Copy of Off Course On Purpose

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.

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.”

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.

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.

https://youtu.be/1InQFcLeVoY

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.

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.

“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.

Chapter 58: A Christmas Story

A friend of ours who worked as an actor sent us a message:
“Hey, did you hear about the audition at the San Diego Repertory Theater? They need a sword swallower, so it sounds like you guys would be perfect. You should check it out.”

We thanked her for the lead. It sounded exciting, but I wasn’t sure we’d be a good fit.
Despite taking some acting classes in high school, I was not an actor. But we needed work, and it never hurts to try, so I submitted our résumé.

A few weeks later, we got word: they wanted us to audition. We added it to the calendar and showed up. Once called, we went on stage and demonstrated some of our juggling skills, which seemed to go over well.

Then the director looked over our résumé and said, “It says here you’re also a sword swallower?”
I nodded, already reaching for my prop case. I held the sword up and hoped I would be able to pull it off; every attempt still felt like a coin toss. But if this was what it took to land the gig, I had to try. We needed to work.

I gave her a short demonstration. She watched closely, eyes lighting up when I got it down. Then she shared her vision for the show. “Here’s the idea. We’re doing the classic story of A Christmas Carol, but with a circus twist. That’s where you all come in. You’d be playing the strongman, kind of a big, dumb, oafish type character. And of course, you’d be the sword swallower in the circus show.”

She handed me a sheet with a few lines and asked me to try them out.

“Could you do these in character for me? Big dumb strongman like.”
I tried, but it was tough. Being tall, and in my own mind kind of oafish already, I’d spent years trying not to come off that way. Now I was supposed to exaggerate it!
She encouraged me.

“Come on, lean into it! Imagine you’re slow, a bit clumsy, but lovable. Give it a shot.”
I gave it another try, but I couldn’t force myself to pretend to be these things I so desperately didn’t want to be in real life. So no luck.

Her brow furrowed, “We auditioned George the Giant, and he was fantastic. But he’s asking for a tidy sum for the run.”
I knew of George, a seasoned sword swallower. And at a massive 7'2" tall, he’s a real-life giant! I’m competing with him for the part of the sword-swallowing giant? Ha! There’s no way we’re getting this gig, I thought.
“Thank you so much for coming in and auditioning,” she said, “If it looks like a fit, we’ll reach out.”

* * *

It was a long shot. But they did need a sword swallower. So maybe, just maybe, that’d give me a chance.
About a week later, we got the call: “You’ve got the job.”

I was thrilled. Not only would this add a professional theater credit to our résumés, but it would also give us a chance to work in a real theater!
Funny, my goal had originally been to be a backstage tech, but then they’d said I wasn’t qualified enough to be taken seriously behind the curtain.

Well, fine, I’ll go stand in front of it then.

With this booking, it felt like things had finally come full circle.

* * *

There were several weeks of rehearsals, but it wasn’t too hard for me. I only had one line in the whole show. My “other lines” had mysteriously disappeared after my unenthusiastic audition, but I was fine with that, less oaf to pretend to be.
Most of my stage time was spent as living filler. There were several scenes where Jonathan and I would wander around the stage, pretending to be townsfolk out for an evening stroll. We’d greet other actors as if passing by on the street, small nods, and friendly “Merry Christmases” whispered here and there. It wasn’t showy or flashy; just background noise in a bustling town square. For these parts, we didn’t even have blocking or choreography; it was more about creating atmosphere and filling the space so the leading actors could command the audience’s attention elsewhere.

Then came the funeral scene. This was the moment when each circus performer stepped forward to honor the deceased with a small demonstration of their act. It was the one time I was really front and center, everyone watching, the spotlight on me.
I was the last performer to go on, the headliner, doing the sword swallow.

For the first seven shows, this went perfectly. Each time, the sword went down smoothly. But by the eighth day, I really had trouble. I re-centered myself and tried again. I managed to get it down on the second attempt, but the grind of daily shows was wearing on me.

On the tenth day, I stood backstage, ready for my cue. I looked over at the table where my sword lay in wait. Every night, the props manager staged it there so I could grab it as I walked on. But this time, as soon as I looked at it, I started to gag. I quickly looked away, and the sensation subsided. I looked again. Dry heaves. I couldn’t even look at the sword without my body trying to vomit.

I began to panic. What do I do? I’m up next. I could hear the music and the applause as the act before me wrapped up.
And now, it’s my turn.

Confident of nothing except my impending failure, I walked over, picked up the sword, and stepped between the curtains.
It was a mournful scene. I bowed my head in sorrow, though tonight, I didn’t have to act. I was sorrowful. Sorrowful that I was about to embarrass myself and the entire production by vomiting onstage in front of a packed house.

I took my mark and looked out into the darkness where the audience waited. I sprayed solution on the blade, then placed it between my lips. Immediately, my abs jumped. Warm stomach acid surged up my throat.

I tried to swallow the sword anyway, but my body rejected it completely. I aborted the attempt, barely clamping my mouth shut in time to hold the bile back.

At that point, all pretense of acting vanished. I was no longer the dumb strongman. I was just me: Bill Berry, in a one-shouldered animal print toga, fighting off nausea under the stage lights.

I swallowed a few times, trying to clear the taste. Then I took a huge breath. A breath that brought me back to center. A breath that reminded me that I still had ownership over this body of mine.

I looked out at the audience and gave them a little smile. They couldn’t know exactly what was going on, but sensing the tension, they cheered and clapped in support. That encouragement helped, and a measured calm came over me, unlike anything I’d felt before.

