don’t want to give her my number. I just want this agonizing subterfuge to be over.
“Oh, that’s okay.” I said, “Never mind. Thank you.”
She sounded confused but said, “Okay, well, I’m sorry I didn’t have the information you needed, but please keep us in mind if you ever need A Plus Entertainment.”
I hung up.
Gah, why is it so hard for me to talk to strangers? I hate that about myself, but I don’t know how to fix it.
I wanted to give up the whole thing. But that’d mean I was giving up on the juggling dream, and I didn’t want to give up; I couldn’t. I was committed — I’d even sold my truck to buy more props.
I took a deep breath and then dialed the next number without giving myself time to think.
This time, a guy answered, and I was more specific: “Yeah, how much for a juggler who can do balls, clubs, and rings?”
And, as with the first call, he told me he’d have to get back to me.
Ugh! At least I wasn’t as nervous this time.
Feeling frustrated, I called the next number in line.
A friendly-sounding fellow picked up, “Barnaby Entertainment, your premier costume character and birthday party specialist, this is Benny; how can I make your day?”
Having grown a little more confident, I asked, “How much would it cost to hire a juggler who can juggle balls, clubs, rings, a bowling ball, and a Chinese yoyo?”
There was silence for a moment, and then, instead of answering my question, he said, “So, you’re a juggler huh?”
Panic seized me; I was caught. I nearly hung up the phone, but something stopped me. Haltingly, I said, “Yes, sir.”
“Do you do anything else?”
“No, sir, I’m just getting started.”
“Ok, well, I offer more costume characters than anyone else in the area. We do special events and birthday parties. I’m also the most expensive party booker around. I figure that somebody has to be the most expensive, so it might as well be me. Hey, how tall are you anyway?”
“ 6'5" ” , I answered.
“Wow, that’s a little big for most of the costumes, but you’d fit in the bigger ones. Alright, let me introduce you to my juggler. You got a pen?”
“I do,” I said.
“His name is Jonathan, but he performs as Joyful the Clown. Maybe you guys can practice together. Here’s his number, 909.449.1133.”
I wrote down the number he gave me and repeated it back to make sure I’d taken it down correctly. Then I thanked Benny for the information and hung up.
I looked at the number and wondered, What are the chances it’s the same Jonathan who came to my school in fifth grade? How crazy would that be? How many juggling Jonathans can there be in Southern California? I doubted it would be the same one, but you never know.
I picked up the phone and dialed this new number.
A happy-sounding voice picked up, “Hello, Jonathan speaking.”
I introduced myself and told him about talking with Benny and that I’d like to get together to juggle sometime. He said he’d like to, but was right in the middle of moving. Would I mind getting back with him in a few weeks?
“Sure thing, I can do that. I just have one more question: Have you ever performed at elementary schools?”
“Uh, no, I haven’t, but I’d like to.”
“Yeah, me too!”
We both laughed at this, then hung up.
Finally, a juggler who actually wants to juggle with me.
I opened my paper calendar and wrote a reminder on it to call him back in three weeks.
* * *
I continued with my normal routine: working and practicing five balls every night. And one day, while practicing four clubs in the front yard, I even made it to twenty-one catches.
I was getting better, little by little.
Three weeks later, I called Jonathan again.
When I did, a kindly-sounding woman answered.
“Hi, can I speak to Jonathan?” I asked.
“Oh no, he’s moved, but I’ll give you his new number. Is this Joe?”
“Uh, no, this is Bill.”
“Oh, hi Bill, this is Nancy, Jonathan’s mother.”
“It’s good to meet you, Nancy, Jonathan’s mother,” I responded.
She laughed at this and said, “It’s nice to meet you, too. Ok, do you have a pen?”
“I do.”
“Okay, it’s 909-342-9912.”
I thanked her, and we hung up.
Then I called the new number.
* * *
We made plans to meet at a park near my house, so I rode my bicycle there with all my juggling gear packed in a backpack.
In my mind, I’d built up this picture of who Jonathan must be: probably a fifty-something, long-haired, tie-dye-wearing, grizzly-bearded hippie type. But when I actually saw him, he was this athletic guy, about 5'11", with piercing blue eyes, short black hair, and a big, disarming smile. Definitely not the crusty old hippie I’d pictured.
We introduced ourselves and got to juggling.
As we practiced, I admitted to Jonathan that I’d pictured him as a fifty-year-old hippie with long hair and tie-dye, and he laughed, because he’d assumed the same thing about me. We both cracked up over it. And we discovered that we had a lot in common: I was twenty, and he was twenty-two; we both had two brothers, and, weirdly enough, both worked as assistant managers at different Little Caesars Pizza locations. We even shared stories of pranks we’d pulled on our pizza-making co-workers, then laughed when we discovered we’d come up with similar gags; it was a “great minds think alike” kind of moment.
When I mentioned that my parents had divorced, Jonathan shared that his father had been killed in a tragic accident, so both of us had grown up with our moms. Then he told me about the birthday party gigs he’d been doing for the past few years: twisting balloons, painting faces, and working with Benny, the agent who’d introduced us. Jonathan explained that when he did gigs for Benny, he’d dress up as Batman, a Power Ranger, or some other popular kids’ character, drive to the party, and entertain. He also did restaurant work on his own, going table to table making balloon animals for tips.
I appreciated how open he was about it all. He didn’t seem threatened or guarded, or like he was trying to keep secrets. He was generous, giving, and happy to share what he knew. From the get-go, Jonathan and I were on the same wavelength.
Near the end of the session, Jonathan pulled out a diabolo, or Chinese yo-yo, and I said, “Hey, I have one of those too!” We started messing around, showing each other the few tricks that we knew.
Then we tried passing clubs, which was a disaster! Nothing was connecting, and it took us a while to realize we’d each learned different timing; So while he was passing on every throw, I was passing on every other. Eventually, we figured it out, and even with all the drops and misses, we had fun.
Then Jonathan told me stories about rock climbing, cliff jumping, and skydiving. And I shared stories about going bungee jumping and flatland BMX freestyle riding. It all felt effortless, like we’d known each other for a lot longer than a single afternoon.
At the end of the session, I asked, “You wanna do this again sometime?”
He said, “Absolutely.”
After all those weeks of searching and dead ends, I’d finally found a juggler who also wanted to juggle.
Chapter 15: Juggle Club
Jonathan and I started meeting a few times each month to practice together. In one of these sessions, he told me about a guy named Bobby Hartman that he’d run into at an event he was working. Bobby ran a juggling club called “The San Dieguito Manipulation Society” out of the Boys and Girls Club in Encinitas.
The club met every Tuesday, and there were a number of really good jugglers there.
Then Jonathan added, “Do you want to check it out?”
Knowing it was a forty-minute drive from where I lived in Escondido to the club in Encinitas, I said, “Heck yeah, I’d love to check it out, but I don’t have any way to get there.”
Jonathan shook his head as if to say no problem, and said, “I’ll pick you up.”
* * *
The following Tuesday, we pulled into the Boys and Girls Club, parked, and walked into a basketball gym. Upon entering, we saw a handful of people juggling and a dozen kids running around. Off to one side was a thin, sandy-haired guy with a sharp nose. Jonathan pointed at him and said, “That’s Bobby Hartman. I watched his show once, and for the finale, he juggled three torches on a six-foot unicycle. He’s really good!”
Bobby noticed we were looking lost, so he came over to welcome us and said that Sean was supposed to pop in later. I just nodded my head, pretending I knew who that was. Bobby told us to have fun, then walked over to give some of the kids tips on their juggling. I was excited to get to juggling, but first, I took in the whole scene. In the far corner of the basketball court, there was a “staircase to nowhere.” And by nowhere, I mean it was an obstacle like you might see at a skatepark — something designed to be ridden. Next to it was a man on a unicycle, wearing bright teal tights and a black tank top. Grabbing the seat with one hand, he began hopping the unicycle up the stairs. One by one, he balanced and hopped and balanced again until he’d made it to the platform at the top of the five wooden steps. Then he made a show of losing his balance and rode backward down the five steps. My heart skipped a beat because I thought he was going to eat sh*t, but it was all part of the show. Then he repeated the process, hopping up the stairs again and repeating his backward descent. Jonathan whispered to me, “That’s Chaz, he’s been performing at Balboa Park for years. He’s got a twenty-one-foot tall unicycle that’s painted hot pink, and he drives around San Diego with it strapped to a rack on top of his VW bus.”
“He’s amazing!” I said.
“Yeah, he’s made an amazing recovery. A few years ago, he was doing a street show in Balboa Park, and while he had the twenty-one-foot unicycle leaned against a building so he could climb up it, he slipped and fell. Apparently, the city had painted some kind of slippery goop on the tops of the buildings to try and deter birds, and when he’d tried to grab onto the roofline, it made him slip off. It put him in a wheelchair for a while, and everyone thought he’d never ride again, but here he is.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I just stared wide-eyed.
In another corner of the gym, we saw two guys passing clubs. One was tall and athletic-looking, with dark hair and a swift smile. The other was thin and wiry, with reddish-brown hair and freckles. He wore a baseball cap backward and was leaned forward with one leg flagged out to the side. As he was passing the clubs, he was throwing the passes from his right hand across to the tall guy, but they were going from front to back, through his leg, then coming up over his shoulder as they were sent. It was as smooth as it was mind-boggling. Continuing these throws, the other guy started throwing tricks of his own, including overhand passes, behind-the-backs, fast flats, and reverse flips. However, no matter what he threw, the guy throwing the under-the-leg and over-the-shoulder passes kept his groove. The skill level was insane!
Having put the kids in motion with some juggling exercises, Bobby rejoined us.
“What’s the story with these guys?” Jonathan asked Bobby, pointing to the two juggling gurus who were passing.
“The tall guy is Steve, a computer programmer and game designer; he actually designed one of the top-selling sports games of all time. The other guy with the hat is Jeff King; he’s a pro skateboarder and part of the Caught Clean crew.”
“Caught Clean crew?” I asked.
“Yeah, Jeff, Sean McKinney, and Laban Phideas released a series of videos fusing skateboarding and juggling. It’s the best-selling juggling video of all time because it sold to both jugglers and skaters.”
As he said this, I watched Jeff begin throwing self-throws behind his back while still maintaining the outgoing trick passes to Steve; the skill was staggering. Feeling more inspired than ever, I asked Bobby if he’d give me some tips for five-ball juggling, and he told me to grab my props. After watching a few of my very short runs, he said, “You’ve got the basics; now it’s just lots of practice.”
“Thank you,” I said, and he walked away to help a group of kids just arriving.
Jonathan pulled out his juggling clubs and said, “Wanna pass?”
“Yes, yes I do.”
So we passed and tried our best not to look like noobs. After 30 minutes or so, Jeff King came over and talked to us. He had the easygoing style typical in the San Diego skate scene, an easy smile, and an acerbic yet endearing wit. We liked him immediately. “Mind if I feed in?” Jeff asked.
“Feed in?”
“Yeah, pass between the three of us?”
Jonathan and I didn’t know how to do that, but he assured us it was easy. Positioning himself as the feeder, or the person who’d be carrying the weight of the pattern, he told us when to throw. After a few false starts, we were passing clubs between all three of us. It was amazing; his throws were perfect, even when we threw him junk throws or off-time. Then he started throwing tricks on top of being in the most difficult position in the pattern. It felt like all I had to do was put my hand out, and the club would land in it. It was hard to comprehend how he’d gotten so good.
After a bit, Jeff said he needed to grab something from his car and would be back, so we continued practicing.
When he returned, Jeff interrupted us and asked conspiratorially, “Do you like spicy food?”
Jonathan said, “I do,” then added, “within reason.”
Jeff randomly yelled, “Hey,” across the gym, then motioned to the few people who’d actually looked to join us. Once he had a group of us huddled, he asked, “Anyone know what this is?” He cracked the lid on a little plastic to-go container and took out a couple of orange peppers.
Jonathan asked, “Is that a habanero?”
Jeff’s eyes narrowed mischievously, “It is. My family owns a restaurant. Who wants to try one?”
I shook my head. I don’t eat spicy food at all, and I’d heard habaneros were brutal. But Jonathan was braver, “I’ll try a little piece.” Jeff tore off a tiny piece for him, then asked if anyone else wanted one. One of the kids hesitantly raised his hand, so Jeff gave him a little piece as well. Then Jeff said, “Bottoms up,” and took a good-sized bite of the pepper himself. For a few moments, everything seemed OK, then Jeff started to groan. “Ahhhh, that’s intense,” he said.
Jonathan took a little bite of his and, within a few seconds, also started to react, “Oh man! That is HOT!”
Jeff said, “You just have to keep going,” and then he took another bite. The spice started to hit him hard at that point, and he began to leak drool off his lower lip.
Seeing this reaction, the kid who’d accepted a piece hesitated, not so sure he wanted one after all.
This continued for some time, with Jeff eating little pieces, drooling, and making the distinctly miserable sounds of hot pepper bliss. It seemed that skateboarding and juggling were not the only areas where he liked to push his limits.
When the pepper demonstration was over, Jeff declared that he had to run.
We shook hands, and he jetted.
We continued practicing right up until closing time, wanting to make the most of every second we could. The crowd thinned as more people went home, and it seemed like nothing else interesting would happen tonight. But then a guy wearing jeans and an old T-shirt walked in. He wore a navy-blue baseball cap over dark brown hair that peeked out from its brim. The only other thing that really stood out to me was that his forearms were abnormally large, like a real-life Popeye the Sailor. I quietly wondered what would cause the body to develop in that way. The man nodded a silent hello to Bobby, then set a small black bag on the ground, opened it up, and started to juggle three shiny metallic-looking peacock blue juggling balls. We only had to watch for a few seconds to realize we were in the presence of juggling greatness. I dropped everything I was doing and sat on the bleachers to watch. The man’s hands moved in impossible ways and at a speed that’s hard to imagine if you’ve never seen it yourself. He would throw them up and do a pirouette, throw another one up and do a double pirouette, throw another and do a triple pirouette. He juggled between his legs, behind his head, over his shoulders, above his head, off parts of his body, in patterns I’ve never seen before. I didn’t know it was possible to do so much with only three beanbags, and his trick vocabulary was astounding. Then he worked up to four balls and more amazing tricks. Five balls, six balls, seven balls, and eight balls followed, each more impressive than what had come before. Then, when my head was already melted by everything I’d seen, he did a dozen flashes of nine-ball. Plus, a number of runs with nine balls that were probably in the twenty-five to thirty-five catch range. And he did all of this with 3-inch beanbags. Most people switched to smaller beanbags for anything more than five, but he’d done nine with full-size props. After this, he put the juggling balls away, picked up a basketball, and played by himself. Bobby came over and sat with us. “That’s Sean McKinney,” he said. “He won the gold medal in the juniors division at the International Jugglers Association, and he’s worked on cruise ships.”
“He’s amazing,” I said.
“He’s one of the best,” Bobby answered.
As Sean played basketball, I wondered why he played basketball at all when he was so good at juggling; why do anything else?
I decided I wanted to be that good one day, to have that level of mastery with three balls, and to juggle nine balls. I just hoped it wasn’t too late. Most people started much younger than Jonathan and I did. And if we’re to have any hope of catching up, I knew that we’d need to train even harder.
* * *
From that day on, every Tuesday, Jonathan drove thirty-five minutes out of his way to pick me up, then backtracked to the club where we’d juggle, and then afterward, he’d drive out of his way again to drop me off before going back to his house. Round-trip, this would add almost 2 hours of extra driving to his day.
He could have said, “Sorry, man, you gotta figure out how to get there yourself,” but he never did.
Many people are short-sighted. If they don’t see an immediate benefit for themselves, they won’t go out of their way.
But Jonathan wasn’t like that; he was big picture, always thinking expansively. He could see possibilities, and he dared to believe that better things were just over the horizon; we just had to work hard and keep going to realize them.
Chapter 16: Rootberry
On a drive home from the juggling club, Jonathan and I talked and agreed that we needed to ramp up our training if we wanted to get better.
So, in addition to our now-regular Tuesday juggling club sessions, Jonathan started driving over to Escondido once or twice a week so we could practice. And each week, we got a little better. This continued for a few months. Then, after one of our best sessions, before Jonathan left for the day, he said, “Let’s sit in the back of my truck and have a chat.”
So we climbed into the back of his little blue Toyota truck for our first meeting. He sat on the passenger’s side wheel well, and I sat on the other. Then he asked, “Where do we want to go with this? We need a goal.”
Without any hesitation, I said, “I’ve been thinking about all those juggling videos we’ve been watching on VHS, and I think we should try to win the world juggling championships.”
His eyes widened, “Wow, that’s a lofty goal. Most of the people who do that have been training since they were little kids.”
“Well, even if we never win, we’ll get really good,” I countered.
“True,” he answered, “and that would help us if we ever want to do cruise ships or corporate events.”
“How about you? What’s your goal?” I asked.
“I want to visit thirty countries before my thirtieth birthday, and I was thinking we could start by going to Scotland, England, and Ireland.”
Now it was my turn to have wide eyes, “Wow, that’s a big trip. Why do you want to go there?”
“Have you ever heard of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival?”
I shook my head, “I haven’t.”
“It’s the biggest theater festival in the world. There are thousands of shows, and in terms of attendance, only the Olympics and World Cup surpass it. We could go street perform and make some money.”
“When is it?” I asked.
“The next one is in eleven months.”
“Alright,” I said, “Let’s try to go.”
My words were affirming, but in my heart, I knew there was no way; how would I ever save enough money to go do something like that? I’m working four jobs and still not getting ahead. But Jonathan seemed to think it was doable, and what’s the harm in dreaming? So, I agreed.
“Now there’s just one more thing we have to figure out,” he said. “What are we going to call ourselves?”
“Good point,” I said. All the professional juggling duos have catchy names like “The Passing Zone,” “Clockwork,” or “The Raspyni Brothers.”
So we both pulled out our ever-present notebooks and started shouting out some possibilities.
Two funny guys
Jugglers Vain
JugglerX2
“Ughhhh, this is hard…” I said, “What if we just used our last names? That’s what my parents did when they started their sign business, Berry Signs.”
“So, like BerryRoot?” he asked.
“Or Rootberry,” I said.
“Rootberry. It has a ring to it. Okay, well, let’s think about it. I’ve got a restaurant gig to get to, but I’ll catch you later.”
“Have a good one,” I said, jumping out of the back of his truck.
Once he’d pulled away, I went inside to get on the computer. I had an idea. I opened Internet Explorer and went to google.com. Google is a new technology that is trying to make it easier to find things on the web, but I’d only used it a few times before. They call it a search engine, so I searched “Rootberry.” There were two listings: a British children’s story that referenced “Rootberry pies” and a second for a fishing company that made lures in a “Rootberry” color.
At least it’s not a commonly used word, I thought.
Then I opened my email, something I’d only recently signed up for because a friend insisted that it was going to be the next big thing. Then I typed a list of potential team names, making sure to include Rootberry, and sent it to the twelve people I had email addresses for, mostly computer science and programmer-type folks I knew.
“Hey all, here are some potential names for our new juggling duo. What do you think? Do any stand out from the pack?”
The next day, I opened my email and received eleven responses. And all eleven people answered the same: Rootberry, 100%.
I called Jonathan and told him what had come back, and we agreed it was good enough for us.
From that moment forward, we called ourselves Rootberry.
We didn’t have much skill, but we had a name, goals, and each other as accountability partners.
Chapter 17: Failure
My phone rang, and when I picked up, it was Benny from Barnaby Entertainment. I hadn’t talked to him since he’d given me Jonathan’s phone number, but I recognized his voice right away. He asked how the juggling was coming along, and I told him everything was going great. Then he asked if I wanted to do a costume character event for him as Darth Vader!
I didn’t feel ready, and told him as much.
But he assured me it would be easy, and we set a time for me to pick up the costume and get the information about the gig.
* * *
A few days later, I drove to the hotel where the event was scheduled to take place, put on the costume in the parking lot, and walked into the lobby.
The hotel clerk barely noticed me, but the family waiting in line stared openly. I couldn’t blame them. My black boots with two-inch lifts made my already 6'5" tall frame feel even more imposing. I made a point to stand tall and pull my shoulders back, letting my dark cape blow in the breeze made by the fan above the hotel’s automatic doors. But with no sign of the party, my big entrance fell flat.
I wandered past the check-in desk, looking for the banquet hall where the performance was supposed to be happening, but when I found it, it was empty.
No people, no tables and chairs, and no indication that there’d be anything happening in the room anytime soon.
Hmm, had they rescheduled and forgotten to tell Benny?
It would be a bummer to have my first gig canceled, but at the same time, it would be a relief. Maybe I won’t have to go through with this thing after all. On the outside, I might have looked like a confident supervillain, but on the inside, it was a different story. I was terrified!
I’d never wanted to be the one on the stage, that’s why I’d enjoyed being a backstage tech so much, no limelight. So what was I even thinking, trying to be a performer? Maybe I’m kidding myself…
I didn’t know what to do. Benny hadn’t given me any instructions for, “And if you arrive at the event, but no one’s there, here’s what you do then…”
So I waited, and waited, but no one came to get me.
Eventually, I took a seat in one of the lobby chairs to contemplate it all.
Pulling back the cuff of my oversized black leather glove, I tried to make out the time, but the mask I was wearing had lenses darker than welding goggles. I held the watch right in front of my eyes, and I could finally see the time, 5:37 pm.
I’d been in costume for almost an hour now, and even with the hotel’s AC blasting, I was stewing in my own juices. I considered taking off the helmet to get some air, but Benny’s words echoed in my mind, “Once you are in character, stay in character. Don’t ever let them see you half in and half out of costume. It destroys the illusion.”
Bored, I let my mind wander, daydreaming until an overly done-up woman with long, bleached blonde hair stormed into the lobby.
“Oh my god,” she screamed, “we’ve been looking everywhere for you! Come on, you’re late!”
Without waiting, she spun on her red three-inch heels and darted back out to the parking lot.
I ran after her, surprised by her speed.
When I caught up, I started to apologize, but it died on my lips. Her expression was pure disgust.
A few more steps, and we entered a building almost identical to the one I’d just been waiting in. That’s when I realized what had happened. Though I was at the right hotel, I was in the wrong building.
A long, red carpet led to a set of double doors. To each side was a stormtrooper. Their pearly white armor gleamed in sharp contrast to the black laser blasters they carried.
Grabbing me by the shoulders, the blonde spun me towards her. With a trained eye, she quickly adjusted my cape, fixed a cuff, and straightened my plastic breastplate. Finally satisfied, her Botox-infused cheeks cracked under a forced smile that revealed unnaturally white teeth. In a voice dripping honey, she said, “Time for your big entrance.”
On cue, the Star Wars theme music, “Imperial March,” resounded through the halls. A set of double doors burst open, and the two stormtroopers charged inside. Fog machines belched smoke from behind large plastic palm trees, adding drama to my entrance. Stepping into the darkened room, I could feel the music buffet me. Special effect DJ lights created a visual kaleidoscope in the helmet, and all I could see were swirling balls of light floating in pools of darkness. I continued forward, hoping not to trip over anything.
The DJ came over the god mic, “Uhhh oh, it’s Darrrrrth Vader!”
The crowd roared and clapped.
The DJ continued, “Who will save us from this terrible evil?”
The crowd cheered again; then they started chanting something I couldn’t make out.
A sliver of green light appeared low and to my right. Dancing irregularly, the light grew larger and larger, causing an anticipatory hush to fall over the crowd.
Suddenly, the green light shot straight at my face. I raised my own plastic lightsaber, but not fast enough. The green light changed into hard plastic as it slashed into the side of my head.
The crowd let out that sound they do when a boxer takes a punch.
I heard Velcro rip as the two halves of the helmet I was wearing tore apart. The face mask portion went one way, and the helmet portion went the other; each made an unsatisfyingly dull clunk sound as they tumbled across the dance floor.
I stood stunned, with ears ringing from the attack, but now that the helmet was off, I could see. Beyond the dance floor was a bandstand where the DJ was set up. He was still holding the mic, but in his surprise, the words had stopped flowing. To the left were the adult partygoers, several of whom had brought a hand up to cover their mouths in surprise. To my right are the kids, all young boys, looking awkward in their tween-age bodies and un-tailored off-the-shelf dress clothes. In my peripheral vision, I caught a hint of the green light that had attacked me. Turning towards it, I came face to face with my attacker, figuratively. He couldn’t have been an inch over five feet tall, but he stood like a warrior, legs wide, knees bent, chest heaving beneath the thin fabric of his short-sleeved white button-down. In his hands, he held an extendable green lightsaber, now broken by his attempt to behead me. Its end sagged like a big green bendy straw. Our “battle” was over, and I was tempted to put a conciliatory hand on top of his head, but then stopped myself. Maybe there’s a prohibition against touching someone else’s yarmulke. Sensing everyone’s eyes on me, I suddenly felt self-conscious. Earlier that day, I had considered shaving, but then figured, “I’ll be in a helmet; no one’s going to see me anyway.”
Un-villain’ish’ly, I hurried over to where the face mask had landed and put it back on. Then, holding it in place with one hand, I fast-walked to the other corner of the dance floor to grab the helmet portion. As I put it all back together, Benny’s voice popped into my head again, “After the fight, make a big deal about how big and strong the kid is. Say that he is no longer a boy, that he is now a man and has proven himself.” As if she’d heard his voice too, a random woman took my arm and walked me to the DJ stand. I passed behind the sound equipment, taking care not to trip on the cords and wires, and joined the DJ in his booth. He handed me a piece of paper and whispered, “They want you to read this.” Then he turned to the crowd, lifted the mic to his mouth, and said, “Darth Vader will now give a speech.” I looked down at the handwritten message, but with the helmet on, I couldn’t read it. I tried holding it right in front of my face, but there wasn’t enough light. Finally, I noticed that the DJ had a little lamp on his control panel. I placed the paper right under the light’s bulb, but it was still too dark for me to see. An uncomfortable amount of time passed, and the crowd started to murmur.
Sensing that the speech was not going to happen, the DJ announced, “Well, folks, it looks like Darth Vader can’t read.” The crowd erupted into laughter, and by their laughter, I was truly vanquished. Stepping off the bandstand, I made my way back across the dance floor.
Smelling blood in the water, one of the boys yelled out, “You’re not the real Darth Vader!” Then, as a group, they started chanting, “You’re not real, you’re not real!” I wanted to be angry with them, but they were right; I wasn’t real.
Without stopping to speak with the clients, pick up a check, or anything, I fled to the car my mom had let me borrow so I could get here. Finally safe in the front seat, the adrenaline wore off enough that I looked in the rear-view mirror to see if anyone was looking for me. Unsurprisingly, there was no entourage of fans lining up for my autograph. But as I looked in the car’s mirror, I spied my own reflection. Looking closer, I realized that I hadn’t put the helmet back on correctly after the beheading. The face part looked good. It was hard to mess that up because your chin sat evenly with the bottom of the mask. However, the helmet part could be Velcroed on at various angles, and in this case, I had placed it with a distinct forward tilt. The result was that Darth’s forehead was completely covered, which made his face seem abnormally short and sunken above the eyes. I’d closed out the event looking like Darth Vader’s long-lost Neandertal cousin. My parting blow from the event where everything that could have gone wrong did.
Disgraced, I started the car and slipped out of the parking lot.
I wanted to forget that any of it had ever happened, but as I drove, all the worst parts replayed in my mind.
I saw the green lightsaber, felt it hit me in the head, remembered the sound of the helmet skittering across the floor, and the feeling of being exposed. The indignity, when the red-heeled woman adjusted my costume as if I were a prop. And the kids, chanting “You’re not real!” had all hurt.
But the moment with the DJ had cut the deepest. His “Darth Vader can’t read” joke landed right in an old wound.
As a kid, I’d struggled with dyslexia, and I missed long stretches of school because of my heart condition. By second grade, I couldn’t read at all, so the school put me in special ed, which gave the kids even more to tease me about.
But I’d worked my ass off, and with my mom’s help, I’d learned to read. And once I could read, I read so much that by fifth grade, I was reading at a college level, which I was proud of.
But in the moment, when they asked me to read the speech, none of that mattered. The crowd laughed at me anyway, and suddenly I was right back in 2nd grade being made fun of again.
I saw no appeal in the performance side of all this. Other than being a way to get paid to juggle, it had no redeeming feature, and I never wanted to do it again.
That’s it, I thought. I’m done.
Tears rose in my eyes, but I clamped my jaw to fight them back.
Without performing, there’s no way to make a living as a juggler.
And if there’s no way to make a living at juggling, my dream is over.
Chapter 18: Facing Fear
After the Vader gig, Benny called. He was upset because the client was refusing to pay, but once I told him my side of the story, he became very understanding and agreed to pay me right away. I later heard he’d had to chase them down for the money, but they did eventually pay.
As for me, I was gut-punched. And I really didn’t know what to do.
Jonathan listened to the story and was very encouraging, but he didn’t push me either.
Instead, he told me some of his own nightmare stories, like the time he was performing as Elmo in a bad neighborhood, and afterward, some guys tried to jump him for the money he’d just been paid. So he, as Elmo, grabbed a knife out of his car’s front seat and held it up to defend himself. Or the time he walked into a house dressed as Barney the Dinosaur, but because of the helmet’s angle, he couldn’t see that there was a low-hanging ceiling fan. He walked right into the blades and got rocked. The partygoers all laughed heartily. But poor Jonathan, literally not knowing what had hit him, tried to walk forward again, and the fan blades smacked him upside his head a second time. This made the partygoers roar!
“See,” he said, “it doesn’t always go perfectly.”
The commiseration did help a little; I suppose anyone can have a sour gig sometimes.
And despite my declaration that I was quitting, we continued to meet weekly for juggling practice. But our focus shifted a little, and for the next few months, we worked a little less on the juggling and a little more on just becoming friends.
A few times, we even skipped the juggling altogether, like the time Jonathan took me rock climbing. I’d never climbed before, but he was experienced, had all the gear, and was excited to share it with me. So I dove in headfirst, even buying climbing shoes, a harness, and a chalk bag on the way to the climb. I’ve always been this way. If I’m going to do something, I go all in.
Jonathan drove us to a spot he’d climbed before and explained that we’d be “top roping,” a setup where the rope runs from the belayer to an anchor at the top of the climb, then back to the climber to ensure they’re protected the entire way. To rig it, we scrambled up the backside of a massive boulder, eighty or ninety feet high, its pale granite surface rough and speckled with flecks of black and gray. Once we set the anchors and clipped the carabiners, we had to climb back down to a second boulder that was itself about forty feet tall. And that’s where the real challenge began: because to even reach the climb’s starting point, we had to step off that forty-foot block and traverse sideways along a narrow ledge at the base of the large boulder. This larger one hung like a stone lid suspended between the surrounding rock formations, and there was nothing but open air beneath.
Jonathan went first, calm and sure, and he climbed up as if it were no problem at all.
Then it was my turn.
I found a handhold, then stepped out to begin the traverse. I made the first few steps without incident, but then my right foot slipped, and I lost my grip. I felt myself swing off into open space, and that was it; I was falling. Heart in my throat, I screamed, certain this would be how I met my end. But the rope did its job, and instead, I found myself dangling below the start of the climb, legs kicking freely in the open air below. Adrenaline surging, I grabbed the rock above and pulled myself back up, then, hooking a heel, I levered myself back to where I could hold myself tightly against the rock. My legs were trembling so badly I got sewing machine ankles, where they bounce up and down in rapid jerky bursts. I was pretty shook up, but it’s not like I could call a time-out. There’s no quitting when you’re hanging out in the middle of a rock face.
Knowing I needed to keep going. I felt around for holds, trying to plan my next move. As I did this, I noticed blood smears all over the rocks above.
“Hey Jonathan, are you cut? There’s blood everywhere,” I called over.
“Look at your fingers,” he shouted back.
I glanced down and saw that my fingertips were shredded and bleeding. Sliding across the rock face had ground the skin right off, like a big cheese grater. Now aware of the injury, the pain kicked in. But it didn’t matter; I still had to climb out. Reaching back, I dipped my fingers deep into my brand-new black and white chalk bag and grabbed the block of chalk I had in there. Squeezing hard, I broke off an edge and crumbled it into powder. Then I dipped my other hand as well. Looking at my fingers, I saw they were now powdery white, interspersed with splotches of deep red coagulated blood. Reaching up, I tested my grip on a jug of rock. My wounded fingers squished against it in a way that reminded me of ground beef, but the chalk allowed me to get a solid grip. Finding a similar hold with my right hand, I started up. The trick I found was to always maintain three solid points of contact, only reach with one hand or one foot at a time, and by repeating this, I was able to climb out the top.
Afterward, Jonathan apologized, saying it probably wasn’t the best first climb.
But honestly? I didn’t mind. I want to do life all the way! Even if it scares the hell out of me! And if grated fingers are the price of admission, I’m happy to pay.
Still, Jonathan was definitely more of an adrenaline junkie than I was; he climbed, scuba dived, surfed, all of it. He’d even cliff jumped from as high as sixty-five feet.
He was also extroverted and funny, and he was already making his living as an entertainer.
He was a zillion things I wasn’t, and I knew he could have easily done what everyone else I’d approached had. He could have just told me it wasn’t a fit, that I wasn’t good enough, and that I didn’t bring enough to the table.
But Jonathan never did that; he kept showing up, and he kept working with me. He even started teaching me how to make balloon animals and talked about me getting a restaurant gig of my own someday.
He pushed me to be better and to believe in myself.
And deep down, I believed it too; I knew I could pull my weight if I just had a chance to catch my stride.
Scary as performing was, I really wanted to be a juggler. I just didn’t know how to get over all the fear — of being in front of people, of talking, of failing. How could I ever do this full-time? I didn’t know, but I wanted to figure it out.
Then one day, I got the idea to ask Jonathan if I could start tagging along to some of his gigs so I could watch and learn the ropes.
He agreed that it would be alright, so I started riding along when he’d do birthday parties or restaurant gigs.
Seeing him in action felt like getting a private masterclass.
When he was Batman, he’d do goofy karate moves and let the kids tackle him. When he did magic shows, sometimes the tricks failed completely. But he’d just laugh it off and keep going, totally unbothered. His only real worries were getting there on time, doing the time, and getting to the next gig. And he always seemed to know the right thing to say, no matter what.
At his restaurant gigs, I’d watch him transform into this charming, slightly corny balloon artist. He’d wear custom-made, black and yellow happy face pants, with a tuxedo shirt, bow tie, Three Stooges suspenders, and a bowler hat. Then he’d walk table to table, making balloon animals and cracking off lines like:
“Where did I learn this? At the Ballooniversity, of course.”
“What kind of flower is this? Right now, it’s a daisy, but later it’ll be a poppy.”
“All of these balloons are 100% guaranteed… To pop…”
And the people loved it. They’d laugh, pull out their wallets, and hand him tips.
I scribbled these one-liners into a notebook, soaking it all up.
After a few weeks of riding along, I felt a spark of confidence returning.
Maybe I could try again.
Jonathan put in a good word with Benny, and Benny offered me another gig. This time for a client who wanted all four Teletubbies. Benny had the costumes but was short on people, so he asked if I’d be Tinky Winky, the big purple one. Having Jonathan and two other performers with me made it feel safer, so I accepted the offer.
At the gig, it went fine. I stayed close to the others, waved my hands around, and took pictures with the kids. I didn’t get beat up, nobody yelled that I wasn’t real, and my headpiece didn’t fall off. It wasn’t exactly “fun” (the costumes were hot and heavy), but it wasn’t awful either.
And after the Vader disaster, having a “not awful” gig felt huge.
Thanks to Jonathan, Benny, and Tinky Winky, I felt like maybe I could give it another shot.
Chapter 19: 30 Days
I’d just ridden my bike home from my morning shift at Mervyn’s, but before I could go upstairs to change, my mom intercepted me.
Pointing to the sofa, she said, “Honey, can you sit down for a minute? I wanna talk to you.”
Her tone felt tense, so I knew it was important. And once I was seated, she continued.
“I want you to know, I’m gonna help you in any way I can,” she started.
“Help me with what?” I interrupted.
“Well, you know I finally got that pension payout now that your father and I are divorced. And well, Carl and I found a little trailer in a fifty-five-plus community. But no one under fifty-five is allowed to stay for more than fourteen days per year, not even family members, so you can’t come.”
“Wait, when did this happen?”
She stopped, then gave a little sigh, “I made the down payment yesterday. It’s a done deal,” she answered.
“Done deal? But you didn’t even ask me!”
“I know,” she said, “I had to. It’s a good opportunity and probably my only chance to own a home again. I’m sorry. You have thirty days to figure out where you’re going.”
She continued talking, but my brain shifted into overdrive, and her voice faded into the background. What am I supposed to do now? Where the hell am I supposed to go? I bit my tongue instead of spitting the words out. I’d have time for emotions later. For now, I had a major problem: where would I live?
Moving in with my dad wasn’t an option. He lived hours away, and if I left town, I’d lose all the connections I was building here.
Moving in with my high school friends wasn’t an option either. They were living four to a two-bedroom apartment, working dead-end jobs, partying, and going nowhere.
And, well, those were my options, all equally unacceptable.
So I didn’t have an answer.
Didn’t know where I’d go.
But I had to come up with something that wouldn’t dismantle everything I’ve been working toward.
Eventually, her voice again penetrated my reverie. “…I should have a little left over, so I’ll help you get a reliable car.” She was right next to me, but it felt like she was far away.
Looking down at my wristwatch, I realized I was gonna be late for Caesars.
“I have to go to work,” I said, standing abruptly.
“Do you want me to take you?” she asked.
“No, I’d rather ride.”
Running upstairs to my room, I quickly changed out of the still-damp with sweat button-down I’d been wearing, and threw on the black polo with the Little Caesars logo embroidered on the left breast. It smelled like pizza flour, but no B.O., so I knew I could get one more wear out of it before washing. Then I rode my bicycle the familiar 3.6 miles across town, which gave me a minute to think. I understood that she was trying to build a life for herself after the divorce. And maybe, it was the exact push I needed to dive headfirst into the next chapter of my life too.
When I got to work, I called Jonathan first thing.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Hey man, so, I know you’ve got a good thing going where you’re at, but what would you think about us getting an apartment together and training full time?”
“I think it’s a great idea,” he responded quickly. “When are you thinking we should do this?”
“Well, I’m at work now, so I’ll have to fill you in on all the details later, but I’m gonna be homeless in thirty days, so, how about in thirty days?”
“It sounds like we should probably aim for thirty days then.”
Despite the heaviness of it all, that made me laugh, “Alright then, do you care what city we’re in? Is Escondido ok?”
“If you can find a place that’s cheap, it’s fine with me,” he said.
“Right on, I’ll go get a newspaper right now and start looking.”
“Sounds good, lemme know.”
We hung up, and I walked straight across the parking lot to a neighboring grocery store, bought a newspaper, and, between pizza orders, started looking for apartments. Pretty quickly, I found one that seemed worth a look, and decided to go check it out first thing the next morning.
Then, remembering what my mom said about helping me get a vehicle, I looked at used car listings. A couple seemed promising, but one in particular really caught my eye. So I decided I’d ride my bike there too, right after looking at the apartment.
* * *
I pedaled across town and coasted into the complex for the first time. The apartments looked more like a cluster of tired one-story motels than actual housing, each beige building dropped haphazardly around a wide roundabout. In the center sat what the leasing office might’ve optimistically called a park, but it was nothing more than dead grass and weeds. Along the curb, every parking space was packed with cars that looked abandoned or on their last legs. At a casual glance, it might’ve passed for a junkyard.
The office manager walked me over to see the available unit. It was a tiny studio (445 ft²), with cheap carpet, flimsy panel-board walls, off-white blinds, and cabinets so thin you could almost push a thumb through them. Still, at $450 a month, the price was unbeatable. And since low cost was the only amenity I could afford, the decision was simple. I handed over the deposit on the spot, then called Jonathan and told him to give his thirty-day notice.
Next, I rode my bicycle to the used-car lot to test-drive a white 1993 two-door Suzuki Swift hatchback. The lot sat on the edge of an industrial stretch of town, little more than a cracked-up patch of asphalt corralled by steel poles and cable, and a handful of cars parked inside. A string of faded, once colorful pennants fluttered from a light post, trying to make the place feel more inviting than it was. The “office” was a tiny yellow stucco shack, barely big enough for a desk and two chairs.
The salesman came out to meet me, a heavyset guy in tennis shoes and jeans, with a tucked-in white polo that pressed against his belly, which itself spilled over his waistline in classic muffin top fashion. He was clean-shaven and businesslike, neither overly friendly nor sour, just a man trying to sell cars.
The tag read $3,500, but after the test drive, I talked him down to $3,400.
Not wanting to seem anxious, I left, then returned the next day to test-drive it again. This time, I took it home to make sure my six-foot unicycle would fit inside, which it did (these things are important, ya know). And I really liked it: great gas mileage, five-speed manual, real clean. Still, I left again without buying it, managing to talk him down to $3,300 in the process.
Then I went back again, this time with my mom, since she was the one actually paying.
The salesman led us into his small office, and I was trying to get him to lower the price even more, but my mom interrupted mid-negotiation and said, “We’ll take it.”
I believe I could have negotiated the price even lower, but it was still a good deal. I was just so broke; I literally needed and was fighting for every dollar I had.
My mom paid with a check, signed the papers, and I rolled out in my new-to-me car.
I still had a couple of weeks before the move, so I worked as many shifts as I could at my four jobs and saved as much money as I could.
And now that I had a reliable car, there was just one more thing to do. But it would have to wait until after I was moved into the new apartment.
Chapter 20: Burn the Net
On moving day, my mother loaded up her things and headed to her new home in the fifty-five-plus trailer park. I loaded my things into my little car. Small as the Suzuki Swift was, everything I owned fit inside except the mattress, which I strapped to the roof rack. Then I drove to the new apartment to unload. When I arrived, Jonathan wasn’t there because he had gigs scheduled and planned to move his stuff over late in the evening. So I unpacked, which didn’t take long. My entire kitchen loadout fit in a shoebox: one bowl, one plate, one cup, one spoon, one fork, one knife, one copper-bottomed saucepan, and a bright yellow plastic colander that had chew marks on its handle from where my childhood dog, Diamond, had gnawed on it as a puppy.
I hadn’t thought ahead enough to ask Jonathan what his preferences might be for furniture arrangement, not that there was much space to divide. I finally decided to put my bed in the corner, which left the slightly larger area beside the kitchen available for Jonathan to set up in.
Then I sat down to think.
Life has a way of presenting moments.
Like when I’d had the chance to get corrective heart surgery, that was a moment, a moment with the potential to change everything. And I’d taken it, and it did change everything.
I was learning to recognize these moments, and I knew that this was another of those moments.
I knew what I had to do.
Picking up the phone, I called Mervyn’s and got my manager on the phone. I thanked him for everything he’d done for me, and then I gave my two weeks’ notice.
He thanked me and then apologized that they had not been able to secure a permanent position for me in the men’s department. He thought I was leaving because I’d been bounced around so much, but that wasn’t it at all. I liked working with him; it just wasn’t where I was supposed to be. We hung up the phone amicably, and then I called the banquet center and did the same. The voice on the other end asked, “Ok, do you want any more shifts, or do you just want to be done?”