I placed the sword back between my lips, took one last breath, and exhaled. As I did, I raised the sword and guided it into my body. No flinch. No gag. No panic. Just perfect, calm and control. I let go of the handle and stood fully present. I’d never felt more in command of myself, and there was no urgency to remove it, no need to rush.

The applause rolled on. When it finally faded, I still didn’t move. Only when the music for my bit ended and the next part of the scene began did I pull the sword, and the crowd went wild. They knew they’d witnessed something unusual, even if they couldn’t explain exactly what it was.

I couldn’t explain it either. But the last of the blocks had shifted, and for the first time, just days before my twenty-fourth birthday, I’d found unity within myself.

Each night thereafter, I walked out more confident than the last. All I had to do was breathe and focus, and the breath would take me to that place of stillness and command. A state I could summon at will, like the flip of a light switch, on stage or off.
I wondered what else might be possible now that I truly owned the sword swallow. What else is hiding in the depths…

Chapter 59: Michael Voorhees

We were halfway through our contract at the Repertory Theater when Christmas Eve arrived. The show would be dark that day, a rare pause in the run, but for us, it wasn’t a day off.

Months earlier, we’d committed to a shoot with photographer Michael Voorhees, and this was the only window he had available. We’d been building toward it quietly, knowing that if we nailed it, the images would become the foundation for our promotional packet and help us level up our game.

Before dawn on Christmas Eve, we loaded the car to beat the worst of Los Angeles traffic. The city was still asleep as we pulled onto the freeway, and we rode most of the way in silence, each of us carrying the same knot of nerves in our stomachs. We navigated to the address in Newport Beach and pulled into the parking lot.

Voorhees’ building was proud, with white stucco and sharp glass lines; more than just a place to take photos, it was a place where visions come to life. We shut off the engine, and since we were over an hour early, we settled into our seats and tried to sleep. The car windows fogged from our breath as the first light of morning crept across the sky, and Newport Beach slowly woke up around us.

Right on time, a sleek car pulled up, and Michael Voorhees stepped out.

He had an air of practiced calm, the kind that thrives in a high-pressure world of deadlines and big-name clients. We scrambled awake, straightened our shirts, and hurried to meet him.

The introductions were quick and efficient, then he ushered us inside. The studio was immaculate, cavernous, with white walls stretching up around us. Well-placed windows allowed the morning light to pour in, giving the whole place a glow. He walked us past racks of equipment, through hallways that smelled faintly of fresh paint and film chemicals, until we reached the space where we’d be shooting.

“I thought we’d work in the cove,” he said, “in two days, I’m shooting for Porsche, and I’ll be repainting after we’re done today, so it won’t matter if we scuff things up.”

I blinked at this, “How are you gonna get a Porsche in here?”
Michael pointed at a large metal roll-up door and said, “They’ll bring it in on a truck, then we’ll pull it in through there.”
This was said matter-of-factly, not braggy, and I realized that at his level, shooting for Porsche was just another day on the job, so I tried not to look impressed.

Jonathan leaned in, studying the space. “So the curve — it’s to erase the corner? Make the room feel bigger?”
Michael nodded, “Yes, by eliminating the 90-degree angle where the wall meets the floor, it fools the eye into thinking the space goes on forever.”

Jonathan nodded, “I’ve heard about it, and I’ve seen people do it with a roll of paper, but I’ve never seen a real plaster and paint one.”

Michael smiled, “It’s one of the best features in the studio, and I think you’ll like the result.”

We both nodded as if a great result were already preordained.
“I’m thinking I’ll do the first half in digital,” Michael said, “then switch to film; that way, we have two chances to capture what you’re looking for.”

Jonathan nodded, “Are you shooting mostly digital now?”
“Half and half,” Michael reflected, “digital has been great, and that’s where everything is going, but for certain shots, I still feel more confident with film.”

“Whatever you think is best,” I said, “just tell us what you need, and we’ll get it done.”

“Ok, go ahead and set up, then we’ll work out the composition. I’ll be back.” He left us to prepare.
We placed our props around the space in a way we thought would look good, then we started getting dressed. I pulled out the black suit I’d saved since my California Center of the Arts interview, while Jonathan unfolded his own dark suit to match. As I put mine on, I flashed back to a workshop we’d taken at the Lodi Juggling Convention a few years before. In it, professional tradeshow juggler Scotty Meltzer had advised: “If your promo makes you look like a two-thousand-dollar act, you can charge $2000. But if it makes you look like you’re only worth one hundred fifty dollars, you’ll never break out of the $150 range.”
We wanted to look like a two-thousand-dollar act.

Michael returned, asked if we were ready, and then snapped a few test shots. Once he’d reviewed these, he said, “Let’s rearrange these props.”

Michael moved like a director setting a stage.

He checked the angles through his lens again, had us shift the props an inch one way or the other, took a few more test shots, and then had us make even more adjustments.

At first, it seemed nitpicky. How big a difference could it make? I thought. But then he called us over, “Here, look at this,” he said, holding up the camera for us to see.
The first image looked like two guys with some random stuff in a room. In the second, it looked like harmony, us and our tools caught mid-sentence in a story we hadn’t even known we were telling. I couldn’t believe the difference between the first frame and the corrected one.

“Composition,” he said simply. “That’s the difference between a picture and a photograph. It’s why one shot out of a hundred will be magic while the rest are just okay.”

We nodded, feeling like we’d just been let in on a secret about photography.
Now satisfied with the settings, he said, “Alright, let’s have some fun.”
The rest of the morning blurred into rhythm. The click of the shutter became a drumbeat, and Michael’s voice cut clean instructions through it.
“Tilt your chin.”
“Shoulders left.”