“If you don’t need me, I’m okay with being done. But if you do need me, I’ll be there,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll tell them you quit,” the voice answered indifferently.
I didn’t like the way that sounded. I was trying to be ethical and give two weeks’ notice, and I didn’t want them to tell my manager that I’d just quit. But rather than argue, I decided to let it go; I was leaving either way.
Next, I called my boss at the California Center for the Arts in Escondido, the one who headed the tech theater intern program, and told her I was leaving. She said, “Well, there’s only six weeks left in the program. If you want to stay on until it ends, that’s fine. We’ll probably only need you a few more times. Would that be OK?”
“Of course, that would be great. Thank you. I’ve enjoyed working with you all.”
Then she asked, “What are you planning to do? Did you get another job?”
I wasn’t expecting her to ask. I’d only thought about how to do the quitting part, so I told her, “I want to become a professional juggler,” I said.
There was a long silence on the other end of the line until she finally said, “Well, I wish you all the best with that.”
“Thank you,” I answered, then we hung up.
Before that moment, I’d only told people I knew well what I was doing, like my mom, or people who were chasing similar dreams, like Dustin, Jonathan, or Benny. But now, hearing her tone, I realized how ridiculous it sounded. And supportive as her words themselves had been, I imagined her sitting at her desk thinking, “The tall, skinny, introverted kid who wanted to be a backstage theater technician now wants to break the curtain and be the star of the show, what a nincompoop.”
Or maybe I imagined it, because when I did show up for those last few shifts, she never mentioned it and was always kind towards me.
Now, there’s just one last call to make: Little Caesars Pizza.
It’d be easy to think this call would be the easiest; it’s a pizza job, they turn people over all the time, but it didn’t feel like that at all. When I’d been trying to get a job in the first place, most places wouldn’t even give me the time of day. But José, the big manager, gave me a chance; he taught me what he knew, and he made me an assistant manager. I knew my leaving would put extra strain on him, and I didn’t want to do that. But I’d already traveled too far down this reckless road to stop now. I picked up the phone and dialed the number.
José answered, and I told him I was giving my two weeks’ notice.
He went silent. After thinking for a moment, he said, “No, I don’t accept your resignation.”
I had no idea what to say. Can he even say no if I want to quit? I froze, and the seconds ticked by, until finally, he broke the silence, “How about this, one shift per week? We’re short on managers, and if you leave, neither of them will get any days off until you’re replaced. But if you stay on at least one day per week, I can give each of them two days off per month. Is that fair?”
“Yes, sir, I can do that,” I said. Then I waited to see what else he would say, but the phone went dead; he hung up on me.
It was done. Well, kind of done. I’d tried to quit all my jobs in one fell swoop, and succeeded at leaving two of them. But I’d been retained at one for six more weeks and been held on for four days per month at the other. And though I wasn’t able to quit entirely, I’d still achieved my goal.
I wanted unlimited time for training, and I wanted to be thrown into life’s fire.
Now I had both.
Now I HAD to make it work; I HAD to find a way. I didn’t just remove the safety net; I burnt it.
Every waking moment of every day could now be spent in the pursuit of one thing: becoming a better juggler.
I picked up the phone and called Benny to tell him I had a reliable car and was now available for any gig he could send my way.
He said, “Alright, I’ll see what I can do.”
Then I grabbed a business card Jonathan had given me and flipped it over. On its back in black pen it read:
Ruby’s 760- 931-7829
Ruby’s was the restaurant at the end of the Oceanside Pier where Jonathan had worked back when he first started twisting balloons.
I dialed the number.
“Ruby’s Restaurant, can I help you?”
“Can I speak to the manager, please?”
“Yes, just a moment…”
“Hello, this is the manager?”
“Hi there, Jonathan Root told me to call you; he used to twist balloons out there from time to time.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember Jonathan, great guy.”
“Yeah, he is. Well, I’m also a twister, and I was wondering if you’d like for me to come out and do some shifts to entertain your guests?”
“Can you do all the stuff Jonathan could do?”
“Well, he taught me, so I’m guessing so.”
“And you know to wait until the guests have ordered so you don’t throw off the waitresses?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, “I won’t get in the way.”
“Okay, why don’t you come by tomorrow so I can meet you and we’ll go over the details.”
“That would be great, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Click.
Chapter 21: Walking the Plank
The next afternoon, I drove the twenty-one miles from Escondido to Oceanside, and the whole way I kept thinking how grateful I was to finally have reliable transportation.
Once there, I parked on the street and walked out along the long wooden planks of the Oceanside Pier. The salty breeze carried the cries of seagulls and the smell of the ocean as I made my way to the end, where Ruby’s Diner sat perched above the waves. The place looked like it had been dropped straight out of the 1950s, with its neon sign, chrome trim, and big windows overlooking the water. Inside, the air was warm with the smell of burgers and fries, the sound of plates clattering, and the hum of conversation under the steady soundtrack of oldies on the jukebox.
I told the hostess why I was there, and she directed me upstairs to the manager’s office.
Once there, we talked a bit, and the manager reiterated his expectations. Don’t bother the waitresses; serve every table, whether they tip or not, etc.
Then he asked, “What are your expectations?”
“You don’t need to pay me to be here, I’m happy to work for tips. My main request is that I be able to come and go as I please, so I’m free to book other gigs without having to worry about finding someone to cover my shifts here.”
“Can you come in Friday through Sunday nights on the regular unless you’re booked elsewhere?” He asked.
I nodded. “I can do that,” I said, then reached out my hand.
He took it, and we shook.
“Agreed,” I said. “I’ll see you on Friday.”
* * *
As I retraced my steps back to my car, I could have jumped for joy.
I now had a regular twisting gig at Ruby’s on the pier, which was as exciting as it was TERRIFYING! I’d never actually done a balloon-twisting gig before! So I didn’t actually know how to do it!
But I’d watched Jonathan do it those few times. And I’d worked my way through a couple of books that taught you how to twist the various animal shapes and practiced until I could make around twenty of them.
So I’d been loosely preparing for this eventuality, just in case it ever happened.
I’d even gone to a craft store to buy fabric with happy faces on it, then imposed on the good graces of a friend’s wife who had a sewing machine. She made me a pair of happy face pants similar to the ones Jonathan wore during his restaurant gigs. These pants, coupled with one of the white tuxedo shirts I’d worn for shifts as a banquet server, plus a set of black suspenders, and a cheap black bowler hat I’d found at the Hat Shop in SeaPort Village, made up my costume.
Did this mean I was ready for the job, though? No…
And I felt a little bit bad about that.
The manager was trusting me to show up and be professional, and I was certainly going to do my best, but I was afraid of letting him down.
But today is Tuesday, so I have two more days to practice before the gig, and I did: all day, both days.
Being green was no excuse; I still had to do a good job, and I needed this to work. It had to work…
* * *
On Friday, I drove to the pier again for my first twisting gig. And while I had been super excited initially just to get this gig, now that it was happening, I was scared, so scared. Sitting in the car watching the minutes pass by, knowing that soon I’d have to walk all the way down the pier, past countless people, then into the restaurant itself, all while dressed in this garish costume that would announce to everyone that I was there for a reason. And that reason was to entertain them. It was overwhelming. I felt like I was melting.
I can’t do it, I thought, I have to cancel.
But you already quit your jobs, came the next thought. You deliberately burned those bridges so you couldn’t go back; you can’t cancel!
I know, forward is the only path, but I don’t want to.
You have to.
I can’t!
It was a battle within my own head. One side of me, the side with drive and dreams, berated and cajoled the other side that was afraid and insecure.
I have no recollection of getting out of my car or grabbing the red Igloo cooler that held all my balloon-making supplies.
I don’t remember the journey down the pier or the countless people who must have stopped and stared at the very strange boy in a tuxedo shirt and happy face pants as he walked past.
It’s as if I had an out-of-body experience, a moment where the do-or-die side of myself tore free from the self-doubting introverted side and all its accompanying limitations. This newfound force took the wheel, marching me inexorably forward on the path.
The next thing I do remember is standing by the hostess podium, waiting for someone to tell me where I could store my gear between sets. As I stood waiting, I felt that itchy feeling of eyes on me. I looked around the raucous, packed restaurant, and I spied a tiny face with curious blue eyes watching me.
Realizing I’d seen her, her head turned away, that instinctive look-away we all do after making eye contact with a stranger.
My own fear vanished, and the surrounding noise faded like the volume on a loud TV was turned down. Opening my igloo cooler, I pulled out a yellow balloon and made a show of inflating it. I tied it off and, seeing that she was watching again, held it out toward her questioningly, as if to ask, “Would you like one?”
She smiled and nodded, so I walked towards their table. The people seated with her looked up at my approach, so I said, “Good evening. I don’t mean to interrupt, but this young lady looks like she could use a flower.”
Overflowing with excitement, the girl bounced in her seat and said, “Yes, yes, yes!”
I looked to the adults for approval; they all smiled, and one said, “Yes, she does need a flower.”
So I made the flower, and as I handed it over, one of the lines I’d written down one night while watching Jonathan came to mind, so I said it, “Do you know what kind of flower this is?”
The little girl shook her head no.
“It’s a Daisy. But sometime in the next twenty-four hours, it’ll turn into a Poppy.”
The little girl didn’t understand, but the adults laughed. Then, a woman opened her purse and asked, “How much are they?”
Another of Jonathan’s lines popped into my head, “They’re free unless you don’t want them to be, I get paid in smiles and laughs.”
The adults laughed again, and the woman handed me a five-dollar bill, “Thank you,” she said.
“Thank you!” I answered, then, because yet another of Jonathan’s lines came to me, I added, “And remember, all of my balloons are 100% guaranteed… To pop!” (more laughter) “So remember, if you need any repairs, renovations, or reinflations, just give me a wave, and I’ll come fix it for you, absolutely free.”
The people laughed again, and I sensed it was time to move on, which was good because I couldn’t think of any more material. Looking back towards the hostess station, I saw a woman smiling and waving at me. So I returned, and she took me to a break room where I could rest in between sets. She also told me I could help myself to whatever I wanted from the fountain machine.
Setting down my things, I prepared to go out on set for real. I felt my mind begin to reel again with all the familiar fears. But then I thought of the little girl whom I’d made the balloon for, and how there’d been something magical in how that first interaction went down: a pureness, a simple exchange, a win-win for everyone involved, and I liked that. For the first time, I realized this wasn’t about me; it’s about them. I’m here to create an experience for them; I just need to get out of my own head and focus on them.
As I sorted my things, I realized another important detail I’d overlooked. I’d bought a balloon belt, basically a round-the-waist apron with two big pouches in front, and filled both of these pouches with balloons, but it hadn’t occurred to me to set aside a place for money. The happy face pants had no pockets, and I couldn’t just stuff cash in with all the loose balloons. So, I took half my load of balloons out and returned them to the cooler, knowing I could always replenish if I ran low. Then, I dropped the five-dollar tip I’d just made into the now-empty pouch. Wow, at Little Caesars, I’d worked my way up for two and a half years, made assistant manager, and became so valued that my boss refused to let me go when I tried to quit. But even with all those plusses, and the periodic five to fifteen cent raises they’d given me, I’d only managed to work my way up to $6.15 an hour.
Here, almost accidentally, in a matter of two minutes, with six cents’ worth of balloons, I’d made five dollars.
This was my first hint that balloon work would be very different from working for an hourly wage. And I felt the teensiest sense of control over my financial destiny, something I hadn’t felt since I’d told my mom at just ten years old that I wanted to start my own landscaping business.
Ha, I thought, I haven’t thought about that in so long.
The waitress station and the drink station beside me began to fade, and a movie memory began to play.
* * *
Ten-year-old me blurted out, “I want to open a lawn care business.”
My mom thought about that for a minute, then asked, “What exactly is that? What would it look like?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I can take that little red wagon out of the garage, put some gardening tools and gloves in it, and then go door to door asking people if they need anything done?”
“And what would you charge for this service?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I’d just ask them to pay me whatever they thought it was worth.”
“What happens if you do a lot of work for someone and they only give you a couple of dollars?” she asked.
“Then they only give me a couple of dollars, and I don’t offer to work for them again.”
“And you’d be okay with that?”
“Yeah, if that’s all they had to give. Maybe they are struggling with money themselves, and maybe my work helped them out a little.”
“Where do you want to try this?”
“I was thinking that trailer park where all the old people live. They could probably use some help?”
“Ok, when do you want to try this?”
“This Saturday,” I said.
She nodded. “Alright.”
My mom was like that. Supportive. Calm. Thoughtful, even when my ideas were half-baked. Maybe it was because my parents had a business of their own and understood the entrepreneurial spirit, or maybe they saw how lit up I’d get whenever new ideas took me, or maybe they believed that trying and failing was a better teacher than never trying at all, or maybe she just wanted her child with the heart condition to live as unlimited a life as his heart would allow, I don’t know.
But when Saturday morning came, after breakfast, my mom helped me load the wagon and tools into the back of our station wagon. Then she drove me to the fifty-five-plus trailer park so I could offer weed pulling and basic yard services to people in need.
I got all my gear set up and rolled the red wagon down the looping streets, knocking on the doors of any place whose little side yard looked like it could use some attention. The first few doors I knocked on, no one answered, which was good. Even though I wanted people to open the door and give me work, I was really scared each time I knocked, scared they’d actually answer, scared I wouldn’t know what to say, scared they’d say yes, and scared I might not be able to deliver. So when the first few doors didn’t open, it gave me confidence, maybe none of the doors will open, and I can go home.
I knocked at the fourth house, and didn’t hear anything, so I was about to walk away when I heard, “Just a minute” from the other side of the door. Then a little old lady in a white bathrobe cracked the door. Looking down at me, she said, “Well, hello there.”
“Hello, my name’s Bill, and I’m helping people with weed pulling and whatever other garden work they need done. Would you like me to do some work for you?”
She seemed hesitant, and I could sense she was getting ready to say no, so I added, “You can pay me whatever you feel it’s worth or whatever you can afford.”
“Oh, bless your heart,” she said. “Let me put on some clothes, and I’ll come out to show you what I need done.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be right here.”
A few minutes later, she emerged and led me around the garden, showing me which weeds to pull or plants to trim as we went. Then she went back inside, and I got to work.
Even though I was nervous, especially during the pitch, it felt good to get a “Yes”. I’d had an idea, and a plan, and now it was happening. My shyness faded a little, replaced by determination, because I wanted to do a good job. It was a typically hot Southern California day, and weed-pulling was tedious, but I got through it. My mom had taught me to get the roots, too, so they didn’t grow back so quickly, and I was careful to do so.
Then I got to trimming the bushes. I had long-bladed handheld shears, and they made short work of the protruding branches. But when I stepped around one of the last bushes, I felt something pull at my foot, almost tripping me. As I stepped heavily so I wouldn’t fall, there was a loud popping sound.
Kneeling down, I saw that the bushes were all watered by an ancient-looking dripper system. Because the bushes were overgrown, I hadn’t even realized the system was there, and when I’d stepped behind the bush, my foot hooked under the hose that connected the whole run to the water spigot. I examined the broken part, hoping I’d be able to reattach or repair it, but it was toast. I knew it would need to be replaced, and judging by the age of the system, I guessed I wouldn’t even be able to find a replacement part.
Knowing there was nothing I could do about it right now, I finished trimming the bushes, careful not to damage any more of the drippers.
Once the bushes were done, it was time to make a decision. Do I pretend nothing happened, collect my money, and skedaddle before she notices that I’ve broken the connector? Or do I fess up, apologize, and promise to make it right for her?
I tried to imagine how my parents might handle the situation if it were to happen while they were installing a sign. Right away, I pictured my dad: “Uh oh, ohhhh booyyy,” he’d say in that goofy voice he used whenever something went sideways. Then he’d let out a sigh, maybe make a little baby-crying sound, something I’d seen him do before when things went wrong but weren’t quite disastrous. Then he stood up, walked over to his toolbox, and magically fixed the issue with some little part or doodad he’d tossed in there years ago with a shrug and a mumbled, “Might need this someday.” He was the king of always having the right thing and knowing exactly what to do. He wouldn’t have even needed to say anything to the client; he would’ve quietly fixed it and moved on.
But that wasn’t going to help me now, because I wasn’t him, I was just a kid. I didn’t have a toolbox filled with just the right doodads and tools for fixing anything and everything that could go wrong. And even if I had, I’d never worked on a dripper system before, so I didn’t know how to fix it.
I thought about it for another moment, then decided the right thing to do was to tell the lady what happened, explain there’d be no charge for my services, and let her know I’d do whatever it took to make it right, even if I had to pay to fix it out of my own pocket.
I walked up her steps, and my stomach tightened. I wasn’t sure how she’d react. Would she be mad? Would she yell? I felt a lump in my throat, but I knew if I didn’t say something, I’d feel bad about it forever. So I knocked.
The little old lady opened the door and said, “You can’t possibly have done all that work already. Do you need something?”
“No ma’am, I have everything I need, but yes, I am done, but there’s a small problem. Can I show you?”
“Oh, okay,” she said as she stepped out onto the landing.
I led her down the driveway and around the side of the trailer. As we went, she said, “This looks so good, you got all the weeds.”
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “As many as I could.”
Once we arrived at the broken dripper hose, I showed her what had happened and explained the situation. I told her there would be no charge for the day and that I’d do whatever I needed to do to fix it.
When she saw the problem, she chuckled a little and said, “Oh, that thing hasn’t worked in years. Don’t worry about it. But I sure appreciate you telling me about it.”
With that, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you for all your hard work today. Come back anytime, and I’ll find more things for you to do.”
I took the twenty dollars and thanked her for her business.
She turned and went back into her trailer, and I packed up the red wagon so it was ready for the next job. Then I pulled the wagon down the driveway and realized I had another decision to make. If I turned right, I could continue into the complex, knock on more doors, and potentially make more money. Or, I could turn left, walk past the first three trailers I’d tried, back to where my mom was sitting patiently in our station wagon.
She hadn’t just dropped me off and left. She stayed close by. Ready to help if I got in over my head, but also giving me the independence to take responsibility for myself.
Much as I wanted to continue working, the broken dripper system had shown me that I wasn’t ready to do this work. Capable as I was of doing the work itself, I wasn’t in a position to fix my mistakes. And I didn’t think it was fair to offer a service to people, knowing I couldn’t guarantee I’d leave the place better than I’d found it. Plus, I didn’t like that my mom had to sit in a boiling-hot car while I worked, so I decided to turn left and call it a day.
I walked back to the car and loaded my gear into the back. Then I got into the front passenger seat.
My mom started the engine, then asked, “Well, how did it go?”
I couldn’t help but smile as I reached into my pocket and produced the twenty-dollar bill.
“Twenty dollars? That’s great. Tell me all about it.”
* * *
The vision faded, and I found myself back in the drink station at Ruby’s.
The memory reminded me of how long I’ve wanted to do my own thing. I’ve always wanted to be an entrepreneur, like my father, and to become someone who crafts my own path through life.
And now I’m here. This is where it can begin, but I have to go back out and try again. Like a slap, the fear surged back, but I jumped up and went for it anyway. “Just do, don’t think,” I whispered to myself.
I feel my feet carrying me towards the door that leads back to the dining area, but the stress must have made me disassociate, because the next thing I remember, it was near closing time.
The sun had already gone down, dousing itself in the horizon of the Pacific Ocean. And I was making a loop around the second-story deck area, looking for any tables with kids that might have come in while I was downstairs. I didn’t see any, but I noticed a youngish couple sitting together. I guessed them to be on a date, so I wasn’t going to bother them. But as I walked around the perimeter, the young man caught my eye. I looked at him to silently ask if he wanted me to come over, and he nodded subtly. So I wandered over and asked if they would like a balloon.
The guy asked, “What’s the craziest thing you can make?”
“What do you want me to make?”
“Can you make a spaceship?”
“I can, but it will look a lot like a dog.”
He chuckled, and I made him a dog.
Then I looked at the young lady and said, “And I think I know the perfect thing for you, two lovebirds kissing in a heart swing.”
She smiled and said, “Yes, that would be perfect.”
So I made that for her. One white balloon for the love birds and a red one for the heart swing. When I’d finished, the guy reached out to shake my hand and, in doing so, secretly palmed off a couple of bills so she wouldn’t see what he’d given me. I thanked them and walked away, and since it wasn’t as busy as it had been, I went back to the break room to see what he’d given me. Once I was out of sight, I opened my hand and saw two five-dollar bills, my biggest tip of the night.
Speaking of, I wondered, how much have I made? The drink station where I was breaking was a backup one that wasn’t often used, so it was relatively private. I started unfolding and sorting the wads of bills. Most people folded up whatever they gave, so each donation mainly stayed together. I’d unroll each packet excitedly to see what was inside. Lots of two-dollar and three-dollar tips, and occasionally, a five-dollar one.
I finished adding it up, and I had $103.
My checks at Little Caesars, for two weeks of work, were usually around $275 each.
To make $103 in one night for a couple of hours of work? It was insane. Maybe I will be able to do this!
Our rent payment for the apartment is $450 a month, divided between the two of us, so $225 each.
At this rate, I should be able to make that in one weekend!
I decided to make one more round of the restaurant before calling it a night. As I went back out, I saw a woman and her son sitting together at a four-person table. She looked nervous, or maybe anxious, I’m not sure, but it was palpable. The child seemed particularly restless as he played with a toy car on the tabletop, running it across the menu and making “vroom vroom” sounds. Despite the weird energy, I approached and asked, “Would anyone like a balloon? Maybe a sword, or a ray gun, or a dinosaur?”
Immediately, the child bubbled with excitement, but the mother waved me away. “I’m sorry, I don’t have any money,” she said.
Because of her firm dismissal, I’d already begun to retreat, but hearing her reason, I said, “It’s ok, they’re free.”
She looked at me with raised skeptical eyebrows, “They’re free?”
“They’re free unless you don’t want them to be. But I work just as much for smiles as I do for tips, and this young man looks like he needs a ray gun!” I turned to him as I said this, then I looked back at her questioningly, “That is, if mom says it’s ok for you to have a ray gun.”
Seeing the boy’s excitement, she nodded her head and gave me the go-ahead. So I made him a ray gun, and thanked them, making sure to give her a smile that let her know it was really okay, and that she didn’t need to tip me. I walked away and finished my round. Then, I went back to the break area to gather my things. As I did, I saw that a man had joined the woman and her child. Both adults had sour expressions as they spoke, likely fighting, maybe even breaking up. And the child, all smiles just minutes before, was now huddled up in his chair, knees pulled to his chest, head down, but still holding the little balloon ray gun I’d made him.
They were clearly having a tough time. And it made me wonder about the moment of happiness they’d had when I made the balloon.
Did happiness have any meaning if it was only going to be followed moments later by discontent?
Was happiness even real?
I looked at his little slumped shoulders and how they now bore so much weight, and I felt for him. I knew what it was like to be a kid, listening to your parents fight. Wondering if this would be the time they called it quits. Or, even hoping they would call it quits just so the fighting would stop.
I watched them a little longer, considering all this.
I suppose all happy moments are eventually overshadowed by sad ones, whether it’s moments later or months later; that is the ebb and flow of life. But at least for a moment, it had been real, he had been happy, and that was enough.
It’s always worth creating moments of happiness, I decided.
Chapter 22: Gig Work
With Ruby’s on the schedule, I was one step closer to being a full-time entertainer and filling the gap I’d made when I quit all my jobs.
But I still needed more opportunities for work.
I remembered that Jonathan had mentioned a steakhouse he’d done balloons at a few times, so I asked if he thought I could get in there.
“Might as well try,” he said, “I have the number for the manager somewhere, I’ll find it for you.”
He did, so I called them.
The interview, if you can even call it an interview, was much less formal; the manager basically gave me the go-ahead over the phone, saying, “Show up whenever you want.”
The next day that I was available, a Monday, I went to the steakhouse.
I walked in ready to go, but the place was a ghost town. With only a couple of people sitting at the tables, and all of those fifty years old or older, no kids.
Hmmm, I thought, maybe Mondays are not the best days for balloons in steakhouses.
Still, I strapped on my belt and gave it a go.
Turns out, very few Monday night steakhouse attendees have any interest in getting a balloon. After several hours of work, I’d only made one tip, two bucks. I was about to throw in the towel and go home, but then a large party arrived. I watched while the hostess seated them in a separate “reservations” room.
There were twelve people in total, almost all sixty-five or older, but there was also a little girl among them. So I waited until they’d all gotten their drinks and the orders had been taken. Then I casually strolled past the double doors that led to the room they were in. I wasn’t going to disturb them unless they motioned for me to come in. But as I passed, the little girl saw me and waved, so I waved back. This action caught the eye of the elderly gentleman sitting at the head of the table, and he motioned for me to come. Taking his cue, I greeted the child and asked if I could make her a balloon.
She nodded, so I asked, “Do you want a big balloon, or a hat balloon, or maybe some pretty birds in a heart swing?”
She smiled shyly, then said, “DOG!”
“Of course, I can make you a dog.” Inflating one balloon, I made a few jokes, did some gags, then put the balloon behind my back and made her a dog without even looking at it.
“Ta-da,” I said, presenting it to her.
She smiled a big, unabashed smile and took it. Then I thanked her and started to walk away, not expecting any sort of tip for the three-cent balloon I’d just given away, but the grandfather thanked me graciously and held up a tightly folded bill. I accepted the offer and then left the room. As soon as I was out of their sight, I opened my hand expecting to see a dollar, or maybe a five, but he’d given me twenty dollars, the biggest tip I’d ever received.
I was amazed at the generosity, and my belief in humanity was renewed.
Thinking that would likely be the high point of the evening, I packed up and drove home.
The night had been slow, and by most accounts a failure, but to me it wasn’t.
Because I’ll never forget that man and his granddaughter and how they made my night, far more than I made theirs.
* * *
Experiences like these grew my love for gig work. Not only were there regular, deep, and profound moments of connection, but I also felt I finally had some control over my own destiny.
At any of my old jobs, if I’d wanted a raise, I had to ask.
If I wanted more shifts, I had to ask.
If I wanted to take a trip somewhere, I had to ask.
I’d been in control of nothing and was entirely at the mercy of the boss or manager in charge.
But now that I was working for myself, if I wanted more shifts, I could go in extra days.
If I wanted more money, I could improve my skills, presentation, or costuming.
My actions and dedication actually affected my bottom line, and my destiny was, for the first time, in my own hands.
True, I wasn’t performing as a juggler yet, but twisting balloons was closer to juggling than working retail or making pizza.
And as long as I kept moving closer to the thing I most wanted, maybe I could get there, one little step at a time.
Chapter 23: Broke and Hungry
The first month in our apartment sailed by, and my half of the rent is due tomorrow, but I’m short forty-five dollars.
Looking around the restaurant, I see a few more tables have turned over, so I go for another loop, careful to offer balloons to all the newcomers. But only one table, a mom with three kids, takes me up on it. After I’d made them their balloons, she handed me a little roll of cash.
Returning to the drink station, I looked and saw that she’d given me eight dollars, eight desperately needed dollars!
Now I only need thirty-seven dollars more.
More people left, more people sat down, and there was even a little rush.
After that pass, I only needed twelve dollars more.
At this point, it’s late, and more than half of the tables in the restaurant are empty.
Luckily, I saw the hostess seat a family with three kids, and I was pretty sure I’d be able to make something at their table. So when I got to them, I went the extra mile by making them lots of funny hats and swords. I even built a structure of balloons that connected all their hats, forming a giant balloon pyramid. It was completely impractical, but everyone was laughing and having a good time.
The father in the group was very generous and gave me fifteen dollars.
Yes!
By the time I’d come back from that loop, I was a few dollars over what I needed to pay rent! Yes! My first month’s rent, and I’d made it myself!
The biggest milestone was behind me, but now I had a new one; I was literally starving. Knowing I was short for rent, I’d barely eaten for two days, and every plate of food the waitresses carried past made my stomach growl.
I silently wished I’d thought to negotiate a free meal whenever I worked at the restaurant, but it was too late to ask for that now.
I cast my eyes over the few remaining guests and thought, If I can just make a few more dollars, I can get a #1 at In-N-Out Burger on the way home. My stomach jumped at the thought, clearly in approval of this plan.
On my next loop, I managed to make another twelve dollars, and now I had enough for rent and dinner, and, with the loose change in my car’s ashtray, a couple of gallons of gasoline, so I called it a night.
I was thrilled at the thought of a burger.
I pulled into the drive-through and told the woman through the intercom what I wanted. A cheery voice came back, “You want everything on it?” I was about to answer, “No,” but felt myself stop. I’d always been a picky eater; as a kid, when my mom would pull through a drive-through and ask me what I wanted, I always got my cheeseburgers with ketchup and cheese only. But now I realized that those “everything on it” items would fill my belly and provide extra calories. And I genuinely needed extra calories.
“Sir, would you like everything on it?” she asked again.
“Yes, yes I would, but no onions.”
“You got it,” she chimed back.
Pulling through the drive-thru, I paid, then pulled into the first available parking spot to tear into the food. I started with the cheeseburger, biting into fresh lettuce and tomato, topped with Thousand Island dressing and double meat patties. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten. I had to admit it: the burger, the way the restaurant typically made it, was pretty darn good.
As I feasted on the #1 meal, I had a thought and laughed to myself, maybe one day I’ll write “The Starving Artists Handbook.” Tip number one: never turn down free toppings.
I finished the food and, with a now happy belly, drove home.
The next morning, I walked proudly into our apartment manager’s office and plopped down my portion of the rent in ones and fives, plus another five or ten in change.
The girl behind the desk looked at the pile wryly, then said, “Maybe next time you could just pay with a check?”
I nodded and promised I would.
I was proud of every dollar I’d scraped together, but her reaction reminded me that a stack of crumpled bills and loose coins wasn’t how “normal” people paid rent.
If I want to be respected in the normal world, I’d have to somehow learn its norms and operate within them, while simultaneously operating almost entirely outside of them.
Chapter 24: Pooh and Big Bird
I’d asked Benny to keep me in mind for any gigs that came up, and soon enough, he sent a few birthday parties my way.
The first, Pooh Bear.
Upon arriving at the party, I discovered that there were only five children in attendance. I dove right in and did everything, twisting balloons for each of the kids, painting their faces, playing parachute games, and hosting a little treasure hunt - everything I could think of to do. But after twenty-five minutes, I was completely out of material. Oh, bother.
The gig was supposed to last forty-five minutes, and I had no idea what I was going to do to entertain them. Think, think.
Luckily, one of the kids, sensing the lull, shouts, “Let's play freeze tag.”
“That is a great idea,” I said.
We all went outside and played freeze tag. And the kids made a point of tagging me first, so I just stood there frozen for the next twenty minutes. While frozen, I watched the parents, who were seemingly content with Pooh Bear playing freeze tag with the kids.
Seeing that helped me relax. As long as everyone was having fun, all was well. For a brief moment, performing didn’t feel quite so stressful.
* * *
Next, I was supposed to be Big Bird.
I asked Jonathan about it, and his eyes widened. “Whoa, you’re going to be a BIG, Big Bird.”
“Why do you say?” I asked.
“That costume has a gigantic headpiece, it sits on your shoulders and straps around your chest, then you look out a hole in the neck part, while the actual head is another two feet above you. You're going to be a nine-foot-tall Big Bird.”
Nothing about that description sounded intimidating to me; just a new costume to get used to, I suppose.
On the day of the party, I drove to the address and found myself in a city park. A quintessential California park with water-conscious desert landscaping and concrete picnic tables under sun-baked shelters. The family was working-class Latino, and the place was alive with music. The low bass of a norteño song thumped from a boombox propped on a bench. The uncles tended a smoking grill, and the smell of barbacoa drifted across the field. A few of the men wore black chino pants and white wife-beater shirts, their tattoos spiraling up their arms and across their shoulders.
As soon as I appeared, all of the kids ran up to me, wanting to meet and hug Big Bird. This costume offered zero neck mobility, though, so to see any of the children I was interacting with, I had to bend over from the waist to look down out of the tracheotomy-like viewing screen cut in Big Bird’s neck.
Taking in the view through this three-inch opening, I saw kids running around my legs, and then one I couldn’t see started crying. Often, children would be scared of the costume characters we impersonated, so crying wasn’t out of the ordinary, and I didn’t pay much attention to it. But then I heard another kid crying, then another.
What I had no way of knowing is that every time I leaned over to see what was happening around my feet, Big Bird’s two-foot-long, hard plastic beak would come crashing down from its nine-foot-tall perch and peck the heads of any children unlucky enough to be in its path. Finally, one of the heavily tattooed dads intervened; he walked over and put one arm around my feathered shoulder. Then, in a brotherly, we need to have a chat kinda tone, he said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Yo Big Bird, yu gotta be careful man, you’re hurting people with your big pecker.”
This got a huge laugh from the crowd.
And now that I understood what was happening, I tried to be more conscious of what I was doing with my big pecker.
Chapter 25: Tigger
The next ten or fifteen parties went off without a hitch, and I was thinking I’d gotten the hang of it.
But then I went to do a birthday party in Rancho Bernardo, one of the affluent neighborhoods in the hills just north of San Diego.
The streets wound along steep ridges, with views that stretched for miles — the kind of place where every house made its own architectural statement. This was nothing like the suburbs I’d grown up in, feeling more like a magazine-spread come to life than a real neighborhood.
I parked on the street.
Still in the driver’s seat, I slipped into the costume’s furry orange and black bodysuit, practicing an elite form of costume character contortion to get the zipper that ran up the back pulled tight. Then I slid my feet into the old tennis shoes that had been glued inside the oversized plush tiger feet. Then came the mittens, and finally the headpiece.
“Woo hoo, hoo hoo,” I said to myself in the rearview mirror. Not that I could really see myself while wearing this headpiece. If I looked all the way out the end of the snout, there were two nickel-sized holes. But the snout rested eight inches from your face, so it really only gave you two tiny pinholes with which to observe the world in front of you. The better way to see was to look through the small triangular piece of screen over Tigger’s mouth. This port gave a limited view of the area right in front of your feet. All in all, it was a good costume; the headpiece was reasonably comfortable, unlike others that had sharp metal bands that dug into your scalp. Checking the time, I realized I should go, so I stepped out into the one-hundred-degree heat. Let me just say this: wearing a fully enclosed fur bodysuit in the California heat did not make me feel bouncy, trouncy, pouncy, or fun, fun, fun. I was already sweating by the time I reached the front door. Please god, let them be having the party indoors, I prayed. But once inside, they led me straight out the back door, back into the blazing hot, what did I do to deserve this, costume character purgatory.
I imagined the host musing aloud earlier that morning, “Oh, it’s such a nice day out, we should have the party outside.”
Yeah, brilliant idea. But that’s the thing with gig work: you never know what you’re walking into.
I surveyed the backyard through the headpiece’s nostril holes, trying to get a feel for what kind of party this would be. At some parties, the parents will stay with you the whole time, like a chaperone. Other times, the parents split off to socialize and drink, ignoring you and the kids entirely. Pretty quickly, I realized this party would be the latter of the two. A little girl who was barely taller than my knee saw me and screamed, “Tigger!” Then, sprinting towards me, she wrapped both arms and legs around my leg, welding herself into place. She wasn’t that big, so I could still walk. But carrying a fifty-pound weight around on your right leg is going to wear on anyone, especially if you’re in a fur costume. Eventually, one parent seemed to notice my plight and peeled her away, which gave me a chance to interact with the other partygoers. Most of the kids were running around the backyard, playing a game with no decipherable rules, so I ran around too, but suddenly the ground below my feet disappeared. I stumbled, dropping to one knee on hard ground, while the other foot swung through empty air. Turning to look, I realized I was teetering on the edge of a sheer drop-off. This house wasn’t just in the hills; it’d been built over the edge of a cliff! A fact that would have been obvious to anyone who could see — I mean, how do you walk off a cliff? But with only tiny eye holes to see out of, I’d missed it entirely.
Pulling myself together, I tried not to think about how close I’d come to a disastrous fall.
Then, I felt a strong pull on my tail and turned to find that the same little girl who’d been attached to my leg earlier was now yanking my tail. I asked her to stop, but it didn’t work. So as kindly as possible, I pried her fingers off my tail. This offers little respite, however, because she just reattaches the moment I let go. She pulled, she yanked, and even swung from my tail, crashing into my legs like it was the most funnest game ever invented. To go anywhere, I had to drag her around behind me.
And through all this, she maintained a relentless verbal barrage of, “Tigger, Tigger, Tigger, Tigger, TIGGER!!!” Until I would finally succumb and say, “Yes?” Then she would look up at me and repeat, “Um um um um,” until eventually I would continue whatever I was doing. Then she would start again, "Tigger, Tigger, Tigger!!!” And I would ask, “Yes?” And she would say, “Um um um um um um..” This went on and on, and I thought the agony would never end, but eventually the incessant yanking stopped. Surprised, I turned around to see why she’d quit, and found her staring wide-eyed, holding an orange and black tube of furry fabric in her hands.
The little demon had torn my tail off completely.
Which was upsetting, but considering the circumstances, was also a relief; at least she couldn’t pull on it anymore.
Undeterred, she threw the tail aside and grabbed me by my thigh fur. The chant began anew, “Tigger, Tigger, Tigger???”
“What, what, what?!?” I asked.
And she began her usual, “Ummmm, um, um um.”
Seeing my defeat, the costume character gods took pity on me and decided to intercede on my behalf. As I looked down at her, I felt a bead of sweat escape from the headband that was pressed against my forehead. It raced down my nose, gathering other droplets of sweat as it went, before dangling bloatedly from the tip of my nose. Everything continued in slow motion. Just beyond the dangling droplet, I could see her little face below, then the drop broke free. It dropped three inches and hit the triangular mouth screen. That impact split the one drop into many little drops, which spread out like a shotgun blast. She was mid-sentence, “Ummm, ummm,” and then the perfect formation of the droplets went all over her. In shock, she froze, a look of horror spread across her cheeks, then, in a high-pitched wail, she screeched in disgust, “Tigger spit on me!!!” Then she turned and ran back towards the house to tell on me.
I was worried someone might actually believe I’d spit on her, but no one ever came to investigate. She was so overdramatic that the parents probably waved it off.
But the best part of all is that she didn’t bother me again for the rest of the party.
* * *
After the gig, I put the costume in a black trash bag and left it on Benny’s porch as instructed.
The next day, I got an angry phone call from Benny. The costume had been badly damaged when the tail got ripped off, so I got yelled at.
I tried to explain what a nightmare gig it had been, but now that I was getting more seasoned, he wasn’t having it, “You have to be able to handle situations like this,” he fumed.
It was really frustrating.
The balloons and character work were paying the bills, and I appreciated that, but it wasn’t what I wanted to be doing.
I wanted to be a juggler, but the only way to make it happen was more practice.
Chapter 26: Full Time
Our little apartment put a roof over our heads, and living together meant we could eat, sleep, and breathe all things juggling.
Each night, after the props were put away, we’d lie in our separate beds and talk, voices loud enough to carry over the endless bass that beat from the neighbors’ stereo.
Jonathan still wanted to visit thirty countries by the time he turned thirty, and to knock out the first three, we’d set our sights on the 1998 Edinburgh Fringe Festival.
England, Scotland, and Ireland.
We barely knew anything about the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, just that it was big and legendary and somehow seemed like a good thing to do.
We talked about doing a big show one day, or theaters, or those high-end corporate events we’d heard about. Supposedly, performers were getting as much as $3,000 to $25,000 per gig. Rumors, mostly. But it kept us hungry.
We wanted to follow in the footsteps of the greats: The Passing Zone, the Raspyni Brothers, Flight Patterns, Clockwork, The Flying Karamozov Brothers, teams we’d studied obsessively on the IJA festival VHS tapes. Or, Robert Nelson, the Butterfly Man, Sean McKinney, Jeff King, and Bobby Hartman. We wanted to be like them. Maybe work cruise ships, too, sailing the world on a floating city.
It all sounded incredible.
But we knew that dreaming alone wouldn’t be enough, and on those nights, the conversation always turned from dreams to logistics.
“We need more time for training,” I said into the dark.
“Totally,” Jonathan replied. “Juggling club is good, but it’s not enough. Once a week isn’t gonna cut it.”
“I was thinking that too. We have to treat training like it is the job.”
“We’ve got Monday through Thursday wide open,” he said. “And most of Friday before the gigs. What if we trained five days a week? Full on.”
“Where, though?” I asked. “Outside’s too windy, and we can’t afford a gym.”
“I might know a guy,” Jonathan said after a beat. “Youth pastor from my old church. He’s cool and might let us use their multipurpose room.”
“You think he’d go for it?”
“Dunno. But it’s worth a shot.”
* * *
A few days later, Jonathan came home with a huge grin.
“They said yes,” he told me. “Unlimited access, he even gave me a key.”
“No way.”
“The only catch? We gotta perform for the Sunday school kids once a month.”
I laughed. “Happy to, that’s more than reasonable.”
* * *
The following Monday, we showed up at the church like two kids on their first day of school, but with gear duffels in hand. Jonathan tried the key, and the lock let out a satisfying click as it flipped open.
Once inside, Jonathan led me to the youth chapel, which was even better than I could have imagined. A vast, open, carpeted space that was bright and colorful. No pews. No chairs to move. Just a big, wide open floor. One wall featured a long stage, with a puppet theater at one end. A giant fake tree arched overhead, its plastic branches reaching toward the ceiling. And the ceilings, OMG, perfect. Tall enough for all but the highest of throws.
Jonathan dropped his blue bag in the center of the room and pulled out a little boom box. Flipping open a CD case, he slid in a disc and hit play. The soft acoustic strums of Toad the Wet Sprocket filled the space.
“We spotted the ocean
At the head of the trail
Where are we goin’
So far away?…”
“That’s the one,” I said, smiling.
“For sure,” he nodded. “Now, we train like it’s our job.”
We started warming up, falling into rhythm.
The boom box became our metronome. Toad, Cranberries, Dave Matthews, and repeat.
We trained for six hours that day.
Then we locked up, drove to Rubio’s Baja Grill, and over baskets of their famous fish tacos, we made a pact.
We have the space and the time, so from now on we’ll train for four to eight hours a day, five days a week.
Practicing juggling was now a full-time job.
Chapter 27: Humble Beginnings
A week later, over tacos, Jonathan told me a story from his early days in entertainment. He said he used to put on clown makeup, head to the beach, then walk up to random parties, offering to entertain for tips. And people said yes!
I admired his fearlessness; I couldn’t imagine trying something so brazen myself.
Then he mentioned a time he had seen a street performer working at the La Jolla Cove and suggested we give it a try.
I knew the Cove well, a scenic spot in San Diego, better known for seals and cliff jumping than street performances. But we were itching for stage time — any stage — so we figured we’d give it a shot.
Our plan was simple: show up, set out a hat, and see if we could make some tips.
When the day came, it was unusually cold and overcast, the kind of weather that hinted at rain and kept tourists away, but we went anyway and set up near the street, on a big concrete slab.
We tried to call out to passing tourists, but most avoided eye contact or gave us a wide berth. I finally gave up and started practicing to create something visual for people to look at.