“Eyes up.”
Then he dropped a rule that has stuck with me forever:
“Every time you hear the shutter, change something. A tiny movement, a new angle, a different expression. Don’t just hold one look for two hundred frames, give me something fresh, dance with the camera.”

So we danced. Snap — chin down. Snap — victory arms. Snap — point at the lens. Snap — twist from the shoulders. We stopped thinking and let the rhythm carry us.

By the time Michael lowered his camera, we were as wrung out as we were exhilarated. “I think we’ve got it,” he said, already scrolling through.

“How many shots?” Jonathan asked.

“Four-hundred digital, two-hundred-fifty on film,” Michael replied.
“Wow,” we said in unison.

“I’m going to get these burned onto a CD so you can take them today, and I’ll mail the film along in a week or so. Go ahead and pack up; then, if you still have time, can you teach me to juggle four?”
“Of course, we have as much time as you need!” we said.

Chapter 60: Avoid the Punch

The Fern Street Circus is a fixture in San Diego’s circus and performing arts scene, offering a community circus program that teaches kids a range of circus skills. It also acts as a booking agency, and they occasionally send work our way. So I wasn’t surprised to get a call asking if I was available for a last-minute New Year’s Eve event at Hamburger Mary’s. Hamburger Mary’s is in the happening San Diego neighborhood of Hillcrest, known for its over-the-top parties and parades. Specifically, the booker had requested that I swallow swords, and since I was available, I accepted the gig.

Upon arrival, I found the contact, who promised, “This is going to be the biggest New Year’s party ever,” and was then led to a small white house behind Hamburger Mary’s. The living room area, I was told, would act as our green room. Several other performers were already milling around. All were male and scantily clad, with knee-high boots and exposed skin shimmering beneath abundant layers of spray-on glitter. Their makeup was bright, their movements flamboyant, and their running conversation was naughty and crass. When they spoke, the tone was high-pitched, often with a hint of a lisp, a characteristic likely adopted. None of this phased me; we’re performers. If you’re modest, judgmental, or easily offended, it’s probably not the best career for you. That said, they were a “little extra” throughout the event. At one point, one of them asked me what I did, and I told him I was a sword swallower.

“A SWORD SWALLOWER? I think you just unlocked a new fantasy. Are swords the only thing you swallow?”
“So far, I’ve stuck to cold, hard steel.”

The boy in the lime green thong looked at the one in the bright purple one and said, “He said hard,” and they both laughed. Then the one in green asked, “Have you had any of the punch? It’s super yummy.”
“I haven’t, is it alcoholic?”
“It is; it’s got quite a kick.”
“Maybe I’ll have one later; I don’t drink when performing.”

“Suit yourself,” the more exuberant one in green answered, turning his attention to a nearby mirror and his huge fake eyelashes. The one in purple smacked his lips together to try to get the glitter evenly distributed.

I waited for the start time, then went out and did my sets.

Most were uneventful; there were a few sloppy people, and I got the typical low-hanging fruit, suggestive in style, dick jokes every sword swallower has heard a million times. I just nod, roll with it, and act professionally.

My last set was from 1:00 am to 1:45 am, and having finished my rounds, I went back to the green room to pack up. I found it empty, whether because the performers were out on set, or upstairs in one of the bedrooms, I didn’t know. What I did know was that I was desperately thirsty, so I searched around, hoping to find a bottle of water, but none could be found.

That’s when I spied the big, glass, clamshell-shaped punch bowl the glitter angel had invited me to try earlier. Walking over, I saw that it still had ice in it. A stack of floral-patterned disposable paper cups set right beside the bowl, inviting any passerby to ladle themselves a taste. Picking up one of the waxy Dixie cups, I poured myself a portion and took an exploratory sip. A sweet, pleasantly tropical flavor brought my taste buds to life. I couldn’t taste any alcohol in it, and after four hours of performing, it was hitting the spot. I upended and finished the remainder in my cup, and considered pouring another, but I thought better of it. I still had a forty-five-minute drive ahead of me; my night was not yet over.

Grabbing my gear, I hit the road. Navigating to I-5, I set out on the drive from San Diego to Encinitas. As I drive, I begin to feel funny. Or maybe floaty is the better word. It’s been a long night, but I don’t feel tired. Am I sick? I don’t feel sick. What is happening?
Looking down, I notice that the stereo display reads 2:21 am, and the little colored lights of the equalizer bouncing up and down seem unusually interesting.

Turning my attention back to the road, the world inexplicably began accelerating. All the streetlights blur, like when you squint your eyes hard but don’t entirely close them. Everywhere, all sources of light emitted long trails, like what happens in a Star Wars movie when they activate light speed. Now I know something is wrong. I turn on the car’s AC full blast to try to clear my head and think back over the night. That’s when it hits me — the punch! They drugged the punch! Just as I thought this, the lightshow kicked into overdrive…

* * *

The next morning, I woke in my bed.

I have no other memory; I don’t remember driving the rest of the way home or climbing into bed. Just waking here, and feeling happy to have somehow gotten home safely.

I knew I’d dodged another bullet in the minefield of entertainer life.

Well, I thought, since I didn’t make a resolution last night, here’s my New Year’s Resolution.
Never again will I drink from an open punch bowl! Ha!
And, if I get two resolutions, may we get good enough to go back to IJA and have the chance to compete again.
That’s all I want…

Chapter 61: Packets and a Prayer

Thanks to Michael Voorhees, we now have great photos to include in our promotional packets. But before I could send anything out, I had to master one more piece of hardware.

The side of the translucent blue plastic puck read, “CD Stomper.” A device that, according to the packaging, would allow me to perfectly align and adhere custom-printed labels to a CD. I placed a sticky, round label onto the base, freed my fingers from the adhesive, grabbed a CD, and set it atop the spring-loaded plunger.