Eventually, one teenage guy and his friend happened by. He seemed interested, so I waved him over.
“I can juggle,” he exclaimed. Then added, “kinda.”
I handed him three balls, and he gave it a go, bouncing slightly on his toes like he was keeping time with an invisible jump rope. He made a few catches, dropped, and tried again, and even had a few runs, enough to prove he’d spent some time on it, so I thought when he was done, maybe he’d stick around to see us perform. But as soon as he handed the props back, his friend called him away.
“Thanks, I gotta go,” he said.
We stuck it out another half hour, but the wind was howling and killing any chance we had of looking competent, let alone impressive. Eventually, I gave up and started packing our gear, demoralized.
But Jonathan stayed optimistic. “Let’s try another spot,” he said. “Maybe it’ll be better at the park.”
We walked a little farther down the beach until we found a grassy area with several groups picnicking. Spying a group with a birthday cake and a small pack of kids running around, I thought back to how Jonathan said he’d just walk up and ask if he could do a show for people, and I figured I’d give it a shot.
I approached one of the moms. “Hi there,” I said. “My friend and I do a juggling show. Would you like us to do something for the kids? Maybe twenty minutes?”
She gave a warm smile but held her hands up placatingly. “Oh, that’s so sweet, but we can’t pay you.”
Before she could turn away, I added, “That’s ok, we’d be happy to do it for free. Just something fun for the kids. And if you happen to have a spare slice of birthday cake at the end, we wouldn’t say no.”
She smiled and laughed, “Oh, there’s plenty of food. I could make you both a plate?”
I nodded and said, “That would be wonderful.”
She turned to the kids and announced, “Hey, everyone, there’s going to be a show! Come on, sit down.”
While the kids gathered, we set up.
These past few months at the church’s youth center weren’t just about training; we’d also put together a handful of juggling acts. And now we were getting a chance to try them out.
We opened with our two-person diabolo act, throwing the Chinese yo-yo back and forth between us, taking turns doing tricks whenever it came to us. Next up was a ball juggling routine that built to five balls. Then, for a finale, we got the birthday boy up and passed clubs around him. A few times, the wind picked up and made us drop, but Jonathan turned every dropped club or blown-away prop into a joke.
At the end, we took an exaggerated bow, acting as if there were thousands in the audience instead of the handful we had, and received an enthusiastic round of applause from our little audience.
We might not have had a big, polished corporate show, but the kids had a great time.
The same mother I’d first approached stood and said, “Wasn’t that great? Now who’s ready for cake?”
The kids cheered and ran off to get their cake, while Jonathan and I packed up.
Once the kids were settled with their plates of cake, the mom came back over and handed us each a paper plate stacked with food: burgers, potato salad, sweet coleslaw, and a generous slice of cake. “Oh, and let me grab you drinks!” she said, dashing off and returning with a couple of cans of soda, which she balanced carefully on our already full hands.
Then, she tucked a twenty-dollar bill into my shirt pocket and added, “Thank you for making the party that much more special.”
We got back to the car and ate like castaways who’d just been rescued.
While we ate, I reflected on what had happened and how amazing it was. There was a pureness to the exchange; we offered a show, they accepted. Then we did something for them, and they did something for us, even throwing in an extra twenty dollars.
Oh yeah, money.
I looked at Jonathan and said, “I don’t know if you saw, but she put twenty dollars in my pocket, so tomorrow’s tacos are on me.”
He nodded. “That sounds alright.”
We’d never sat down and worked out how the money would go. It was just unspoken. We both knew the odds were already stacked against us, and if we were going to make anything of this, we had to treat each other right. No cutting corners. No keeping score. Just trust. Without it, the whole thing would’ve fallen apart before it had even started.
Jonathan looked out the window, probably thinking about everything just like I was, then he said, “Humble beginnings.”
“Yes, humble beginnings,” I echoed.
Chapter 28: Forty Minutes of Darkness
My phone rang, and when I answered, I recognized my old youth pastor’s voice.
“Hey Bill,” he said, “would you and Jonathan be interested in performing for our upcoming VBS?”
“Vacation Bible School?” I repeated. “Absolutely. What do you need?”
“I was thinking you guys could close out the event. Maybe do a twenty-minute juggling show?”
I hesitated. This wasn’t an impromptu show on the beach for some kids; it would be a real show in an auditorium, so twenty minutes felt intimidating. But nothing gets you prepared for a twenty-minute show faster than booking a twenty-minute show.
“We’d love to,” I said, scribbling the details into my calendar.
* * *
We’d gotten a show, a real show, but how are we gonna fill the time?
Jonathan and I sat down to figure out a running order, and as we struggled to put together a set that felt cohesive, he reminded me that in some of the videos we’d been watching, performers sometimes had a big screen or backdrop to work in front of.
Because of my theater background, I immediately visualized how scenery pieces would give us depth onstage. We could hide behind it, then appear suddenly, or stash props, or who knows, there were tons of possibilities. And while I didn’t know exactly how we’d use it, I figured if I built it, we’d find a way.
My girlfriend’s mom had just gotten a sewing machine and told me she’d help with anything I needed. So an idea began to form: what if we built a frame out of PVC pipe, stretched fabric across it, and created our own theatrical screen? Or even better, since there were two of us, I could build two screens.
I sketched out a design with rough dimensions, bought the fabric and pipe, and had the panels sewn to size. The day before the event, I carefully cut and fitted the PVC, making sure each piece matched its frame exactly.
It all came together perfectly, so I disassembled the screens, tossed everything in the car, and rested easy knowing we’d be ready.
The next day, we arrived at the church and got to setting up. I started with the screens, but something was wrong. While they’d gone together easily just the day before, now they were fighting me at every step. One was way too loose; the other, too tight. What was happening, I wondered. As I struggled, the oversight in my planning slowly revealed itself. The screens weren’t machine-made; they were handmade, so they weren’t exactly the same. When I’d assembled them the day before, I’d cut each pipe to fit exactly. But I hadn’t marked which piece belonged to which frame, or which end it belonged to. So now, under pressure and with time running out, I was crouched onstage, playing the magical musical pipe-placement game, trying to guess which piece of PVC had been where when I’d originally assembled them.
In frustration, I forced a tight joint, and the whole side of the screen ripped along its seam. My seemingly foolproof plan was turning into a huge fail, and then, before we’d even set up our props or gone over the set list, the double doors at the front of the church swung open. A sea of kids, teachers, and parents poured into the sanctuary.
My heart dropped, and the words of Mr. Shive, my high school drama teacher, rang in my head: Never let the audience see you before the performance. Make sure everything is set up, then clear the stage. Always be professional.
“We’re out of time,” I hissed to Jonathan. “Hide!”
Jonathan was working on stage left, so he ducked into a closet on that side. I was set up on the right, so I ducked into a closet on stage right. A few people might have seen us, I thought, but nothing that would ruin the experience for them.
Looking around my dark cubicle, I saw a collection of music stands, chairs, books, and sound equipment, the kind of things you’d expect to find in a church’s storage closet. Looking out the closet door, I noticed that the back wall of the stage bent at a forty-five-degree angle. This created a nice architectural flourish, but it also meant I couldn’t see Jonathan from across the stage. I knew he was tucked away in his own closet on the other side, but being split up like this was something new. Before the last show, we’d been side by side, able to talk through last-minute adjustments, crack a joke, and share the moment. But now, I was alone.
I couldn’t see the audience, but I could hear them. Shuffling into pews. Chattering. Whispering questions.
“Alright, everyone, find a seat.”
A little girl’s voice, “What are those blue screens for?”
“Parents, please sit in the back or along the edges.”
A little boy’s voice, “What kind of show is it?”
Another child, “Juggling? Like clowns?”
And another, “I hope it’s good.”
My chest went tight. A fist around my lungs.
Why do I do this? I asked myself.
I hate this.
I just wanted to juggle.
And I’m not even good.
What if I drop?
What if they laugh?
What if they don’t?
What if they just stare?
My thoughts spiraled, colliding with one another. I hadn’t thought to ask the pastor how we’d know it was time to begin. Would they cue us? Would the music start? What if the sound guy forgot? What if Jonathan missed it? Had I set up the right props? I couldn’t remember. Was it diabolo first? No, the greeting, then diabolo. Or was it the screen bit? God, the screen, already torn, sagging on one side, and if it catches a breeze from the air conditioning, it will topple like a sad circus tent.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. I could hear the blood pounding in my skull.
I’m gonna puke.
I looked around for something to puke into, but there was nothing. Not even a trash can. I needed to go to the bathroom, but I’d have to cross the stage where the audience would see me, so I couldn’t; I’m trapped.
Up front, the youth pastor began singing.
“I’ve got a river of life flowing out of me…”
The kids joined in. Clapping.
“Spring up, oh well…”
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”
I tried to breathe. Inhale. Exhale. But nothing moved. It was like my chest forgot how to work.
“And now a reading from Matthew…”
I was melting. Exploding. Folding inward. Am I dying? Or disappearing…
My vision narrowed, then tunneled.
And then—
Nothing.
* * *
I wouldn’t have even believed it happened if a videographer hadn’t shown us the clip afterward.
There we were, clear as day, on stage, juggling, smiling, performing the act exactly as we’d rehearsed.
They’d held us until the very end, so I sat in that tiny room, marinating in fear, for over forty minutes. Then, apparently, we went out and did the show. But I don’t remember a second of it. Somehow, I hadn’t been there, like something inside me had split and some other part took over, the part that could do it, the part that could handle the panic and carry me through.
But what happened to the part of me that was afraid? The part that had cowered in the closet? Because he was me, but somehow, he’d stepped aside? And I wondered, where he’d gone…
Chapter 29: You’ll Pay Us To Juggle?
One morning while we were hanging in the apartment, Jonathan got a call.
“Hey man!” Jonathan answered, cheerful as always. “Yeah, I’m still doing shows.”
I was across the room, entranced by Charlie Dancey’s Encyclopaedia of Ball Juggling, trying to wrap my head around a new three-ball trick, so I was only half listening.
“Actually, I’ve got a partner now. We do a comedy juggling act.”
I glanced over. Was this a call for a gig? I wondered.
“Oh yeah, I’ll check,” Jonathan said, turning to his desk and scanning his big paper calendar. “Yep, we’re free on the twenty-third. What’s your budget?”
Another beat. Then Jonathan nodded casually, “Yeah, we could do it for that.”
Another pause.
“Yeah, we’ll be there, you too. Take care.”
As soon as he hung up, Jonathan spun toward me, eyes lit up. “Dude! That was an old friend of mine, he’s getting married and wants us to perform at the wedding.”
“Excellent!”
“And he’s gonna pay us four hundred and fifty bucks.”
I froze. “Four-fifty? For one show?”
He nodded.
I jumped up and high-fived him like we’d just landed a headliner spot in Vegas.
Our first real gig, someone asking us to juggle, and paying better than anything we’d ever had before. It’s starting! I thought, the hard work is paying off!
The gig was still a few weeks away, so we trained like mad. Cleaning up the routines, tightening the timing, and practicing every word of our intro until it flowed.
We wanted to make it unforgettable. Not just for the happy couple, but for ourselves.
When the day arrived, we drove to the address and parked next to the building where the wedding was being held. Suspiciously, only a few cars were in the parking lot. If there’s going to be a wedding here in a few hours, shouldn’t there be more people here? Are we in the wrong place? Did they cancel and forget to tell us? We had no answers, but spying a pay phone nearby, Jonathan ran over and dropped a quarter to call the client. I stayed in the car, but could tell they’d answered by his animated body language. He spoke to them for a few minutes, and though I couldn’t make out what was said, I heard his easy laugh carrying all the way across the parking lot. Then he hung up and returned to the car.
“Well, I’ve got good news and bad news,” he said.
“What’s the good news?” I asked.
“We are in the right place,” he said.
“And the bad news?”
“The wedding is not today, it’s next Saturday.”
A multitude of emotions hit me. Relief that we had one more week to practice, and happiness that it wasn’t tonight because I was still dreadfully fearful of being on stage. But, also stressed, because I really needed the money and we’d both cleared our whole Saturday for this event. We’d even turned down other gigs to be here.
Perhaps worse, we both had gigs already booked for the following Saturday; now we would have to cancel those events to fulfill this obligation.
Despite this, I wasn’t mad; it was an honest mistake, and I knew Jonathan needed money just as badly as I did. It’s just that losing the gig today, plus the gigs the following week, was financially devastating. All these thoughts were hitting at once, and hard.
Jonathan said, “Hey man, I feel really bad, it’s my fault, but I’ve got an idea.”
“Yeah, what's that?”
Tomorrow, I have a birthday party gig for Benny as the Dalmatian, but I also have one next Sunday. Why don’t I do the one tomorrow, and you go do the one next Sunday? I know it won’t make up the whole difference, but it’ll help.”
“That would really help, thank you,” I said.
* * *
The week flew by in a haze of training and tacos; then we returned to the same park the following Saturday to perform in the wedding show.
And I must’ve burned up all my nervous energy when we came the first time, because the show went pretty well.
The client was happy, and we got paid, so we called it a win.
* * *
The next day, I pulled out my tattered copy of the Thomas Brothers City Map Guide, a two-inch-thick book filled with detailed drawings of every single street in San Diego. Mine was a hand-me-down copy from Jonathan when he’d upgraded his to the latest edition.
Anytime I had a party, I’d flip to the index in the back, cross-reference the grid coordinates, and then hunt down the address on the corresponding page. Looking up the address for the Dalmatian gig, I navigated to it, then parked a few houses away so they wouldn’t see me get into costume.
I cracked open the fifty-five-gallon trash bag the costume was stored in, and the smell hit me like a punch in the nose as the foul, earthy, rotting reek of mold washed over me.
“Oh my god,” I sputtered, pulling the extra fuzzy pieces of costume out of the bag. The costume fur was no longer just black-and-white spots. It had bloomed into splotches of sickly green and gray, with streaks that looked like moss climbing up a tree. When I touched it, my fingers came away tacky, coated with a faint slick of slime.
The Dalmatians’ feet were even worse. The glued-in tennis shoes squished when I pressed them, and the insides were clammy, alive in the way only moldy things can be.
Grabbing a small towel I kept in the car, I tried to scrub at it, but it just smeared the mold into a greenish paste, making it even worse, if that were possible. And I knew there was no way I was going to be able to pretty it up. It wasn’t a costume anymore; it was a petri dish with floppy ears.
A timeline of events formed in my mind.
Last Sunday, the day of Jonathan’s original Dalmation gig, it had rained. So Jonathan must have done the party in the rain, and then afterward, the wet, sweaty costume got balled up and thrown into the fifty-five-gallon trash bag where it sat in the back of Jonathan’s car, sweltering in its hot plastic terrarium for a week, never drying out.
Then last night, he gave me the bag so I could do the gig today, and I’d just thrown it in the back of my car without thinking to look inside.
Note to self: In the future, take a quick gander at the costumes to make sure they’re show-ready. Not that that tidbit of wisdom would help me any right now.
Not knowing what else to do, I figured, The show must go on, and I started putting on the costume pieces.
Gross as it was, I half-convinced myself everything would be okay, but then I picked up the headpiece.
If you’ve ever seen mold that was growing in such a way that it looks like tiny towers standing straight up, well, that’s what was growing all over the inside of the helmet. Taking the same rag I’d used on the body piece of the costume, I broke up the towers and wiped them out as best I could.
Taking one last breath of good air, the last I’d be getting for at least forty-five minutes, I shoved my head inside. The stench was unbelievable, and I gagged involuntarily. I have a strong stomach, but this was next-level. I hoped that after a few minutes, my nostrils would become accustomed and it would seem less bad. Glancing at my watch, I saw I only had a couple of minutes left before it was go time. I sat in the front seat of my car, watching in dismay as rain droplets began to fall on my windshield. A minute later, the skies opened up. I couldn't believe the bad luck; it never rains in San Diego! Well, almost never. Figuring it was now or never, I jumped out, opened the car’s hatchback, and pulled out the red and white Coleman ice chest I used to hold all of my party games and prizes. Then I ran towards the house. As I went, I felt the cool rain soaking through my shoulders and wetting my undershirt. The drops made a hollow drumming sound inside the helmet each time they hit. By the time I reached the covered area by the front door, I could feel rivulets of cool water drizzling down my spine.
This fresh dousing only invigorated the mold, intensifying the smell to levels beyond imagination.
The lady of the house opened the door with a big welcoming smile, then, taking in the scene before her, lost her enthusiasm.
With a gracious, “Ahem, why don’t you come inside?” She opened the screen door for me. I entered, to the delight of all the children, who ran up and hugged me, only to recoil abruptly.
One little girl looked at her mom and exclaimed, “He’s wet!!”
To this, the mom said, “Well, it’s raining outside, honey.”
The little girl whispered conspiratorially, “He smells too.”
The mother helplessly nodded, not wanting to be rude but also agreeing wholeheartedly with the child’s assessment.
Then the hostess, in a bright but firm voice, said, “Why don’t we move the party to the backyard? Follow me, everyone.”
So we followed her out back.
Once we got outside, things went well enough: there was a screened-in patio for all of us to play in, and because the costume was so disgusting, I didn’t have kids hanging off my legs or attacking me like they usually did. Finally, it was over, and they paid without comment or complaint. Racing back to my car, I stripped off the costume, put it back in its black trash bag, and drove to Benny’s house to drop it off. Luckily, he wasn’t home because this was supposed to be Jonathan’s gig, and I didn’t want to explain why I was dropping it off instead of him.
I quickly dumped everything on the porch and left.
I had a balloon gig to get to, so I drove straight to Carlsbad, to Ruby’s restaurant at the end of the pier. I changed into my ballooning costume, which was freshly laundered, but since I hadn’t had time to shower between gigs, I still reeked.
Late that night, when I finally walked into the apartment, Jonathan immediately asked in a telling tone, “So, how’d the Dalmation gig go?”
I told him the whole story, and he shook his head, laughed, and apologized at all the right places.
Then he told me his side of the story.
After I’d dropped the costume off, Benny called Jonathan, furious over the state of the costume.
Of course, Jonathan tried his best to play along because he was supposed to be the one doing the gig in the first place, but he didn’t know there was anything wrong with the costume.
I can imagine him trying to say, “Ok, yeah, sure, so maybe it was a little funky.”
Only to have Benny say, “Funky? FUNKY!!! It’s friggin green! I’m going to have to have this thing professionally cleaned! I’ve never seen a costume in such bad shape!”
Benny was a Christian, so I doubt he swore, but I’m sure he said more than, “Oh golly gosh.”
I later heard that Benny’d had the costume professionally cleaned twice before admitting defeat; it was unfixable. He threw it away and stopped offering the Dalmatian.
They say it all comes out in the wash, but this, it seems, was an exception to the rule.
Chapter 30: The Secret Investor
I cracked open the cover to David Attenborough’s Life on Earth double VHS cassette series and pulled out a stack of money. My hiding place wouldn’t have stopped a determined thief, but I figured most wouldn’t take the time to check every VHS box on the shelf, and if they did, at least they’d have to work for it.
The International Jugglers Association (IJA) Festival in Primm, Nevada, and our trip to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival were only months away, so if we were really going to do both, I had to figure out if I could afford it all.
I’d saved as much as I could since Jonathan and I moved into our apartment nine months before. But I never kept track of what I’d added, just tossing in cash whenever I could.
Counting the cash, I was shocked to find over $3,000. Way more than I thought I’d have, but still probably not enough. The overseas flights alone would be over $1,000, and we wanted to stay for a whole month.
I don’t think I can do it, I conceded.
Unless I can earn a bunch of money — and fast — at the restaurant, maybe then I could make it work. But, truth be told, I never really believed we’d go. Neither of us had ever been on a real international trip. My only times outside the U.S. had been a few brief visits to Tijuana, but never an overnight stay, and never more than forty-five minutes from the U.S. border. The risks with a trip like this were insane. I didn’t have a credit card. No savings. And no family I could call for a bailout. If I ran out of money over there, I’d be truly on my own, a broke, homeless, foreign juggler with a dream. Not exactly the safest plan. But at the same time, the Fringe feels like our shot, an opportunity to pit ourselves against the best performing artists in the world, and maybe even get our show out there so people hear about us and book us.
Lord knows, we’ve been working hard.
Which is one of the things I’ve really come to appreciate about Jonathan. In the nine months we’d been working and living together, his amazing work ethic shone through. In addition to training five days a week with me, he took on a side job working shifts at his uncle’s deli, delivering food. This gave him the opportunity to make extra money while still having time for gigs on nights and weekends. He was nonstop, day after day, with that jump-in-and-get-it-done approach to life.
* * *
One afternoon, Jonathan came home from the deli and said, “Hey, I got us a meeting with a travel agent.”
I raised an eyebrow. “For real?”
“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “She’s one of my regulars, so when I dropped off her lunch, I told her what we’re doing, and she said to come in.”
* * *
When we met with her, we laid it all out. We needed a place to stay for five nights when we arrived in London, but after that? Total flexibility. We knew we were going to Edinburgh, but other than that, we had no clue where we’d end up or what we’d be doing.
She nodded like this wasn’t the weirdest request she’d gotten and told us to check back in a week.
* * *
When we returned, she handed us an itinerary: round-trip flights to London Heathrow, starting with five nights in London. After that, we’d take a train to Edinburgh. She’d tried to find something for our first night in Edinburgh, but everything in the city was sold out, so we’d be entirely on our own. Three weeks after that, we’d take the train back to London and have about eight hours to kill in the airport before flying home.
She slid the itinerary across the table, and I saw the price: $1,800 each.
Internally, I gasped. If the first week is gonna wipe out two-thirds of my savings, without even accounting for food or lodging once we’re in Edinburgh, there’s no friggin’ way I can pull this off.
I turned to Jonathan, hoping to flash him a silent Are we sure about this? But he was already nodding.
“Sounds good,” he said. “We’ll take it.”
“Alright,” she said. “How will you each be paying?”
“Cash,” he replied, pulling a thick wad of bills from his pocket and laying it on the table.
She looked at me next.
I swallowed. “Cash,” I gulped, counting out the money. What had been a solid wad of bills moments ago now barely made a crease.
Great. We’re gonna be homeless in a foreign country and starve to death, I thought.
Before I could say anything else, it was done. We walked out of her cool, air-conditioned office into the blasting San Diego heat.
“We’re going to Edinburgh!” Jonathan grinned.
“Looks like,” I said, trying to match his enthusiasm through the fog of stress.
“Well, I gotta get back to the deli and make some tips.” He hopped in his car and zipped away.
I climbed into my own car, sighing. Jonathan’s strategy definitely beat mine in terms of cash flow. And I wondered if maybe I should’ve picked up a side job too.
My own plan had been to live lean and make my entire living from gigs, which was working, but things were dire financially. The only food in the pantry was generic bagged cereal, bulk oatmeal, Top Ramen, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.
But, I reasoned, if I’d gotten a job, I wouldn’t have been able to dedicate so much time to practice. And broke as I was, my angle was working; I was getting better. While Jonathan had done deliveries, I’d learned to juggle five clubs. So I held to the belief that time spent developing my skills would eventually pay off.
* * *
A month later, with the trips looming, I opened the VHS box again.
After buying the flights, I’d been down to $1,200. But now I was already back up to $2,500!
Still terrifyingly little for a month in another country, but enough that I wouldn’t have to back out.
We kept working, saving, and practicing.
* * *
Years later, I found out the real reason I’d managed to rebuild my savings so fast: Jonathan had been slipping extra money into my VHS piggy bank when I wasn’t looking. But it would be over a decade before he told me this. He said he wanted to be sure I’d have enough to go. That’s the kind of friendship we had. We were both all in, both betting everything on this venture, and both doing everything we could to make it happen.
Chapter 31: Cashing in Miles
One morning, Jonathan said he was going to meet up with one of his old high school buddies.
When he came back, he was carrying a shoebox, packed full of Marlboro Miles. These were the smoker’s version of Blue Chip Stamps, points that could be clipped from every pack and carton, then traded in for prizes. For some reason, Jonathan’s friend had hoarded them for years but never cashed any of them.
“Free stuff!” We weren’t about to say no.
We sat down together with the Official Marlboro catalog and flipped through page after page of branded gear. Hats, jackets, duffle bags, sunglasses, but everything had the Marlboro logo stamped on it. Neither of us smoked, so we weren’t too keen on repping the brand. But then Jonathan flipped another page and lit up.
“Wait a second, they’ve got a tent? That’s perfect,” he said. “I could use that in Scotland.”
He already had a tent, but this one looked tougher and better suited for the unpredictable weather we knew Edinburgh would throw at us. So the tent went on the list. Then we kept flipping, mostly joking about how much Marlboro swag we weren’t going to wear, until something else caught our attention: 35mm film cameras.
Neither of us owned a camera at the time.
“You know,” Jonathan said, “we could use that to get pictures on the trip. Maybe even take a few promo shots.”
I nodded. “That would be huge. Always good to have pictures.”
He did the math, counted up his stash of miles, and realized he had enough for the tent and the camera with plenty more to spare. So he decided to get two cameras. One for him. One for me.
He sent off the redemption form, and a few weeks later, a box arrived. Inside was the new tent, and the two red-and-beige 35mm film cameras, each with a bold “Marlboro” strap and the company’s logo stamped right on the body. They weren’t fancy by any stretch, but they worked. We popped in some batteries, loaded a roll of film, and snapped a few random pictures of each other juggling.
Our first photoshoot.
Chapter 32: Whatever It Takes
The juggling club, which I’d thrown high and with fast spin, came down with such force it popped the tip of my finger like a grape. The wound itself looked like a stab from a broad Phillips-head screwdriver, leaving a plus sign carved in my flesh.
Where the top of this plus met the fingernail, the split dove under and ran along the nail bed, separating the flesh from the nail itself.
Probably not enough to make it fall off, I decide, but enough to make my stomach flutter in pain.
Grabbing one of my rolls of cloth athletic tape, a good brand that can be torn by hand and actually stays put through bending and sweating, I tore off four strips, each about two inches long, and split each one down the middle, giving me eight flexible pieces. Then I started layering: putting them down like overlapping scales across the fingertip, a juggler’s version of medieval finger armor. The remaining pieces wrapped around the base just below the first knuckle, anchoring the whole structure. As I worked, I flexed and straightened the finger repeatedly, pressing the tape into the creases and grooves to ensure it stayed secure.
A year ago, I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea how to handle an injury like this, let alone tape it up and keep going. But now? It’s just another day of training.
We juggled until we bled, taped up, and kept juggling.
When I was a kid, my mom used to play guitar. And one time, she handed it to me to try some chords. I pressed down on the strings as she’d shown me, but quickly handed it back, “It hurts my fingers.”
“It does hurt,” she said, “but you build up to it.”
“How?” I asked.
“Practice. Some guitarists even play until their fingers bleed.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because they have a passion for it. And they want to get good.”
“That’s crazy!” I’d exclaimed, not understanding.
But now, as I pressed the last piece of tape into place, I knew what she’d been trying to explain to me all those years ago.
Reaching for the notebook I’d been using to track progress, I flipped it open.
Hours of practice first year:
‣ ~20 hours/week × 52 weeks = 1,040 hours
Milestones:
‣ Learned 5 clubs (but inconsistent)
‣ 7-ball flash became consistent
‣ 7-ball: 99 catches, four different times (100 catches still out of reach)
‣ 8-ball flash (one in 10 tries)
It was hard to believe that not so long ago I’d cracked four-ball juggling at Little Caesars, and now I was doing eight.
The progress was real. And fast. But it wasn’t magic, it was hard-earned.
And now another milestone was on the horizon: In just a few weeks, we’d be going to our first big juggling conference.
We’d been talking about the IJA festival for months. Watching old VHS tapes of past competitions, rewinding the same clips over and over again. For us, the IJA was the source, the center of the juggling universe. So the idea of actually going was a dream. But the cost was intimidating. We’d have to pay the festival fee, cover gas, food, lodging, plus lose a weekend of gigs. But thankfully, the festival was being held in Primm, Nevada, which was within driving distance, about 300 miles from Escondido. Most years, the festival was off somewhere way across the country. So Primm was practically next door by comparison.
I didn’t know how I was going to afford it, but we had to go.
Even if we slept in the car the whole time, we’d do whatever it takes.
We’d taken to calling it reckless faith, an unwavering belief in the process. Trusting that if we chased it hard enough, long enough, and with enough heart, it would eventually pay off.
Chapter 33: IJA - Primm Nevada - July - 1998
Next thing I knew, it was the night before the festival.
Jonathan and I often stayed up late talking about juggling, comedy, life, finances, goals, and everything in between. So even though we were planning to wake early and leave at first light, we still had our usual chat, then around midnight, we flipped off the lights to try and sleep.
Try to sleep, being the operative phrase.
I lay there wide awake, imagining every possible scenario. What the conference might be like, what the competitions would feel like, and who we might meet. I could hear Jonathan tossing and turning, and I wondered if he was lying there thinking the same things.
Around 1:30 am, he whispered across the dark room:
“Pssst, hey, you asleep?”
“Nope. Wide awake.”
“How would you feel about leaving tonight?”
“You serious?”
“Maybe… Are you serious?”
I reached over and turned on my little nightstand light. A moment later, his light also clicked on.
“We might as well,” I said. “I’m not sleeping anyway.”
I got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, flipped on the light, poured a tall glass of Coke, then started a pot on the stove to make a box of mac-n-cheese.
“All right. I guess we’re doing this,” Jonathan said, jumping up and gathering his things.
We hit the road around 2:00 am in Jonathan’s recently acquired little brown Honda hatchback, a used-up $500 auction car that somehow still ran.
This is it! We’re headed for Primm, Nevada.
Despite it being an all-nighter, neither of us was tired. We talked the whole way, energized by anticipation. Because we’d left in the middle of the night, there was no traffic, and we made good time. Just as the sun was rising in the east, we crested the final big hill before dropping into the valley that led to the Nevada state line. As we did, we passed a white panel van fully engulfed in flames. I wondered if this was some poor juggler’s van, a juggler like us, just trying to make it to the festival but stopped short by the brutal hill climb and the oppressive desert heat. Even in the middle of the night, the temperature was over 100°.
We crossed the state line and arrived in Primm a little after 9:00 am.
Our plan had been to get to the hotel and catch a nap, but they wouldn’t let us check in until 3:00 pm. And with the temperature already rising to a punishing 106°, Jonathan’s car became a little oven on wheels. So there was no way we could sleep in there.
Jonathan decided to do a recon loop to see if there was a cooler place we could hide out, and in doing so discovered that the juggling conference itself was taking place across the parking lot in a separate building. Whoever he’d talked to said it was already in full swing, so we figured we’d drive over. As we started to do just that, we spotted a familiar face, Rick Rubenstein from the juggling duo Clockwork, someone we’d watched countless times on VHS. He was walking out of the hotel with a dark-haired woman, heading in the same direction as us, and likely going to the conference hall too. So we rolled down the window and offered them a ride.
At first, he looked like he was going to wave us off. But then he shrugged and said, “Sure, why not?”
They climbed into the back seat, wedging themselves between our backpacks.
As we drove, I hoped we’d get to talk to him, but they didn’t pay any attention to us; instead opting to continue their quiet conversation.
But that was fine. As much as I believed we’d eventually be players at this table, the “maybes” or “could be’s” of tomorrow don’t count for anything today. The world doesn’t care what you might be one day. It only cares what you are now. And right now, we were nobodies.
We dropped Rick and his friend off at the front doors, and they walked away without another word.
Then we parked and went inside.
Our eyes were immediately assaulted by the garish red-patterned carpet that stretched wall to wall, and I decided that the number one prerequisite for becoming a casino decorator was a fearlessness of color. We checked in at the festival desk to get our passes, then stepped into the main training hall.
What we saw blew our minds.
Balls, clubs, rings, batons, machetes, diabolos, devil sticks, all flying through the air in every direction. Kids who looked barely old enough to walk were riding unicycles. Adults were balancing ladders on their chins. Props clattered. Conversations echoed. It was chaos in the most beautiful way.
Chris LaReau, a juggler we recognized from tapes, was juggling four baseball bats with ease, which, even for our edgy tastes, seemed a bit crazy.
In the back, I spotted someone juggling a seemingly impossible number of glossy white beanbags. I walked over and saw Jason Garfield, another face I knew from VHS, casually running eight balls. I stood there watching in awe.
After a few moments, he noticed me watching and graced me with one of his trademark scowls, then went back to training.
I didn’t care, though. I kept right on watching.
Eventually, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I had to practice.
I found Jonathan and started unpacking my gear.
“So, what do you think?” I asked.
He looked around the room. “I can’t believe how good everyone is. On the way here, I thought I was getting pretty good. But now?” He gestured around us.
“Well,” I said, picking up some beanbags, “we just gotta keep practicing.”
* * *
The conference delivered everything we had hoped for, and more.
We saw world-class talent. Took workshops. Practiced maniacally. Bought every prop we could afford. Met new people. And slept, almost never.
One standout moment for me was the three-ball breakout session led by Tim Kelly. His virtuosity with just three balls was jaw-dropping. And it confirmed something I’d been thinking for a while, that three-ball juggling could be an artistic language all its own, with possibilities that felt endless. I also knew that three-ball juggling would be the ripest place to incorporate my hacky-sack and soccer skills. So I made it a goal to get much better at three-ball juggling.
* * *
A day or two later was Championships Night, and it was unforgettable.
Les Tourisks, a four-person team, took gold in the teams division with dazzling combination tricks and razor-sharp passing. Watching them stand onstage receiving their gold medals made me envious, and I thought, That’s what I want for us, the team’s gold, that’s the goal!
* * *
On the final day, we stayed until the last possible moment. And only after the halls were empty and the lights were being shut off did we finally head out.
As we left Primm, we passed a massive roadside thermometer that read 117°.
It reminded us of the running joke of the festival:
“But at least it’s a dry heat.”
A few hours into the drive home, Jonathan pulled off to get gas. As he was filling up, he called me over, “Dude, look at this.”
One of our front tires was completely bald, worn straight down to the steel belts. It was a blowout waiting to happen, and we had no spare.
Considering he’d bought the car off an auction lot and never looked back. It’s probably a miracle we haven’t already crashed and burned.
The rest of the drive, he kept it under sixty miles per hour, just hoping the tire would hold on until morning.
That bald tire was just one of the countless risks we were taking with our little venture, always riding the line between audacity and catastrophe.
But that’s how it is, you gotta walk on the edge if you wanna live the art’trepreneurial dream.
Chapter 34: Jugglers on the Roof
Before IJA, we liked juggling. After IJA, we were jugglers.
We came home with heads full of possibilities, notebooks crammed with ideas, and muscles sore from too many hours of practice. For days afterward, we reminisced about the performances we’d seen, the props we’d tried, and our wild dream of turning juggling into a career.
And one thing was clear: if we wanted to level up, we needed to think bigger, literally.
“What if we had a giant set of beanbags?” Jonathan mused, “Then we could each be like one of the ‘hands’ and juggle them back and forth between us?”
“I like it,” I said. “But where are we going to get giant beanbags?”
“What about that beanbag furniture place off the freeway?”
He was talking about a warehouse we’d passed a hundred times on the way to the beach, a beige pole barn in a commercial zone with a trio of sun-faded, oversized beanbag chairs bolted to the roof like lumpy mascots.
“I know the place,” I said. “If anyone could make ’em, it would be them.”
“Let’s check it out next time we drive past.”
I’ve never liked putting things off, so I made up a reason for us to go that way a few days later.
* * *
We pulled into the cracked asphalt parking lot and walked inside.
I’d imagined a tidy beanbag showroom, with neat rows of chairs in every size and fabric, something like a squishy La-Z-Boy outlet. Instead, we stepped into what looked like the aftermath of a fabric store explosion.
Everywhere were rolls of cloth, stacked on folding tables, draped off hooks, heaped on the floor, some halfway hanging from the walls. Tools were strewn about: scissors, rotary cutters, cardboard patterns curling at the corners. The concrete floor was mostly hidden beneath layers of multicolored trimmings. And two enormous ceiling hoppers hung overhead, sagging like bloated jellyfish, full of those little white styrofoam beads. A boom box somewhere in the back was struggling to play Pink Floyd at a volume its tiny speakers were never meant to handle. And absolutely everywhere were the beads. Millions of them. They created little white eddies that spiraled away from our feet as we walked.
We wandered deeper into the chaos, unsure if the place was even staffed. Then, from somewhere amid the colorful cyclone, a voice called out:
“Was there a UPS package at the door?”
I followed the sound and found a woman in a tie-dyed T-shirt. Though she was sitting in plain sight, her colorful top had perfectly camouflaged her into the surroundings.
“Oh, hi,” I said. “No, I didn’t see a package.”
“Figures, and I can’t get this job done until it gets here. And I can’t get that job done because I need the guy to make the deposit. I knew I shouldn’t have started it, I knew he was gonna flake, and sure enough, he’s flaking. It’s my own fault, I’ve told myself a million times, so I ought to know, trust my gut. When someone seems off, they’re gonna be off.”
She pointed beside me. “Bring me that roll of fabric.”
I looked around. “This one?”
“No, the other one, behind it.”
“Yep, got it.” I brought it over. She pointed to a table, so I laid it down.
She rummaged through a pile of thick paper patterns, muttering to herself. “No… no… no… Well, I used it for the Simpson order, so maybe—ah-ha.” She pulled out a large, rounded rectangle and laid it flat.
“So,” she said without looking at us, “what can I do for you boys?”
Jonathan answered, “Well, this is probably a strange request.”
She stopped moving and looked at him. “Yeah? Try me.”
“We want three giant beanbags so we can juggle them.”
She stared at him, completely expressionless. I think she expected him to say he was kidding, but when he didn’t, she conceded, “That’s a new one.”
“Yeah, we do shows, and we thought it’d be cool to juggle giant props, so we figured you were the one to talk to.”
She returned to the fabric in front of her, busy with her hands, maybe thinking about what he said, maybe not.
“Do they need to be round? I don’t make round. Or I’d have to have a pattern. You have one I could use?”
“Uh, yeah, let me grab one,” Jonathan said, heading for the car and our ever-present stash of props.
Now she looked at me.
“When do you need them by?”
“No rush. At your leisure, just whenever you can fit them in.”
“Wrong answer,” she said flatly. “When do you need them by?”
“No, really, whenever you can fit us in is fine,” I repeated.
“Listen, sweetie, not for nothin, but if there’s no deadline, there won’t be anything for you to pick up. This isn’t exactly the Hamptons.”
I blinked at the reference. She dismissed it with a wave of her hand and said, “What colors?”
Jonathan returned with a beanbag, and she examined its construction. After turning it over a few times, she nodded. “Okay.”
“What colors do we want?” I asked him.
Jonathan thought for a second. “I dunno—red, blue, and yellow?”
“I don’t have yellow,” she said flatly. “I have purple.”
“Okay. Red, blue, and purple?”
“Okay. Come back in one week.” Her tone made it clear the conversation was over.
“Wait, how big are they going to be? And how much is it going to be?”
“You want to juggle them, yes?”
We both nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I make them juggle size.”
“Alright.. and how much are they going to cost?”
“We’ll work it out.”
That answer made my wallet nervous. I was buying gas in five-dollar increments, often in change, so I insisted, “I really appreciate that, and I believe you’ll be fair with us. But you deserve to be paid for your work, and we need at least a ballpark idea of what it’s gonna cost?”
She looked at me with a frown, not an unhappy one, just her default expression.
Looking to one side, I spied a large-ish beanbag loveseat done up in burnt-red corduroy. “Like, how much would that one be?”
“Ughh, he was supposed to pick that up three weeks ago, but here it is, taking over my shop. $750 I charged him.”
“Ok, perfect. See, it’s a big piece, and it’s totally worth that. But if we come back in a week and you tell us our beanbags are going to be $750, we’re gonna be in here doing work trade for weeks trying to square things up. Or worse, up on the roof juggling these things as an advertisement for the passing traffic!”
Her eyes went wide with excitement. “Yes, that! That’s what I want.”
“You want what?” I asked.
“During rush hour, you give me a few hours of rooftop juggling, and we are square.”
Uh oh, I thought, I’d only offered that as a joke, I wasn’t seriously suggesting we’d juggle on the roof.
Jonathan jumped in, “A few hours of roof juggling, you got it.”
What? Is that even possible? Won’t the wind just blow them right over the side?
She nodded, “Come back in one week.”
I wasn’t sure about it, but for free beanbags, I was willing to try.
We thanked her, which she waved off dismissively, already back at work.
As we crossed the floor toward the exit, she hollered, “If my UPS package is there, bring it to me.”
I checked by the door. It wasn’t there. “It’s not here yet!” I called back.
No reply.
* * *
We returned a week later, and as promised, she produced a set of red, blue, and purple bags for us. They were each about the size of an exercise ball, thirty-six inches across, and stuffed for firmness.
“They’re heavy,” she said. “I don’t know if you’ll be able to juggle them.”
I picked one up; it was heavy, but nothing we couldn’t handle.
“Can we try in here?” Jonathan asked.
With the slightest lift in her voice, which might have been excitement, she said, “That’s what they’re for.”
Jonathan picked up two of the bags, and I picked up the third. Squaring off in an open-ish area, I said, “Cascade pattern?”
He was already mid-throw. “Yep!”
The thrown beanbag came in hot; I did a quick sidestep to get into position, then threw mine under the incoming throw. Thwapp, these things come in hard, I thought. My outgoing throw was errant, and Jonathan had to chase it, but after a few throws, we got into a groove, and the pattern smoothed out.
“Hup!” I called, gathering two. Jonathan sent the third my way, and I cradled it between the others.
“Ta da!” Jonathan exclaimed.
Despite herself, our maker was smiling.
“They’re amazing,” I said.
“Good. Let’s get you boys on the roof.”
She led us to a long extension ladder in one corner. Then Jonathan and I carried it outside. “I’ll show you where I usually put it,” she said, “and you decide if it’s how you want to do it.”
“Usually? Do you get on the roof often?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she answered.
That was it. No explanation. Just yeah.
We leaned the ladder against the building, extended it fully, and found that it barely reached the top. Whew, I thought, even with all my ladder experience, this is sketchy.
I climbed first, hauling one beanbag up, then tossed it onto the flat rooftop. Two more trips, and we were all set. Jonathan climbed up next, fearless as ever.
We were at least twenty-five feet up, and from the roof, we could see everything: the freeway traffic, all the cars and semi trucks, the innumerable people crawling by.
“You ready?” Jonathan asked in a tone more serious than was typical.
“Ready to watch them blow away in this wind? Sure am,” I joked.
He laughed. “Just don’t go chasing one off the edge.”
“Not a chance. I’d rather fall through one of these skylights.”
“You are an overachiever,” he shot back.
We laughed, then hefted the bags.
“Hup!” he shouted, letting the first bag fly.
We started to juggle, and thank goodness they were so heavy, because the wind played with every throw, threatening to take the bags to Never Never Land. Sweat formed quickly, and after only a few minutes, my right arm was cooked. Between throws, I started flipping my stance 180°, alternating which hand sent the bags, buying more time.
It worked, and we found the best way was to juggle for a minute, rest for a minute, then juggle again, giving ourselves breaks.
It wasn’t easy, and I wondered how long we’d be able to keep it up, but then our maker shouted from below, “Shut it down! We’re done.”
We looked over the edge and found her halfway up the ladder.
“What? What happened?” I asked.
“Office called. Can’t have roof jugglers.”
“Aww,” we exclaimed, pretending to be bummed.
Jonathan tossed his beanbags down to a patch of grass below. I followed suit, then we climbed down.
We found her inside, already sewing again, focused, steady, unstoppable.
“Sorry it didn’t work out better,” I said. “But since it didn’t, how much do we owe you?”
She didn’t look up. “Nothing. You did what I asked. Not your fault.”
“We have to pay you something.”
She stopped the machine. “Do you like them?”
“Yes. We love them.”
She nodded, “Then they’re paid for.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she waved a hand.
“Go. I have work. If you want to help me, send customers.”
I wanted to say more, to let her know how much this meant to us, but she stepped on the sewing machine’s pedal, waking the beast from its slumber.
Realizing she wasn’t going to accept any money, we gathered the bags and made our way to the door. Before exiting, I cast one more glance over my shoulder to where she was hunched over her machine, fully absorbed in her work.
That’s when it hit me: this shop is her dream, and she’s brought it to life stitch by stitch. By making these bags, she knew she was helping us bring our dream to life, too. And that, more than the bags, was her real gift to us.
The gift of understanding.
The realization that, in life, there are ways a person can be reimbursed that are even better than money.
As we walked to the car, I decided that if we ever managed to bring our dream to life, I would one day pay it forward and help others the way she helped us.
Chapter 35: The Three Dangers of London
To prepare for Edinburgh, we laid all our gear out on the floor, piece by piece, to see what it looked like.
By the time we finished, the entire living room had disappeared under piles of gear. The absurdity of it hit me: We were trying to cram our whole lives into bags and somehow drag them across an ocean.
We’d long decided to bring tents and essential camping gear, so if things got really bad, we could find a park or crawl under a railroad trestle to sleep.
Then add to that all our show props, costumes, and a pile of personal items. And because Edinburgh’s weather was unpredictable, we’d have to pack for hot, cold, and wet. It was a lot!
“You know,” Jonathan said, looking over the chaos, “we should bring balloons too.”
I looked at him. “Like… animal balloons?”
“Yeah. Worst-case scenario, we can make balloon animals for tips. At least we’d eat.”
It was a good idea, but I wasn’t so sure about it. There was no way my regular backpack could handle what we’d already laid out on the floor, and that was without balloons. We needed to go luggage shopping. But not regular luggage — we needed gear, like from a sporting goods store. So that’s where we went, and I found a massive black hockey goalie bag so big I climbed inside it right there in the aisle.
Jonathan reached down and zipped me up inside it and said, “You fits. Barely.”
“Perfect,” I said. “Maybe you can wheel me onstage and produce me from the bag as our opening act.”
I decided to make this bag the core of my storage. I’d bungee it to a folding luggage cart I already had, balance my regular duffel bag on top, and then carry my backpack on my back.
Jonathan took a different approach. He tried on and bought a sixty-liter backpacking bag to complement the sixty-liter expedition pack he already had at home. Then, for good measure, he bought another smaller backpack. His plan was simple: wear one on his back, one backward on his chest, and carry the third in his hands, like a human pack mule.
Once home, we tested and packed everything, and to our amazement, it all fit. There was even room for eighteen bags of Qualatex twisting balloons, 144 pieces per pack.
Our luggage logistics were officially resolved.
* * *
Next came the question of the apartment, or rather, the $450-a-month rent.
We didn’t want to give it up, but we couldn’t afford to pay for it while we were gone either. Even at its low price, it was too much. So we decided that the first day of our trip would also be move-out day. We’d stash everything we owned in our cars, leave them parked somewhere, and trust they’d still be there when we got back. It was reckless, but there wasn’t any other
option.
* * *
The last twenty-four hours in the apartment were a blur. We’d booked gigs right up to the wire, squeezing out every dollar. Once the gigs were over, we stumbled back to the apartment and started packing, filling our cars until the back seats and trunks bulged with boxes.
That final night, I slept on the floor with one pillow. And when morning came, we locked the front door, dropped the key with the manager, and agreed to meet at the airport later that day.
We were officially homeless; there was no turning back.
* * *
I drove my car to my mom’s house so it could hang out in her carport for the month. Then she drove me to the San Diego airport. My three bags and I met Jonathan in the check-in area, where we encountered our first dilemma. They wouldn’t let me send my massive hockey bag through the luggage mover with the little rolling cart bungee’ed to it. Luckily, the bag was so big I just shoved the cart inside it, and they let that pass.
We made it to the gate, already exhausted by the schedule we’d been running. I’d hoped to sleep on the flight, but at 6'5", I barely fit in airline seats, and I couldn’t sleep. By the end of the ten-plus hours in the air, I was shattered.
We landed at London Heathrow and found ourselves waiting in an incredibly long line to clear customs. When I reached the agent, he asked about my accommodations, but I didn’t know the name of the place we were staying at. He pushed me for the name, but I pointed to my pile of bags and said, “I dunno, it’s somewhere in there, I didn’t know you’d need to know.”
He looked at the bags, then at the line, and weighed my cluelessness against my potential as a threat. I must not have seemed too scary because he waved me through.
Jonathan and I then found our way to the metro and piled in with our mountain of gear. To board, you had to obtain a paper ticket. Then, wherever you got off the train, you’d pay a fare based on the distance you’d traveled. Large warning signs stated that anyone who lost their ticket would be fined £50. When we reached the stop nearest our hotel, we disembarked and went to the kiosk to pay. When we got there, Jonathan couldn’t find his ticket. He tore his backpack apart looking for it, but it wasn’t there, so he tore his other two bags apart, then checked his pockets a third and fourth time, but it was nowhere to be found. Jonathan rarely lost his cool, but we were so beat and so broke, he got a little mad. He went to the operator to try and explain the situation, but she was bored and unsympathetic: “Fifty pounds, sir.”
Jonathan slid his bank card across the counter, but she shook her head, “Cash only.”
We didn’t have any pounds, so the operator sent us to a currency exchange booth, where we had to wait in yet another line. The exchange rate was pure extortion, but it was the only place we could do it, and we were tired, so we both exchanged a few hundred dollars.
He paid his lost ticket fee, and we made our way up to the street level.
Jonathan pulled out a map he’d brought along, then opened a second complimentary one we’d grabbed in the currency exchange line. Because of our experience navigating to gigs in San Diego, we both had excellent map-reading skills. We pinpointed where we’d come up from the underground, identified real-world landmarks, and oriented ourselves. Confidently, I said, “It’s this way, let’s go.”
I looked left to make sure no cars were coming, and seeing it was clear, started to cross the street.
“BILL!!!,” Jonathan screamed, simultaneously grabbing my backpack and ripping me backward. A London black cab blasted straight through the space I was milliseconds away from occupying. Had I continued forward, I’d of surely been killed.
Looking at Jonathan, I said, “They drive on the wrong side of the road over here, don’t they?”
With a wry smile, he answered, “Yeah, I feel like I read something about that somewhere.”
“Apparently, it’s true,” I confirmed, and we both laughed.
After that, we were careful to look both ways before crossing any streets.
We eventually made it to a dodgy street that led to our even dodgier hotel. The whole neighborhood felt tired, as though it had given up trying decades ago. The sidewalks were a patchwork of broken slabs, with cracks wide enough to eat a luggage wheel whole. We dodged bin bags slumped on the curb and piles of rubbish that seemed permanent, as if no one ever actually cleared them away.
The hotel itself was a decrepit-looking, block-long, four-story stone building. It was gray and bleak.
I thought to myself that it had probably survived the Great Fire of London, much to everyone’s chagrin. A massive array of scaffolds surrounded it, so many that I wondered whether they were there for repairs or simply to keep the building from collapsing in on itself. I couldn’t say for sure, but there weren’t any workers present, so…
Inside, things weren’t much better. Our room’s floor had a large horizontal crease across its middle, after which, everything tilted downward at an angle that was walkable but made you feel off balance. We decided the building must have been added onto at some point, and that whoever’d got the contract was the lowest bidder. The whole add-on felt like it could shear off and tumble into the street at any moment.
By the entry door was a slot you had to slide a credit card into to activate the room’s electricity. At first, I thought this was a clever, energy-saving system, but then I noticed scorch marks above an electrical outlet and realized it was more likely a fire-prevention measure.
It was quite late, so we decided to sleep. But I wasn’t sleepy-tired because of the jet lag, so I lay in the dark with my thoughts until I heard some shouting outside. I tried to ignore it, but it got louder, and seemed distressed, so I hopped up and threw open our third-story window. Looking out, I saw a man chasing another man around a car.
The man being chased started shouting in a thick Londoner accent, “Oy’ve gawt a noife.” He had to repeat that phrase three more times before my ears cut through the inebriation enough to realize he was saying “I’ve got a knife.”
He must have done something pretty bad, because even with the knife, the other guy kept after him.
An attractive blonde woman ran into the scene and grabbed the man without the knife. I couldn’t hear what she said, but she seemed to be telling him it wasn’t worth it.
The knife wielder took advantage of this interruption and stumbled hurriedly down the street. He got about fifty yards before bending over to vomit his guts out. His loud retching was clearly audible. Then he continued on, turned down a side street, and disappeared.
Now wide awake, I decided to get a jump on tomorrow by grabbing a shower.
Our room had no bathroom or shower. Instead, we had to walk down the hallway a few doors to a communal one. I grabbed my toiletries kit, went in, and locked the door. The “bathroom” was a cramped little box that looked more like a repurposed closet than a proper washroom. The tiles that remained were chipped, and the mirror over the sink had a permanent fog to it. Yet, plopped right in the middle of this remodeler’s nightmare was a gleaming white claw-foot tub with fresh nickel fixtures.
At least they splurged on the bathing options, I thought.
I might not want to step barefoot anywhere else in the place, but the nice tub made up for it a little.
I turned the knobs, and the pipes rattled and groaned deep inside the wall like some old Victorian ghost clearing its throat.
But no water came out.
I played with the knobs, assuming I’d set one of them wrong, and managed to get a tiny trickle.
I’m on the right track, I thought, so I fiddled with the knobs some more, but that was it.
I could make it trickle, or I could make it stop entirely; those were the settings.
Climbing into the tub, I squatted down and cupped my hands under the flow. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi, five Mississippi, six Mississippi. After a six-count, my hands were half full, so I splashed this onto myself. Then I repeated the count until I had enough for another little splash, then again, and again, until I was damp.
I soaped up and thought that next time I should bring something to catch the water, like an empty tumbler, or something.
Thoroughly soaped, I repeated the cupping process. Rinsing took ages, and in the end, I decided I’d live even if a bit of soap were left on me.
Picking up the towel I’d been provided, I laughed a little. When the check-in person handed it to me when we’d arrived, I marveled at its thinness. The antithesis of luxury, it was comically threadbare. But now, as I used it to dry myself, it all made sense.
You don’t need much towel to dry yourself after a not much wet shower.
When I returned to the room, Jonathan asked, “How was the shower?”
“Luxurious,” I said with a totally straight face.
“Yeah? You were gone a while, you think I should go now?”
“You should definitely go now,” I said, “I’m sure there’ll be a line of people in the morning.”
Jonathan nodded, then gathered his shower supplies. He disappeared down the hall and was gone for the better part of forty-five minutes, then he returned.
“How was your shower?” I asked cheerily.
“It WAS luxurious, even better than you’d described,” we both laughed.
* * *
We were excited to get out and see what London was all about. As soon as the sun cracked the horizon, we jumped to it. Our main objective was to get to Covent Garden, a place we’d heard was good for street performing. But we also wanted to see some of the famous sights like Big Ben and the Tower of London. We obtained passes for the Tube, London’s underground subway, and headed to the city center. As soon as we reached street level, I spotted one of the famous red phone booths and asked Jonathan to take a picture of me. I opened the door and stepped inside, then put my face close to the glass so I’d hopefully show up in the photo. I was surprised at how dirty the inside of the phone booth was; there was graffiti and trash all over, and I felt something squishy under my foot. Jonathan lined up to take the phone, and right as he clicked, the putrid, rank smell of shit assaulted my nostrils. Looking down, I saw that someone had defecated in the phone booth, and I’d stepped right in it. “Oh, my, GOD!” I shouted, immediately throwing open the door and stepping out. I ran around doing the poop shoe scoot until the worst of it was off, then walked through some grass to wear off as much of the rest as I could.
I howled, “Why the fuck would someone shit in the phone booth?”
Jonathan’s eyes were wide, then he shrugged, “When you gotta go…”
“Not helping!” I scolded.
A few blocks later, we encountered a series of fences built alongside the sidewalk to separate people’s properties from the passing foot traffic. Most were made of wrought iron or barbed wire, but a few industrious individuals had broken bottles and cemented the jagged bases to the tops of their block walls as a deterrent. Then we passed a freshly painted and nicely plastered wall that had a sign boldly declaring, “Unclimbable wall.”
Jonathan and I looked at each other with an unspoken yet shared thought. Challenge accepted!
Jonathan stepped up onto a short curb at the base of the wall, then reached up to curl his fingers over the top edge. I expected him to hoist himself up effortlessly since we were both good rock climbers, but instead, he said, “Gah, what the? What is that?!”
Looking at his hands, they were now smeared over in a sticky, black, tar-like substance.
Neither of us was carrying tissues, so he reached out to wipe it off on the wall, and that’s when we saw it. All across the wall, obvious as day — now that we’d learned more about unclimbable walls — were long black finger-width smears, undoubtedly made by other punters who’d made the same discovery after accepting the sign’s challenge.
As Jonathan wiped his hands off, I said in my best impression of the scene from The Princess Bride where Wesley and Buttercup are in the fire swamp, “What are the three terrors of the city of London? First, the knife fights, which luckily can be avoided by not going to pubs late at night. Second, the phone booths, which are often filled with human feces, will undoubtedly keep you on your toes. Third, the unclimbable walls, which you were just kind enough to discover. With this knowledge, we could live here quite happily for some time.”
* * *
Having made the acquaintance of the various pitfalls of London, we explored Buckingham Palace, St. Paul’s Cathedral, The Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, Trafalgar Square, Leicester Square, Big Ben, and Covent Garden, all uneventfully.
There was even a street performer at Covent Garden, a juggler no less. When we arrived, he was doing a bit with a raw egg, but he broke it. Then he tried the bit again and broke a second egg. So he tried it a third time and broke the egg again.
And that was it, he was out of eggs and couldn’t do his finale.
The already sparse audience grumbled, then dispersed without giving him any money.
Jonathan whispered under his breath, “Tough gig.”
“Should we talk to him and ask what the rules are for doing a show?” I whispered back.
Jonathan shook his head, “Naw, he’s having a bad day.”
So we let him be.
Satisfied with our first day of exploration, we made our way back to the hotel.
(I’ve roughly calculated the number of steps we walked that day and came up with 22-27k steps.)
Chapter 36: All In
For the next few days, we walked, explored, and fought through jet lag. But we never found a place we felt confident enough to set up for a show.
My fear of performing was as present as ever, so I was secretly happy to put it off a little longer. But London is expensive, and I’m hemorrhaging money. I need to start making money soon, or my nightmare scenario of being broke and homeless in a foreign country will become a reality.
Our train was scheduled to leave for Edinburgh first thing the next morning, and we still had nowhere to go once we got there. Luckily, someone told us about a place that was arranging accommodations, so we went there and found a line stretching out the door. The countless others, many in the same situation as we were, were all hoping to find a place. We waited for over an hour just to get inside the front door. And once in, found that the line wove back and forth through a maze of stanchions with fabric queue barriers stretched between them. And waaaay off across the room, was a lone woman behind a glass panel. She had two corded phones, one held to each ear, as she slowly but surely made calls, trying to get each person or group placed.
Every so often, she’d succeed, or people in line in front of us would give up and leave, then we’d crawl forward a few steps. Next up at the window was a young couple, but the guy was angry about something and kept shaking his head no.
Getting agitated herself, the woman behind the glass said, “It’s all I’ve got, luv; you’re lucky to find anything at all.”
The man said something to his girlfriend, and she rolled her eyes.
The booker nodded to the phone she was holding and asked, “Do ya want it er’ not?”
Looking defeated, the guy’s girlfriend shook her head and started gathering her things.
We knew absolutely nothing about what was being offered, or the price, or where it was even located, but Jonathan took the initiative and shouted over the crowd, “If they don’t want it, we'll take it!”
The woman looked up and said, “Yeah?”
Jonathan hesitated for a moment, then asked, “It’s in Edinburgh?”
The lady nodded, “It is.”
“Ok, we’ll take it!”
“Ok,” she said, “Come on up,” then she motioned for people who’d been ahead of us to make way.
We slid past the other guests and jumped over one of the felt barriers.
Arriving at the window, the lady said, “Alright, loves, the room is 800 pounds per night with a two-night minimum.” (£800 at the time was roughly $1,320 in dollars at the time, or about $2,500 in 2024/2025 due to inflation)
We tried to hide our shock, then Jonathan asked, “And that’s pretty much all that's available?”
She motioned to the phone and said, “If I hang up, it’s gone.”
I stood dazed; my strategy had been to save enough money in reserve so that I could change my flight and go home early if everything went sideways. But if we booked this room, my reserve would be spent, and because London had been so expensive, my remaining capital would be almost exhausted as well. A quick calculation told me that if we proceeded, I’d have enough to get through two more days; then I’d be flat broke. I guess this is why we packed camping gear. If worst comes to worst, we’ll pitch tents and go homeless. I never thought it would happen eight days into the trip, though.
Jonathan said, “Ok, we’ll take it.”
The lady spoke into the phone, “Yes, we’ll take it, two nights.” Then, looking at us, she said, “I need your full name and sixteen hundred pounds, please.”
Jonathan and I rummaged through our backpacks for our reserves, then set the money on the counter. She busily filled out a sheet of paper while she spoke with whoever was on the other end of the phone. Then she took our money and handed over our itinerary. “Alright, loves, this is the address; you’ll collect the keys from the neighbor, and they’ll take you up to show you the flat. All the information you need is here, and you can use the tele if you have any questions.”
We took the paper and thanked her.
At least we’d have somewhere to go once we got to Edinburgh.
* * *
The next morning, we woke early to catch the train. We didn’t have the money for a cab, so walking was our only option. The night before, we’d spread a fold-out map across the bed, traced the route, and guessed it would take about ninety minutes if we kept a steady pace. It felt ambitious but still within reach
We packed our last items, then it was go time. Jonathan put on two of his three backpacks, then wrestled with the third. His strategy had been to wear one forward and one backward, but once he’d run out of fronts and backs, nothing really made that third backpack manageable.
Seeing him wrestle with his kit made me extra glad I’d gone with my rolling cart combo. But once we hit the street, the half-cobbled, half-paved walkways revealed my system’s weak spots. I’d planned to balance my second duffel on top of the one strapped to the luggage cart, but whenever I’d go over curbs or slanted terrain, the whole thing flipped over. Next, I tried looping the duffel’s handles over the rolling cart’s handle, but that just made it swing into my legs when it toppled. Each time this happened, I’d try a different technique for strapping it all together, but nothing made it better; I just had too much stuff.
Each of these gear failures ate up time, and a glance at my watch confirmed my growing fear. If we didn’t pick up the pace, we’d miss the train.
Continuing on, an idea began to form in my mind, and I made a silent deal with myself.
Less than a block later, it all flipped again, so I unzipped one of my duffels and took out three t-shirts and an extra sweatshirt I'd brought.
Jonathan watched this intently, “What are you doing?”
I explained the deal I’d made with myself, “Every time my bags flip over, I have to get rid of one item.”
“Okay… but what are you gonna do with the stuff, donate it?”
Looking up from my task, I said, “Kinda.” Then I draped the four articles of clothing over a wrought-iron fence next to the sidewalk, clearly intending to leave them there.
Jonathan looked shocked. The thought of just bailing gear on the spot felt weird, but when you’re trying to do radical things, like everything we were doing, you have to make radical choices.
We started again, and almost immediately, my bag flipped again, so out came another shirt and a pair of shorts.
Clearly convinced, Jonathan adopted the protocol too and pulled out a huge wad of clothes from his third backpack. With no fence handy, he laid everything out nicely on a concrete curb. Then we continued on, growing lighter with each flip-over.
By the time we reached the train station, on time, I might add, we’d both shed about half the clothing we’d brought.
The walk had taught us a new lesson: anything that doesn’t help you achieve your goals is a hindrance. Achieving the goal is all that matters; the rest is noise.
* * *
Finding our train, we loaded up and settled in, finally bound for Edinburgh.
This had been the dream for a year, and it was about to become a reality.
But what would it be like?
The anticipation, the unknown, it hummed in the background of our minds.
The travel agent had booked us direct, so there were no transfers to worry about. Just six hours to sit and watch the emerald green countryside roll by.
Chapter 37: 64 Pence
We exited the Edinburgh train station with no idea where we were, so we pulled out a cheap tourist map, hoping to orient ourselves and find the place we’d booked. Moments later, a man with a shaved head, garish facial tattoos, and a spiked leather jacket walked up and handed us a stack of show flyers.
“Ye gut tu cee sum ov deze shews.” The three silver spikes pierced through his lower lip bobbed up and down as he spoke.
Though it was technically English, I couldn’t understand a word. “Hi,” I respond neutrally, “We’re trying to find Southside?”
“Lumee cee yer mop,” he demanded, pulling the map from our hands.
“Arrrggh, yu gaut a sheety map, yer goin tu hav tu goze dern hare, tern rite, dern mayke yer nex rite, dat wil getz yuz whure yez neds tu bee.”
We thanked him and accepted the stack of show flyers he’d been hired to distribute.
“Gud luk,” he says, “Nermally ey’d uh cyarged ya fer derectyons, but ya gaut a sheety mop.”
Heading off, we went where he’d advised and soon encountered the longest, steepest, cobblestoned road I’d ever seen. Leaning into it, we started up. Jonathan and I were both in fantastic shape, but we were still carrying eighty-plus pounds — despite having shed a lot of gear in London. Hauling it to the top left me so winded I dropped my pack on the ground and sat down to rest. Jonathan stood with both hands on his knees while he caught his breath, then he consulted the map. From our new vantage point, we could see several landmarks and realized we’d gone the wrong way. We’d climbed this hellish hill for nothing. Gah, it was frustrating, but standing there frustrated wasn’t going to fix anything. We turned around and slogged back down the evil hill.
When we got to the bottom, we stopped in a neighborhood park to rest and have a snack. As we ate, Jonathan said, “I’ve got an idea, but I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
“Hit me,” I said.
“See that thicket?”
Looking where he indicated, I saw a large hedge ringed by a short metal fence. The hedge itself was densely foliated, and I couldn’t see into its interior. “Yeah, what about it?”
“What if we take all of our camping gear and stash it under that hedge? If we decide we need it later, we can come back and get it. But at least we won’t have to carry it in the meantime.”
“What if someone comes by and takes it?” I asked.
“Then we’ve gifted them some nice camping gear, and it’s a good day for them.”
I stared at the hedge for a bit, weighing the pros and cons. How often did the landscapers come to maintain, trim, and clean up the park? What’s the probability of the gear being taken, versus the probability of us needing it, versus the misery of carrying it, versus the misery of not having it if we DID need it?
Jonathan interrupted my analysis, “Like I said, I don’t know that it’s a good idea.”
“No, it’s a great idea,” I confirmed, “let’s do it.” I opened my bag and started pulling out camping gear.
Jonathan did the same, and by the time we’d finished our snack, we had all of the camping gear wrapped up in a fifty-five-gallon heavy-duty trash bag. We figured the black bag would help to camouflage it in the shadows and keep it watertight.
“Go stand next to the fence by the hedge.” I said, “I’ll keep an eye out; as soon as no one is around to see, I’ll give you a signal so you can hop over and stash it.”
Jonathan picked up the bag and made his way over to the hedge.
There was a steady stream of foot traffic through and around the park, so it took a little while to find a break. I waited for an elderly couple to turn off the walkway near the hedge, then gave the signal. Jonathan stepped over the fence and tucked the gear as deeply under the hedge as he could. Then he turned and hurried back. Despite our carefully planned infiltration, I’m sure a few people saw him, but no one seemed to care.
From where we sat, the bag was plainly visible, but to a casual passerby, it would look like any other piece of trash blown into the bushes.
Loading up to go, I took one last glance at the gear, wondering silently if maybe this wasn’t the wisest move we’d ever made. However, as we walked, those worries began to fade. The camping gear purge had made my pack feel manageable for the first time. And just in time, too, because we still had a long way to go.
Miles later, we found a large open park area surrounded by three and four-story residences. The city streets weren’t laid out in a grid, so even with the address, we couldn’t figure out where we were supposed to go. We tried calling the number we had on a public pay phone, but no one answered. So again, we pored over the map, hoping to get a clue. That’s when a little old lady with a cane in one hand and a rolling grocery cart in the other walked up, “Can Iz help ya?”
Her accent wasn’t so thick, so I could understand her. “Yeah, we’re trying to find this address.”
She took a look at our paper, then started to explain where we needed to go, but after a moment, she waved her hand dismissively and said, “I’ll just shew ya,” then she led off in a direction.
We followed and spoke pleasantly until a few blocks later, we arrived in front of a four-story stone building, “Here ya’r,” she said.
I asked her, “How much farther do you have to go?”
She pointed back the way we'd come and said, “Oh, I wuz at me home when I met yeez. Have a grate trip now.” Then she turned and slowly walked back towards her place. She had gone out of her way, with a cane and a load of groceries, just to help us find our way. It was, and forever will be, one of the greatest kindnesses a stranger has ever shown me.
We knocked on the neighbor’s door as we’d been instructed, and a nice woman took us up to see the flat. She was intent on showing us the kitchen and the two big bedrooms, but Jonathan and I went straight to the bathroom and threw on the shower. A strong blast of water came out, and Jonathan and I both cheered excitedly. The lady, who’d followed us to the bathroom, peered in with one eyebrow raised, clearly surprised at our surprise. But we waved it off, “Everything is great; we’ll take it.”
“Alright, I’ll leave you to it then.” She said, letting herself out.
We hadn’t had a proper shower since we’d left the U.S. eight days before, so it was priority number one. I motioned toward the shower with both hands and said in an overly prim and proper tone, “Would you care to freshen up, sir?”
Jonathan laughed, “Why yes, indeed I would.”
“Excellent; in that case, I give thee first dibs.”
We laughed again, and Jonathan walked to the first bedroom to drop his gear. I took the second and dove straight onto the bed for a nap. Never before had I so fully appreciated the luxury of a nice bed.
Once we’d both showered and power-napped, it was time to get the lay of the land. Our first stop was the Royal Mile, the main boulevard that dead-ends into Edinburgh Castle.
* * *
Considering we’d traveled halfway around the world to be here, we didn’t really know very much about the festival. We knew it was big and open to just about anyone, but now that we were here, I couldn’t believe how many people were packed into the streets of the Royal Mile; it was like three Disneylands at rush hour. Weaving through the crowd, we came upon a man who’d roped off a section of sidewalk. He was holding a bicycle but didn’t seem to be doing anything. He just stood there, looking out at the large crowd of people, who all stood staring back. Then, at the cajoling of his friends, a man from the crowd stepped forward and handed the bicycle holder a one-pound coin. The assembly hooted in excitement, and the recipient of the coin belted out his pitch, “Ladies and gentlemen, the rules are simple: if he can ride the bicycle from here to here,” as he said this, he pointed at two different chalk lines drawn on the ground, “I will give him twenty pounds.”
The attempter mounted the bicycle dramatically, making a show of it, acting as if he were going to go very fast.
The operator said, “Both wheels have to cross the finish line, and his feet cannot touch at any point. Also, he cannot crash.”
The crowd howled at this, and the man began his ride. He moved forward a few feet, and everything seemed in order. Of course, he’s going to win the twenty pounds, I thought. As I thought this, the rider began to tilt over to one side. He turned the handlebars to correct, but instead of the bike turning under him and correcting his lean, the front wheel turned in the opposite direction. This exacerbated the lean, and like lightning, the man tumbled to the ground. The crowd cheered and applauded his effort, while the operator helped him to his feet. “Would anyone else like to try? Just ride the bicycle five meters, and you’ll win twenty pounds. Here, let me show you how easy it is.” The operator climbed onto the bike, then, as casually as could be, rode it from end to end.
I was bursting to try. I didn’t even care about the money; I just wanted to understand what this was all about. Grabbing a one-pound coin from my pocket, I stepped forward.
“Another victim, I mean VOLUNTEER.” The man announced loudly.
I handed him the coin, and he handed me the bicycle. He continued his patter, but I was too intent on the bike to listen. I tested the handlebars and saw that where there was normally one tube for the handlebar stem to go into, a second tube had been welded in front of it. The handlebars were then inserted into this second stem, and at its base, a solid yet primitive looking gear had been welded. Then the bicycle’s forks, which were emerging from the typical stem tube, also had a rough-looking gear welded to them. The result was that whenever the bars were turned to one side or the other, the action would pass through both gears, causing the wheel to turn in the opposite direction. It was a brilliantly simple concept, and I started a silent mantra to quickly retrain my brain, “Just turn the wrong way, easy.”
Mounting the bicycle, I placed one foot on the pedal and pushed off. At first, it went great. I tried not to turn the handlebars at all, but inevitably, after a few feet, I began to lean. In my head, I thought, turn the wrong way, but my many years of bicycling betrayed me, and I turned the way I usually would to correct the lean. This exacerbated things, and I had to slam a foot down to keep from crashing. The crowd hooted excitedly, and the announcer made a few jokes, already working to entice the next person to try. I gave the bicycle back and walked to where Jonathan was waiting.
I could see in his eyes that he wanted to try, and he asked, “Is it doable?”
“Not a chance,” I replied confidently.
“Like no way?!”
“If you wanna try, you should; it’s totally worth the pound, but if you’re thinking you’ll win the twenty, you’re not.”
Then we both laughed, as was our way, and decided to continue on without trying again.
All along the road, there were street performers, and they all had huge crowds. We saw two performers on eight-foot unicycles, and another had a ten-footer. Another guy strung a rope between two streetlights to create a slackline, then balanced on it and juggled. We even saw a man use sixteen volunteers, all holding long ropes, to balance a platform he climbed onto to juggle as a finale. Show after show, we watched guys pass the hat and earn hundreds of pounds per show. That’s what we needed to do, and we needed to do it fast. But we also knew we were out of our league. These performers were all seasoned, with big props that got them up high, and we didn’t have anything like that. The biggest thing we’d brought was a rolla-bola, but even with that, we’d only be a few inches higher off the ground than normal.
After walking the Royal Mile end to end, we decided to go check out a different pitch (or area friendly to street entertainment), and the next one on our list was The Mound. When we got there, we found a show already in progress. The two men, one on a tall unicycle and the other on a tall, unsupported ladder, were making jokes and talking about how they were about to juggle fire between them. During this exchange, the guy on the ladder reached into one of the ladder’s rungs and pulled out a pair of women’s pantyhose.
Holding them up for the crowd, he said, “I’ve got a stocking in me ladder!”
The crowd roared with laughter, and we did too, though Jonathan and I exchanged glances that betrayed the fact that neither of us had a clue as to why it was funny. (After the show, we asked another performer about the joke, and they said, “When a woman gets a run in her stocking over here, they call it a ladder.” So we laughed again now that we got it) Then they passed the flaming torches between themselves, one from the ladder and the other from the unicycle. The crowd showed their appreciation, and we assumed that would be the show’s end, as it was a huge finale. But then one of the guys asked the crowd if they wanted to see one more, and of course, everyone cheered. He then took three lit torches, walked over to the huge concrete columns in front of the building next to the pitch, and wedged one foot against the scalloped pillars on the left and the other on the right. Then he slowly worked his way upwards between the columns, little by little, going ever more into the splits as he went because the columns were farther apart near the top. Once he’d gone up an impossible-seeming height, where he would have a horrible slam on the concrete below if he fell, he shouted to the crowd, “You want me to go higher?”
They roared in approval!
He looked up apprehensively and whispered under his breath, “bollocks,” which got another laugh. Continuing upwards, he finally reached a height beyond ridiculous; his legs in full center splits.
As he was about to juggle, I noticed a large black soot mark at the top of those two pillars, right where he held the burning torches to catch his balance. The stain on the pillar was dark and looked like it had built up over many years.
Ah, I thought, scary as this feels, he’s building the drama. He’s been doing this bit for a long time.
Finally, he juggled, and the crowd thundered its appreciation. Then he gathered the torches and told the crowd not to go anywhere, while his partner distributed three large hats for the audience to fill with money. And fill them they did; I’ve never seen anyone make so much money at a street show. I’m guessing they cleared eight hundred pounds in that single show.
My mind was blown, partly because of their talent and success, and partly because I knew how short of that mark our own show would fall.
After their gear was cleared, a young woman began setting up in the same location. We could tell by her props that she was also going to do a juggling show. We planted ourselves in the front row and waited for her to begin, like students hungry for the education these veteran performers were giving.
Then she set out a five-foot unicycle, and I called out, “Are you gonna ride that?”
She called back, “Of course!”
“In those?” I asked, pointing to her red high heels.
Coyly, she said, “You’ll just have to wait and see.”
Her show began with simple things meant to draw a bigger crowd. Nothing too fancy, though; everything she did was building towards a big trick at the end. Which, I was learning, is one of the secrets of street performing. Engage the crowd long enough for the numbers to build; keep the funny lines flowing, then do a huge trick at the end, and pass your hat before anyone runs away.
When the crowd had grown to five rows deep, she picked up the unicycle and shouted, “I need a volunteer.”
I waited expectantly, wondering who she’d choose. Then she walked our way, grabbed my arm firmly, and pulled me out of the crowd with a loud, “This one will do.”
Bringing me to the center ring, she explained that I would help her get up onto the five-foot unicycle. Then she said, “There’s just one more thing: we’re in Scotland, and if you’re going to be in my show, you have to wear a kilt.”
Walking over to her case, she pulled out a ridiculously small kilt, which looked more like a woman’s mini skirt. Then she put it around my waist and began unzipping my pants.
With a serious look, I told her, “I’m not wearing any underwear.”
We hadn’t been able to do proper laundry the whole time we were in London because of the woefully inadequate water pressure. So, as soon as we’d gotten to our flat here in Scotland, I’d hand-washed all my underwear. And since they were still very wet, I’d gone without.
She looked at me and asked if I was being serious, and I told her I was.
So she turned to the crowd and said, “Apparently, Bill from San Diego is not wearing any underwear; what should we do?”
The crowd started chanting, “Kilt, kilt, kilt, kilt.”
I could tell she was uncertain whether to proceed; I was equally unsure whether we should proceed.
Then a man from the crowd yelled out in a thick Scottish accent, “What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt?”
She turned to him and shouted back, “What does a Scotsman wear under his kilt?”
The man shouted, “Just the cool breeze and his wife’s lipstick!”
The crowd roared with laughter.
She turned to me and said, “I’ve got an idea.”
She walked over to her case and pulled out a very large safety pin.
“It’s got Velcro, but I will pin it just to make sure it doesn’t come off.” And with that, she took my pants off in front of the 700 people who’d gathered to watch the juggling show.
Once I was in uniform, she had me hold the unicycle while she climbed it. She did the classic bit where you play up how hard it is to mount the unicycle, even draping herself over my shoulders so people could see up the back of her skirt, which got a good laugh. Then, to even the score, she reached down and pulled up the back of my kilt, showing my bare ass to everyone on that side of the pitch. It was all in good fun, and once she’d milked that for all it was worth, she got up on the unicycle. As she raised her arms wide to get a round of applause, I saw she was still wearing her red high heels. I tried not to think of how it would feel to fall off a tall unicycle in high heels.
“Bill, go to my prop case and grab the torches.”
I did.
“Bill, light them on fire.”
I did.
“Bill, now juggle them!”
Jonathan shouted from the sideline, “Do it! DO IT!”
And I did, juggling them as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
At first, her eyes widened with worry, because no normal audience member would ever actually try and juggle them, but once she realized I knew what I was doing, she smiled and said, “Oh my god, BILL!!!”
The cobblestones beneath our feet shook with the applause.
She pulled her microphone aside and whispered, “Do you pass?”
I nodded, so she put the microphone back in place and yelled, “All right, throw it to me.”
I made a beautiful toss that landed perfectly in her hand. She gave me a look of ecstasy. Then she had me throw the other two.
She performed her final trick, riding a unicycle and juggling three torches, then threw the torches to me to extinguish.
“Nobody move!” she screamed, cupping one hand over her eye, “I lost a contact!” This got a laugh and kept people from leaving. Then she made a few jokes about money, classic hat lines, and enlisted me to pass one hat while she ran around with the other.
The crowd surged forward, dropping piles of money into her hat; a few even tipped me and asked, “Were you really an audience member or do you do that every show?”
But I assured them I was not a plant.
Once the crowd dispersed, she came over and said, “Thank you, that’s one of the biggest hats I’ve ever gotten.”
We congratulated her, and she joked, “Want to come to every show?”
We laughed again and said we hoped to perform as well, so she gave us some pointers, like how the queuing system worked across the various pitches.
“Each pitch has a list,” she said, “and you can sign up for as many as two slots at each, as long as slots are available. So, performers race around the city looking for open slots to fill out their schedules.”
It was valuable information, and we made it our new goal to find one of these lists. We returned to the Royal Mile, and spying a smaller, less popular pitch, we added our name. Then, we hurried back to our accommodation to gather our equipment.
Ready or not, it’s showtime.
* * *
We showed up at the pitch thirty minutes early, giving us a chance to watch the acrobat who was on before us. His show was decent, and like us, he didn’t have anything that allowed him to get high up in the air. But the weirdest part was that he was pissed off at the audience. I couldn’t tell if he was angry because there wasn’t a huge crowd, or if he was playing a character, but either way, he was verbally abusive to his audience. I didn’t like it. At the end of his show, he had seven people lying on the ground. Then, he ran halfway down the block, got everyone to clap in unison, sprinted down the street, and did a front flip over the people. It was a cool maneuver, and despite being a jerk, he probably did okay passing the hat.
Once he had cleaned up, he walked past us and gave a curt “Good luck,” then strolled away.
We set up our gear and tried to draw in some people, but we really didn’t know what we were doing. We got a couple of nice people to stay and settle in, but despite the number of passersby, we only managed to hold ten or twelve. Then it started to rain, so half of the people we’d gathered walked away. Jonathan made the executive decision to call it, and we passed the hat.
Two people dropped in change, but no bills.
Once they’d dispersed, I sat on the public fountain right behind the pitch to count up what we’d made.
Sixty-four pence, essentially sixty-four cents.
Jonathan looked at me and said, “At least it’s an even number; it’ll be easier to split.”
I smiled wryly, too dejected to say anything.
A homeless guy who’d been quietly watching our show from the sidelines walked up.
“Grate wether if n yer a duk,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
He pointed to the sky and the ominous clouds.
“Graaaate wether if-n’ yer a duk!” he repeated.
“Oh,” I answered, “Great weather if you’re a duck.”
At this, he smiled a gap-toothed grin, clearly pleased that I’d understood his joke.
“Did you like the show?” I asked.
“Ei” he replied. Then he dug in his pocket and said, “Ere.”
Reaching out my hand, he dropped a one-pound coin in my hand and said with no hint of malice, “Yu neyd et mor’ an I du.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely.
“Ei,” he replied, already wandering off.
Once he was gone, Jonathan asked, “What did he want?”
“He gave us a tip,” I said, holding my hand out, “said we, needed et’ mor n’ e did.”
Jonathan smiled, “We just doubled our money!”
We both laughed; our act was so bad that homeless people were giving us money.
Seconds later, the drizzle of rain turned into a full-blown Scottish downpour; we looked for cover, but thousands of people were trying to do the same. None of our luggage was waterproof, so we had to think fast or risk ruining all our gear. Not seeing a better option, we threw everything into the metal phone booth that housed the pitch signup sheet.
With ninety minutes left before our next show, we searched for a place to wait out the storm. We found a coffee shop packed tighter than a Tokyo subway at rush hour and squeezed in. Grateful to escape the freezing rain. It rarely rains in San Diego, so I didn’t own a real rain jacket, and water had seeped right through my layers. One more oversight in my planning, which I promised myself I’d fix as soon as possible.
As we waited, I noticed the person next to me had the hairiest legs I’d ever seen; scanning upward, I discovered the winner of the hairiest legs I'd ever seen award was a woman.
Hmm, I wonder if that’s an aesthetic choice or a practical one to keep warm? My own teeth were chattering, so either seemed plausible.
An hour later, the rain let up, and the people flowed back onto the streets. We went back to the pitch and set up for our second show. It went very similarly to the first one. Except this time, the homeless guy who’d given us the tip after the first show was passed out on the edge of the concrete fountain. I saw a one-liter plastic bottle of hard cider resting a few inches from his limp, outstretched hand.
Seemed he’d managed to make enough money to take care of his needs, which was more than we’d been able to do.
We wrapped up the second show, and it began to drizzle again.
Despite the rain, the homeless man remained still.
I could see he was breathing, and I’d of liked to help him, but I couldn’t even help myself right now.
As we rolled back to our £800-a-night safe space, I wondered where the homeless man would go when he woke up.
Are there shelters for the homeless in Scotland? I wondered.
And if there are, would they have room for two more?
* * *
Once we returned to the flat, I counted up my remaining money, eighty-seven pounds, and maybe another ten in mixed change. Enough to eat for another day or two, then I’d be done.
Jonathan and I sat down for a long chat.
We agreed that we couldn’t compete with the other entertainers; we were too green. But we had to do something, and we had to do it now.
Jonathan suggested we activate Plan B and pulled out all the bags of balloons.
First thing in the morning, we decided to go to the biggest park we could find and twist balloons for tips. If we can make enough to feed ourselves, maybe we can figure the rest out, too.
Chapter 38: Eh Rad Poopy Dawg
The next morning, we had to check out, so we woke early and packed our things.
We walked out the front door with all our gear, and as the door closed behind us, I heard its automatic lock click into place.
That’s it, I thought, we have no place to go tonight, and no home to go back to when we get back to the U.S. either.
I glanced down at the bags strapped to my little luggage cart, my every worldly possession. So, this is what it feels like to be homeless.
I’d have stewed on it more, but Jonathan was already ten steps ahead, so I hurried to catch up.