Fingers crossed, I thought, then I pressed the CD down. The label disappeared under the disc, and when I released it, the disc popped back up. The label had vanished, meaning it was now stuck to the CD. I removed the disc to examine it, and to my delight, the label had adhered perfectly, with no wrinkles.

For the past week, I’d been trying to put these labels on by hand, and each attempt had been an abject failure. But now, we have the right tool for the job. How many times must I relearn this lesson?

Setting up a second label, I watched it adhere beautifully, pure magic! I cranked out another thirty discs, placing each into a black paper CD envelope with a clear cellophane front so a recipient would see our ink-jetted faces through the window. Before sending, we’ll burn a copy of our demo video, along with promotional images, a bio, résumé, and anything else we can think of to convince an agent or booker we’re a good choice.

Now we just need a VHS tape. Some clients might be savvy enough to figure out how to watch our demo off a CD, but I wasn’t counting on it; VHS was the standard format. Jonathan was close to finishing a new demo, so I had to get our VHS cover sleeve designed and find a company to do a run of tapes for us.

I found a place in Encinitas specializing in duplication. Their website showed a stack of fifty VHS players stacked one on top of another. For a fee, you could give them a master tape, and they’d load it up, place fifty blanks into the other players, and record all fifty tapes simultaneously. Our demo would only be two minutes long, so we could save a bundle by purchasing five-minute VHS tapes. I contacted them, and they gave me a template for designing the cover sleeve. Ugh, one more thing to figure out, I thought as I opened Photoshop.

Even with both of us working on it full-time, everything took a painfully long time to produce. But we kept it up, waking each morning, training, then working on the show. We were moving the ball forward, a little bit each day.

Eventually, the day came when all the pieces were in place, and we finally had a legit promo pack, complete with VHS tape and eight-by-ten photos.

In total, we had thirty packets, which we mailed to every agency address we had. We couldn’t verify some of the addresses, and there was no easy way to confirm if the places were even in business, but we sent them anyway, hoping a few would land in the right hands.

We also made the rounds to a few clubs in San Diego to drop off promo packets in person, only to find most of them closed. Undeterred, we left packets in their mailboxes and, in one case, on a fire escape.

Then we waited, hopeful. But none of the packets resulted in a call.

We still had no work.

Not knowing what else to do, we made thirty more packets and shipped them out. Then thirty more…

-------------------------------------------

Well, lithographs, which are cheaper to produce but look just as good. Thank you, ABC Photos!

Pictured: Cover of our first demo video on VHS, and our first logo.

Chapter 62: IJA - Reading Pennsylvania - July - 2002

Six months passed in a blink, and suddenly it was July. Time to pack our gear for the 2002 IJA Championship in Reading, Pennsylvania.

We love juggling and the community, but that’s not the reason we’re going. We’re going to chase the one thing we thought would finally validate our career: a gold medal. In the juggling world, winning the championships is the ultimate “proof.” And every successful juggler we admired had that hardware on their résumé.

We were determined to join their ranks. Or, at the very least, prove we were steadily climbing. Even if we didn’t ever win, we knew that the pursuit alone would sharpen us and help us become more polished.

The year before, we’d brought a raw, street-style act that was true to our West Coast rock-and-roll juggling style. But for this year’s showing, we tightened it up. Our skills had improved; we were smoother, we’d leveled up our costuming, and we’d adopted the more rigid gymnastics stylings that had led the winning team to gold in 2001.

* * *

On the night of the competition, we had a good showing, but when it came to our final trick, things took a turn. Jonathan and I had planned to close with nine-club passing in doubles, a trick that was still quite challenging for us. We threw it, and we dropped. No biggie, we picked up and threw it again. The pattern established, but then we had another drop.

This left us in a difficult situation.

There’s an immutable rule in variety performance.

If you try a trick and you miss, you can try again.

But if you miss that trick a second time, you should move on unless you’re 100% certain you’ll nail it on the third try.
The reasoning for this is that you shouldn’t drag the audience through mistakes. The audience wants you to succeed; it’s painful for them when you fail, so don’t put them through that.

But that’s the very situation we found ourselves in; we’d dropped twice!
Do we try it a third time?
We pick up the dropped props, and I can tell Jonathan is thinking it too; what do we do?
The decision has to be made in an instant, and my brain does a lightning-fast calculation:
While we were close the first two times, I’m not confident we’ll hit it if we try again. And if we miss a third time, what then? Do we try a fourth time? Fifth? When does it end? We’d seen performers get into this situation before, sometimes attempting their final trick eight or ten times without getting it.

I make the snap decision; instead of indicating another attempt, I turn and style, leading us into our final choreography. We lay the clubs down on the stage, bow, and exit without completing our final trick.

* * *

When the judges returned from their deliberations, I sat backstage, hoping against hope we’d done enough. I ran through the act in my head, wondering if we’d made the right calls.

The MC’s voice rings out over the microphone. In the team’s division, in third place, “Stoolies!”
Reid, Aaron, and Luke run out to accept their bronze medals.

The Stoolies always put on a good show, and I liked their act, but I dared to hope we might have gotten more points than they did. I just didn’t know if it was enough for gold.

In second place, “Team Rootberry!”
Jonathan exclaimed, “Hey, we got silver!”
We walked out, accepted our medals, and waved to the crowd.
“And finally,” the MC went on, “our gold medalists, in first place, Saccade, Greg Kennedy & Chris Ivey!”
Greg and Chris, both amazing jugglers, walked out and accepted their medals.