As we walked towards the park we’d picked, we cut through a street market where numerous vendors were set up selling their wares. Jonathan needed a pair of sunglasses, so he set out to find some. Which left me to wander the rows alone, and the most unlikely of things caught my eye. Three grandmotherly-type ladies huddled under a pop-up tent, working. One of the women held two long steel needles, which whipped up and down with machine-like accuracy. Loops of green thread appeared around the needles, only to slide deftly off the ends at precise moments, then they were replaced by new loops that appeared as if by magic. These new loops followed suit, disappearing into the malestrom, over and over, all at lightning speed. But then, she stops. The weathered hands gather the whole bunch, holding it tight; then the free hand reaches into a basket filled with every color of yarn imaginable, plus a half dozen I’d never imagined. Selecting a bright yellow, she pulls it tanglelessly from a hand-wound bundle. This new end, she loops several times around one of the needles, then the hands resume their effortless mechanization. The coils of green intermingle with the yellow ones, gradually alternating in color as they snake their way into the main panel. The old woman does all this while carrying on an effortless conversation with the other two women in the tent. Once several rows of the green and yellow are established, a small pair of scissors appears from a pocket on her apron. The green thread is cut, and the now-loose end falls obediently into the basket. The rhythmic action returns, quickly swallowing up the five-inch green tail left after trimming. Now, all the loops on the knitting needles turn yellow, and the transition from one color to the next is complete. The field of green now has a crisp row of yellow growing along its edge. Breaking from the hypnotic display, I look at the dozens of hand-knit items hanging around the tent’s perimeter and conclude that this green-and-yellow panel will likely become a sweater. A sweater that will be finished at a rate I’d have only imagined possible from a machine.
She’s a master, a master knitter. And suddenly I realize that I could watch anyone, doing anything, if they’re one of the best at it. It’s for this that we came here: to see the best in the world. I just never imagined finding it in gnarled old fingers under a cheap folding tent.
Jonathan’s return broke my reverie: “Got ‘em,” he said, holding up his new sunglasses. “Let’s roll!”
We continued on toward the park, and along the way, I looked for stealthy spots we might pitch our tents. Being a dense city, the pickings were slim. The best option I saw was a thicket of trees near an overpass that looked sheltered enough for us to go unnoticed. I made a mental note of it so I could find it again later if needed.
When we got to the park, we decided to split up to increase our coverage, agreeing to meet up again in a few hours. I started by making a big, colorful balloon hat for myself, then I put it on.
A big balloon hat is the universal sign that you’re open for business. But even with the crowds of people, no one was coming up to me. It was early, and people typically get balloons later in the day. I don’t know why that is; it’s just a nighttime thing, I guess.
To pass the time, I set out my hat and practiced juggling, preferring to be productive rather than stand idle. A few people watched from afar, but no one interacted with me.
Then a bright-eyed little girl burst from the passing throng. Running straight for me, she asked, “Cud ya mak may uh buhluun?”
I’d heard a lot of Scottish accents over the last two days, but hearing that distinct drawl transmitted in an angelic little child’s voice was absolutely magical. I smiled at her, “Of course I can, what would you like?”
Thinking for a moment, she said, “Eh rad poopy dawg!”
I couldn’t hold back a laugh, “One red poopy dawg coming wright upp lassie.”
She laughed at my attempt at a Scottish accent and watched gleefully while I made the dog for her. When it was done, I said, “There ya go, now make sure ya feed ‘em ever day?”
She nodded and promised that she would, then turned and ran away.
I already knew when she’d walked up that I wouldn’t get a tip; there was no parent in sight, and children usually don’t understand the concept of exchange, but despite being dead broke, I wasn’t worried about it.
Back when I’d started, I’d asked Jonathan what I should do if someone didn’t tip me.
He said, “Go to the next table and make some more.”
“What if that table doesn’t tip either?” I challenged.
“Think of it this way,” he said, “Even if you use five or six balloons, that will only cost you a few cents. Most people will give you at least a couple of bucks, but often you’ll get a five or even a ten. So, make balloons for anyone who wants them; you’re spreading joy, and most people will reimburse you. If they don’t, maybe it’s because they really can’t afford to, or just don't have any cash on them, whatever the reason, just keep going. It’ll all work out.”
In the months I’d worked out at Ruby’s on the pier, I’d seen time and time again that Jonathan was right; things always did seem to work out.
Moments after the girl had run away with the “rad poopy dawg”, a family with two kids stopped and asked for balloons. They’d seen me make the first balloon, and now they wanted one too. After I’d made their balloons, the dad handed me a five-pound note, more than we’d made in both of our street shows the day before. I thanked him, and as they walked away, another group approached for a balloon. Action leads to action, and soon I had a line of ten people. For the next hour, I made balloons as quickly as I could, until the line started to thin.
I wanted to duck out to see how much I’d made and touch base with Jonathan to see how he’d done, so I started packing up. As I did, a woman approached with her daughter in tow. I figured they wanted a balloon and was about to start into my spiel when I saw that the little girl already had a red balloon dog.
The mom asked, “Did ya’ mak et fer her?” pointing to the dog. I nodded that I had. She then reached into her purse and pulled out a ten-pound note. Handing it to me, she said, “Sew serry, ere ya are.”
I thanked her graciously, and they walked away.
Jonathan was right, you just have to trust in humanity.
As I slung my backpack, I wondered how I’d ever explain all this when I got home. How do I explain to someone who’s never needed the kindness of strangers what it feels like to put your trust in the world and have the world answer?
* * *
As I searched for Jonathan, an Indian man in a traditional-looking tunic walked up, balancing a big woven basket on his shoulder. Nodding towards the basket, he asked, “Samosa?”
“Say-what?” I asked.
“Sa-mo-sa,” he repeated, pulling back the red and white cloth covering the basket. Looking inside, I saw a mound of triangular-shaped pastries.
“What’s inside them?” I asked.
He thought for a moment, trying to find the words, then said, “Poe-tae-toe and pee-z.”
To me, they looked like deep-fried deliciousness, and I like potatoes, and I’m starving.
“How much?” I asked.
“Twenty-five p,” he said.
I tried to hide my excitement, for real? Twenty-five p! Fearful he’d vanish like a genie, I played it cool, “Oh, sure, can I have twelve of them?"
“Yes, yes,” he said, brandishing a small pair of silver tongs.
I gave him the money, but he didn’t have any plates, and I didn't have a bag, so I had him pile them up right in my hands. They were still warm and smelled fantastic.
“Thank you,” I said sincerely, “Will you be here again tomorrow?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, “I come find you.”
The way he said it made me think he wasn’t just saying empty words; he meant it. In a crowd of countless thousands, he would find me. I watched as he continued on, offering Samosas to anyone who paid him mind.
I needed to free up my hands to eat, so I plopped on a nearby bench.
Taking one of the flaky pastries, I took a big bite.
The taste of peas and potatoes was fantastic. They were spiced beautifully, and, and, uh oh, oh no, NO, OH MY GOD!
The pleasantly spicy flavor turned to an inferno in my mouth, like I’d bitten into a blistering hot chili pepper.
Too hungry to spit it out, I swallowed the bite whole. But the fire in my mouth only grew. Seeing a drinking fountain, I ran and filled my water bottle, then chugged it down. That helped a little, but it still burned, and I wondered whether I dared to fight my way through another bite. I decided to take tiny little bites, then chew and swallow quickly. I also chased each bite with water to wash the spice away. Nibble by nibble, I filled my belly.
Then I went to find Jonathan, and when I did, I offered him the extra samosas, with no warning, of course. He took a bite but didn’t seem phased; he tolerated spicy food better than I did.
After he’d finished the samosa, he said he’d had a good experience twisting as well, and even met a performer who knew about a guy who was renting crash space on the floor of a flat that overlooked the Royal Mile.
“Yeah, how much?” I asked.
“He said it was eighty pounds per night.”
Without hesitation, I said, “We’ll take it!”
“Already ahead of you, I told him yes, and got the address and phone number,” he held up a piece of paper.
My relief was immediate; maybe we won’t be homeless after all. And after spending £800 a night, eighty pounds felt like a dream come true.
We’d averaged fifty pounds per hour each with the balloons, so to stay afloat, we’d need to work around four hours a day. But we had enough for now, so we decided to wrap up and make sure the new accommodations checked out. We walked back to the Royal Mile, found the address, and knocked on the door.
A well-dressed man with a short-cropped beard answered. We told him what we’d been told, and he invited us in. We entered a spacious, vaulted loft with a large window overlooking the Royal Mile. He waved his hand towards the large open living room area and said, “Make yourselves at home, use the sofa or floor as you wish, there are blankets and pillows in the closet if you need them, and here’s a key.”
“And it’s eighty pounds per night, correct?” Jonathan clarified.
“That’s correct.”
“Is that eighty pounds each, or eighty pounds total?” I asked.
The man studied me briefly, and I got the sense my question had been asked ahead of its time. Then he said, “I live here because I love the arts, and even though I myself don’t have a creative bone in my body, I like to see it, I like to hear it, and I like to support it when I can. So it’s eighty pounds for both of you.”
“That’s very kind of you, thank you. Should we give you the money now?”
Already starting to walk back to his desk, he waved at a large, ornate, and very expensive-looking jar and said, “Just put it in there whenever you have it.”
I got the feeling he didn’t much care whether we paid or not, but I immediately dropped my half in the jar to show we weren’t freeloaders.
Jonathan said aloud, “Man, this place is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” the man said, “Do you see that bridge out the window? The one to the left of the castle?”
We looked out the window and saw an old stone bridge with a single lane of traffic steadily passing over it, “Yes,” we answered.
“That bridge was built over 600 years ago, and it’s still in use. When the agent first showed me this place, she pointed it out, and I fell in love with it. I’d looked at other places on the mile, but as an engineer, that felt like the sign that this was where I was supposed to be.”
“That’s amazing,” Jonathan said.
“You’re an engineer, so do you design bridges?” I asked.
“Hardly,” he smiled, “I’m the guy who tells the oil companies where to drill. I do the surveys, submit reports, then they go out and get the oil.”
I asked, “What happens if you get it wrong?”
He looked at me seriously and said, “I don’t get it wrong.”
Judging by his beautiful home perched above the Royal Mile, I believed that to be true.
“I work from home, so I’m here most of the time. I sleep from midnight to 7:00 am, so please keep things peaceful during those hours; other than that, you may do as you wish.” Then he sat down at his computer and began typing.
I looked out the window and saw several of the performer pitches below, all ringed with audiences watching the shows. I took a deep breath and felt truly grateful for this place, for our team, for Jonathan’s foresight in bringing balloons, for trust, and for trials and tribulations, all of it.
It was everything we’d come for.
* * *
Each day we returned to the park, and each day the kindness of strangers paid our way. True to his word, the Indian Samosa guy found us each day, and each day I’d buy twelve more of the fiery treats. These pastries became my primary food source for the rest of the festival, and after a few days, I got used to the spices; like everything, it takes practice.
Chapter 39: I Will Never Give Up
Before the trip even began, we’d loosely talked about trying to get to Ireland after the Fringe. The plan was simple: if we made enough money performing, we’d take the last week off and head to Dublin. At first, it seemed like a total pipe dream, but once we’d secured affordable accommodations and our balloon money fell into a groove, we dared to think it might actually be possible. Every day we twisted a little extra, putting aside every spare cent that we could.
By the end of the two weeks, we’d scraped together just enough for flights.
We wouldn’t exactly be vacationing; to make it work, we’d have to start performing or twisting balloons the moment we touched down in Dublin.
We also didn’t have enough for a hotel, which meant our only option was camping, assuming the gear we’d stashed in the park two weeks earlier was still there.
I don’t usually make deals with god or the universe, but I couldn’t help myself this time. I decided that if our camping gear was gone, it was a sign to stay put, but if it was still there, we were destined to go. I hung back when we reached the park, afraid to look, but then Jonathan’s laugh broke out loud and triumphant. “Yes, it’s still here!”
He jumped the small fence and hauled out our black trash bag, everything still inside and undisturbed. Suddenly, the Ireland plan wasn’t just a dream anymore; it was happening.
The next morning, we caught the earliest train to the Scottish coast. I leaned against the window, eyelids heavy, as fields blurred past in shades of gray and green. From there, we boarded a puddle-jumper bound for Dublin. When the plane dipped low, I was impressed by the lush emerald colors below. Ireland was exactly what I’d imagined, and I wanted to be excited, but after three weeks of uncertainty and struggle, I was too tired to feel anything.
Grabbing our gear from the baggage claim, we left the airport on foot and walked for miles, packs digging into our shoulders all the way, until we reached a campground. We pitched our tents as the sun went down. Soon after, the sky ripped open. Rain hammered and wind tore, whipping the tent walls ominously.
The next morning, there was a brief break in the clouds. So we ducked into the campground’s lone structure, a tiny laundry shed, where an American traveler had strung every scrap of clothing he owned across the rafters. His tent had filled with three inches of water. Seeing his situation made me realize how lucky we were that our tents had held up.
Some other campers said it was a hurricane, and I later heard it was the outer rings of Hurricane Danielle pushing across Ireland. Whatever it was, it was an incredible storm.
Word around camp was that it would rain all week, but we walked into Dublin anyway, hoping to perform or twist balloons, but the streets were slick and empty. No one wanted balloons in that weather. And we made no money.
On the way back, we stopped at a little grocery store. I needed to somehow stretch ten pounds into a week’s worth of food. I walked up and down every aisle again and again, calculating and recalculating, but it was hopeless; there seemed to be no way to make it work. I made one last loop, hoping for a miracle, and near the emergency exit at the back of the store, I found a wire rack filled with day-old bread. Each bag had a sticker reading “one pound.” So I grabbed two of those. A small jar of peanut butter for four pounds, and a tiny honey bear for three pounds, rounded out my rations. Other than a candy bar I splurged on one day, it’s all I’d have to eat for the next six days.
I found myself slowing as we passed restaurant windows, looking at people laughing over steaming bowls of soup or plates of roast meat. Stomach rumbling, I dreamed of the day we’d be able to afford meals like that, when we could see museums, sleep in hotels, or, my greatest dream, take a cab instead of dragging gear across a city on foot. That, more than anything, I dreamed of. Not having to haul gear to the ends of the earth.
The week crawled by. It rained incessantly. I was exhausted, hungry, and by the end, too broke even to pay for the last night at the campground. We walked to the airport instead, arriving at sundown. Around midnight, I stretched out on the concrete floor to try for some sleep, but security came through and nudged me awake. “No sleeping in the airport.”
So we wandered around the gates, noting grouchily that the airline’s gate areas had seats with armrests, and there was no way to lie down across the chairs with the steel arms sticking up. We continued our search until we found the Air Canada terminal. It was all tarped off and in the middle of a remodel. But the lights were dimmed, and their chairs had no armrests! We went towards the back and lay down amidst construction debris, hoping the security guys would pass us by, which they did. I will always hold a special place in my heart for Air Canada, because they allowed us weary travelers to get a little sleep that night.
In the morning, we took a 6:00 am flight back to the coast of Scotland, caught a train to Edinburgh, walked to a different train station so we could use our original return ticket to London, got to London, and walked straight to the airport, where we waited for six hours to board our flight to John F. Kennedy Airport in New York. We landed, cleared customs, and then boarded our connection back to San Diego.
I don’t know how many days it took or how many times the sun rose and fell on the return. But, eventually, there was a feeling of warmth on my face, and the impact of landing gear hitting a runway. I lifted my head off the wall of the airplane and realized we’d landed in San Diego. Inside, I was elated, but my exterior was too tired to show it. It seemed to take forever for the people ahead of me to deplane. When I got to the door, I saw they’d rolled up one of those old-style jetbridges with a staircase that dumps you directly on the tarmac. I descended the stairs, blinded by the newly risen sun in the eastern sky, and as my feet touched the earth, I dropped immediately to my knees, kissing the concrete. I'd always thought things like that were an exaggeration, something from movies, that no one does that in real life, but it’s real. When you’re that happy to be home, it’s the most natural-seeming thing in the world. The culture shock of being in other countries for that long, combined with the stress we’d been under and the fact that we’d hardly slept in weeks, was all a drain.
I made my way through the terminal, and after collecting my luggage, I went outside to meet my mom, who had agreed to pick me up.
I was home, even though I didn’t have a physical home. My mom said I could stay with her in the fifty-five-plus community for fourteen days. Short as that was, at least I had a place to crash while I figured out my next steps. As we drove, I told her about the trip, but she seemed distant through it all, and I knew something was on her mind. When I finally stopped talking, she said, “I have something I need to tell you.”
“Yeah, ok?”
“You know your best friend, Brennan. Well, he moved into that house by the lake, and, well, they were throwing a party, and Brennan and another guy were drinking and decided to swim across the lake. But they didn’t come back, and no one could find them, so Brennan’s girlfriend called the police.” She paused, the next words catching in her throat, “I’m so sorry, honey. They both were found drowned the next morning… He’s gone.”
My mind exploded: Brennan’s dead?! Of all the things I could have imagined her saying, I never could have imagined this. I couldn’t handle it and turned my head to look out the window, tears pouring freely down my face.
My mom continued, “And just when things were going so well for them. He had his girlfriend and newborn son, and he was working. I didn’t know how to tell you, but I knew I had to. I’m sorry, it’s not supposed to happen like this.”
“It’s ok,” I said, trying to reassure her as I simultaneously dove into my own spiral of loss and regret.
If I hadn’t gone on this trip, if I’d gone to visit him instead, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
No, that’s not true. Brennan and I had been best friends, but we’d grown apart after he’d moved away. There would have been no reason for me to visit him; I just would have been home instead of abroad when I’d heard. Suddenly, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time he and I had spoken. I cried for the rest of the drive, wondering if this was some kind of punishment or a sign.
Should I give up? Have I become too proud and dared to dream too big?
I couldn’t get past it; I kept thinking of his girlfriend and their newborn son, only a few months old. It wasn’t fair, his life cut short right when it was truly beginning.
And then it hit me, a tragic warning, Brennan’s final gift to me.
Our light can go out at any moment.
Like meteors streaking through the sky, here for a flickering moment, and gone the next.
Nothing we dream of doing can be put off until tomorrow; we must take every day and burn brightly.
My heart is broken, but I won’t quit.
I’m going to push harder than ever.
For Brennan, for my new best friend Jonathan, for a life bigger than the one my circumstances offered.
My mom’s little trailer came into view, and with it came a perfect certainty.
I will never stop, and I will never give up!
Chapter 40: This Is Unusual
My mom’s sofa was home for the next three weeks, seven days over the limit. In that time, I picked up as many gigs and balloon shifts as possible to save up cash. As an unexpected bonus, when I unpacked all of my travel bags, I found $800 in travelers’ checks that had somehow been overlooked. These I cashed out immediately, trying not to think about how many travel woes would have been eased if they’d turned up sooner. Still, it was nice to have extra now.
Jonathan and I set a meeting with an apartment placement service, but as gig workers, neither of us looked very impressive on paper. The lady was very nice and really tried to help, but eventually said, “I’m very sorry. You’re saying you could pay your rent, and I believe you could, but I just don’t see where your money is coming from.”
Jonathan and I looked at each other, then he looked back at her and said, “Well, we’ve got it right here.” We both reached into our pockets and collectively dumped $3,500 in cash on her desk.
The woman shook her head, “You need to have a normal job with steady income and bank statements to prove it.”
“But we have enough for first, last, and a deposit?” Jonathan countered.
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I have to be able to show it on paper. This,” she motioned towards the cash, “is unusual.”
Realizing this wasn’t the place for us, we thanked her and left.
I felt pretty down about it, but Jonathan said he had an idea.
Later that day, he told me he’d found a family that was renting out their spare room, and he’d already started moving in.
“How did you find them?” I asked.
“I know them through church,” he said, “but there are lots of rooms for rent. Just grab a paper and look up some listings, try to find something in the Escondido or Rancho Bernardo area.”
With no other choice, I got a newspaper, opened the classifieds, and called a few listings. One seemed particularly promising; a guy renting out the third bedroom in his apartment, so I went to meet him. The place was in a gated community, the kind where the automatic gate is always open because it’s broken. But it was good enough, and though the guy himself seemed a little high-strung, his other roommate was cool. Best of all, he was ready for someone to move in immediately, so I gave him a deposit and moved in the same day.
That night, I started practicing juggling in my second-floor bedroom, so naturally, the dropping props made sounds that carried down to the first floor. The guy who’d rented to me started yelling and being totally psycho, so I stopped.
Then I took a shower, and when I got out, he walked into the bathroom behind me and screamed at me for leaving the shower curtain open, “It’ll mold if you don’t shut it!”
I hadn’t even been there twenty-four hours and already knew this wasn’t going to work, so I avoided him as much as I could and stayed in my room with the door locked whenever I was there. When the first of the month rolled back around, I was already packed and out of there.
The next place was a second-story apartment, and the residents were a mother and a son. She was a first-generation immigrant from South America, and he worked as a manager at a local pizza place. They needed to rent out one of the bedrooms to pay their bills, but since it was only a two-bedroom, she slept on a small bed in the dining room next to the kitchen. The only thing separating the two spaces was a cheap spring-loaded rod with a yellow, flowery shower curtain hanging from it. I asked if it wouldn’t be better for her to take the room while I used the dining room, but she assured me that she was very happy where she was. So, I moved into the bedroom.
Entertainment is a night owl’s game. You finish late, then drive home still buzzing with adrenaline. When you finally walk through the door, your body and mind are wide awake. My evenings typically began at midnight. I’d go to my room and practice for an hour, working out new juggling patterns, filling my head with visual pathways the way a musician might rehearse scales or chord progressions. Those hours, when the world was asleep, were the most productive of my day. No phone calls, no emails, nothing open, and no one asking for anything, just silence and space to study, read, write, or dive into self-improvement projects. It was a strange rhythm, but it worked for me, even if it collided with the lives of the people I was living with.
By two or three in the morning, hunger would kick in, and I’d wander into the kitchen to make myself dinner. I knew the lady of the house was trying to sleep just inches away, so I’d tiptoe in as quietly as I could, but she would always open the curtain and greet me pleasantly. I’d apologize for waking her, and she’d insist it was no bother, then wish me a good night. She was always so kind, but eventually I stopped making food late at night because I felt so bad about disturbing her. That meant long days of training and working, followed by going to bed without dinner. Or I’d get something on my way home, which cost money I didn’t have. So, I knew I needed to find something different. I told Jonathan about the dilemma, and he crafted a plan. The house where he had been staying was charging $350 per month for a bedroom. But they also had a small garden shed in the backyard. It wasn’t much, unfinished two-by-four construction, an eight-by-ten, eighty square foot, tool shed. With some work, though, it could be big enough for a bed. The homeowners said they would insulate it, install drywall on the inside, and run electricity so it would have basic power, all for just $275 a month. There would be no bathroom, kitchen, sink, or running water; I’d have to go inside whenever I needed to use the facilities. Still, I was excited about the opportunity. I’d be closer to Jonathan, and we’d be able to train. I told them that if they built it, I’d be happy to come. So the man of the house and his oldest son got to work, and a few weeks later, they said it was ready.
I moved again, this time into a garden tool shed. My fifth move in just eight months.
My new accommodations were small, but after the challenging roommate situations, it was nice to have my own space. On one wall, I placed my bed; on the other, I set two old-school footlockers. One held all my juggling equipment; the other acted as a dresser. I put a few cardboard boxes inside the dresser-style one to separate socks, shirts, and shorts. Then I sat on the bed and marveled that I’d managed to fit all my worldly possessions in just two footlockers. Each time I’d moved, I’d gotten rid of more of my treasures, favoring mobility over memories, but I’d still doggedly held onto a few items. Picking up my crisp-looking yearbooks, I debated, not for the first time, what to do with them. I had one from middle school and two from high school: one for the eleventh-grade year and the other for my partial year of twelfth-grade, the year I’d left early.
Picking up the eleventh-grade one, I cracked it open and started reading some of the messages people had written. As everyone knows, the number of signatures in your yearbook is directly related to how cool you are, so I’d run around trying to get as many as possible. But as I read them now, I realized I didn’t even know who some of the people were. Turning another page, I saw one from a girl I hadn’t known very well, but who had asked if she could sign my yearbook. When I handed her the yearbook, she put her phone number, a big heart, and a message encouraging me to call sometime. Right next to this message, unsurprisingly, was a message from my high school sweetheart, declaring that we’d be together forever. I smiled at that, because it was a sentiment we shared. We’d often talked about the life we wanted to build together and how we’d get married as soon as she was finished with college.
Seeing these messages in the yearbook shifted my attention to one of my other remaining treasures.
Having attended high school in the mid-nineties, I lived through the great age of note-passing. While my teachers taught, I would sit and pretend to take notes, while in reality, I’d be writing to my girlfriend. She’d be in her class doing the same, and between classes, we’d briefly meet to exchange them. She and I had written to each other this way for two years, five days a week, six classes a day. I’d saved every one of her letters in a box, stacked in the order they’d been received. Were it not for the one letter I’d left in a pocket and run through the washer, I’d have had a complete collection of every single note she’d ever given me. These letters felt important, like a play-by-play record of the love that had grown between us, and they’d survived the previous purges because I couldn’t imagine getting rid of them. I randomly pulled one of the leaves from the middle of the stack and read her now-dated message. It told of a disagreement she’d had with one of her stepbrothers, and how her stepdad had yelled at her, and how she couldn’t wait to see me for the few minutes we’d have after school before she got on the bus to go home.
It was sweet, but hardly the kind of thing I needed to save for all eternity. I pulled out and read a few more, and like the first, they spoke of things teenagers speak of, things that didn’t have the import today that they’d had back when I’d first read them. We were both out in the world now, trying to find our way, and these notes and these yearbooks were things from the past.
Of course, they meant something, but they were also quite heavy…
I sat torn over what to do with the last of my sentimental possessions. Then I remembered a quote I’d once read:
“The eagle can only soar so high because it packs so lightly.”
There’s my answer, I thought. Without giving myself time to think about it or change my mind, I dropped the yearbooks into the box of handwritten notes, picked up the whole thing, and walked out to one of the trash cans already set by the curb. Opening the lid, I placed the box of letters and yearbooks inside and covered them with a few pieces of trash to conceal them from curious eyes. As I walked away, I waited for the feelings to hit, the sensation that I was making a terrible mistake. But I didn’t feel any of that; instead, I felt lighter and more prepared for whatever lay ahead. That’s when I realized the truth: she and I were together, in love, and our connection strong. I didn’t need the letters themselves, and I never did; what mattered was the relationship, not the pieces of paper we’d passed back and forth to build it.
Then another quote came to mind: “The things you hold onto hold you down.”
Yes, and right now I can’t afford to hang onto anything if it slows me down.
One day, I thought, when this is over, if I’ve failed, I never want to wonder if I somehow sabotaged myself by not doing enough or giving up enough. If I fail, let it be because I wasn’t good enough, not because I didn’t sacrifice enough.
Chapter 41: The Work Is Working
We religiously attended the San Dieguito Manipulation Society’s weekly juggling club in Encinitas. For the last few meetings, everyone had been talking about the upcoming Lodi Juggling Festival. It was a smaller regional festival, but it still sounded awesome. Jonathan and I were as broke as ever, though, so we’d decided to pass on it.
However, as the festival drew near, we sat staring at empty calendars.
Jonathan tapped the empty date boxes with his pen. “You know,” he said, “we don’t really have anything booked for this weekend. Just our restaurants. If we did go, it wouldn’t hurt our bottom line.”
“And it never hurts to go to a juggling festival,” I added.
So the day before it started, we changed our minds and decided to go. The problem was that we had no idea where it was actually being held. We knew it was in Lodi, California, outside of Sacramento, but we didn’t have an address. We didn’t have anyone we could call for details either. Just the vague idea that it would be in a park somewhere.
Did we let that stop us? Heck no. The next morning, we loaded up and set out on the eight-hour drive to Lodi.
When we arrived, we were not greeted by a tiny little town. It wasn’t a megacity per se, but it was large enough that finding a juggling conference without an address was daunting. We drove all around, hoping to stumble upon some clue, but came up with nothing.
Hours passed, night fell, and we still hadn’t had any luck. So we stopped into a CVS hoping to flip through a local Thomas Brothers guide. But Thomas Brothers had vacuum-sealed all their city guides in plastic, so we couldn’t see the pages without buying a copy. It was smart business on their part, but we couldn’t justify paying twenty-five dollars for a book we’d only need once. “Screw it,” I thought, scoring the plastic with my thumbnail. I peeled off the plastic as quietly as I could, then we looked up the various parks. To our dismay, there were dozens of parks, and any one of them could have been the festival’s location. As we pored over the pages of our ill-be-opened guide, a friendly employee reminded us that the store would close in five minutes. Ugh, we started trying to memorize the various parks around the city, but then Jonathan spotted a copy machine.
Running over to the machine, he photocopied a dozen of the more relevant-looking pages, then we ran to checkout. Instead of paying twenty-five dollars for the booklet, we got out for around fifty-three cents. As we walked out of the store, they locked the door behind us, undoubtedly confused by the two guys who’d asked if they knew anything about a “juggling festival.” We continued driving around the city, visiting park after park and making our best guess as to which ones might be hosting a festival. But time and time again, we’d find empty playgrounds and empty parking lots.
We wondered if we’d sent ourselves on a fool’s errand. Had we driven eight hours for nothing?
Still, we pressed on, and eventually, around 11:30 pm, we saw the telltale light of juggling torches in the distance.
Pulling into the parking lot of Micke Grove Park, we saw a big metal shade structure, with dozens upon dozens of jugglers tossing and talking. Beside this was a grassy field full of fire jugglers.
We walked around and said hello to a few folks, but we were pretty beat, so we called it a night.
The evening was cold and crisp, but Jonathan decided to brave it and just cowboy camp in the bed of his truck. I set up my tent under some pines and went to bed. Despite my tiredness, I could not sleep; I was too anxious for sunrise and the juggling it’d bring.
* * *
In the morning, a glassy sheet of dew covered the grass, and the earth was squelching with moisture. But despite the cold and damp, things were already in full swing. Workshops, demonstrations, games, socializing, prop buying, and, of course, juggling. Festivals are like that, nonstop.
The first workshop I took was a three-ball intensive taught by David-David-David, who had just returned from Europe. There he’d learned about something he called “Flow.” He explained that flow is a state of mind, a trance-like state we enter through movement, a moving meditation, a concept I felt very attuned to. He also showed us how he’d begun isolating movements in juggling, breaking apart the usual rhythms and experimenting with loosening the body’s joints to achieve a more fluid, graceful movement. I loved what he’d shared, knowing intuitively that the style he described would become a central part of my own exploration of juggling.
After that workshop, I worked on numbers juggling until a gentleman walked up and asked if he could film.
I said, “Of course,” and he filmed for the next fifteen minutes, capturing a few nice runs of seven and eight balls. I might have forgotten all about it, but a few years later, I discovered the Jugglers Database online. Clips of these runs had been uploaded there, likely the first videos of my juggling ever online.
That night, we went to the show and saw some wonderful performers. The standout for me was the headliner, Tony Duncan. We’d seen him in juggling videos, but never in person, and his performance was exceptional. Not only did he juggle with his eyes closed, but he also started doing patterns with his eyes closed, even managing a respectable run of Mills Mess, a pattern in which the arms weave back and forth as if they are chasing each other. The crowd, of course, went nuts!
Impressive as that was, he’d saved the best for last; he swallowed a sword! I was deeply curious about sword swallowing and, unable to resist, I approached him after the show and asked how he learned. Tony, gracious and direct, offered a simple piece of advice: “Get a sword.”
No mystical secrets, just a straightforward starting point.
* * *
After the main show, there was a “renegade” show. The renegade show is an open forum where anyone can get up and perform. The standout of that show was the juggler who started his chainsaw and strapped the trigger down so that the blade was spinning at full speed. He then juggled it, but lost control and dropped it. The blade bit in when the saw landed on the stage, and the whole thing raced across the floor like a remote-controlled vehicle. Straight towards the front row it went, launching itself straight off the stage. Were it not for a few scraggly bushes that intercepted it mid-flight, it would have mauled people in the front row. That moment, exciting as it was, taught me a lot about chainsaws and safety. Danger bits can be exciting, but if there’s any real risk to the audience, it’s not worth it. A performer can choose how far they’re willing to push regarding their own safety, but they don’t get to make that choice for the audience. In that same show, another performer took an unperforated industrial roll of toilet paper, wrapped it back and forth and back and forth between two points, and then twisted the whole of it to make a sort of rope. Then he anchored the toilet paper by its ends and proceeded to slackline walk across it. I was amazed that the toilet paper could support his weight and even more impressed by the creativity. I loved this outside-the-box thinking side of performing. I realized that was one of the things I wanted to explore more on my own: creating cool, unusual acts and props.
The next morning, Jonathan and I were under the pavilion talking with Robert Nelson, the famous “Butterfly Man,” who, despite his rather aggressive stage persona, is one of the most gracious, intelligent, and kind people I’d ever met. He’s the kind of person who makes you feel as if you’ve known them all your life, even if you’ve only met them a few minutes before. We were talking about performing and the show the night before, and Robert was saying that one of his favorite acts was the one that had used a bunch of words with more than one meaning, and how he’d been so impressed by their use of language. In the middle of this, Dave Finnegan, the author of The Complete Juggler—a foundational book in the juggling world, walked up to our little circle and asked, “Hey Robert, what cha’yall talking about?”
Robert seemed to grow in size; his face grew stormy, then, in a booming voice that carried across the whole convention area, “We were just talking about what a FUCKING ASSHOLE YOU ARE!!!”
My jaw dropped; Dave’s done so much for the world of juggling that it cannot be quantified, and he’s also one of the nicest people you could ever meet; I was shocked by Robert’s behavior.
But Dave’s head rolled back, and he laughed heartily. Then he shook his head and said, “Oh, Robert,” as he walked away.
Robert stared daggers into Dave’s back as he went, holding the character a little longer. Then, he smiled despite himself.
I don’t know the actual dynamics of their relationship, but it was clear to me that this was their way of playing. Despite the harsh words, the impression I got was one of friendship and mutual respect.
I’d never thought about it until that moment, but Dave was the proverbial good cop of juggling while Robert was the bad. I count it among my career highlights to have been there with the two of them that day.
After that, “The Games” were announced. This is a friendly time of competition where all attendees are welcome to participate. It’s all in good fun, but it’s also quite competitive. I decided to participate and did relatively well in a few, but didn’t win. Then they had the diabolo high toss competition, and I threw mine higher than everyone else, so I won! After that, to my great shock, I won two more of the games. I knew I’d improved, but I never imagined I’d have a chance of winning anything.
The work is working, I’m getting better, and I vowed to train even harder.
* * *
As soon as the convention ended, we headed west for San Francisco.
On a previous visit to Pier 39, I’d seen a knife and sword shop, and figured it was my best bet for finding a sword to start practicing sword swallowing.
When we got there, I explained my plan, and the salesman raised a skeptical eyebrow but agreed to sell me a sword anyway.
As he handed me my receipt, he said, “You be careful now.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Walking out of the shop, I was officially on the path to becoming a sword swallower. It still seemed impossible, but at least now, I had the tools to give it a shot.
Chapter 42: The Big Break
I closed the door of my little shed-house, then walked barefoot across the backyard to enter the main house. Once inside, I made a bowl of cereal. Mid-bite of Raisin Bran, Jonathan emerged from his bedroom down the hallway. As he passed the table, he dropped a newspaper clipping in front of me and said, “What do you think of this?”
Seeking actors, caricature artists, jugglers, puppetry artists, magicians, and more. Open call audition notice for future cast members of LEGOLAND California Theme Park.
And then below that, in bold letters:
We will not be auditioning clowns. No clowns!
I laughed out loud, and Jonathan laughed with me.
“The clown part?!” he asked.
“Yeah!”
“That was my favorite part, too! So what do you think?”
“I think we should go for it.”
“I do too. It says there are audition spots on Saturday and Sunday, but we’ve got gigs both days.”
“If we show up early, and I mean like 90 minutes before it even starts, maybe we can be in and out quick enough to still make our other gigs?” I suggested.
“Worth a try,” Jonathan agreed.
Below the main text, there were instructions.
Bring with you:
– Biography
– eight-by-ten Headshot
– A five-minute piece to show your talent
Reading my mind, Jonathan said, “Yeah, we’ve got some work to do.”
I nodded, knowing he was right. We’d been so focused on practicing and making enough money to survive, we’d never thought to write a bio or get professional headshots. Nor did we have a five-minute audition piece ready.
“We’ve got four and a half days to get it done,” Jonathan muttered before taking a bite of cereal.
“How are we gonna do the headshot? There’s no time to get studio shots done, and I don’t have the money anyway.”
Through a half-chewed bite of cereal, Jonathan said, “Yeah, I got an idea.” He stood and walked back to his room, quickly returning holding one of the familiar 35mm red and grey-beige Marlboro cameras we’d taken to Scotland.
“We’ll get a roll of black and white film and shoot it with this.”
“Is that going to be professional enough?”
“It’ll be more professional than the ones we have now.”
We both laughed because anything would be more professional than the nothing we had now.
“What about costume?” I asked, “Do we just wear our happy face pants?”
“We could,” Jonathan mused, “But I think we should get something more professional, black slacks, matching shirts, like the teams who compete in the championships, maybe something shiny.”
“Gotta spend money to make money,” I said wryly.
“Spend yourself rich!” Jonathan declared, and we laughed again.
“Okay, let’s go costume shopping, get film, then go to the youth center to work on the five-minute act and take pictures.”
“I’ll be ready in twenty minutes,” Jonathan said.
“Break!” I said, jumping to my feet with exaggerated urgency.
We were ready to attack the day.
* * *
We carpooled to what we jokingly called the pimp store, a shop specializing in colorful suits and garish shoes in every imaginable color. I don’t think it was actually a “pimp store,” that’s just what we called it. And I don’t think they thought of themselves as a costume shop, but they carried clothes flamboyant enough to pass as costuming.
We wanted to look polished, like a real team. We tried on a bunch of different looks. I remembered from my high school yearbook photoshoot that the company had recommended wearing darker colors to look more professional, so I pushed for dark shirts, hoping it’d help. We ultimately went with matching black slacks and dark burgundy button-downs.
From there, it was straight to the church youth center. We put on our new outfits and cleared a wall for shooting. We quickly realized we couldn’t be both in front of the lens and behind it at the same time, so we used the camera’s timer. We’d press the shutter, sprint into place, try to look natural, wait for the click, then go back and do it again. It was entirely amateur; we had no lighting, no gear, and no idea if we were getting anything. But we kept at it, hoping something would turn out.
After we’d burned through the roll, we drove to a nearby drugstore and paid extra for one-hour film developing. Then we sat in the parking lot and waited.
An hour later, we were flipping through the photos. Half were crooked or out of focus, but there was one. And we only needed one that could pass as a headshot. We asked the clerk to print an eight-by-ten, and they told us to find the negative and load it into the store’s printer. We’d never done that before, so they had to come out and help us get it set up.
“How much are eight-by-tens? I asked.
“Ten dollars each,” they said.
“Oh, okay,” I said cheerfully, pretending that the price didn’t pain my wallet.
“There you go, it’s all set, just type in the number of copies you need and press the green button. Then you’ll pay at the register.”
The clerk walked off, and Jonathan and I looked at each other.
“Well, we only need one, right?” Jonathan said.
“Technically, yes, but if something happens to it or heaven forbid they want another one, we’ll be kicking ourselves if we don’t get at least two.”
“Okay, two it is,” Jonathan agreed.
Once they were printed, we picked them up for a look.
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Hands down, it was the best picture we had of us. With headshots secured, one of the three requirements for the audition was sorted.
Next, we sat down to write our bio. Neither of us had ever written one before, but in high school, I’d taken a special three-day course on résumé writing. It’d taught me little tricks like using strong action words, highlighting strengths, and keeping it simple. So I took over the task, making us look as professional as I could.
Across the top, I wrote, “Edinburgh Fringe Festival, 1998: Rootberry.”
We had been there, and it sounded good as long as I didn’t mention that we’d survived by twisting balloons. Then, I filled in the rest with a blend of hopeful exaggeration and vague accomplishments until it read well enough. Neither of us had a computer, so I visited my girlfriend and used her mom’s computer to type it up. Like the headshot, I printed two copies, which gave us two “promo kits.”
With the time we had left, we put together the tightest five-minute act we could. We focused on the material we were most comfortable with, like our giant beanbag act, some club passing, and the diabolo bit we’d been working on. Our strategy was to hit ‘em with something, then change it up quickly, making sure they never had time to get bored.
In a snap, it was Friday, and we dashed off to our evening restaurant gigs to twist balloons. But for once, I wasn’t thinking about tips or tables. All I could think about was that in the morning, we’d get our shot.
I didn’t feel ready, but we were going anyway.
* * *
Arriving at the audition’s address, we found the parking lots filled to overflowing. We couldn’t believe it; every entertainer in Southern California had come, and hundreds of people crowded about. Scattered throughout this sea of heads were bright flashes of red, blue, and yellow-wigged individuals.
Despite the ad’s clear instructions, there were clowns. Like, a lot of clowns!
Jonathan shook his head. “Didn’t they read the ad?”
“Guess not,” I laughed, “Good thing we’re jugglers.”
“Yeah, whoever thought that would be a step up.”
We both laughed, then started unloading the gear.
Walking up to the place, we saw a line wrapped around the building. Luckily, Jonathan, in his infinite wisdom, had called ahead to reserve our audition slots. We explained this to one of the line managers, who led us straight to the front to sign in. Then we were told to wait.
Sean McKinney and Jeff King from juggling club suddenly appeared and said hello. They were both light-years better than us. A fact made all the clearer by Jeff’s chainsaw.
“You’re gonna juggle that?” I asked.
“Yeah, on a rolla-bola. It should get their attention.”
“Yes, I think it will,” I answered.
Then I saw a guy pulling a red wagon with a big green ball perched in it and recognized Roger the Juggler, the street performer I’d juggled fire with on the beach that day.
I pointed him out to Jonathan and said, “That’s Roger, he’s really good too!”
Jonathan just nodded his head, then shrugged, “We’ll just do our thing.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s all we can do.”
In a funny way, seeing these guys removed a lot of the stress; they were going to crush us, and we had no chance of competing with them, so there was no reason to be stressed. Let’s just go have fun.
A lady walked out and started calling names, “Jonathan and Bill, Roo-berry?”
We stood up, and Jonathan corrected her, “It’s Rootberry.”
“Ah, Rootberry, right this way.”
We entered a medium-sized theater and saw a clown on stage performing a dance bit with a mop. In the front row, a series of folding tables was arranged, a panel of judges seated behind them. Off to audience left, there was a row of chairs for performers to queue in.
Our handler pointed to these chairs and indicated we should be seated.
The clown on stage was making big, wild gestures, dramatically filling the space. I looked at the judges and saw they were all stone-faced, clearly not enjoying the performance. One even flipped through notes, making use of the time.
When the clown was finished, the judges thanked him.
The clown stood there stubbornly, then asked in their normal human voice, “So what did you think? Did you like it?”
One of the judges coughed gently, then said, “Thank you, Mr.” They glanced at the sheet to double-check the name, “Bonkers. If you’re a fit for us, we’ll call you. Have a good day.”
The clown stood his ground, turning his palms forward and raising his shoulders slightly. I got the feeling he’d expected to be hired on the spot.
The judges busied themselves with their notes until the clown gave up and gathered his things, all the while muttering under his breath. Once he’d packed up, he walked past us waiting auditioners, and said, “Good luck.”
But his tone made it clear he didn’t actually want us to do well.
Once he was out, the judges called the next performer.
A woman rose and delivered a theater monologue.
Another sang.
And I can’t remember what the third did, because we were up next.
“Team BerryRoot?”
“That’s Rootberry,” Jonathan corrected.
“Ahh, Root-Berry, what will you be doing for us today?”
“We do a juggling act,” Jonathan answered.
“And where do you do this juggling act?”
“We do events locally, and we just returned from the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, where we performed for a month.”
“The Fringe? Really, how did you like it? I’ve always wanted to go there.” The judge leaned forward in his chair, genuinely interested and smiling.
“It was great,” Jonathan said, “We performed on the Royal Mile, and even earned enough to make a trip over to Ireland for the last week.”
“Fantastic, well, I’m excited to see it. Do you need anything from us?”
“Yeah, can we play this CD?”
“Sure,” the judge motioned Jonathan over and loaded it up, “When should I play it?”
“Just give us a moment to set up, and we’ll be ready to go.”
“Yes, of course, take your time,” said the judge sincerely.
We placed our juggling clubs near the back of the stage, the diabolos near the front of the stage, and hefted the giant beanbags since we’d be starting with those in hand.
“All set,” Jonathan announced.
The judge gave a thumbs up, then hit play.
The Charlie Brown theme song, “Linus and Lucy,” by Vince Guaraldi, came on, and we started. I spun one of the bags on my finger like a giant basketball, while Jonathan came in swinging the other two wildly about. This transitioned into some juggling between us, but then Jonathan made a “mistake,” and one of the bags crashed to the floor. We stood there pretending to be confused for a moment, then I pelted Jonathan with my extra beanbag. He staggered exaggeratedly, while I ran up to grab the bag he’d dropped. He recovered enough to pick up the remaining bag from the ground, but by then I’d snuck up behind him like a scene out of the Wile E. Coyote vs. Road Runner cartoon and swung both of mine to “squish him between.” The bags made a loud smack, and he staggered again. This made the judges laugh. We returned to the juggling, and after rolling through a few different patterns to demonstrate actual skill, I gathered all three bags while Jonathan dropped to one knee and styled towards me as if to say, “Clap for him.”
And they did, the judges clapped! Something they hadn’t done for any of the other auditioners.
I took a breath to calm my nerves and switched to juggling clubs. We did some passing and had a few drops, but nothing harmful to the act. Then we did our diabolo act, tossing the spinning top back and forth between us, taking turns doing tricks, until we built to the most important moment of all. In diabolo, there’s a trick called a whip. In this trick, you pop the top off its string, throw it in the air, then fling the string through the air, snagging the top an instant before it hits the ground. It’s a seemingly impossible move, like catching a fly with a pair of chopsticks. Individually, we could only hit it about 70% of the time. But here’s where the genius of our finale kicked in, for the final move, Jonathan threw the top up, and we both whipped at it at the same time!
If both of us missed it, it’d slam to the stage, and we could play it off comically, like, “Whoa, what happened?”
Or, if only one of us got it, we could play it like, “Neiner neiner, I got it, and you didn’t!”
But if both of us got it, the top would suddenly become suspended between us, caught in an unexpected and seemingly impossible tug of war, and we’d both take a bow.
Jonathan entered this finale sequence, and as he prepared to throw, I saw him give a little shrug. “Here goes nothing,” I imagined him saying. He threw the top up, and we both swung for it. Whoosh! Both of the sets of strings flew true, and suddenly the top floated magically between us!
The judges actually whooped and clapped, genuinely enjoying the performance.
We bowed, big smiles on our faces, then gestured for them to stop the music.
“That was great,” said the judge who’d been talking with us.
“Thank you, and thank you for having us,” Jonathan answered.
“I only have one more question,” The judge said, pointing at me, “Does he ever talk?”
“Sure, he does, hey Bill, say hi to the people.”
I stepped forward and said, “Hello.”
The judge smiled encouragingly, waiting for me to say more. But I didn’t, and silence fell over the room.
Sensing the tension, Jonathan interjected, “See, he talks.”
The judge laughed, “So you’re kind of a juggling Penn & Teller act, got it,” he said, making a note in his booklet.
* * *
We ran to our cars, hoping not to be late for our gigs, and joking all the way about how that had been a good experience, and that it was too bad we weren’t gonna get it.
Then we shouted our final, “See you laters,” and tore out of there.
* * *
The following Tuesday, the phone rang while Jonathan and I were on a lunch break from training.
He answered, “Hello.”
“Yes, this is Jonathan.”
“Well, hello, Robert from Legoland.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re interested.”
“How many shows? Would this be like a weekend thing?”
“Five days a week huh, and six, twenty-minute shows per day.”
When he said this, my eyes bulged. Six shows a day? This was the dream. We’d be real full-time jugglers.
“Fifteen dollars an hour? Plus benefits, medical, dental, vacation, and stock option, I see.”
I raised both hands in silent celebration, mouthing “Yes, yes!” Across the table.
“Well, I’d have to talk to my teammate, but it definitely sounds interesting.”
Then I heard him say, “Is the fifteen dollars negotiable? When he and I talked last, we’d been thinking twenty-two dollars an hour.”
I stared at him, silent thoughts exploding, WHAT! Don’t negotiate, tell him yes! We’ll take it!
Jonathan held up a hand to calm me.
“Ah, the highest they’ll go is eighteen dollars? I see,” he said, sounding genuinely disappointed. I was about to come out of my skin. Say YES! I screamed internally.
“Well, like I said, I have to double-check with my teammate, but if I were to guess, with all the benefits and everything, we’re probably in. When do you need to know by?”
“Three days? Okay, we’ll be in touch.”
Jonathan hung up the phone, and we both exploded, jumping up and down like kids at Christmas. This was it. Everything we’d been working for. Everything we’d been training for. This was the beginning of the dream. We were going to be professional jugglers.
Once we calmed down, I made him recount the whole conversation, every detail. And he did, until I stopped him at the part about negotiating.
“Dude, why were you pushing back? What if we’d lost the whole thing!”
Jonathan grabbed his little pocket calculator.
“Forty hours per week times fifty-two weeks is 2,080 hours. Multiply that by fifteen dollars, and that’s $31,200 per year. But if we’re making eighteen dollars per hour, it’s $37,440. That’s over twelve thousand dollars more between the two of us, per year.”
Dang. I wanted to be mad, but I couldn’t argue with the math.
“That… was totally worth it!” I shouted.
Jonathan laughed. “In life, you don’t get what you deserve, you get what you negotiate.”
I couldn’t help myself, I jumped up and started doing a little victory dance, singing:
🎵 Full-time jugglers, livin’ the dream. Stock option, ben’ies, and a medical team. Eighteen dollars, oh what a sight, this is what we came for, this is the life! 🎵
Jonathan interrupted, “Don’t forget, I still have to talk to my teammate and get the okay before I can accept.”
I paused, stared at him, and then sang twice as loudly:
🎵 No more ramen, no more stress! 🎵
And we, of course, laughed.
* * *
After the high had worn off, we sat down and got serious. We knew landing the gig was only the first step; keeping it was what mattered. We made a checklist of what we needed to do to give ourselves the best shot.
1: Ramp up training and rehearsals.
2: Start running the full juggling act until it is show-ready.
3: Replace any tired or beat-up props.
Next, we considered the logistics of fulfilling a five-day-per-week contract. We lived in Escondido, so it was a thirty-five to forty-minute drive to Legoland.
Jonathan typed some numbers on the calculator.
“One-way commute is 35–40 minutes. Let’s average that to 37.5 minutes one way. Round-trip is 37.5 × 2 = 75 minutes per day, or 1.25 hours per day. Then our weekly and monthly totals would be, five days per week = 1.25 × 5 = 6.25 hours per week. Times the four weeks in a month = 6.25 × 4 = 25 hours per month.”
Twenty-five hours per month just sitting behind the wheel. A commute that would be both boring and inefficient, two sins we avoided at all costs.
Then, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, Jonathan said, “We’ll have to move.”
My thoughts began to race; if we did move, it’d be my sixth move in just one year, and the homeowners had just built their shed into a little bedroom for me, which was so nice. But, at the same time, the lady of the house was a light sleeper, and regularly, when I was in the kitchen making a box of mac and cheese at 2:00 am, she’d come out and give me withering looks. They had four sons of their own, three still living at home, so we’d joined an already full house. Accommodating as they’d been, it wasn’t purely out of niceness; they had us there because they needed the money, and I’d often felt that this arrangement was strained. So, maybe our leaving would be for the best.
Jonathan continued, “Tonight is juggle club in Encinitas. I have to run some errands in that area anyway, so I’ll leave early and see if we can find us an apartment.”
I nodded, “Sounds good.”
* * *
When I saw Jonathan at club later that night, he said, “I got us a place, $675 a month. It’s less than a mile from the beach, two blocks from the skatepark where Tony Hawk rides, and just down the road from here.”
“Dude, that’s awesome. Can we go see it after club?”
“The office will be closed, but I can show you the building. It will still be a fifteen-minute drive to Legoland, but I figured the other plusses balance that out.”
“It sounds great, studio or one bedroom?”
“They only had a one-bedroom, so I figured we could share.”
“Naw, you take the bedroom; I’ll set up in the living room; I stay up the latest anyway. Do we need to make a deposit to lock it in?”
“No, I already paid it; it’s a done deal; we move in February 1, 1999, two days from now.”
Oh wow, that’s fast, I thought, but it was also the exact way we operated. If something seemed like a good idea, we did it, no hesitation, consequences be damned, ‘cuz this dream ain’t gonna chase itself.
“Alright,” I said, “how do we tell them?”
* * *
The “we’re moving out” conversation didn’t happen until the day of our move, and it went about how I expected. The first words out of our landlady’s mouth were, “Oh, great, thanks for the notice. I was counting on that money, but we were nice and didn’t ask for a deposit, so now you can do something like this. I knew I couldn’t trust you guys!”
I felt bad, but after living there for those few months, I knew there was nothing we could have done to alleviate it. Her love languages were anger, guilt trips, and belittling. So even if we had given more notice, it would only have meant being around her longer while she was pissed.
I exited the house, but could still hear her screaming inside. I felt bad for Jonathan. His room was in the house, so from day one, he’d been dealing with the worst of her episodes. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was 11:07 am, and I set a goal to roll out of the driveway at noon. Back in my little shed, I executed the familiar ‘moving protocol’ and organized everything into its proper place. Then, with each trip to my vehicle, I ran, pretending it was a military operation rather than a leisurely activity.
Jonathan and I finished loading up almost simultaneously and jumped into our cars. I looked at my watch; it was 12:15 on the nose. I’d packed up my entire life in just sixty-eight minutes.
Jonathan rolled down his window and yelled, “See you at the new place,” then he pulled out of the driveway.
I pulled out behind him, then drove close to the curbside trash can to throw away one last bag of trash. As I did, I remembered that this was the very same can I’d used only weeks before to dispose of my yearbooks and my high school sweetheart’s love letters. The Lego contract had happened so fast, I hadn’t had the chance to think about the fact that this move would make the drive to see my girlfriend an hour each way. We’d barely been able to make time to see each other as it was, and my anxiety rose. But then, just as quickly, it was soothed by thoughts of our many affirmations. We were forever, we’d both said it a thousand times, so I didn’t need to worry. And besides, she would be starting college in Minnesota soon, so she’d be far away, too. And we’ll get through it, all of it, and anything else life can throw at us, because this is the kind of love that lasts forever.
I continued down the road, and a glance in the rear-view mirror revealed the house with the little shed in its backyard growing smaller as it faded behind me.
Dream chasing costs a lot. But if you’re willing to give it everything, the journey continues.
Chapter 43: A New Beginning
On February 20, 1999, we pulled into the employee parking lot for our first day at Legoland. The asphalt was still coal-black, and the paint on the directional arrows unscuffed. Past the gate, a path led to modern buildings in clean tan and red, and the smell of fresh mulch and wet concrete hung in the air. Then, rounding a corner, we saw it: the new park, bright in the primary colors of a zillion Lego bricks built into lifesized cars, animals, dinosaurs, and cityscapes. It was incredible. The landscaping was just settling in, with young trees staked upright, and flowers carefully planted in geometric rows. Everywhere had that new-park smell: everything fresh, everything waiting.
We were directed to human resources, ushered through orientation and paperwork, given a tour of the park, met management, and introduced to some of the other atmosphere entertainers. Roger, the juggler, was there, and we shook hands warmly. I asked if Jeff or Sean had been hired, but he hadn’t seen or heard anything about them.
Curious, I turned to our human resources handler. “Hey, quick question—did Jeff or Sean make the cut? We auditioned with them.”
She scanned her clipboard, running a finger down the neat columns of names, before looking up with a polite, professional smile. “No, sorry. Neither of them are on my list.”
Jonathan and I exchanged a look of pure shock. As soon as the handler stepped away to talk to help someone else, we huddled up.
“Are you kidding me?” I whispered. “How did we get in when they are so much better than us?”
“I don’t know,” Jonathan shrugged. “Maybe the casting directors thought we were just a better fit for the vibe? It is a kids’ theme park, after all. We’re kind of fun and playful.”
“True,” I agreed, winding down from the surprise. “Jeff is super skilled, but they might not have liked that he brought out a literal chainsaw at a Lego audition. And even though Sean is a former world champion and mind-blowingly talented, maybe they just saw what we were doing and thought it fit the brand?”
We’d probably never know for sure, but we took it as a lesson anyway. The prize doesn't always go to the most technically skilled person in the room, because you never really know what the person in charge is looking for. All you can do is show up and give it your best shot. Either way, we didn't have long to dwell on our luck, because we were up next for a costume fitting.
At first, the costumers showed us sketches of blocky, Lego-inspired construction-worker characters, and we braced for the worst. But then they revealed our uniforms: bright red jean pants, blue long-sleeve shirts, yellow safety vests, and white hard hats. We squeezed into the snug outfits and tested their range of motion. Doing a deep squat, my pants got so tight I worried the butt seam would blow out. Still, we kept our complaints to a minimum. If they wanted us to look like the juggling Village People, well, that was part of the trade-off. By joining the Lego team, we’d relinquished some creative control. But the stability we were gaining felt worth it.
During the tour, we were assigned lockers in the Magic Green Room, one of several performer hubs scattered throughout the park. Most performers, we were told, would stay in one area, but since we were a roving pop-up act, we’d be free to work from any green room. No tech support, no microphones, no music, no stage, just the two of us and our props. Street-mosphere-style. I thought back to our poor street-performing experiences in Edinburgh and worried whether we’d be able to hold a crowd.
Lucky for us, the park had planned a month-long soft opening. Restaurants opened, cashiers practiced with phantom guests, and we were encouraged to run our sets as if the park were already live, which gave us time to figure things out.
* * *
This new routine found us clocking in at 9:00 am each morning, then we’d warm up in the Magic Green Room, get into costume, and head out into the park. This first set was always by the entrance, performing for guests as they entered through the gates. After that, we’d return to the green room, and when the time was right, head to our next location: Water Works at 11:00 am, followed by Fun Town at noon, and Castle Hill after lunch. Then we’d round out the afternoon with two more shows at 3:30 pm and 5:00 pm.
At first, we tried to put on proper shows: build a crowd, create tension, and finish with a bang. But we quickly learned that Legoland guests weren’t there to see us; they wanted to see the park. So we adapted. Instead of full shows, we created short, high-impact performance vignettes, most of which were only two to three minutes long, featuring fast-paced juggling, variety bits, and quick audience interactions. No pressure, no big commitment, just a moment of entertainment before they moved on.
One day, while out on one of these sets, a kid took an interest in my juggling.
“Yo man, dat’s tight!” he said.
“Why, thank you, young sir. Have you ever seen a juggler before?”
“Naw man, I play ball, but not juggulin.”
“Well, let me show you some tricks.” With that, I busted out some of my favorite sequences, juggling over my head, behind the back, under the legs, turning every which way, then ending with a high throw and a pirouette.
“Naw way!” he exclaimed. “How you get so guud! Dat’ is tight!”
“Well, I’ll tell you the secret: you gotta practice hard, eat your Wheaties, and never give up.”
His eyes grew very wide, and the smile dropped from his face. He looked at me seriously, then he looked away, then he looked at me again as if waiting for me to say something else, then he tilted his head back and shouted to the sky, “WHAT? What you say?”
Thinking he’d misunderstood, I said it again, “Yeah, practice hard, eat your Wheaties, and never give up.”
His eyes bulged from his head, “WHHHAT!!! WHAT! You eat THIS!?!” As he shouted this, he pointed at his own crotch dramatically.
Suddenly realizing he was too young to have any idea what “Wheaties” were, I interjected. “No, no, W-H-E-A-T-I-E-S, it’s a kind of cereal that’s good for you.”
Still wide-eyed, he held his hands up in front of himself and started backing away, “Whatever man, yu be yu, but that’s sick!”
Realizing he wouldn’t understand, I broke off the interaction, “Thank you for watching the juggling, and I hope you have a great rest of your day here at Legoland California.
I returned to the green room, thankful no one else had overheard this awkward exchange. Lesson learned, I’ll never again suggest “Wheaties” as part of a complete practice regimen.
* * *
Once we got the hang of the schedule, I started using the breaks between sets as additional training periods, with the long lunchtime break becoming the main window for practice. In addition to our six twenty-minute shows each day, I did at least two additional hours of juggling each day. This regimen, repeated five days per week for a year, would result in roughly 960 hours of juggling.
I didn’t just juggle anymore; I trained like an athlete. Every session began with the following warm-up, and I didn’t allow myself to move on until I hit all three:
•200 catches of 6-ball fountain
•200 catches of 6-ball half-shower
•200 catches of 6-ball wimpy
Then, and only then, did I begin the “real” practice.
I didn’t have to do this extra practice, of course; we had enough baseline skill to do the job. But I didn’t want this contract to be the end of our journey; I wanted it to be the beginning. If practice got us here, maybe practice would get us to the next level, too.
Chapter 44: The Show Must Go On
About a year into our contract at Legoland, the park installed a temporary stage for pop-up performances, product launches, and special event promotions. The side effect of this construction was that, whenever no special events were scheduled, the large stage sat idle. Recognizing an opportunity, management asked if we’d like to mix up our street-mosphere sets and do three of our six daily performances on the stage.
Knowing our ultimate goal was to perform a full hour-long show, we jumped at the chance. And the following week, these new shows were added to our schedule.
This schedule placed us in the “Fun Town” green room for half the day, which was an energetic shift from the manicured cast of the Magic Green Room, where we’d usually take our breaks.
Fun Town, by contrast, belonged to the slapstick, high-energy acrobats of the fire show. The vibe here was more high school locker room meets suck-it-up-buttercup. They’d return sweaty, soaked, and panting with exertion, then do calisthenics, stretch, or lounge in various stages of undress.
Our shows were scheduled in the gaps between theirs, so whenever they walked in, it was our cue to mic up, head out, and bust a show.
* * *
One day, as we were preparing for our first show of the day, the Fun Town Green Room door flew open, and the one girl from the fire show ran in and said, “Quick, I want to show you something before the guys get here.”
Sensing the urgency, we jumped up and followed her into an adjoining room where the costumes were stored. As we walked in, she was already unbuttoning her costume. “I want to show you my new tattoo. But I don’t want the guys to know about it.” With that, she pulled her pants and panties down, revealing a large star inked across her mound of Venus. Having an assortment of tattoos myself and recognizing the invitation as being related to the tattoo only, I bent over to take a closer look.
“Sorry, I’m stubbly,” she said self-consciously, “until it’s fully healed, I don’t want to shave.”
“No worries,” I said, still looking. The star was an outline, which was a wise choice. If it had been filled in with color, it might have gotten blobby over time and been less delicate. The lower two points of the star curled under, disappearing into the creases of her thigh gap.
“The lines are very clean,” I commented. “There are no blowouts, and it looks like it’s healing well. It’s a really nice piece.”
“Thank you,” she said, seeming relieved, “I love it.”
Then she pulled her pants up just as the first of the other performers walked in.
With all the cast members returning, we knew it was time to go to our stage. Once clear of the green room, Jonathan and I looked at each other as if to say, Can you believe that just happened? But we restrained ourselves from commenting until we’d gone around the building and were well out of earshot. We passed through a gate and were just about to comment on this unexpected hoo-hah sighting when a guy in the distinct all-black uniform of a park audio technician ran up and said, “Your microphones are on!”
“Can’t be,” I said, “listen, TEST, TEST,” I repeated loudly enough that we’d have been able to hear it coming from our stage if we'd been left unmuted.
“No,” the technician corrected, “Not from your venue; they’ve got you muted; it’s from the kids’ corner building; your microphones must be on the same channel.”
Looking past our venue, I saw the kids’ corner, the area where the littlest kids and their parents went to participate in activities and escape the worst of the day’s heat.
Jonathan and I reached back and manually muted our microphone packs, then thanked the tech for being proactive. As the tech walked away, we tried to recall every word we’d said since we’d put on our microphones. We couldn’t remember saying anything bad, but had the tech not stopped us when he did, who knows what we’d have said next? After all, it’s not every day someone asks you to evaluate their tattooed hoo-hah.
We went and did the show, and I thought for sure the day was done delivering surprises, but then just five minutes before we were scheduled to perform our second show of the day, I got a call from my girlfriend.
I could tell by her tone that something was wrong. But she was evasive and wouldn’t tell me what it was.
Finally, I said, “I have to go on in a minute. Can this wait?”
That’s when she said it.
“I’ve met someone.”
“What do you mean, you’ve met someone?” I asked.
“I’ve met someone who is special to me.”
“Who?”
“Someone here in Minnesota. We have some of the same classes. We started studying together, and I don’t know…”
“Wait, what do you mean you don’t know? Don’t know what?”
She started to cry. Then she said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“If you’re starting to catch the feels,” I said, “then you need to stop hanging out with him.”
“I know,” she whispered. “But it’s too late.”
Something in me started to panic. “Too late for what? Have you kissed him?”
She broke down into a full sob.
And then, I felt it. That tearing in the center of my chest, “Oh my god,” I said, “you slept with him, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer. Just kept crying.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked. “And where are you right now?”
Through tears, she said, “I’m on a road trip.”
“Road trip? You didn’t tell me you were going on a road trip. To where? Are you with him right now?”
Her crying stopped. And then, in a voice that was firm, emotionless, and detached, she said, “I’m going to meet his parents.”
It was like a volcano inside me, pressure building with nowhere to go. Not anger. Just the most profound, overwhelming sense of hurt and betrayal I had ever felt.
This was the person who said she loved me. Who said we were forever, that we would make it through anything, together.
All I could manage was, “No.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I have to go.”
“Wait, no! I don’t want you to go. Why are you doing this?”
But the line was already dead. She’d hung up.
I wish I could say I was ok, but I wasn’t.
And now I have to go out on stage and pretend everything is ok, because the show must go on.
To the audience, our show probably looked no different than any other day. But when I picked up the five balls, something inside me snapped. The part of me that cared about playing it safe was gone. I ran through every trick I knew, smooth and sharp, not missing a beat. Which, all by itself, would have been a solid routine, but I didn’t stop there. I kept pushing. I threw in moves I almost never hit, even in practice. And one by one, impossibly, they landed.
My mind and heart emptied out, leaving only muscle memory behind. I hurled myself into harder and harder tricks, daring the universe to mess with me. Then I went for the one trick I’d never trusted: the five-up pirouette. All five balls launched skyward as I spun underneath. I came around just in time to see them collide and come crashing down in chaos, scattering across the stage.
I froze in place, arms raised like I’d meant it, like it was all part of the plan. And the crowd roared their approval, never knowing they’d just watched the most reckless, unguarded performance of my life. I gave them everything, and nothing was left.
That night, the shock of it caught up with me.
A migraine hit so hard I threw up. And nothing could stop my racing mind. I kept asking if I’d brought this on myself. Had my pursuit of this dream driven her away?
Every time we’d spoken, I talked about juggling, personal bests, new routines, and technical details that were certainly boring to a non-juggler.
And when we’d first gotten Legoland, I’d told her I could only see her once a week, not because I didn’t love her, but because between work, training, and the hour-long drive each way from Encinitas to her house in Valley Center, I just didn’t have more to give. Or maybe I did, but chose not to, because I put the dream first.
So who could blame her? She went off to college in Minnesota. And she was thinking about building a life. A family. A future. And she’d found someone there, someone who was getting a degree, someone more…reasonable.
Not a guy who’s trying to build a career as a juggler.
She’d done what was right for her, and I understood that, but I was still devastated.
Unable to help myself, unable to let go, I called her repeatedly. Then, I messaged her. And when I did get her on the phone, I begged, pleaded, and cried. I offered everything I had to offer, and more, anything to fix it. Until all the self-respect I once had was drained out of me.
She listened, and she cried with me, but it didn’t matter; her path was chosen.
Then she said, “Goodbye.” As the phone clicked, I knew that was it, that we’d never speak again, and my heart shattered.
I sat alone in the apartment, and asked what I’d already asked so many times before: Is this what dreams cost? And if so, what more will it take? How many more sacrifices must I make? And when will it be too much?
It already felt like too much…
I’d never been a drinker; I don’t even like beer. But I need something to take the edge off it all. I can’t feel this much all at once.
I went to the store and saw a twelve-pack of Smirnoff Ice. It looked sweet and harmless, like a wine cooler. I bought it.
Back at the apartment, I cracked one open. Then another.
Jonathan was out on a date, some girl he’d just met, and that stung. Not because I wasn’t happy for him, I was, but because everything hurt.
Everything.
As I sat, I remembered the first time I ever tried alcohol at a high school party. I’d downed a wine cooler and asked a girl doing shots how I’d know when I was drunk. She looked at me, swallowed, and said, “Imagine asking out the hottest girl you’ve ever seen, and she shoots you down. Now drink until it doesn’t hurt, and you don’t care. That’s when you’re drunk.”
So I drank, and searched for that place where it wouldn’t hurt, and I wouldn’t care.
* * *
Later that night, Jonathan came home and realized he’d forgotten his house key. He knocked. No answer. But my car was in the spot, so he knew I was home.
He knocked louder. Still nothing.
He tried the window. It was unlocked. He slid it open and climbed inside.
He found me passed out in bed, a few empty bottles close by.
He called my name. Nothing.
He went to the bathroom to pee and noticed more bottles. When he came out, he saw two more in the kitchen. Eleven empties in all.
That’s when he got worried. He came back to the bed and checked my pulse.
I was breathing, and my heart was beating.
So he let me be.
* * *
I woke the next day with an unforgiving headache and feeling no better than I had before.
But the shows didn’t stop.
The training didn’t stop.
There are no sick days, and you can’t call in heartbroken.
For the next few months, alcohol iced the ache.
And I kept getting up there, smiling like everything was ok, and giving it my all.
Chapter 45: Broccoli Cheese Soup
After clocking in one morning, we walked into the Magic Green Room. Seeing us, one of the costume character performers said, “Oh, hey guys, have you seen the board?”
Turning my attention to the green room noticeboard, I saw this message:
No Juggling Allowed in green rooms!
Seeing as we were the only ones who juggled in the green rooms, this notice was clearly directed at us. I was the biggest offender, because I was practicing all the time.
Once we’d read it, the costume character, with mock sympathy, said, “Well, I guess you’ll have to go outside from now on.”
My juggling had never actually affected her, but she had often said it made her nervous. So it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together. She must have complained.
I looked at her slouched on the green room sofa, dressed head-to-toe in costume, wearing everything except the headpiece. Next to her was another performer, also in costume, eating a bowl of broccoli cheese soup. And to his side was yet another performer, in costume as well.
Taking breaks in costume and especially eating in costume were violations of the rules. Yet all three of them were breaking those rules while they sat there, pontificating about the new no-juggling rule.
“I guess when everyone starts following the costuming rules, I’ll have to follow the juggling rules.” And with that, I picked up three beanbags and started my usual warm-up for the first set.
The costumed character huffed, and the performer beside her shook his head from side to side, as if he wanted to protest but begrudgingly acknowledged that they were breaking the rules too.
A few minutes passed, and I started working on a juggling trick called chops and claws. It’s a particularly fast pattern that utilizes overhand catches, which can be quite violent when mistakes occur. I made a dozen catches of it before one of my right-hand catches was miscalculated; this sent the beanbag hurtling toward the three performers on the sofa.
Like a little millet-filled comet, it landed on the handle of the buffet-style tureen soup bowl. The energy transfer acted like a catapult, generating a tiny yet mighty tidal wave of broccoli cheese soup.
The soup distributed itself across all three performers, their costumes, the sofa, and the wall behind them.
The costume character’s eyes grew wide as she took in the yellow and green disaster, and then, with each word increasing in volume, she said, “Oh, MY, GAAWDDD!!!”
The performer next to her looked down at his long-sleeved red shirt and Playskool blue overalls, now drenched, and screamed,
“This, THIS is WHY there’s NO juggling allowed in the green room!!”
Without missing a beat, I said, “It’s also why there’s no eating in costume.” Then I looked at the costume character and added, “Or taking breaks in costume!”
They both started to retort, then seemed to realize that if they reported this incident, they’d have to admit they were breaking the rules just as much as I was, so they bit their tongues.
It was time for all of us to get ready for our sets, so they scrambled to clean their costumes, and I made my way towards the park entrance.
As I walked, I thought about what a godsend Legoland had been. The money and benefits were solid, and we were making a living doing what we loved. But these simple dramas and the repetition had started to weigh on me. Every day it was the same shows, same audiences, same routines. I wondered if there wasn’t something more out there for us.
A few days later, our manager asked Jonathan and me to step outside for a discussion.
When we did, she told us there was a new rule in the green rooms: no juggling allowed, and everyone needed to change out of costume between sets. Jonathan and I nodded and went back to work.
For about a week, all the performers dutifully changed out of costume between sets like they were supposed to, and we stopped juggling in the green room. Predictably, though, the costume rule was quickly forgotten. People stopped changing between sets, and we started juggling again.
The park had every right to ask us to abide by all the rules they’d made, and we could have been more conscientious of our fellow performers. But our drive to improve is what got us here in the first place; we have to keep improving because the International Jugglers Association Championships are only a few months away, and this time, we’re going to compete.
Chapter 46: You Gotta Have a Gimmic
At one of our Tuesday night juggling club meetings, we found ourselves sitting down with Jeff King and Sean McKinney to chat. The conversation ranged across several topics, none of which were related to juggling or entertainment. But we knew Sean had worked on cruise ships before, so we asked if he had any advice for us, in case we wanted to work on ships one day.
“Don’t become an alcoholic,” he said.
We laughed, thinking it was a joke.
But he didn’t laugh, “I’m serious. People go out there, and there’s nothing to do, and everyone’s partying all the time. Next thing you know, you’re an alcoholic. It happened to me.”
We three fell quiet, unsure of what to say. We’d all heard little pieces of rumors about it. That he’d had a tough time on ship, gotten into alcohol, cracked under the pressure, and fought with his teammate — or was it his agent? Something like that, but none of us knew for sure; he didn’t like to talk about it.
Sean got up and walked across the gym.
We watched to see if he’d pick up juggling props; we wouldn’t miss the chance to watch him juggle, but he didn’t. Instead, he grabbed a basketball and started some dribble drills, deftly bouncing the ball back and forth between his legs.
Jeff pointed a finger at us, “So, you guys have the Legoland gig, you’ve been training, and you’re getting good; what’s the plan here? You want to do ships or colleges, or halftime shows, or what?”
“Yes, all of that!” we laughed.
Jeff waited, knowing a real answer was in there.
“Well, we want to compete in the world juggling championships, teams division. We know it’s a long shot, but if we could even get a bronze, that would be amazing. After that, corporate events and cruise ships would be fantastic, although we only have about twenty-five minutes of material right now, and we hear you need an hour. We’d also like to do colleges. Really, whatever we can get.”
Jeff thought for a moment, “You need a gimmick.”
“What do you mean?” we asked.
“You need something that makes you stand out from everyone else, something no one else has, something no one else can do; you gotta have a gimmick.”
Jonathan and I both sat thinking, but we didn’t know what our gimmick might be.
“Well, now that we know we need one, we’ll think on it,” Jonathan said.
“I’m going to be performing at a local high school in a few days; I can get you in if you want to see the show,” Jeff said.
“That would be great; we’ll be there!”
* * *
When we arrived at Jeff’s show, we discovered it was a high school talent show, and they had hired Jeff to perform during the intermission.
We stood on a second-story balcony and watched.
Jeff opened with a ball juggling routine; it was intense, raw, and gritty street-style juggling that made even a jaded high school crowd cheer. Then he took the microphone and hit them with some stand-up comedy — dry, hard-hitting stuff, material and language I was shocked he was doing for high schoolers, but they loved him for it. Then he got out a ten-inch piece of teal-green water pipe and set a blank skateboard deck atop it as a balance board. He jumped on top of it and started juggling three clubs.
The crowd thundered!
Next, he threw one of the clubs high in the air, busted a pop-shove-it (the trick where you jump the board up and spin it 180 degrees beneath your feet), then he landed back in control with the board under his feet, on top of the cylinder, and caught the high-thrown club back into the pattern.
Jonathan and I went ballistic, “Oh my god, that’s a hard trick!”
He went on, mixing skateboarding, juggling, and throwing tricks that were so difficult, and doing it all in a live show!
For the finale, he pulled out a chainsaw and juggled it. The room went crazy! The walls shook like we were having an earthquake, full electric!
He held the chainsaw high and shouted something unintelligible, which made the crowd get even louder. Then he kissed his fingers and waved, strolling off stage like a predator after a kill.
His show struck like a physical blow. I stood on the balcony, stunned to silence.
As things quieted down, Jonathan said, “That was incredible!”
“It was,” I agreed, “and it’s just like he said.”
Jonathan finished my thought, “We gotta have a gimmick.”
“The pop-shove-it skateboard trick. Has anyone ever done that before?”
Jonathan shook his head, “I don’t think so.”
“So he’s the only one doing it, and the chainsaw!”
“Every audience wants to see you juggle a chainsaw.”
“They do,” I agreed, “but it’s been done. If we’re gonna do a chainsaw, we need to do it different from how it’s ever been done before.”
“What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I answered, “but we need to think of something.”
Chapter 47: IJA - Madison Wisconsin - July - 2001
In bold letters, written across the top of my big paper desk calendar:
International Jugglers Association
Festival and Championships
July 24 - July 28, 2001
We’re competing!
The dream of one day competing had driven us for the past four years, and now, it was only one week away.
Skill-wise, we were as ready as we could be.
All that was left to do was burn our performance tracks onto a music CD. We bought a fifty-stack of blank CDs and tried every way we knew to get Jonathan’s PC to copy our competition tracks, but the cantankerous thing refused. It would burn data discs for us all day; it didn’t mind that. But ask for a regular ol’ playable audio CD and, “Gasp, cough, blepf!”, out spat another unreadable disc. The computer itself, the machine that had made the damn thing, wouldn’t even play it.
Admitting defeat, we reached out to our friend, Mark Booyah , whom we’d met through the UCSD juggling club.
He worked as a programmer, and we figured if anyone could get it going, it’d be him.
He told us to come over.
We showed up and explained the issue; he transferred the files from our thumb drive to his Macintosh, inserted a blank CD, dragged the files onto the CD, clicked burn, and two minutes later, the properly formatted disc popped out.
“That’s it?!” I exclaimed.
“Yeah.”
“And it’ll work, just like that?” I asked skeptically.
He took the disc and walked across the room to his CD player. Popping the disc in, he pressed play, and our performance track started.
“We’ve spent days on days trying to get my computer to do what you just did in two minutes,” Jonathan said.
Mark smiled, “I’m sorry about that, but at least you’ve got one that works now.”
“What do we owe you?” I asked.
Mark looked surprised, “Owe? Nothing..” Then, he did an old skool gangster impression, “Don’t worry uh-bout it, I do you a favor, maybe sum-day you do me a favor.”
We laughed and thanked him.
It was such a non-thing to him; he meant it when he said it was no big deal, but to us, it was priceless. Without music, we couldn’t enter the championships. Now, finally, we have it, and in just a few days, we’ll be flying to Madison, Wisconsin.
* * *
Preliminaries were scheduled for the first day of the festival; this was where the competition hopefuls appeared before a panel of judges, and those who did well moved on to the actual competition, usually held the next day.
The main divisions are:
Juniors - Under 18
Seniors - Solo performers 18 years and up
Teams - Any group of two or more
Jonathan and I made a point of arriving early for the preliminaries so we could see what the competition looked like. Once we were in the theater, we took a wall unobtrusively near the back of the room. We watched quietly as act after act went up to run their routines. There was club passing, cigar box variations, ring juggling, diabolo, all the stuff you’d expect to see in a juggling competition. But good as they all were, we didn’t see anything we’d have no chance against. I felt something warm in my chest, and wondered. Is that hope? Half-daring to believe we could have a real shot.
Knowing that we’d be called up soon, Jonathan excused himself to the restroom. The panel called another team to the stage to perform. Two perfectly muscular, perfectly symmetrical men walked out on stage. And by symmetrical, I mean in every way, even genetically — they were twins. Then the music started, and their gleaming white clubs began to dance.
For the next seven minutes, these two individuals executed the most stunning juggling exhibition I’d ever seen. They incorporated gymnastics skills, jumping over each other, stealing juggling patterns back and forth amidst cartwheels and back tucks. They made high throws that flowed into superbly challenging five-club steal variations. And it was all flawless, or more than flawless; it looked easy. Like they had three different routine difficulties in the bag and had decided to compete with the easiest of the lot.
As I watched them, my worst fears and doubts came surging to the fore: that no amount of practice would ever be enough. We’d started later than most, and we were too far behind to ever catch up.
Jonathan returned just as they were packing up to leave the stage, “Did I miss anything?”
“Yeah.. You did.”
“Were they good?”
“The best I’ve ever seen.”
“What’s our chance of beating them?”
“If we go flawless, if we have the best night of our lives, even then, we can’t beat them.”
He looked at me with eyes narrowed, and I could tell he wasn’t sure if I was teasing, so I added, “We can’t win.”
Jonathan considered that for a moment, then said, “Well, we don’t have to stress about anything then; we’ll just go out and have fun.”
Jonathan always knew the exact right thing to say whenever things looked their worst.
One of the prelim judges stood and called, “Team Rootberry?”
“Back here,” we hollered.
“Give your music to the technician, and let us know when you’re ready,” he instructed.
We did as we were told and set up our props on stage.
This is it, I thought, if we don’t deliver now, our championship bid will end, and it’ll be another year of training before we can try again.
Jonathan waved to the sound technician, and a moment later, our music started.
We took the stage with big smiles on our faces, then threw the hardest tricks we knew with six and seven clubs, many at the very edge of what we could do on our best days, and a surprising number landed beautifully. But it was far from perfect, and we had many drops.
Next, we worked up to eight clubs, passed them in singles, stopped and posed, then finished with an eight-club run in doubles to complete the set.
The judges thanked us, made notes, and then called for the next performer to prepare.
We left the room feeling dejected, and I was convinced there was no way we’d get in. There were more seasoned and technically skilled acts than us, and we’d had more than ten drops.
Oh well, I thought, better luck next year.
A few hours later, we were hanging out in the hallway beside the open gym where most of the festival goers were practicing. One of the preliminary judges, Jack Kalvan, half of the performance duo Clockwork, walked up and said hello. He asked how we felt about our prelim performance, and we were transparent in our answer: we didn’t think we had a chance of making the finals, but were happy we’d done it and would come back next year to try again. Jack, a seasoned performer who’d competed in the championships himself, was very kind and offered some encouraging words, then left us to our own devices.
A few hours later, the list of finalists was posted on the back of a door. Jonathan went over to look, but I hung back since I already knew in my heart that we’d been cut.
I watched as he dragged his finger across the paper, then he stopped at one line and exclaimed, “We made it!”
I couldn’t believe it, just a few years back, we’d sat in the back of Jonathan’s little blue truck and set the impossible goal: Compete in the world championships.
And now here we are.
I want to be excited, but there’s no time, I have to practice!
* * *
The next day, I woke up early, went to the practice area, and taped my hands in preparation for training. Then I warmed up and had a great session. It was so good, in fact, that I became superstitious that if I let myself cool down, I wouldn’t be able to fire it up again for the competitions later that night, so I kept training to stay warm. After a while, Jonathan said, “I’m gonna take a break so my hands aren’t shot for tonight.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, continuing to juggle solo.
* * *
We were backstage, hearing the crowd whenever another competitor took their turn. Then, the MC said, “Next up in the teams division, from San Diego, please welcome, Team Rootberry!”
Our music started.
The roar of the crowd hit like a physical weight, but it wasn’t intimidating; it was encouraging. They wanted us to rock.
We moved through the routine with a fluidity we hadn’t found in the prelims, and every time a club hit my palm, it felt like a victory. The minutes passed as fast as seconds, and suddenly we were doing our last move, a nice run of eight clubs. We pulled it in clean, took our bows, and walked offstage.
As soon as we were off stage, Jonathan turned to me and said excitedly, “Seven drops!”
“Really? That’s all?! Awesome!” I exclaimed.
In the world of high-stakes competitive juggling, seven was a massive win. We hadn’t just survived; we had represented the gritty Southern California Rock & Roll style we loved. And most importantly, we hadn’t embarrassed ourselves.
We were happy. Happy to have gotten in. Happy to have competed. And no matter what happens next, the goal was achieved.
The final acts finished up, and the judges deliberated. Then the judges came back and gave the MC a list of names to read aloud.
I wonder if we did well enough to get a bronze. How cool would it be to have a bronze, I thought.
The MC called out the bronze medal winners, but it wasn’t us, so I figured that was it. We probably hadn’t done well enough to win a silver.
“In second place, the winners of the silver medal, Team Rootberry!”
No way!
We exploded from backstage, laughing and unable to hold back the rush of joy. For a moment, it felt like the whole room had tilted toward us, the cheers, the applause, the thunder of it all. And for the very first time, everything we’d given up to get here felt worth it.
We accepted our medals before a cheering crowd of friends and peers.
Our impossible dream had come true.
Then it was over, and we were backstage changing into street clothes.
As I slipped on my regular shoes, I wondered: if we keep practicing, what are the chances? Could we come back and win a gold?
Hmm…
Chapter 48: 9-11-2001
After the championships, we came home glowing. Not loud or boastful, but quietly triumphant. With a feeling that anything was possible. We had silver medals from the world championships hanging on our walls, proof that the goal we’d set wasn’t impossible after all.
Over the next five weeks, we did what we always did. We went back to work at Legoland. We practiced. We tightened things up. And we made a plan: Train harder than we ever have, return the following year, and make one more attempt at the gold.
Just one more year. One more cycle of discipline and sacrifice, we can do this! And we went to bed on the night of September 10th, 2001, without a care in the world.
* * *
Early Morning: September 11, 2001
Jonathan’s phone rang, which I could hear through the wall of the apartment. I wasn’t sure what time it was, but it was still twilight outside. I hear Jonathan talking; he sounds groggy at first, then alert, “What?”
“No, we don’t have cable TV; all we watch are juggling videos.”
“Ok, thank you, we’ll find a way.”
From the other room, he yelled, “Bill, we need to turn on the news.”