* * *

Afterward, Jonathan and I went back to the green room, and I immediately took off the silver medal, dropping it unceremoniously on the countertop.

My mind raced; if we’d tried the nine clubs again, would it have mattered? If we’d nailed it, could that have made the difference? Saccade had also done nine, and they’d landed it. What if it all came down to that one decision, my decision? Was it my fault we lost?
Normally, in a team, you get to celebrate the victories, as well as the defeats, together; it’s one of the best parts of being a team. But in this case, I kept it to myself. I felt too awful to even voice it. To think that Jonathan had worked so hard to get here, and my decision might have ruined it.

We packed up our gear, and I looked at my medal with distaste; the year before, when we’d won the silver, I felt like a winner. But this time, second place felt like the first loser.

And boy, did I know about being a loser. All those years of playing soccer, I always ended up on the teams that never won. Same with high school basketball, I went to every game and practice, but I only played in one game, and then only for two minutes before getting subbed out. At the end of the season, I got the Coach’s Award for being the most dedicated to the team, a consolation prize for the number one bench warmer.

The universe was determined to teach me good sportsmanship, instilled through unending defeats.

I looked at my medal again, and I knew I was being ungrateful. They’d thought enough of us to give us a silver in the world championships, and I have the audacity to feel butthurt about it? But this realization, far from making me feel better, only made me feel worse.

Jonathan and I popped open one of the theater’s emergency exits and slipped out the back door.
The cool air hit my face, and the weight of it all washed over me.

My internal dialog pulled no punches. I’m sick of losing; I’m sick of being a loser! I’ve been the good sport! And I’ve done the work! When the fuck do I get to win at something?!
It all boiled out at once, and feeling the weight of the silver medal in my hand, I suddenly snapped and hurled it down the alleyway.

As it clattered noisily along its path, Jonathan exclaimed, “What the?!” but seeing I’d reached the breaking point, he cut it short. Instead of being critical, he walked down the alleyway and retrieved it, then holding it out to me, said, “No matter how you feel about it now, one day, you’re going to want this.”
I took the medal back, feeling more ashamed than ever.

Looking down in the dim light, I saw the medals’ once crisp face was now scratched from where it’d skittered across the asphalt, an etched-in reminder of my ingratitude.

Emerging from the alleyway, we ran smack into one of the judges. “Oh, hey, nice work tonight,” he said.
“Thanks,” I said, trying to put on a good face.

“Why didn’t you guys try the nine clubs again?”
I explained that it had been my call and the reasoning behind it, that I hadn’t been sure we’d hit it.

“Ah,” he said, “That makes sense, and you’re 100% right if it’s a trick in the middle of the routine, you should move on. But in this case, it was your final trick: you should always leave the stage victorious. I tried to make an argument for you guys being the winners, but Saccade nailed their final trick, and you didn’t.”
I just nodded.

“You’re a good act, lots of potential; I think I could help you. If you ever want to do cruise ships, gimme a call.” Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd of stragglers still vacating the theater.

His words confirmed what I’d already suspected: it was my fault…

* * *

The next day, the convention was in full swing, but I was still feeling gloomy. Jack Kalvan, a wonderful juggler and human being, came over to try to cheer me up. I don’t think I responded warmly, and I feel bad about that. Sorry, Jack, if I ever have the chance to make it up to you, I owe you a late-night convention dinner at Denny’s.

Then I saw Jon Wee of the Passing Zone walking across the gym, and I flagged him down to show him our new VHS tape.
“Hey, we finally got our tape out. What do you think?”
It’s not like we had a VCR on hand, so all he could do was glance at the cover. But after a quick look, he said,
“Well, I can tell you this, you’re way ahead of most.”
He handed it back, and I thanked him.

The tape did look great. We’d used the photos Michael Voorhees had taken, and the VHS cover read as clean and professional. It was only when someone actually watched it that everything unraveled. The footage was a mix of rough clips, bad lighting, and scratchy audio. But it was better than the one we’d made on the Sony Vaio with all the digital glitches, and these small improvements eventually add up. We might not have topped our silver medal from the year before, but we were improving in other ways.

* * *

A few months later, the championship videos came out, and I had a chance to review our act compared to the gold medalists, Saccade.

It was decisive; they had done the better act. They were more technical; they’d gone clean, succeeded in their presentation, and nailed their final trick. Even if we’d done nine clubs again, it wouldn’t have been enough to win.

I wondered if silver was the best we’d ever be able to do. We’d started so late, and the other competitors were so good. Maybe we were just kidding ourselves.
Maybe it wasn’t to be.

Chapter 63: A Standing Ovation

I’d hoped we would win the championships and that the gold medal would skyrocket us toward some version of juggling fame and fortune. But instead, we were back to the local gig grind, trying to fill the calendar.

I’d just discovered a scrappy little website called performers.net, full of resources for working entertainers. They had a booking section where performers could post their availability and bookers could list upcoming gigs, so I sent out promotional materials for anything that seemed remotely a fit, casting a wide net and hoping something would bite.

Most were dead ends, but one gig seemed promising.

It was for an event in upstate New York hosted by a company called The Omega Group. I tried looking them up beforehand, but couldn’t quite figure out what they did. Their website was vague, more vibes than information. Still, it was a paid booking, and they were willing to fly us out, so we figured it was worth a shot.

When we arrived, we discovered the venue was a repurposed Boy Scout camp converted into a holistic retreat center. The grounds were beautiful, with quiet trails, old wooden buildings, and pine trees everywhere. There was zero cell service, all the food was vegan, and there were bugs floating in the punch dispenser.