I threw on dirty clothes as he entered the living room in his pajamas. I didn’t know what was happening, but we walked out our apartment door and knocked on a neighbor’s door. We knew the woman who lived there; she worked as a promoter for Dos Equis beer. She didn’t answer, so we knocked on another neighbor’s door, a guy Jonathan had only spoken to in passing. A groggy-eyed, round-faced man with tousled brown hair opened the door. “Wud up?” His tone indicated that this better be good.
Jonathan answered, “A plane crashed into the World Trade Center; we need to turn on the news.”
The guy blinked as he tried to register the information, then, turning back into his place, he started looking for his TV remote. Without a formal invitation, we walked into his living room, two virtual strangers plopping down on his sofa. He hit the power button, and the screen came to life.
We sat at attention, watching as more footage became available. Then, the second plane hit, and the tension grew. There were a million questions and no answers; all we knew for sure was that people were dying right now as we watched.
“Our country is under attack.”
“No one has claimed responsibility.”
“Firefighters are working feverishly.”
“Tower one has collapsed.”
“Airports nationwide are being shut down.”
“A plane just hit the Pentagon!”
“Tower two has collapsed.”
“Another plane has been shot down; I repeat, a fourth plane has been shot down.”
“All commercial aircraft worldwide have been grounded.”
“This unprecedented attack can mean only one thing: WAR.”
I’d like to say I grasped what was happening, but I didn’t. I’d been to New York and seen the towers, but now, seeing it live, none of it seemed real. We sat numbly, watching, waiting.
* * *
For obvious reasons, Legoland closed for the day, and we didn’t return to work until the following day.
In the green room, we put on our costumes and walked to the front of the park like we always did.
The park could accommodate over 10,000 visitors a day, but on this day, there was no rush of people and no families scrambling about. Instead, there were just dozens of employees in the bright red, blue, yellow, and green “Lego Citizen” uniforms. Retail store workers stood at silent registers; ticket takers leaned against their turnstiles, and groundskeepers stood ready to pick up trash that wasn’t there.
Realizing what was happening, Jonathan and I began entertaining the employees, doing what we could to lighten spirits. All our shows that day were performed for empty seats; no one was there. Near the end of the day, I saw one of our favorite managers and stopped to talk with him. He told me that the park had sixteen visitors.
“Sixteen on site right now?” I asked.
“No, sixteen entrants for the whole day.” He continued on his way, leaving me to think.
This became the routine, day after day, with only ten or twenty people in a whole theme park. I thought, This can’t go on forever; the park must be losing an insane amount of money.
Chapter 49: Corupzion!
After our silver-medal showing at the IJA, the Portland Juggling Festival asked whether we’d be interested in MC’ing their public show September 27-29, 2001. We’d never MC’ed before, but we saw it as an opportunity to flex our performance muscles and try out some new material, so we accepted. They sent over the details, and we booked our flights for the trip.
* * *
When we arrived at the airport, it was a ghost town. Air travel had been reinstated a few days after the 9/11 attacks, but no one had any appetite for travel.
We walked around the airport, and other than the skeleton crew of employees, there was hardly anyone there. It felt post-apocalyptic, as if a world-ending virus had struck, and we were the only ones with immunity.
When it was time to board, the attendant didn’t use the loudspeaker; she just said, “Are the three of you ready?”
Jonathan, I, and one other guy stood up, and that was it — an entire flight for three passengers. There were more crew members on board than passengers.
When we arrived in Portland, the festival organizers picked us up and settled us in with a host family, Mike and Alison. They opened their home to us and treated us like their own from the moment we met; like so many in the juggling community, they are wonderful people.
Early the following day, I was awakened from my slumber on the living room sofa by the jingling of a set of keys. I opened my eyes to see Mike, who, even though it was still dark, was dressed for work and ready to leave.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to wake you,” he said, “but here are the keys to the Nissan; it’s parked out front; feel free to take it and go see the city. Rehearsal for tonight’s show starts at 5:00 pm, so make sure you’re at the theater by then.”
I thanked him and said we’d be there; then he left.
* * *
A few hours later, Jonathan and I were awake enough to dive into the day. We walked out the front door, but we didn’t immediately see the Nissan Mike had told me about. We walked across the yard and stopped at the sidewalk to survey the scene. Straight ahead, across the little two-lane road they lived on, was an older blue Nissan. And to our left, about a house and a half down, was a second newer-looking Nissan.
Jonathan and I looked from one car to the other, then I a
sked, “Which one do you think it is?”
Jonathan considered this for a moment, then said, “This one is closer.” He pointed to the one across the street, “Let’s try it.”
We crossed the street, and I tried the key in the lock. The door opened, so I got in and reached across to open Jonathan’s door; he climbed in while I started the car.
“Let’s go see Portland!” I said, pulling away from the curb.
The first stop was breakfast; we’d heard there was a good diner worth trying. Then we went to a bookstore that was supposed to be one of the biggest in the world, or the biggest independently owned, or the one with the most books, or, by some measure I can’t remember, big and notable. We did find it, but ultimately didn’t go inside; I’ve always got a backlog of ten-plus books I want to read, and I didn’t need to spend more money. Next, we visited Ben Schoenberg’s Juggling Shop, Serious Juggling. It was fantastic to see all the unique props they had on offer and to talk shop with him. Not only is he a significant contributor to the juggling community, he’s also a great guy.
After that, we grabbed a quick lunch and then went back to our accommodation to get cleaned up. Mike and Alison had given us access to their computer, and I needed to check the tracking on a UPS package I’d ordered, so I logged on. As I navigated the screens, there was a loud knock at the front door. Jokingly, I told Jonathan, “Sounds like it’s for you!”
Jonathan laughed, “It did sound like my kind of knock!”
We both laughed, and he went to see who it was.
I kept working, but after a while, it occurred to me that Jonathan hadn’t returned. I closed the UPS window on the computer browser and went to find him. When I got to the living room, the front door was swung wide, and through the screen door I could see Jonathan standing in the middle of the yard, his hands reaching toward the sky. Coming closer, I saw one cop, then two, then, oh geeze, the street is full of cop cars; what did he do?!
I walked to the screen door and hollered, “What in the world is going on here?”
Several cops now swung their guns in my direction and shouted, “Come out, and keep your hands where I can see ‘em!”
“Yes, sir,” I answered automatically.
Stepping outside, the lead officer asked me, “Were you driving that Nissan?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“How did you get into it? Did you hotwire it?”
Confused, I said, “No, I have the key.”
“Where’s the key?”
“In my pocket,” I started to reach for it to show him, but he shouted, “Slowly!” I pulled the keys from my pocket and dangled them suggestively.
“Where did you get those keys?”
“From Mike.”
“Mike, who? What’s his last name?”
“Mike… And… Alison?” I said hesitatingly, not knowing their last names.
“How do you know this guy?” the officer asked, indicating Jonathan.
“He’s my juggling teammate,” I said.
As the officer considered this, a shout came from across the street, “That zis zem, we saw zem!” Looking over, I saw an older man with a Russian accent and thinning hair. An equally aged woman in an old-world brown overcoat stood just behind him, both scowling at us.
At this point, the lead officer lowered his gun, “I’m inclined to believe you.” Then he nodded towards the couple, “But we’ve still got some things to work out.” Shouting to one of the other officers, he said, “Go talk to them, tell them we’re figuring it out.” Then he turned back to me and asked, “Walk me through it; tell me everything you can think of that happened today relating to that car,” he indicated the Nissan we’d been driving.
I told him how Mike had woken me up that morning and said, “Here are the keys to the Nissan; it’s parked out front. Go ahead and use it.” I told him we’d been unsure which Nissan to try, but we ended up trying the closest one, and it worked. So, we drove around until it was time to come back and get ready.
As I told him how we’d secured the car that morning, the officer cupped his chin with one hand, and a small smile appeared on his face; then he said, “Alright, show me.” We walked over; I unlocked the door, put the key in the ignition, and started the car. He smiled openly, then said, “Alright, shut it down. And just for my peace of mind, let’s go try the other Nissan.”
I did as he asked, and we walked over to the other Nissan. When we got there, I put the key in the lock, opened the door, then sat down, and it started right up. The officer laughed and said, “They’re not gonna believe this back at headquarters.”
I turned off the engine and said, “What are the chances that the key would fit both cars?”
“I guess the factory only has so many combinations to choose from; there’s bound to be duplicates.” Then he added, “Hey, sorry about all this; we got a call this morning from the neighbors; they watched you steal their car, called it in, and gave us your description, so we’ve been looking for you guys all day. Then, an hour ago, we got another call, and they said that the same guys who’d stolen their car were back and had just broken into their neighbor’s house, so you can understand why we came in hot.”
“No worries, accident or not, they were violated today.”
“Yeah, now I just have to try and explain it to them.”
“I wish you the best with that.” I said sincerely, “Are we good to go?”
“Yeah, you guys have a good day, and thanks for the excitement.”
“Anytime,” I said, and we both laughed heartily.
He continued toward the neighbor, while I split right to head back to Mike and Alison’s house.
Seeing me going free, the neighbor yelled at the officer, “Why yu not areest zem? That iz zem! I see zem!”
Glancing over, I saw the officer holding his hands up placatingly, trying to calm them enough to explain.
“Corupzion!” he yelled, “Zis iz corupzion!”
I felt bad for the neighbors and the officers, but was happy to have dodged the Grand Theft Auto bullet. It wasn’t lost on us that if we had been pulled over in downtown Portland without the second Nissan there to corroborate our story, things might not have gone so well.
* * *
We might not have been the most experienced MCs, but the lineup for the night was fantastic, and the crowd was generous, so we had a great show. We also got to try a bunch of new bits, just little ideas we’d been kicking around, such as juggling while skip-it’ing, using a Pogoball and a hula hoop, and other childhood toys, which were all well received. And though I didn’t have an exact count, I was confident it was the most time we’d ever done on stage. I’d even read off a few of the introductions, slowly getting more comfortable talking in front of a crowd.
It was a great weekend, but now we had to get back home for our shifts at Legoland.
Chapter 50: The Final Bow
Next to the station where we punched in for work was an A-frame sandwich board with a large handmade sign:
“All-team meeting, every employee must attend.”
We started reading the fine print to see where this meeting was supposed to be, but one of our managers spied us and said that we needed to go to HR first.
This had all the vibes of being a bad thing, but we strolled into the HR office in our typically good spirits anyway. One of the HR ladies led us into a room where a greying man in his fifties was sitting.
Seeing us, he motioned to the two chairs across from him, inviting us to sit.
Jonathan and I looked at each other with knowing eyes, then sat.
The man began, “Good morning, Mr. Root and Mr. Berry. My name is Charles, and I’m a grief counselor. They brought me in today to help you all deal with this transition. Unfortunately, the company will be terminating your contract. But management wanted me to make it clear to you that you’ve done nothing wrong. Because the park’s attendance has been so low since 9/11, all actors, atmosphere performers, costumers, and shows have been suspended. This adjustment will be department-wide.”
He waited to see if we’d say anything, and when we didn’t, he asked, “Is there anything I can do to help you through this process?”
“So they brought you in for us?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes, to help you in this challenging time. I understand that you have both been here since the park opened, so it must be very difficult to hear this news.”
Jonathan turned to me and smiled, “Dude, you know what this means? We can take that trip and go snowboarding in Mammoth!”
Immediately catching his drift, I said, “And we don’t have to ask for time off from work!”
“Yes!” we said in unison, high-fiving in excitement.
Turning back to the guy, we asked, “So, that’s it? We’re done done?”
“Well, I’m scheduled to be here with you for two hours, and you’ll be paid for the time. I have some documents for you to sign, and we also need to talk about your unemployment benefits.”
“We’ll get unemployment?!”
“Yes, for up to one year. There will also be a month-long training program available for those who are interested. You’ll be paid your normal hourly rate for each day you attend, and it will help prepare you to find another job.”
“So we’ll be paid to go to the program and paid unemployment?”
“That’s correct.”
Jonathan and I looked at each other and said, “Well, this keeps getting better and better.”
Then, looking at the guy, Jonathan asked, “Has anyone ever taken it this well?”
“Actually, no… Why are you taking it so well?”
Jonathan leaned back in his chair, “This contract was great; we learned a ton, we had great managers, but it’s long past time for us to move on to the next thing. It’s just been too good to leave, the golden handcuffs thing.”
“But here you are,” I added, “giving us the push we need.”
“What will you do? Where will you go?” he asked.
Jonathan looked at me, but I shrugged, so he answered. “Dunno yet, something bigger, better, fancier, or flashier. But first, we’re taking a vacation and going snowboarding!”
We cheered in unison, and the man smiled too, caught up in our excitement.
Jonathan continued, “Anyway, enough about us, what about you? How’d you end up in a grief counseling, post-firing, employee support gig?”
“Just sorta fell into it. Most days are tough; most people don’t take it so well, but with you guys, it seems the hardest part of my day will be the early wake-up.”
Jonathan nodded, “How early did you wake up?”
“Well, I’m north of LA, so I got up around 4:00 am.”
Jonathan squirmed as if physically pained by this, “Dude, that’s awful. Do you want to take a nap? If you want, we’ll be quiet so you can nap.”
“No, it’s ok, I’m here for you, then I have another appointment after yours.”
I leaned in, “Well, we’re all right. Do we have to stay for the full two hours?”
“You don’t have to stay, but if you leave early, you won’t be paid for the time.”
Bridging my fingers in front of myself, I summarized, “So you’re saying if we left now, you’d still be paid, and technically, you could take a nap?”
Laughing at this, he said, “Yes, I would, and I suppose I could.”
“Perfect,” I said, “It’s a deal then, we’re out of here, you take a nap, we’re going to In-N-Out, then we’re going to the beach to catch some waves.”
“Ok, if that’s what you’d like, I just need you each to sign here and here,” he pointed to the paperwork packs he’d placed on the table, “that will finalize your employment. Your unemployment should start in about fourteen days.”
Jonathan and I signed, wished him well, and left the building.
Walking towards my car, I felt light, like I could fly. I crossed the small street that separated the park from the employee parking lot. As I did, I thought about how this would probably be the last time we ever made this walk, the last day we’d ever work at Legoland.
I probably would have stopped and simmered on that thought for a minute, but Jonathan yelled, “Race ya to In-N-Out?!” Then he took off running without waiting to see if I’d agree.
“You’re on,” I shouted, sprinting towards my car to try and beat him.
Destiny had handed back the reins, and I felt fully alive.
Like before, we’d be living or dying by whatever choices we made, and maybe, that’s where we’re supposed to be.
* * *
We worked hard during our time at Lego; there’s no denying that. But it was the year of non-stop training before the Legoland contract, when nothing was guaranteed, that had brought it all to life.
The work comes first.
You can have an amazing ride, but you have to create it. It will take time, effort, and patience, but if you truly want it, it’s within reach.
And when you get there, don’t rest on your laurels; keep your foot on the gas, so you’ll be ready for the next thing when it comes.
* * *
For the Jugglers: Lego Juggling & Contract Stats
We did six shows a day, five days a week.
That’s thirty shows a week, 120 a month. Multiply that by twelve months, and you’re looking at roughly 1,440 shows per year. We worked there for almost three years, so it was somewhere around 4,300 shows.
That’s 1,230 hours of actual performance time. Or, if you prefer a work-week lens, that’s over thirty 40-hour weeks of stage time. Live reps, under pressure, in front of paying crowds.
Jonathan and I both became competent unicyclists and used them to get around the park. We also added a six-foot unicycle and unsupported ladder routine to the show, passing clubs between us as part of our finale.
In addition to stage time, I maintained a rigorous practice regimen of 2 extra hours per day, five days a week. This adds another 780 hours across the contract. So now we’re looking at a combined 2,010 hours between shows and personal training.
Totals:
•2,010 hours of performance and personal training
•4,300 shows performed
Berry Bests (During Lego):
•7 club flash, Renegade 75mm clubs (and later, eight additional successful flashes with Euros and Henrys)
•7 clubs, 12 catches
•7 rings, 63 catches (personal best)
•8 rings, 24 catches (personal best)
•5 clubs, 4+ minute run (with five random mixed clubs)
•5 clubs, 3-up pirouette
•5 club backcrosses, flash and gather in triples
•5 ball run, 24 minutes (personal best)
•5 ball, 5-up two-stage pirouette
•7 ball run, 463 catches — set at sunset on the beach in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho (all-time best)
•8 ball run, 32 catches
•9 ball flash, usually hitting 1 out of 3 attempts, using 3 inch Ruby’s Lamé beanbags (Sean McKinney style, millet-filled, loosely packed)
•Daily practice of sword swallowing, hundreds of failures, dozens of vomitings, and one successful swallow, which I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to repeat. Most days, I’d only get it about 1/3rd of the way down.
Chapter 51: The Gimmick
With the Legoland contract behind us, Jonathan and I took stock and strategized how to best move forward with our careers.
We had a solid twenty-minute show that could be pushed to thirty minutes if needed, but it was still nowhere near enough time to do colleges or ships, both of which required an hour of material.
We decided to keep our YMCA membership so we’d have access to a basketball court to juggle in, and we agreed to maintain a robust training and workout schedule of at least two hours per day of juggling, followed by two hours per day of weight lifting, five to six days per week.
After that was completed, we’d throw in a nice mountain bike ride or go surfing.
We also continued with juggling club twice a week, the San Dieguito Manipulation Society on Tuesdays, and the UCSD Juggling Club on Wednesdays. Both were more than just a place to train. It was a bi-weekly opportunity to get inspired, share ideas, and catch up with industry friends.
I also decided to learn one new three-ball juggling trick/sequence/pattern every day. Before bed, I’d put on a video, flip through Charley Dancey’s 3-ball book, or watch random jugglers on VHS until something cool caught my eye. Then I’d sit in the living room and practice until I’d figured out the pattern for myself.
Some nights, the trick I chose was so difficult I couldn’t wrap my head around it in one session. So I would have to find a different trick to work on and complete. No matter what, I had to put something new in my repertoire every day, or I couldn’t go to bed. This practice would continue uninterrupted for the following year, laying a deep foundation in three-ball exploration.
Every day, I asked myself, How can we level up?
And every day I’d hear Jeff King’s voice in my head: You gotta have a gimmick.
Right, but what does that mean? I still hadn’t figured it out.
* * *
Meanwhile, in addition to our training, Jonathan decided to return to school to finish the master’s degree he’d started a few years before.
I wanted to take on something equally intensive, but what?
I was slowly making progress on sword swallowing and maintaining a daily practice. But I knew we needed more. So day after day, we threw ideas back and forth, trying to find something else that would stick.
“What about a chainsaw then?” I said.
“How do we make it uniquely ours?” Jonathan countered.
“Okay, what about a body burn? Nobody is doing that!”
“Either would be a great addition to the show,” Jonathan answered.
An idea popped into my head: “What if I juggle a chainsaw that’s on fire, while I’m also on fire, and then swallow a sword at the same time?”
We both burst out laughing.
Ridiculous!
Impossible!
I can’t even do one of those things!
We ended the discussion no closer to an answer.
But deep down, I wonder… what if?
* * *
I drive to Home Depot and buy an Echo chainsaw with a fourteen-inch bar. Then, back at the apartment, I felt a mix of giddiness and terror. The thing was loud and heavy in my hands, and I knew right away it would need a custom handle if I were ever going to juggle it.
After a few phone calls, I found a welding shop that resembled the lovechild of a junkyard and a small-engine repair shop. The lot was stacked with rusted mower decks, old car parts, and rusty bicycle frames. Oil had crusted the concrete into a map of old jobs.
I didn’t see anyone, so I went inside the shack that smelled like old grease and diesel. The workbenches were crowded with power tools, old paperwork, and a ramshackle collection of bolts from countless other lives. Behind a wall of salvaged license plates sat the welder. He was the exact man I expected to be running this operation: long gray beard, denim overalls that had never known a soft wash, and hands the color and texture of well-used leather. He didn’t talk much, never made eye contact, and grunted occasionally for punctuation as I explained what I wanted.
He flipped the saw over, then nodded twice and said, “Come back tomorrow.”
I thanked him, but he didn’t respond.
The next day, I returned, and he handed me the saw. It was rugged, beautiful, and tough. But now that I was seeing it, I realized it was too big to fit in a travel case.
I explained the issue and apologized; I hadn’t considered that the handle would need to be detachable.
He just shrugged, wiped his hands on a rag, and said, “I can make it detach.”
He redesigned it on the spot, using a chopsaw with a metal blade; he chopped into his hard work. Then, into the drill press it went. He reworked the bracket so the handle would come off by removing a wing nut and bolt. Then handed it to me for examination.
“It’s perfect,” I gushed, “what do I owe ya?”
“Eighty,” he answered.
I handed him $110.
* * *
Back at home, I take some cotton fire wicking, the same kind used to wrap a juggling torch, and experiment with attaching it to the chainsaw’s blade. Finding a spot on the bar where I can drill holes without interfering with its function, I bolt the wicking in place. The first time I light it, the whole blade erupts, which looks insane. A living strip of flame roared along the bar, and when I pulled the throttle, the flame would vortex, chasing the chain around. So cool!
Now I had to learn to throw it. At eighteen pounds, she was no dainty prop. I respected that weight. At least for now, I was too scared to flip it end over end like a club, so I threw it flat, hand-to-hand, keeping it level.
The first week, it was scary. The second week, I started to trust the saw, and after that, I began to trust myself.
* * *
Next, I decide I need pants that can be set on fire.
I dive into every resource I can find on firefighter gear. What it’s made of, how it’s made, anything.
I quickly learn that firefighter pants are bulky, expensive, and obviously designed for firefighting.
If I show up in a pair, people will know immediately that I’m wearing protective gear, which kills the effect of me spontaneously catching on fire.
So I continue researching until I find a company in Hollywood called Pyrotect. They specialize in fireproof suits for race car drivers and occasionally build burn suits for movie productions.
I call and book an appointment.
* * *
After driving up to their Hollywood office, I sit across from one of their designers and explain what I want:
“I need to be able to light myself on fire, juggle a chainsaw that’s also on fire, then put myself out, all in the middle of a performance.”
He folded his hands and gave me a look like he was weighing whether I was serious. “You know the usual options, right? Full fire suit, fireproof gel, a crew with extinguishers. Hollywood does this a lot, but it’s always in a controlled environment.”
“I won’t have a crew,” I said, “and I won’t be slathered in gel. I need something that can be burnt over and over without giving it away to the audience.”
He tapped a pen against his pad and leaned back. “Okay. So the trick is balancing three things. You want something that won’t let heat through to your skin, but also behaves visually like cloth, and can be burned over and over. We can engineer something, but it’s not typical.”
He thinks for a moment, then picks up his desk phone.
“Hey, can you bring me a piece of that new fabric we just got in?”
A minute later, a woman walks in with an unremarkable-looking beige fabric.
“This stuff looks boring, and it doesn’t offer any heat protection,” he explains, “but it can endure direct exposure forever without deteriorating.”
He pulls out a lighter and holds the flame against the fabric.
Nothing.
Even a loose thread dangling from the cut edge refuses to ignite. And the only trace left when he’s done is a little soot stain.
Then he pulls out a thin, black, foam rubber-like material. “This, on the other hand, deflects heat really well. But if it touches an open flame, it combusts immediately and releases thick black smoke, so you have to have a barrier.”
He presses the two fabrics together.
“I’m thinking, if we combine these, you’ll get the heat resistance from the foam and the fire resistance from the fabric. We’ve never done this before, but if it works, we can make a suit for you.”
He holds the two layers against my hand and prepares to test them with a propane torch he’s pulled from a desk drawer.
I hesitate. “You sure about this?”
“When it gets uncomfortable, just pull your hand back.”
I consider that for a moment, then nod my assent.
The blue flame from the torch bends when it reaches the fabric.
I expect it to burn me immediately, but I feel nothing.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “It’s amazing.”
Eventually, I start to feel warmth. Then heat. Right up until, “Okay, yeah, wow.” I pull my hand back.
“That was forty-five seconds,” he says. “How long do you need to burn?”
“Probably no more than twenty to thirty seconds.”
“Then this should work.”
* * *
I thought we’d cracked it right there, but it still took months of refining, re-fittings, and one close call where I couldn’t get my burning legs extinguished as quickly as I would have liked. But in the end, we’d developed a fire act, unlike anything that’d come before.
I can burn for precisely sixteen seconds before it gets uncomfortable. If I push it to twenty seconds, I enter the danger zone. Twenty-three to twenty-five seconds, it starts to hurt.
Thirty seconds and above?
Well, you’re in a bad way.
But I finally had all the pieces to do something genuinely new, my own invention, a body burn combined with a flaming chainsaw juggle, a gimmick of our very own.
Now, when someone asks, “Can you juggle a chainsaw?” I’ll have the perfect answer.
“Yes, I do, and I light the saw, and myself, on fire while I do it.”
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Chapter 52: We Love What We Do And So Will You
Over a bowl of morning cereal, I considered our situation.
We’d succeeded for the past three years as jugglers, even won a silver medal in the world championships, and we now had a strong gimmick: the chainsaw body burn act. We were doing a lot right. But we didn’t have steady work as jugglers. No long-term contract, and no bookings on the calendar. Sure, the unemployment checks are coming in, but that’s no excuse to sit back and relax. I want to earn my living as an artist.
My eyes drifted to my old Coleman ice chest, which I hadn’t opened since we’d started at Lego.
I could still picture every item inside: the balloon belt, pumps, and everything I’d need to start twisting balloons again. Plus all the gear I’d used for birthday party gigs when I was working as a clown or costumed character: parachute games, cheesy self-working magic tricks, and cheap plastic toys for treasure hunts.
I knew I could call Ruby’s on the pier and be back out there earning money within days. I’d left on good terms, and balloon work had bailed us out before; Edinburgh was proof of that.
It was tempting.
But then, I recognized it for what it was, a step backward, and I didn’t want that. Sure, it’d be easy, but I didn’t sign up for easy. I signed up for a life that is bigger.
Just get rid of it, came the thought, remove it from possibility, just like when I quit all my jobs to pursue performing full-time.
The fear of losing that safety net was instant; balloons were my security blanket, but I also knew it would push me.
Without giving myself time to think myself out of it, I picked up the chest and ran it out to the parking lot. Dropping it in the trunk of my car, I decided I’d donate it to some up-and-coming entertainer.
As if the universe were rewarding my bravery, I remembered something the moment the trunk slammed shut. Months earlier, someone had sent me a list of booking agents. Having a steady gig at Lego, I’d just filed it away, all but forgotten, until now.
Maybe there is work for us, I thought.
Walking back inside, I turned on my computer and opened the file. A long list of names appeared.
With one looking much like any other, I dialed the first that caught my eye.
“Thank you for calling Star Studded Productions. How may I help you?” a bright voice answered.
“Well, hello there, my name is Bill Berry, and I work as half of a juggling and comedy duo called Rootberry. We’re interested in representation.”
“Ok, great, we’re always looking for new talent. Do you have a pen?”
“I do.”
“Take down this email, d___01@starstuddedproductions.com, then send us a copy of your biography, show description, headshot, tech rider, and a demonstration video. Once we’ve had a chance to review your materials, if we’re interested, we’ll contact you.”
“Got it, bio, show description, headshot, rider, demo, not a problem, I’ll get that all over to you asap,” I said.
“Sounds good; thank you for calling Star Studded Productions.”
“Thank you. Take care.”
“You too.” Click.
I hung up feeling like I had represented us well. But there was one problem. We didn’t have a single one of the items she’d asked for.
The only time we’d ever been asked for promo materials before was our Legoland audition. For that, we’d scrambled to put together a makeshift packet, and we never thought about it again.
Suddenly, the weight of the oversight crashed down on me. What a waste. Three years at Lego, and it never occurred to me to prepare for life after Lego. I could have built our website, gotten professional promo shots, assembled a résumé, shot a demo video, all the things that would have made this transition easier.
But I didn’t.
I’d had all the time and resources imaginable, but I’d grown complacent, relying on that steady paycheck that felt like it would never end. Ughh.
Alright, self-immolation complete. Lessons are learned by making mistakes, and I won’t make this mistake again.
A promo pack is priority one. And not just one or two, we’d need dozens, maybe even hundreds. We have to get our name out there.
So I started with the bio. Featuring our three-year Lego credit right at the top, followed by our IJA silver medal, Edinburgh Fringe, Portland Juggling festival, and… Well, it wasn’t a ton, so I tried to think of creative ways to make it sound more substantial.
That’s when our slogan popped into my head.
“We love what we do, and so will you.”
Yes, that’s it! From that moment on, our slogan went on everything.
Once our biography was finished, I turned my attention to the bigger challenges. The demo video, the website, and the photos. I started looking for photographers online, and there were a ton of options, but nothing grabbed me—until one site stopped me cold.
The first image was a breaking wave, perfectly captured. And everything about it caught the eye, pulled you in, made you wish you were there. I scrolled down and saw another, and another, perfect photo after perfect photo. Every page was filled with equally stunning work, including nature shots, sports cars, Coca-Cola, and the Winter Olympics. The lens had transformed every subject into a work of art.
I knew right away that there was no way we could afford this guy. Still, I figured it couldn’t hurt to send an email.
* * *
Dear Mr. Voorhees,
Your work is incredible; the way you catch the moment, freeze the action, and pull us into the composition is truly magic. I can already tell you’re way out of our league, and I highly doubt we can afford to work with you, but just in case: my business partner and I do a comedy variety and juggling show. We swallow swords, juggle chainsaws, and light ourselves on fire.
The last of these, the body burn, we’ve never been able to capture. If the flames show up, we’re too dark. If we’re lit, the flames vanish. It’s been frustrating. But I’m sure if we worked together, you could do it justice.
Thank you for your time; it’s the most valuable thing we can give.
Best,
Bill Berry
Rootberry
We love what we do, and so will you.
* * *
I didn’t expect a reply.
So, I sent a few more inquiries to other photographers, but those messages were more general, just asking about rates and availability.
Weeks passed, and I didn’t hear back from any of the photographers.
Then, one day, I found this in my inbox.
* * *
Bill,
Sorry for the delay, I was shooting in Africa. Would love to work with you, my only availability is Christmas Eve, can you make that?
Michael
PS: Can you teach me to juggle four?
I jumped out of my chair and threw my arms in the air. “YES!”
Jonathan looked up from his desk. “Good news?”
“Remember the photographer I showed you? The one I said was way out of our league?”
“Yeah?”
“We got him! He wants to work with us. And he’s a juggler, he wants us to teach him four.”
Jonathan laughed, “Teach him? We’ll teach him, bring him props, whatever he wants!”
It was a huge break, and we knew it. It was the kind you can’t plan for, but that changes everything. Christmas Eve was still a few months away, but it gave us another reason to keep our foot on the gas.
Chapter 53: Learning Curves
I tear open the brown paper package and pull out the contents.
“HTML For Dummies,” the title reads.
Cracking the cover, I start reading. “HTML is short for Hyper Text Markup Language. HTML is the building block designers worldwide use for creating dynamic websites…”
Ugh, I should have started this months ago. But, I guess now’s as good a time as any to teach myself website design.
Every day, I read as much on the subject as I could stomach, and every night, I sat hunched over my keyboard, text editor open, with stacks of notes beside me. I typed out my first HTML tags, expecting elegant paragraphs, only to reload the page and find clumsy blocks of text jammed together. I tried bold tags, break tags, and links, but half the time they didn’t show up the way the book had promised. I’d stare at the screen, then back at the black-and-white diagrams, and try to figure out what I’d done wrong.
The process was unbelievably tedious: I’d write a few lines of code, save, flip to the browser, refresh… nothing. Or worse, something, but not what I wanted. Links that went nowhere, text that smashed up against the edge of the page when I swore I’d centered it, and every fix meant digging through a mess of angle brackets and slashes, hoping I’d spot the missing character that broke the whole page.
Still, the tiny successes kept me going. Slowly but surely, I built our first website.
It wasn’t good, but I was proud of it anyway.
I’d written every tag by hand, and it was live on the internet.
The celebration didn’t last long, though, because I immediately dove into building a second website, determined to improve on the first. But one thing kept slowing me down: every time I needed to revise anything, I had to upload the files one at a time through the web hosting site. A basic site could contain hundreds of small components, so a single update could take an hour of mindless clicking.
I knew there had to be a better way. A little research led me to FTP uploaders, programs that could push an entire site online in just a few clicks. It sounded like salvation. So I downloaded one, certain the problem would be solved, only to spend three aggravating hours trying to make it work. Part of me wanted to give up and return to the old routine, because at least I knew how that all worked. But I kept at it, and eventually, the settings fell into place. Now, with a single click, the entire upload was underway. Instead of the hour it normally took me, it was done in just a few minutes.
The math spoke for itself. Yes, the learning curve cost me three hours, but sticking with the old method would’ve burned through those same hours after only a few updates. Pushing through the learning curve turned a once one-hour chore into a two-minute task, and I never forgot that lesson.
I made myself a rule: don’t cling to the hard way just because it’s familiar. Always take the longer road today if it makes tomorrow shorter. Even when it feels like a step backward, it isn’t. It’s progress.
I stuck with it, and my second website turned out better than the first. It still didn’t look professional, but at least now I had the tools and mindset to keep improving.
In preparation for the next push, I headed to half.com, a popular used book site. I added a stack of web design books to my cart, along with several advanced Photoshop Effects titles to help sharpen my graphic design skills. Then, figuring I should have a better understanding of design in general, I ordered a bunch of books on layout and aesthetics.
One of the gems from this ordering spree was a book that traced how famous logos had evolved over the decades. It was beautifully illustrated and featured interviews with designers from various design teams discussing their approach and how each logo came to be. A few chapters even included the original concept drawings, showing how the initial ideas were slowly sculpted into the familiar shapes we recognize today. It was fascinating, and I read the book cover to cover, hoping to develop an expert’s eye and apply it in my own work.
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Picture: My first hand-coded website.
Chapter 54: Gods of Sabotage
While I’d been locked in website purgatory, Jonathan crossed a finish line: he turned in the last of his assignments to earn his master’s degree. Huge milestone. One more proof of his ability to see things through to completion. But more importantly, it freed him up to focus on what we both knew mattered most: our demo video.
Neither of us had any real computer skills, but we knew enough to realize the video wouldn’t be built on the computer he currently had. So we drove to Fry’s Electronics.
Entering the digital cathedral of blinking lights, where every piece of tech looks like creator salvation but carries a stomach-clenching price tag, we wandered the rows until one machine caught our eye. A Sony Vaio, billed as a “digital editing studio.” The floor tag promised it would do everything we needed, and it felt like Sony had built it just for us. The $2000 price was brutal, feeling more like a debit card-induced aneurysm than a purchase. Still, if it got us closer to our goal, then it was necessary.
Jonathan put it in the cart.
Next stop: cameras. We picked out a Sony DCR-PC5 Mini DV camcorder. Sleek, shiny, futuristic. $1600. I was paying for this one, plus extra tapes, but luckily, a nice sales guy tossed in a cheap tripod and camera bag to sweeten the deal. We checked out and walked to the car.
Back home, Jonathan set up the Vaio, then he pulled the camera out of its box, and went outside to take some test shots. When he returned, he fired up his Vegas Video program and dove headfirst into editing the clips he’d just shot. At first, I hovered around the camera like a jealous parent. I’d dropped the money for it, and part of me wanted to keep it close, tucked beside my desk when it wasn’t in use. But the truth hit me quick: the camera wasn’t mine. It wasn’t his either. It belonged to the mission. If he needed it to do his work, then it was his tool. I let go of any sense of ownership over it and refocused on pulling my own weight for the team.
That’s when he tossed me a real challenge.
“Hey, this DVD has a clip of us performing, and I need it for the demo, but I can’t figure out how to extract the footage. Can you figure out how to get it?”
I didn’t have the faintest idea how to do it, but I said, “No problem, I’ll figure it out,” and slipped it into my computer’s disc drive.
The task seemed simple, but computers have a way of making even the simplest tasks difficult. My disc imaging software copied the DVD okay, but when I tried to open it, nothing happened. I downloaded a free player, which let me view the footage, but we couldn’t import the same files back into our video-editing software. I tried it all different ways, but warning after warning popped up: Wrong format. Wrong codec. Wrong something or other. I called Mark, our go-to computer guru.
He laughed. “Man, I tried to do that exact thing a few months back. Never cracked it. If you figure it out, call me.”
That landed like a punch. Mark always knew the answer. If he couldn’t do it, was it even possible? I wasn’t sure, but I couldn’t leave it there. I needed to solve it, partly for us, partly so I could teach Mark and pay him back for all the times he’d helped us before.
So I hunted. Forums, freeware sites, sketchy downloads with more viruses than answers. Every program got me some part of the way there, but never all the way. I’d get a video with no audio. Or audio with no video. Error messages, crashes, and even blue-screen-of-death restarts. Frustration mounted, but so did obsession. I stayed at the desk long after Jonathan had gone to bed, long after the apartment went quiet. My stomach was empty and my eyes dried out, but I couldn’t stop. This wasn’t about the task anymore; this was about victory. If we couldn’t figure out something as “simple” as this DVD rip, how were we ever going to make it as performers?
I lost track of time, intent on the task, and the next thing I knew, my cheek was pressed to the desk, keyboard digging into my forehead. The clock read 5:00 am. I’d worked through the night. Missed dinner. Missed sleep. Jonathan’s light was off, the world outside silent. I started to drag myself off to bed, but then stopped cold. If I lie down now, I’ll lose half the day. I can’t risk it. Instead, I grabbed two pillows, crawled under my desk, and curled up in the cubby where the chair usually sat. The carpet was scratchy, and the foam underneath was thin. Perfect, I thought, I don’t want comfort. Three hours later, having gotten the minimum sleep necessary, I woke up wired. No fog, just the need to get back in the chair.
Fresh eyes, fresh energy. I tried again, stringing together a Frankenstein process of five different programs. One to extract, one to convert, one to reformat, one to timeline-sync, and another to patch. Finally, the video and audio played as one. I tested it again. And again, just to be sure that I had it figured out. Then I wrote down the exact process, step by step, and sent it off to Mark, as if it were a secret family recipe.
By 11:00 am, Jonathan had the footage he’d requested sitting neatly on his desktop, ready to edit.
The grind became routine. I leaned into Photoshop, Peak DV (audio), and the website; Jonathan buried himself in filming and editing. Our division of labor was building momentum.
A month later, Jonathan unveiled our first demo video. We crowded around the screen, excited, until the playback glitched. The frames skipped, and digital artifacts flickered across the footage. We tried everything to fix it: updates, re-installs, new tapes, but nothing worked. Four grand invested into cameras and computers, and the product still looked amateur.
It was so frustrating. But glitched or not, we had to send out some promo, so we burned it onto data CDs anyway, reasoning that a flawed product was still better than no product at all.
Then one day, a friend who was computer-savvy stopped by. He diagnosed our problem in just ten minutes: a faulty FireWire card. From day one, our machine had been broken, and we hadn’t known. We contacted Sony, but they informed us that our warranty had already expired. We took it back to Fry’s, but they said the same thing — no luck.
The returns cashier said, “You could buy a replacement card; it would be around $500 installed.”
We thanked him, but we couldn’t afford it.
Standing in the Fry’s parking lot, baking in the sun, we talked it over.
“What if,” Jonathan said slowly, “we bought a new Vaio, took it home, took both machines apart, and swapped their FireWire cards. Then we return the new one with the old card?”
“Isn’t that a little unethical?” I asked.
He shrugged. “It’s been broken from the start. So wouldn’t they just be giving us what we already paid for?”
It was certainly in the grey area, and while it might not be outright theft, it wasn’t exactly clean either. But what other option did we have?
So, the same friend who’d diagnosed the problem came over to help us perform computer surgery. We opened both machines, and soon all the parts were spread across the floor like electronic guts. Only then did we realize the newer Vaio had a different architecture. To swap the cards, we’d need to cut off the connectors, then swap and re-solder them. This was a bigger task than we’d anticipated, and we couldn’t afford the risk of ruining both systems. We aborted. We put the machines back together and agreed to return the newer machine in the morning.
Our friend apologized that it hadn’t worked, then offered us a consolation prize: “I noticed that your computers aren’t networked. If you’d like, I can get them talking. It’ll speed up your workflow and make file sharing a breeze.”
That sounded useful, so we agreed, and he began setting it up. A few minutes later, he showed us how to drag a file from my desktop directly onto Jonathan’s. Then, wanting to show us something else, he downloaded and double-clicked a file from the internet. My screen blinked, then a page opened with a huge black-and-yellow biohazard symbol. My antivirus software lit up, a red warning screen splashed across my monitor, announcing that it had prevented an attack.
But Jonathan’s Vaio had no such protection, and with the computers now networked, the virus spread quickly. I glanced over just in time to see his screen freeze, flicker, and then collapse into black. The machine emitted a momentary burst of sharp static from its speakers, then died.
In seconds, Jonathan’s already crippled Sony Vaio was stone-cold dead.
It felt like sabotage from the gods, like every step up the mountain triggered avalanches that knocked us farther back.
The next day, we returned the new Vaio we’d tried to cannibalize, and Jonathan swapped his now-dead machine for the best thing he could afford: a midrange something-or-other, the sales guy assured us, that could handle basic video editing.
We’d invested all this time and money, and we had managed to build a better-than-nothing demo and a better-than-nothing website. But we were still far from having a professional promotional packet that was worth sending out.
We were out of money and out of options.
Right or wrong, we pinned the blame for these setbacks squarely on Sony, and, in protest, Jonathan and I banned all Sony products from our lives, refusing even to own a TV or any other electronic device from Sony.
Chapter 55: Typhoon Saloon
We’d grown a lot in our three years at Legoland, but we’d primarily been performing for kids.
While there’s nothing wrong with that, we knew we’d need to be entertaining to adults if we were ever going to do cruise ships and the corporate market.
“But how do we prepare for and break into those markets?” I mused aloud.
“No idea,” Jonathan answered, then added, “You think we could pull off a show at a nightclub?”
I shook my head. “I dunno, I’ve heard it’s notoriously tough, that jugglers go in and get eaten alive.”
He grinned, “Loud music, drunk crowds, and everybody itching to dance, how hard could it be?”
“Right. They’re not going to press pause to watch us do some cheesy schtick. So if we’re going to try it, we have to kick ass and knock their socks off.”
Jonathan interrupted, “But before we can do that, we gotta get the gig.”
“And how are we gonna do that?”
“I’ve got an idea.”
* * *
Jonathan and I drove to Pacific Beach (PB), a northern San Diego neighborhood known for its nightclubs. Then we walked Garnet Avenue, or “Club Row,” to scope out the scene. The first club we came upon had a big bouncer outside, but since it was early, he wasn’t very busy. We told him about our act, including sword swallowing and lighting ourselves on fire, then asked whether there was someone we could talk to about it. He looked unimpressed but threw a deadpan wave to an overly done-up blonde who was busy shouting at a waitress. She was exasperated by the interruption and walked over angrily to ask, “What?!”
The bouncer pointed at us, so she turned her blazing eyes on us, “WHAT?!”
Knowing we were off to a bad start, Jonathan asked if they ever hosted entertainment.
Behind her, whatever situation she’d been trying to deal with inside the club boiled over again, and several people started yelling at each other. “We don’t do bands,” she said flatly. “We have a DJ.”