I asked one of the volunteers if there was any bugless punch available, but he said there wasn’t. So I drank bug punch.
The evening’s show was quite varied. One of the opening acts was a former Cirque du Soleil contortionist who moved with precision and grace, a real pro. The group before us was a four-woman hula-hoop act who performed completely nude.

Illuminated only by a circle of candlelight, it managed to be sensual and ceremonial without feeling gratuitous. Each performer was coated in thick clay or mud, giving them a sculptural, almost mythological look.

Then it was our turn, “Please welcome our headliners! Rootberry!”
We opened with the three-ball juggling routine I’d been developing, and the audience ate it up. These weren’t jugglers; they were regular people, but to them, we were doing wizardry. Every throw landed, every joke hit. The crowd was fully with us, not just tolerating the variety act slotted between the “real” performers. They were loving us, laughing, clapping, and cheering.

When the final bit landed, the crowd leaped to their feet. Our first standing ovation ever! We bowed. They clapped. We bowed again. They kept going. And for the first time, I felt like we belonged up there.

That show marked a turning point. We finally had the complete package: juggling, comedy, sword swallowing, weird variety bits, and stage presence all working in sync.

It was a break-even gig, financially. But creatively? The night was priceless!
Unfortunately, creative wins don’t pay the rent. When we got back home, reality was waiting.

Though we’d been picking up little gigs here and there, it wasn’t enough. And with only two months of unemployment benefits left, we were heading for a wall, and fast.

To make things worse, our apartment complex had been bought by new owners. They were sprucing the place up, nothing fancy, just new door locks and ceiling fans in the bedrooms, but we knew what that meant.

Renovations were just an appetizer; a rent hike was likely to follow.

Jonathan and I started having the kinds of conversations you don’t want to have, the kind where every option feels like a compromise.

“What if no real contracts come in?” Jonathan asked.

I shrugged, already knowing where the thought led. “Then we’re in trouble.”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “And if the rent goes up?”
“That’s worse,” I said. “That probably means we can’t stay.”

“So we give up the apartment,” he said slowly. “Go back to renting rooms.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not ideal.”

He was quiet for a moment. “But doable.”

“Doable,” I agreed. “At least short term.”

We kept thinking, and in the rush of ideas, flair bartending popped up — the flashy kind, with bottle flips and choreographed pours. It wasn’t juggling, exactly, but it was still object manipulation. We might even be able to get in at Typhoon Saloon, bartending with a performance or two thrown in every shift. This wasn’t the dream, but it might keep us afloat long enough to continue the chase.

As our remaining funds trickled away, we kept training as usual. No matter how financially uncertain things felt, our commitment to improving never wavered:
Jonathan and I both became proficient at unicycling and rolla-bola balancing.
I learned to walk on an unsupported ladder.

We built a 150+ pound knife-throwing target in our apartment living room so I could learn to knife-throw.
And when the day’s training was over, we still did more.

Ten to sixteen-mile mountain bike rides, multi-hour surfing sessions, plus our two weekly juggling club meet-ups.
The training only stopped when we were sleeping.

* * *

Then, as if the universe sensed I needed a win, in early August 2002, at the Encinitas YMCA, a little after 11:00 am, I threw ten, 2 1/4 inch Ruby’s, Silver Lamé juggling beanbags in the air.

Five in the right hand, five in the left hand, “wimpy” pattern, all went up in sequence, and all returned into my hands.
Ten catches of ten balls, or a flash of ten balls.

I looked at my hands in disbelief, then double-counted to ensure one hadn’t slipped by me, but they were all there.

Excitement surged through me; a massive goal, two years in the making, and now I’d done it, I’d actually juggled 10 balls! As far as any of us knew at the time, fewer than ten people in history had ever successfully flashed ten balls.
Knowing nothing could top a flash of ten, I wrapped up for the day.

I walked over and dropped the ten beanbags, one by one, into my training bag.

One of my biggest goals, and the crowning achievement of my numbers juggling journey, was now done.

I zipped up the duffel, and as I did, I somehow knew that I’d never throw ten again. I was content with ten…
Walking towards the parking lot, I wondered if I’d ever felt content about anything before now, but couldn’t think of a time.

Chapter 64: Guinness World Record

(Warning: Adult Themes)

When I’d originally bought my first sword-swallowing swords on Pier 39 in San Francisco, they’d come in a two-pack. And one day, after a mountain biking session with my brother, as I put my bike away, I saw the extra sword sitting in my car’s backseat. I didn’t really need it, so I asked him, “Hey, you want this sword-swallowing sword?”
My brother said, “Sure,” so I gave it to him.

And I probably wouldn’t have ever thought about that moment again if I hadn’t gotten this e-mail:

—

Dear Bill,
My name is Dan Meyer, sword swallower and founder of the Sword Swallowers Association International (SSAI). I just bought a sword-swallowing sword on eBay, and when I messaged the seller, I reached your brother. He gave me your information, so I wanted to reach out and say hello.

We’re hosting the world’s first-ever Sword Swallowers convention with the Sideshow Gathering in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania, and I wanted to extend you an invitation. Representatives from Ripley’s Believe It or Not, Guinness World Records, and major media will be there, and we hope to set a group record for the most sword swallowers in one place, all sword swallowing at the same time.

Let me know if you’re interested, and I’ll get you more details.
Keep your chin up!
Dan Meyer

—

Dan Meyer… I didn’t recognize the name, but an online search said he was one of the most decorated living sword swallowers. Known for pulling a car with chains attached to a swallowed sword, sword swallowing underwater while surrounded by sharks in the New England Aquarium, swallowing a car axle, and lots more. A sword-swallowing badass!
I wrote back.

—

Dear Dan,
It’s so good to meet you, and I appreciate you reaching out. That all sounds amazing. I’d love to be a part of it. Just send me all the info, and as long as I’m available, I’m in.
Sincerely,
Bill Berry

—

When I got his response, I learned the event was being held in conjunction with a sideshow and tattoo convention. I also heard that fire-eater, performer, and tattoo artist Levi Cross of the Black Adder Cabaret would be in attendance. I’d run into Levi at a few festivals, and I knew he was a fixture in the NY scene, so I reached out and asked how he was planning to get to the convention.

He said he planned to drive and graciously offered me a spot in his van. This was a win; Levi had been running his DIY cabaret for years, and he had a reputation for being a walking encyclopedia of road stories. A few hours in a van with a guy who’d survived that many tours sounded like an education in itself.

I thanked him and asked for all the details so I could arrange my flights.
Levi gave me his home address and told me the day/time he intended to leave. Armed with all the necessary information, I booked my flights.

* * *

I didn’t have a penny to spare, and just attending would stretch my meager resources. So when I landed in New York, I pulled out some directions and maps I’d printed off the internet, hoping they would help me get to Brooklyn via the subway. I didn’t grow up in a place with subways or a culture of public transportation, so I was worried I’d get lost. After collecting my bags from the baggage claim, I followed the signs to the subway, bought a ticket, lugged my gear down some staircases, and got on a train. There wasn’t a direct to Brooklyn, and I wasn’t sure where I needed to transfer. I stood in the moving car, balancing myself and gear, poring over the maps I’d printed, listening to the announcements, and praying to hear something about Brooklyn.

Nearby, a guy with muscles that looked as if they might tear through his wife-beater shirt asked, “Yo, where you tryin’ to get?”
“Brooklyn?” I answered hesitantly.

He nodded sagely, “You’re gon hafta transfer. Relax, I’m’za tell you when.”
“Thank you,” I said, not 100% certain if I could trust him, but having no better option. I folded up my map and put it in my pocket.

The next few stops went by, and the big guy didn’t look at me or give me any indication. I started to get nervous again; I didn’t have enough time to miss a stop, so I started paying attention to the announcements again. Noticing this, the man waved his hand reassuringly as if to say, “You good, chill.”
I nodded and tried to “chill.”

Finally, an announcement came, and the man nodded, “This yo stop.”

I thanked him and gathered my gear for another run of the underground gauntlet.

As the subway doors opened, people flooded out, weaving effortlessly through the crowd that was waiting to flood in. I tried to do what they did, but they were all lightly encumbered; with all my gear, I was clumsy. Once I’d cleared the crowd, an attractive woman in her early thirties came alongside and matched me step for step. “Bhooklyn,” she said in a German accent. It wasn’t a question.

“Uh, yeah,” I said in surprise.

“Follow mehh,” she commanded.

I did, and she led me through another labyrinth of walkways and tunnels. When we emerged onto another platform, she instructed me to look for a particular train with a particular name and board it when it arrived.

I nodded my understanding, and without another word, she left me. I wanted to say thanks, but she was already ascending a nearby staircase. As she went, I noticed that her dark stockings had a thin black line down the back, ending in shiny black three-inch heels.

When the correct train arrived, I boarded along with a few other passengers. Once we were in motion, a man in a hat and business coat asked, “What stop are you supposed to take?”
“What?” I asked.

“In Brooklyn, which station do you need to get to?”
At this point, I was tempted to look around to see if I was on camera. How do all these people know I’m lost? And where I’m going? Was he on the first train, too? Or did he see the German woman giving me directions? I wanted to think about it more, but he was waiting for an answer, so I had to say something: “Uh, I need the Marcy Ave stop?”

He nodded, “Ok, I won’t let you miss it.”

“Thank you.”

He nodded, then opened his newspaper. His demeanor was the opposite of mine; clearly a veteran of this commute, he hadn’t a care in the world.

When the stop approached, he waved and said, “You’re next.”

I thanked him and debarked. Once on the platform, there were multiple options to reach street level, and I didn’t know which was correct, so I chose one at random. As I lugged my cases up multiple sets of stairs, I began to second-guess the efficacy of my Pelican luggage strategy. It worked well on flat ground, but this subway and staircase stuff, not so much.

Reaching street level, I tried to get my bearings. Opening my map, I looked for easily identifiable landmarks. As I did, a little old lady who was walking by stopped and asked, “Where are you headed?”
I told her the address, and she pointed, “Cross over there, go down nine blocks, then make a right.

I nodded, and she continued along her way.

I watched her as she went. I’d heard so many things about New Yorkers. They’re supposed to be fast, rude, and indifferent to others, too caught up in their own affairs to be bothered with anyone else. But when I’d landed and become lost in their city, they had helped me along every leg of the journey. Not because I’d asked, but because they’d noticed I needed help. Silently coordinating to pass me along to the next guide at just the right moments. The NY stereotype was far from accurate; they’re caring, salt-of-the-earth Americans who help one another out. At that moment, I no longer felt lost; millions of would-be friends surrounded me, and you can’t ever be lost with friends all around.

I followed the little old lady’s directions and found myself in a warehouse district.

Row after row of bare-faced buildings, two to six stories high, lined each side of the street. I walked along them, thinking I must have taken a wrong turn because this wasn’t like any neighborhood I’d ever seen. I checked my notes for the address and tried to find the matching number on a building, but I didn’t see it. Most of the buildings didn’t have any addresses, signage, or even mailboxes. A concrete jungle, row after row of rusty roll-up doors, with loading docks extending right out to the street. The few sidewalks were intermittent, and where they existed, they were jagged and strewn with rubble from hard industrial use. This street was designed for commerce rather than foot traffic. Yet, neither a truck, a person, nor a trace of life could be seen. I pulled out my flip phone and tried Levi’s number, but there was no answer. I didn’t want to nag, but having no other options, I called a few more times, but still, no answer. Waiting is a part of life; sometimes, you have to wait. I sat on one of the concrete loading docks and waited for something to happen.