I tried to say, “Wait, but we…” but it was useless; she’d already walked away.
Shot down but undefeated, we continued our stroll.
The next few places we tried were even worse; the bouncers stopped us cold, and we couldn’t get anyone in authority to talk to us.
Another club had its doors shut so tightly, I wondered if they were even going to open.
Jonathan joked, “They must have heard we were coming.”
We both laughed.
Reaching the end of the street where it dead-ended into Crystal Pier, we crossed over and started back the other way, ducking into the remaining clubs we saw along the strip. Most of them were half-dead, thin crowds, bored bartenders, no soul, and no vibe.
We were about to call it a wash when a wall of sound hit us.
The chorus of “You Give Love a Bad Name” rattled our chests so hard I wondered if Bon Jovi himself might be giving a concert. Ahead, a line of red velvet ropes cut across the sidewalk, with two dozen people queued up in their best party gear. This felt different. Colored lights swept the pavement, laughter spilled out the doors, and the bass thumped like it had a heartbeat of its own. I looked up and caught the sign glowing above us in bold blue and red neon: Typhoon Saloon.
Jonathan shouted over the music, “This place is hoppin’!”
“Should we get in line?” I asked.
Jonathan shook his head. “Naw.” And with that, he walked straight up to the bouncer at the front of the line.
The bouncer, a mountain of a man, didn’t even acknowledge us. But Jonathan leaned in boldly and asked, “Hey, who’s in charge of special events?”
This got his attention, and he looked at us coldly, clearly weighing whether or not we deserved his attention. I was sure he was gonna shut us down, but then a half-asian-half-white-looking guy dressed to the nines tumbled out of the club with three beautiful women chasing him.
The Asian guy held his hands up defensively, “No, I can’t; it’s too early!”
But the girls insisted, “Come on, do a shot with us!”
He continued his resistance, but they grabbed him and tried to force a small glass of pink liquid into his hand.
Finally, he accepted defeat, “Ok, OKAY, but I’m working, so JUST this one!!!”
He took the offered shot, which made the girls cheer drunkenly, then they all clinked glasses. As soon as the girls brought the shot glasses up to their lips, the man deftly flicked his wrist, dumping his shot across the sidewalk, then quickly brought the empty glass to his own lips, making it look like he had taken it with them.
“You are a bad influence!” he accused.
They laughed, “You just wait and see how bad we can be.”
“So naughty!” he shouted as he collected their shot glasses from them. Then, “Hey, you gotta go back in; no alcohol outside the bar!”
“Ok, Raymond!” they jeered poutily before turning and going back into the bar.
Jonathan didn’t hesitate, “That was a pretty slick move. Not your first bar-b-que!”
Raymond laughed, “I tell ya, these girls will be the death of me. I may be an alcoholic, but I’m not a drunk.”
We all laughed, then Raymond asked, “Can I do anything for you?”
Sensing he was someone of import, Jonathan said, “Actually, we’re entertainers; my buddy here lights himself on fire, juggles chainsaws, and swallows swords.”
I jumped in and said, “And Jonathan here eats fire; we worked at Legoland for the past few years doing shows, but are looking to expand our horizons.”
“Wait, chainsaws, fire eating, sword SWALLOWING? That’s incredible, come with me!” Raymond nodded to the bouncer, and the red ropes parted for us. As we stepped in, the girl who was next in line exclaimed, “Hey, how come they get to go in?”
The bouncer, stone-faced as ever, said, “They’re special.”
“What, so I’m not special?”
His eyes narrowed, and he snatched her license from her hand, holding it under his flashlight longer than necessary. “Depends what this says,” he muttered.
We followed Raymond into the maze of people and were swallowed up by the maelstrom of sound and light. We emerged in the inner sanctum and found a room built up with multiple levels. At every turn, Raymond dodged groups of girls, all of whom wanted a piece of him. Seeing a break in the mob, Raymond broke into a jog across a raised stage area, then up a set of black steel stairs that led to a catwalk. Halfway up, he pressed on what looked like a solid wall, and a hidden door swung open. We slipped through into a dark, narrow hallway that led to a fire escape. To the right, tucked beneath the elevated stage and dance floor, was a small office. I leaned my hand against the wall and felt the bass from the speakers shaking the place to its foundation. Raymond knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer. We squeezed in behind him and saw a balding man sitting at a desk reviewing paperwork.
Raymond spoke to him, “Hey, these guys are performers, and I thought they’d be great for one of our big parties.”
The guy looked at us like he was evaluating cattle, “What kind of music do you play?”
“No,” Raymond interrupted, “they’re circus freaks, fire-eating-sword-swallowing, crazy stuff!”
I quickly added, “I also light myself on fire.”
Raymond threw his hands in the air and said, “And they light themselves on fire!”
The man behind the desk smiled at this, then said, “What’s your rate?”
Jonathan and I were unprepared for this question, and it must have shown on our faces because the man continued, “I’ll give you $250 for three spots; you’ll go at 10:00 pm, 11:00 pm, and midnight.”
After all the rejections we’d had, we were too stunned by an offer to even think to negotiate, so we just nodded and said, “Okay.”
“Raymond will show you around and tell you everything you’ll need to know.”
He didn’t say, “Dismissed,” but it was clear the meeting was over.
Raymond led us outside and began to share his vision for what we might do. He showed us the stage, and we suggested we could do a flaming torch passing bit around a volunteer.
Raymond blinked, “Wait, you’re going to throw flaming torches around someone?”
“We’d like to?”
“That sounds cool, but we better do that with me; I don’t want someone passing out or getting hurt.”
“Sounds good; we can do that.”
Raymond pointed to a small elevated platform inside the circle bar. It had rails around it and was only big enough for one person. “That’s where we put the gogo dancers. Could you do the sword swallowing up there?”
“Absolutely,” I said, hoping I sounded more confident about it than I felt. Though I could technically swallow a sword, it wasn’t consistent; some days, I could do it, and some days, most days, I couldn’t, but I didn’t mention that part.
“Awesome, the DJ can play whatever tracks you want, or if you have a CD of your own, you can just give it to him before you go on. Next weekend, get here at 9:00 pm. We’ll get you set, and then you’ll go on around 10:00 pm. Oh, and don’t wait in line; tell the bouncer you’re performing, and I’ll make sure they know to let you in.”
We nodded and said, “Sounds good, we’ll see you then.”
Raymond looked like he would say more, but five girls had been stealthily sneaking up behind him, and now they pounced. Wrapping their arms around him, they said, “Raaaaymond, come do shots with us!”
“Gentlemen, it appears I’m needed elsewhere,” he saluted crisply, then allowed the girls to drag him away to the bar.
I watched the exchange unfold and heard Raymond tell the bartender, “The usual.”
The bartender made the girls’ drinks, then poured a shot for Raymond from a nondescript container. When the drinks had been distributed, Raymond clinked glasses with them and drank his shot. After he swallowed, he made a show of it being strong, but I’d bet “the usual” was just juice.
We’d only just met, but I was already learning a lot from Raymond. He might be the life of the party, but he knew better than to become a partygoer.
* * *
A week later, the day arrived, and we loaded up for the show. When we pulled in, I was stunned — a line snaked out the door and wrapped around the block. Hundreds of people waiting to get in.
Great, I thought, if we bomb, at least it’ll be spectacular.
I pictured 500 voices booing in unison, shaking our bones with their disapproval.
Equipment in tow, we walked past everyone in line, making our way straight to the front.
I’ve seen so many movies where someone struts up to the bouncer, trying to skip the line, only to get shut down and sent back.
Ugh, that would be so embarrassing; I hope they let us in.
We got to the bouncer, who was busily shining his flashlight onto a woman’s ID, and waited for him to finish. But instead, he stopped and looked at us.
Jonathan smiled, “We’re the jugglers.”
The bouncer flicked his fingers dismissively at the woman, indicating that she should back up, and when she did, he undid the red velvet rope and pulled it aside so we could enter.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, dragging my stuff inside.
The girl evaluated our cases as we passed, then asked, “Hey, are you guys the band?!”
Without skipping a beat, Jonathan answered, “Yeah, we’re the Buddhist Punks.”
“Would I know any of your stuff?”
“Probably not, we’re bigger in Europe,” Jonathan shot back.
Classic Jonathan, I thought, always coming up with some off-the-wall thing in the moment.
A few more steps and we disappeared in the chaotic tide of the Typhoon Saloon.
* * *
We glanced around, looking for Raymond, but figured we’d never find him, so we went to the thin, dark hallway behind the main stage. Once there, we set up everything we needed for the first set so it’d be easy to start when the time came. As we did this, I felt a hand clasp firmly on my shoulder.
“My brothers!” Raymond shouted.
I stood to greet him, and he gave me a handshake/bro-hug.
“It is electric out there, and I’ve been telling everyone there’s going to be a big surprise tonight, but I haven’t told them what. So, how do you want to do this?”
We told Raymond what we were thinking, and he clapped his hands in approval. “I love it. Okay, you guys are right after the bikini contest; I’ll take them off and check in with you here. As long as you’re good, I’ll bring you out, and you can blow the freaking roof off.”
We nodded in the affirmative, so Raymond gave us a thumbs-up, then split.
Looking at my watch, I saw that we had about 45 minutes to burn, so I motioned toward the club, silently asking Jonathan if he wanted to go out and survey the scene. He nodded, so we squeezed out the secret door, then up the staircase to “the catwalk,” a tall fire escape-looking platform that rose ten feet above everything else. Once up there, we had a bird’s eye view of the entire club. To the right was the main stage where the bikini contest would be held. In front of that was a pit-style dance area with a floor five feet lower than the stage. Left of that, and below us, was the DJ booth. Across from the DJ booth was a large circular bar, and in the middle of that bar, a tall steel platform with railings, the go-go dancer cage, where I’d be sword-swallowing during our second set.
Gah, I thought, I hope the sword goes down tonight.
As I worried over the details, an arm slid around my waist. I felt a hand grip my stomach, followed by suggestive fingers dragging across my abs. I turned and came face-to-face with a woman who looked like she’d stepped off a Sports Illustrated swimsuit cover.
She wore a flowy beige crop top scattered with burgundy flowers and high-waisted skinny jeans. Long, straight blond hair framed sparkling blue eyes and lightly freckled, sun-kissed cheeks. Her flirtatious smile revealed flawless white teeth.
My eyes must have widened in surprise, because her expression changed, asking a silent question: Was that okay?
I smiled and nodded to reassure her, and her smile returned as she stepped closer, body warm against mine, hair carrying the scent of summer air.
In that moment, I suddenly realized that I hadn’t thought much about women or dating since the breakup, since the heartbreak. And now, all in a rush, I felt myself pulled in. I wanted this, whatever this is.
But then, just as quickly, my professionalism returned, and I thought, Oh my god, how does Raymond do this? Calling on all my willpower, I stepped back and held my hands up gently.
She looked into my eyes as if to ask, “What’s wrong?”
I nodded my head towards the stage, and since conversation was impossible over the music, mouthed the words, “I have to go.”
She pushed out her lower lip and made a pouty face, but nodded understandingly. I fought the impulse to bring my hand to her cheek, to reassure her, to tell her that if the situation were different, I wouldn’t leave.
But I couldn’t; I have a show to prep for.
Jonathan and I turned and went down the stairs to the DJ booth to give him our CD.
“Everything on here?” he asked. “I just press play?”
“For our first set, yes. But for our second set, the one where I’ll be on the go-go stage, I’m not sure what to play.”
“What are you doing?”
“I’ll be sword swallowing, but I don’t have a specific track yet.”
“Sword Swallowing?! Nice! You know what, I’ve got the perfect thing; trust me, it’ll rock!”
His demeanor convinced me he’d actually make it rock and not do something silly, so I said, “Cool, let’s do it.”
“You got it. Oh—bikini contest is starting. I gotta mic up Raymond.”
I glanced over and saw Raymond at the edge of the stage, holding a mic and flashing the DJ a thumbs-up, as if silently asking, we good? The DJ nodded, and Raymond’s voice boomed through the speakers: “Test, test.”
Then, with a grin, he roared, “Alright, eyes on the main stage, because it’ssssss SHHHHOWTIME!”
Knowing we’d be on after the girls, Jonathan and I squeezed through the crowd to reach the backstage area. I double-checked that everything I needed was set up for the body burn, and then we waited.
The crowd roared intermittently, and Raymond would shout to rile them up; the crowd applauded extra loud, and another secret door I’d never seen before opened right next to us. One by one, five girls in bikinis stepped through the opening and crammed into the already tiny hallway. As soon as the last of them had cleared the opening, Raymond’s head popped in, and he asked, “You guys good?”
“We’re good!”
“Ok,” he said, running back onto the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, are you ready for something crazy?!”
The roar from the audience shook the walls.
“The two guys coming out next are good friends of mine. They’re freaks—they juggle, they swallow swords, they play with fire, and they’re here to make things hoooot! Give it up for Team Rootberry!”
With that, Raymond swept his arm wide, and we burst onto the stage, hands pumping in the air. I flicked a lighter, and all at once the six torches erupted into flame. The crowd leaned in as we squared off, firelight dancing across their faces.
We locked into rhythm, passing the burning implements back and forth in smooth arcs, and the heat filled the space around us. You never want to drop fire, so we kept it tight, only throwing tricks we were 100% confident about.
On our final throw, the torches spun high, blazing in the dark, and we caught them clean. The crowd erupted, the sound crashing over us like a wave.
We turned toward Raymond and beckoned him forward. He lifted the mic, laughing nervously. “Me?! Oh no, I don’t know about this.”
I grabbed him in a mock show of force, then placed him in the middle of the stage. Jonathan and I lifted the torches again, dropped them low, then passed them around Raymond. My throws passed just inches before his face, while Jonathan’s went right behind his head. Raymond held his hands at his side as we’d instructed him to do in our preshow planning. But when the moment became too ripe not to pick, Raymond instinctively raised the mic to his mouth and said, “I can’t believe this is ha…” His speech was cut short by one of my torches colliding with his microphone-holding arm; when he raised it, he’d widened his profile by a foot, occupying the area where my throws were passing by. Jonathan gathered his torches cleanly, but the torch that hit Raymond ricocheted off towards the front of the stage. Realizing his mistake, Raymond said, “Dude, my bad, I’m sorry, it’s instinct!”
“All good, you ok?”
“I’m good! What do we do?”
“Once more,” I said, setting him up again and retrieving the dropped torch.
Before we could start, Raymond said on the mic, “My bad! I’ll try not to screw it up this time!”
The audience laughed; everybody loved Raymond.
We passed the torches again and finished cleanly.
“Oh my GOD, wasn’t that insane!?” Raymond shouted.
I started blowing out my torches, then Jonathan handed me his, leaving just one torch still burning. He then grabbed a thin steel rod, lit its tip from the last torch, and began his fire-eating routine. His first flame was my cue. I hustled to the back hallway to get into the body-burn rig, fueling everything quickly. I had only ninety seconds until his act wrapped, so I moved fast. Lying on my back, legs over my head, I pulled the pants on and fastened them. I checked the pocket for the lighter I always kept there, grabbed the chainsaw and two juggling beanbags, and was ready to go.
The crowd roared as I stepped on stage holding the chainsaw high. I revved it a few times so everyone could see and hear the engine, and blue-tinged smoke belched from the exhaust. Then I stepped to the front and lit the blade. The audience hushed, anticipation crackling through the room. I gave the chainsaw a few exploratory swings, then brought the flaming blade to the back of my pants. The pants ignited—my internal timer started: seventeen seconds. Swing, release, juggle beanbags, catch chainsaw—three more throws, two more, one more—and finish clean. The crowd went wild!
I stepped out of the worst of the heat, partly for show, partly to extend my burn window. Then, turning my back to Jonathan, I wait for him to save me from the fire. Gloved hands press firmly against the burning wicks, then pull them off in one swift motion. The fire goes out, but the heat lingers, radiating through the pants. I had learned from testing: always extinguish the wicks before it starts to hurt; if you don’t, you’ll burn. Pain is a great teacher, and I’d learned its lessons well.
I bring the chainsaw toward my face and blow out the burning wick on the blade.
Raymond takes it from there: “Can you believe that?! Wow!”
We survived our first club set, and they didn’t boo us. Only two more sets to go.
* * *
Raymond leaned into the back hallway, “Ten minutes?”
We both gave him the thumbs up, so he nodded and split.
Jonathan and I reviewed our plan for the tenth time, then split up to execute it.
I grabbed my sword-swallowing gear and went to the circular bar in the middle of the main room. It had a countertop ringed around it, so I had to squat and go under an open section to get inside. Once there, I set up my gear for the performance. A few bartenders looked at me quizzically, but they were too busy doing their work to talk to me. In a few minutes, I knew Jonathan would start his act, which left me with unwanted time to think.
I’d been working hard on sword swallowing, and I’d even gotten it all the way down a dozen times, but most days, I was happy to get it halfway down without gagging or barfing all over. The only time I’d tried to perform it in front of an audience was at Legoland right before 9/11. The entertainment department hosted a low-stakes talent show, and I’d thought it would be a good opportunity to try sword swallowing, so I entered with that. When they’d called me up, I had a terrible showing and couldn’t even get the sword halfway down. The one positive thing I could say about it was that I’d gotten one more failure out of the way on the road to success.
But would that success come tonight?
Not likely, and yet, it had to. Or at least, I sure needed it to.
Raymond’s voice echoed across the god mic, “Alright, alright, we’ve got another amazing performance coming up for you right now, I wanna see all eyes up here on the main stage because Team Rootberry is back for round two! Let’s hear it for ‘em!”
Jonathan came out to a solid round of applause and began his act. Since everyone was distracted, I used this moment to climb into the go-go cage. My heart began to race, and panic took over. I’m going to fail in front of all these people, I’m going to stand up, try to stick this thing down my throat, and I’m going to projectile vomit from an elevated platform. My lunch will rain down on the bar, the bartenders, and probably splash on the patrons. Everyone will be furious; they’ll have to shut down the whole bar on one of their busiest nights, the management is going to be pissed, we’ll get fired, and poor Raymond is going to be like, “Dude, what happened? I thought you guys were professionals?” I can’t let that happen; I have to get out of here; I can’t do this.
I completely lose my cool and turn to climb down, intending to run out of the bar, but right on cue, the music stops. I look over at the main stage and realize Jonathan has finished his last trick, and now he’s pointing with both hands toward me. Two spotlights hit me, one from each side, illuminating my crouched figure in the go-go cage. I look over at the DJ, and he’s giving a thumbs-up. The instantly recognizable notes of a clean, haunting guitar riff wash over the room. Its eerie, repetitive pattern creates instant suspense and foreboding. The rolling, hypnotic quality brings me to my feet, and suddenly I’m holding the sword high and spinning in a circle so everyone can see. The music builds, and the heavy, driving rhythm draws the audience in, unsettling themes promised in its tone. I bring the sword’s tip to my lips just as Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” reaches its most dramatic notes. I take a deep breath and drift into an alternate state. My eyes close, and I know nothing except the cool sensation of solid steel passing behind my heart. I hear nothing, I think nothing. In this place, there is nothing but the moment, a quiet in the eye of life’s storm.
* * *
The next thing I remember, I’m standing on the floor next to the go-go cage. Jonathan and Raymond are there. Raymond clasps his hand on my shoulder for emphasis and says, “DUDE, that is the craziest shit I have EVER seen! Do you need anything? You want a drink?”
I nod and say, “Yes, please, a water would be great.”
Raymond grabbed the nearest bartender and said, “Hey, get my man a water. Did you see that shit?”
The bartender nodded emphatically, then went to grab the water.
“Alright,” Raymond said, “I’ll see you guys again at midnight; I can’t wait to see what ya’ll will pull out next!” Then he ducked under the bar and was gone.
Jonathan congratulated me and said, “Nicely done!”
“How did it go? Did they dig it?”
Jonathan looked at me strangely, “Did they dig it? They went freaking crazy, couldn’t you hear them?”
“No,” I said.
“Well, they loved it, and you got it all the way down; you even let go of the handle with both hands; you freaking crushed it!”
I was about to tell him I couldn’t remember any of it, but realized how weird that would sound, so I bit it back.
With the most challenging part over, I relaxed a little and started packing my sword gear.
I suddenly wondered if the blonde from the catwalk had seen the show. I glanced around, but she was gone, swallowed up in the crowd, and I didn’t see her again.
* * *
We’d go on to perform many times at Typhoon Saloon, and it became one of our favorite venues to explore our more extreme acts. But at the night’s end, we always packed up and ducked out the back of the club. No drinking or fraternizing, just doing our part, then getting back to full-time training.
* * *
If you’d like to watch a video from our first night’s performance at Typhoon Saloon, you can follow this link or use this QR code to view the Body Burn and Flaming Chainsaw act.
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Chapter 56: The Monstrosity of the Seas
We were slowly carving out a niche for ourselves, but we weren’t widely known. So it was a shock when we opened our email and saw a message from Dan Holzman of the Raspyni Brothers.
The Raspyni Brothers are a legendary juggling duo who have performed a Presidential Command Performance for Ronald Reagan, as well as at the Academy Awards, The Tonight Show, Comic Strip Live, Entertainment Tonight, and more. If I copied their entire résumé onto my computer, it would probably crash the hard drive.
Yet, here was an email saying he was joining a cruise ship out of San Diego soon and, having a whole day free, was wondering if we’d like to hang out.
We, of course, said yes immediately. We met him at the dockyards and spent most of the day driving around San Diego, running errands, talking about juggling, and swapping stories. We also visited Balboa Park, one of the city’s once-upon-a-time street-performing hubs. By the time we’d come along, there weren’t many street performers working it anymore, but Dan had tales from the glory days, and we listened intently.
I’d already known the Raspyni Brothers were successful, but Dan’s wealth of wisdom and experience, which he freely shared, was beyond vast. A bottomless well of stories, tips, and suggestions on how we could develop our act and work our way up the entertainment ladder. We absorbed it like sponges, but too quickly; it was time to take him back to the cruise terminal.
On the way, we asked him about the cruise industry. To my surprise, he was not overly excited about it. He said there had been a time in their career when the ships were very exciting, but now they’d reached a point where a couple of weeks per year was enough—more of an opportunity to bring their families on a cruise than anything else.
I believed him, but it was equally hard to believe. To us, the ships were big time—one of the best work opportunities out there for jugglers. It was hard to imagine becoming so established that it wouldn’t excite you.
We pulled into the cruise terminal, and I looked up at the ship. I had never been so close to one before, and I couldn’t believe how big it was—like a whole skyscraper turned on its side and floating by the dock. I thought to myself, I hope that one day we get to work on one of those. But deep down, I feared we’d never be good enough to get there.
Dan directed us to the drop-off zone, stepped out of the vehicle, wished us all the best, and headed off. I watched as he walked down the pathway, getting a little smaller with each step, until, by the time he reached the security booth, he was just a tiny speck beside the Monstrosity of the Seas.
I made a vow right then that I would train harder than ever.
There is the path; it’s right there, far away, but also right there.
Chapter 57: Passing Zone
We read online that another juggling duo, The Passing Zone, would be performing at a corporate event in San Diego.
We knew it wouldn’t be a ticketed event, so we messaged them directly to ask if there was any way we could come and see the show. A few days passed, and then, being the fantastic guys they are, Jon and Owen wrote back to say they’d arranged for two seats to be reserved in the sound booth for us.
Jonathan and I were stoked! The Passing Zone was crushing it in the corporate market, and in our moments of wildest fancy, we dreamed of one day doing the same. Seeing them in action would be an invaluable opportunity.
* * *
When the day came, we dressed nicely but non-descript, hoping we wouldn’t draw too much attention to ourselves. We arrived early, found the sound booth, and got settled in so we wouldn’t be a distraction.
The room itself was giant — a vast atrium with an eighty-foot high ceiling — but other than a few technicians and operations crew, it was empty. I guessed the audience was still at a workshop or an event scheduled before the big show. The sound technician started talking into his headset, and then Jon and Owen walked onto the stage for their microphone checks. As they did, they saw us in the sound booth and waved. Once they finished the tech rehearsal, they walked from the stage to the booth and welcomed us. Both were wearing nice button-down shirts with ties, and despite this being a significant corporate event, neither seemed nervous. We exchanged some friendly talk, and then Jonathan asked Jon, “Are they going to let you film? This room would look great in your demo reel!”
Jon and Owen looked at the stage, then said, “You know, we didn’t ask, but it’s okay. We have footage from the Miss America contest and Good Morning America. We even have a clip where we’re performing in front of a one-hundred-foot waterfall.”
Jonathan and I’s eyes widened, “A waterfall? Was the show on an island?”
“Oh no, it was artificial; they’d built it on stage for a big corporate event.”
All of this was said nonchalantly, with no bragging in their tone; these were simple declarations of fact, the normalcy of life for two individuals who’d produced a quality show and delivered it professionally.
As we talked, I couldn’t help but think they were not so different from ourselves, except maybe they were nicer. How can two guys be so darn likable?
Jon interrupted my reverie, “It was good to see you guys, but we need to do our final preparations. If you’re free after the show, why don’t you join us for dinner?”
“We’d love to,” we answered in unison.
Owen chimed in, “You can even help us break down if you like.”
Again, we said, “We’d love to!”
Jon and Owen laughed, “You say that now.”
I knew I was missing an inside joke, but then they laughed their easy laughs and said, “We’ll see you later; enjoy the show.”
* * *
Jonathan and I waited patiently until the audience poured in to take their seats. When the show began, a company representative came out to discuss the year-in-review, presenting the numbers and recognizing the contributions of the different departments. Then the speaker said, “It’s time for the grand finale, ladies and gentlemen: The Passing Zone!”
Jon and Owen took the stage with confidence, cracking jokes that were as funny as they were non-offensive. Flowing from one routine to another, they executed a show that could stand side by side with any other and hold its own. It was thoroughly brilliant. And when I thought it couldn’t get any better, they brought three audience members on stage, dressed them in NASA-looking space suits, and connected them to thick cables that hung from a large metal scaffolding. As the music built to a crescendo, they juggled the three audience members, swinging them through space. It looked like they might collide at any second, but they never did. Instead, they swung around the stage, perfectly controlled, in the capable hands of Jon and Owen. The audience rose to their feet, and their applause was deafening. The standing ovation was organic, without contrivance, because the audience loved it, and they loved them, Jon and Owen, The Passing Zone.
Jonathan and I looked at each other and shook our heads. We’d certainly have our work cut out for us if we ever wanted to compete with that.
A good show is made up of so many elements. The bits themselves, the comedy, character, music, and lights, the way it transitions from one routine to another, the performer’s manner towards the audience, costuming, everything.
Jon and Owen had considered all these elements and refined them to a science. Genius is an overused word, but not in this case. Their show was genius.
* * *
As quickly as they’d come, the audience left the room, and the moment the last person was vacated, someone somewhere flipped a switch. Bright overhead lights illuminated the space as brightly as the field at Yankee Stadium. Like ants, employees erupted from the numerous doors surrounding the room. Technicians coiled cables, bar staff cleared glasses, cleaners swept, and managers pointed.
Right in the middle of it all stood Jon and Owen. Like conductors, guiding a team in the disassembly of the massive scaffolding system that the volunteer astronauts had dangled from while they were juggled. We walked down to the front of the stage, hoping to make ourselves useful. From offstage, I heard a loud beep, beep, beep, and a forklift rolled out with a twelve-foot-long ATA case on its forks. ATA stands for Air Transport Association-approved, meaning luggage that is suitable for airline shipment. Jon directed the forklift to drop the case centerstage, then it made two more trips, returning each time with another case like the first. From the rafters, I heard a technician yelling about something being stuck, so Owen, ratchet in hand, climbed one of the tall metal support structures. Getting to the top, he flung one leg over the metal railing and hung off its side in a way that was clearly practiced, then he worked to undo the bolts the technician had been wrestling with. The bolt must have gotten wedged in because Owen threw his weight back and forth, causing the whole scaffold to rock alarmingly. He hammered with the ratchet as he rocked, and the piece broke loose. The forklift returned, and Owen directed the driver to lower the main cross beam before climbing down. As he returned to earth, I was struck by the juxtaposition of this tall, athletic figure, dressed in a white button-down shirt, sweat pouring down his brow, as he labored to break down their creation. This is the real show, I thought; this is what it takes to do what they do.
As the forklift lowered the huge scaffolding pieces into the ATA cases, I noticed one case had its end smashed in. Jon was close by, so I commented, “I guess that one has seen better days.”
Jon looked at it, then said, “A forklift driver backed into it about a month ago. We need to get it fixed, but there hasn’t been time. We’re averaging twelve to eighteen shows per month, so it’s all we can do to move this thing from one venue to the next in time for the next show.”
“Gah, that’s a heckuva job; there isn’t any easier way to do it huh?”
“Oh, there is; we also have this big steel flange that can be bolted into the ceiling. But that only works at certain venues. It just depends on ceiling height and whether the owner is okay with us drilling giant holes in their beams.”
“So you have two different ways to rig it?”
“Yeah, when we started building the people juggling rig, we didn’t realize how big a project it would be. And by the time we did realize, we’d already spent too much on it to turn back.”
“Not to pry, but what did it cost to build it?”
“$90,000”
My jaw dropped, “Ek gadz!” I said.
“Yeah, it’s…” Jon’s words were cut short by a man in jeans and a t-shirt who walked up and asked, “Ready to load?”
Jon nodded, then waved to get the attention of the forklift driver. Once he had it, he directed the driver to pick up one of the ATA cases. He then guided the driver to the loading dock, where an eighteen-wheeler semi-truck awaited. The man in jeans and a t-shirt threw wide the trailer doors and guided the forklift driver in the loading of the first ATA. Then he sent the forklift driver back to get the other two. As they waited for the forklift to return, the driver produced a clipboard and said, “Ok, so this needs to be in Tennessee on the 14th?”
Jon looked over his notes and then confirmed. “Yes, the show is that night.”
The driver tapped a pen against the paper as he thought, “I have a drop-off to make in Birmingham first, but that shouldn’t be a problem; I’ll put down good miles tonight.”
“You’re the best,” Jon said, “we appreciate it.”
The driver nodded matter-of-factly and said, “Yep.”
Now that the People Juggling rig was taken care of, we went back inside. I saw Owen packing his prop case, so I watched from a respectful distance. This case was also an ATA style, which, though small, is dreadfully heavy. Airline baggage allowances may be seventy pounds, but if your case itself weighs forty-five pounds, that only leaves you twenty-five pounds for gear. It didn’t seem efficient, and I wondered if there could be a better way to transport gear. Seeing me there, Owen invited me over, and we chatted as he packed. Once he finished, we walked over to Jon’s case and started to pack it, but then he said, “We’ll have to wait; I don’t know how he packs it.”
That resonated; I wouldn’t know how to pack Jonathan’s gear either. I guess it’s a team thing; we each have responsibilities and ways of getting the job done.
* * *
Once the stage was cleared, they said they were going to run up to their rooms to change.
I almost said, “They give you separate rooms?!” but bit it back; of course they get separate rooms; they’re at that level.
“We’ll meet you at the hotel restaurant,” Jon said.
We nodded and made our way there to wait.
When Jon and Owen arrived, we were seated, and the waiter brought menus. I was starving and ready to eat, but then I saw the prices on the menu.
The entrees were $80 to $120.
Quickly scanning the menu, I spotted the cheapest item: a Caesar salad for $27. Ughh, I thought, I don’t want to look poor and only order a salad; what’s the next cheapest option? There was a duck appetizer plate for $37, so I decided to get that, with tap water. Looking at Jonathan, I silently asked, What are you getting? I could tell by his expression that he was as shocked by the prices as I was.
Just then, the waiter returned and asked if we were ready.
We all nodded, and Jon, intuiting the situation, said, “Yes, we’re ready, and you can put it all on one ticket.” Then he looked at us and said, “We’re gonna bill it to the client, so get whatever you want.”
This drew the waiter’s attention to us, so Jonathan ordered, “I’ll have the Caesar salad,” he said. I smiled to myself and thought, I called it! The waiter looked at me, and I got the duck. Then Jon and Owen ordered their entrees.
While we waited for food, Jon and Owen told stories about their journey as jugglers, asked us about our show, and shared generously any advice they thought would be helpful.
When the food arrived, the waiter set a large white plate with a decoratively scalloped edge in front of Jonathan. Upon it was a single slice of bread, with most of its middle torn out. A single sprig of Romaine lettuce was run through the hole in the bread, allowing the slice to balance on its edge and form an A-frame structure. A thin drizzle of dressing zigzagged across the structure, and a pinch of Parmesan cheese had been thrown decoratively across the whole. Owen received a similar salad and, picking it up to observe the plate, remarked, “A chef and an architect.”
We all laughed, then the waiter placed my plate of duck in front of me. I’d never had duck before, but I figured it’d be the same as chicken. As we all began to eat, I tried my first bite of Duck. Ugh, oily and gamey, though I hadn’t known what gamey actually tasted like until that bite. I chewed it tentatively, waiting for the flavor to improve, but it didn’t. I didn’t want to be rude, so I choked down as much of it as I could, reminding myself that this was a delicacy I should be enjoying. I wondered how many In-N-Out burgers I could have bought with the $37 this duck cost.
In the end, the waiter brought the bill, and Jon grabbed it off the table as soon as it landed.
As he signed the check, I wondered whether they would really bill the client or if he had just read the situation and wanted to help us out. If I had to guess, I’d guess it was the latter, because that’s the kind of guys they are.
* * *
After dinner, instead of saying goodnight and immediately splitting off, they walked with us to the top level of the parking garage where we’d parked. Jonathan and Jon were locked in a conversation, while Owen and I talked separately.
I don’t remember what I asked to prompt it, but Owen pointed out towards the city of San Diego, all laid out before us, “Tonight, nine other corporate events are happening in this city, and all of them hired entertainment. You guys could have been working any one of those while we worked this one. So don’t buy into this idea that it’s a competition; there’s plenty of work for all of us. Just keep getting better; don’t be afraid to raise your prices; be professional; and trust that there will always be enough work.
“That sounds easy,” I said, “but if we raise our prices, won’t we lose some of our clients?”
“Yes,” Owen said, “you will lose some. But you’ll also get new ones. Every time we raised our prices, it was scary, but we took the chance, and we kept moving up the ladder because of it. So it’s up to you to decide how far you want to go.”
I thanked him for the advice, and then we all said our farewells.
What he said that night was a gift, and it has always stayed with me. “It’s not a competition; keep getting better, be professional, raise your prices, and keep climbing the ladder.”
* * *
The next day, Jonathan and I went to the gym for our regular training and workout session. For fun, we decided to try the hardest tricks the Passing Zone had done in their show. Three had stood out to us, so we warmed up a little and began trying them.
To our great surprise, we nailed the first two, both on the first try! We laughed, figuring it was total luck. Then, we tried the third and most challenging trick. During the show, Owen had been juggling five rings, then, in mid-pattern, Jon had thrown a sixth ring into the air. Owen changed patterns and seamlessly integrated the sixth ring into his pattern, running the six confidently before collecting them.
Since I was the better ring juggler, Jonathan said, “You be Owen, I’ll be Jon!” We laughed because Jonathan IS Jon-a-than, and then I started a five-ring juggle.
“When do you want it?” Jonathan asked.
“Eh, I don’t know where it fits, so just put a little height on it so I have time to make room.”
Jonathan watched the pattern, lining up where he wanted his throw to go, and launched it.
The ring entered my periphery, so I switched from a crossing odd-number cascade pattern to a six-object fountain pattern with a gap. As if we’d done it a thousand times, the ring came down in the perfect place and integrated into the pattern. I ran the six for another dozen throws, then gathered them all cleanly.
Jonathan and I were shocked; we’d done all three of their hardest tricks on the first try.
Could we have gone out and performed their tricks live on stage? NOPE! Were we going to add them to our show? NO WAY! Did it mean we were as good as them? NOT BY A LONG SHOT!
But it was a testament to how much we’d improved as jugglers. And while we were still light years behind them in every other category, at least technically, we were catching up.
It was a much-welcomed boost to our confidence.
* * *
For weeks after, I thought about Jon and Owen’s prop cases. They had a system down, which worked for them; they’d been traveling with ATA cases for years. But I wondered if there might be a better way.
I knew that if Jonathan and I could find a way to travel lightly, ideally without being overweight or oversized on the airlines, our increased mobility might allow us to take gigs other performers couldn’t, so I made that a goal.
Night after night, I found myself down the rabbit hole researching every imaginable variety of luggage, but nothing seemed right. We needed extreme durability and supreme lightness, but those two things didn’t exist together.
Then, one night, I found myself on a website for camera and film equipment. On it, they listed a waterproof case made by Pelican. They had a model numbered 1650, which they claimed could go on a plane without being oversized. When I clicked the specs sheet, I saw the cases weighed twenty-four pounds empty.
The airlines allowed luggage up to seventy pounds. Minus twenty-four pounds of case equals forty-six pounds of gear per case.
46 x 4 (2 checked cases each) = 184 pounds of show
We could do one heck of a show if we had that much weight to work with. And that’s without our carry-on bags, so we could handle even more if we had to.
This was very promising, but at $350 per box, it was a $1400 gamble. If we did this, we’d have to make them work. I talked with Jonathan about it, and he said, “If Passing Zone can spend $90,000 on a rig to juggle people, we can spend $1400 on luggage so we’re light and travel-ready.”
I couldn’t argue with his logic, and though we didn’t really have the money, we ordered the cases anyway.
When they arrived, we loved them and immediately saw the value, but quickly identified a new problem. We’d always used an assortment of stands on stage to display our props, but they didn’t fold down small enough to fit inside the new Pelican cases. Even if they had, they would have taken up half the space inside all by themselves, leaving us less room for props.
I considered this for a few days, then remembered from one of my perusals of Home Depot that in the plumbing section, they had half-inch galvanized floor flanges.
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I’d never used flanges for anything before, but darned if they didn’t seem like a perfect way to attach legs to our Pelican cases. So I made a trip to Home Depot and picked up sixteen flanges and sixteen twenty-four-inch steel pipes to screw into them as legs. As I loaded everything into the cart and felt the weight, doubt started creeping in. The flanges weren’t too bad, but the steel legs were heavy, really heavy. I started wondering if my “solution” was any better than the ATA cases the Passing Zone used. Maybe they’d already figured out the best way, and I was just fooling myself thinking I could improve on it.
The thought that I might’ve just set us back $1,400 on these Pelican cases was a bitter pill to swallow. But it was too late now. I checked out and hauled everything home to show Jonathan.
Examining the legs, he agreed they were way too heavy. But I figured I’d install the flanges anyway to see if the concept worked.
“How are you going to install the flanges?” Jonathan asked.
“I’m going to drill holes in the cases and bolt them on.”
“You’re going to drill holes in our brand new $350 watertight cases?”
“Yeah.”
Jonathan thought about that briefly, then said, “Alright.”
Flipping one of the cases over, I placed the flanges in the corners where they seemed to fit best, and immediately ran into a new problem. The bottom of a Pelican case has ¼-inch molded plastic ridges. I’m not sure if they’re there for structure or just a byproduct of manufacturing, but either way, they kept the flanges from sitting flush.
The ideal fix would be a power planer, but since a belt sander would get the job done and be more versatile, it was back to Home Depot to get a sander.
I ground the ridges down at each corner, then drilled holes and bolted the flanges in place, using lock washers to keep things secure. Unfortunately, I hadn’t bought the right length bolts, so I had to use a Dremel to trim them flush, which left behind sharp little nubs. I figured it wouldn’t be an issue… until I sliced my finger open on one of them while flipping the case over. Danger! Out came the sander again to smooth them down.
Then, I screwed the legs into the flanges and stood the case upright for the first time. Ugly and naked as it was, I started to believe in the concept again. If I could lighten the legs, wrap the base in some custom felt curtains, and do something to dress up the lid, this might work. Not only would it be lighter than an ATA case, but it could also double as our prop stand. A full solution.
First step: solve the legs. I built two test sets: one with wooden dowels, one with PVC. The PVC version technically worked, but it wobbled ominously and looked flimsy when you tossed props into the case. The wooden legs were sturdier, but still not good enough. I even tried combining the two, threading a metal nipple into the flange, then attaching a wooden dowel and sleeving it with PVC, but it was still clunky, and nearly as heavy as the steel ones I was trying to improve on in the first place.
There had to be a better way.
That’s when I remembered the metal shop I’d gone to to have a handle made for my chainsaw. Maybe they could make a custom set of aluminum legs. I started to call, but thought better of it — if you’re just a voice on the phone and your question is weird, no one will take you seriously. But if you’re standing there in person, they have to deal with you. I decided to show up in person.
When the machinist came out, I showed him a flange and one of the steel bars, then asked if he could make the same thing, but in aluminum.
He thought about that a minute, then called a buddy over to look at it. They discussed it and agreed it could be done.
He looked up aircraft-grade aluminum in an old, beat-up catalog, and after browsing for a few moments, he whistled that whistle people emit when something is going to be expensive.
“Oh no, what are we looking at?” I asked.
“Well, we can do it, but the material comes in twenty-foot lengths, and there’s no way to order a smaller piece, so you’ll have to buy the whole stick, and I can’t imagine it’ll be worth it to ya.”
“How much we talking?” I asked.
“Well, the stick will be about $550, then to have it cut down and threaded, that will be another $200, so you’re looking at $750 for a handful of these table legs.” His expression was one of a man who didn’t think it was worth it.
“Yeah, that is a lot.” I conceded.
“Sorry, we couldn’t help you,” he said apologetically.
“No, no, you’ve been a huge help,” I said, “and I’d like to place the order.”
“Really?!?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered.
“Well, I’m gonna need a deposit for the full amount of the material since it’s a special order.”
“No problem,” I tried to sound like I could afford what I was buying.
“Ok, well, let me get your information.”
* * *
Two weeks later, the legs were ready, and once installed, they were perfect. Four of these aluminum legs weighed what only one of the same-sized steel legs did. We’d reduced the weight by 75%!
With the leg issue resolved, I went to a costume maker and had drapes made to go around the cases. But this created a new problem: how to get the drapes to stay on the cases? The costumer suggested Velcro, but I knew from experience that Velcro in this application always sags, peels, and looks tacky. Then they suggested snaps, but that would also look saggy over time as the fabric stretched. Out of ideas, the costumer was stumped and said, “Sorry, I’m not sure how you want it then.”
I racked my brain for a solution, and suddenly, an image of my father installing grommets on a fabric banner he’d once painted popped into my head.
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“That’s it,” I said, “We’ll install grommets at the ends, then use a bungee cord to create a compression fit. That way, it can be adjusted by tightening the bungee if the fabric sags down the road.”
The costumer considered this and said, “I think that will work; good idea.”
She made the drapes to wrap around the cases, which could then be tied on with a bungee cord to hide the custom-made aluminum legs.
It had taken time, money, and trial and error, but we’d done it. We had the ultimate luggage: lightweight, waterproof, practically bombproof, and it doubled as our onstage prop cases. We were ready for anything. World tour? No problem. Intergalactic gig? Let’s do it!.
There was just one small issue: the phone wasn’t ringing, and nobody was asking us to go anywhere.