Eventually, a yellow taxi turned onto the street. It was the only car I’d seen since I got here, and I didn’t know who it was or what its intention was, so I watched its approach carefully. It wove back and forth between the two lanes, dodging broken-up pallets, concrete rubble, and the many cavernous potholes before stopping at the curb beside me.

The far-side backseat door flew open, and a brown-haired guy in his mid-twenties leaped out. Running to the curb side, he opened the other backseat door and stood at attention like a chauffeur. An alabaster-white hand with perfectly manicured nails reached out, and the man took it, helping the occupant disembark. It struck me as unnecessarily theatrical, like a western movie where a lady is helped out of a carriage by a love-whupped cowboy.

Standing fully, she considered her assistant, evaluating his performance of duties and, finding it neither lacking nor exceptional, stepped past him. No thanks escaped her lips.

Her long, straight mahogany hair, thick and full, framed her distinctly Mediterranean face, with a sharp nose and hazel, gold-flecked eyes.

She looked at me and gave me a slow, deliberate, head-to-toe-then-back-to-head scan. We held eye contact, a long, penetrating exchange, silently looking into one another’s souls. Then she held her hand out, palm down, creating a shape that could easily be shaken, but equally invited a kiss. I popped myself off the loading dock and shook her hand, “Bill,” I said.
“Isadora,” she responded, holding my hand longer than was necessary.

At 6'5", I towered over her, but she stood confidently, chin lowered, looking up through thick eyebrows, wordlessly incanting a sultry spell that was surely the ruin of many men.

Noticing the protracted meeting, the chauffeur coughed, “Ahem.” He slammed the door loudly before heading to the trunk of the cab. Knocking twice to get the driver to pop it, he started unloading the gear.

Hearing him at work, Isadora said to me, “Help with the bags, would you?” It was asked nicely, but it wasn’t an ask.
“Looks like he’s got it under control,” I replied pleasantly.

She frowned slightly, looking at me with exaggerated disappointment. Then, telepathically, her eyes whispered, You’re going to be difficult, I see. That’s ok, you’ll be mine soon enough.

My eyes whispered back, Some men exist to take orders; others are born to give them.

Her eyes widened a thousandth of a millimeter, then one eyebrow arched in silent response. We shall see. She walked dismissively past me to prove my unimportance.

I looked over at the chauffeur, who stared daggers at me as he set another piece of luggage on the curb. His expression was clear, and I read his thoughts: Don’t you dare. She’s mine, all mine. Soon, you’ll see. She’ll come around if I do enough; I’ll show her. And she’ll fall in love with me; she must, so you stay away!
I shook my head from side to side, half telling him to give it up cuz it was not going to happen, and half telling him I wasn’t trying to take her.

But he’d already decided I was a threat, and could hear neither of my messages.

Turning, I saw that Isadora was surveying the building, clearly trying to find an entrance just as I had.
“I called him a few times, but no answer.” I supplied.

She rapped loudly on one of the metal roll-up doors, causing it to rattle in its tracks. The echo bounced around inside the warehouse space.

Without looking at me, she said, “So, what do you do?”
“I’m a juggler.”

“A juggler? Do you know Dimitris Papadopoulos?”
“I’ve met him.”

“He’s the best,” she declared.

“He is very good,” I responded.

Turning steely eyes on me, she said, “No, he’s the best.”

This quickly degraded into an argument over the nuances of juggling, what it means to be the best, whether art can be judged, the name-dropping of Anthony Gatto, Sean McKinney, and Jay Gilligan as competing candidates for the title of “best,” and her doggedly standing by the statement that Dimitris Papadopoulos is “The best.” I think it was partly because she believed it and partly because she enjoyed riling me up by being adamant. I recognized it as a deliberate row but still found myself drawn into it. We’d have turned up the temperature a few more degrees had there not been a loud whirring of cables and a scraping sound from inside the building. We waited expectantly, then heard heavy locks groan as they were pulled back. Next to the roll-up door, a normal-sized door screeched in displeasure as it was pulled wide, the post-modern equivalent of the main gate at Dracula’s Castle. Then Levi, groggy-eyed but with the ever-present “I’ve just thought of something amusing” smile he’s known for, appeared.

“Well, good morning,” he said, sounding like he was addressing an audience from the stage.
Greetings and hellos were exchanged, then he invited us inside.

We, along with our luggage, crowded onto a small platform, and Levi pulled closed an eight-foot-tall, industrial-sized accordion gate to encase us in a freight elevator. Levi reached for a giant button, nestled in a rusty metal box with a broken faceplate, and said, “Keep your hands in; there’s no safety on this thing.” Then he pressed the button. The whirring cable sound we’d heard from outside returned, only much louder, and we were slowly lifted off the ground.

::whirrrrrrr::
I watched as shattered bricks and crumbling mortar passed just inches outside the wire cage as we rode; the original red bricks were punctuated by other types, clearly patches, multi-colored, yellow and white, marking where repairs had been made over decades.

We rose two floors without speaking, as it would have been hard to be heard over the squealing cables.

Arriving at our floor, Levi let go of the button, then tapped it a few more times to align the floor of our platform with the floor we’d be stepping out onto. I’d never seen an elevator that didn’t automatically align with the arrival floor, so I asked about it. Levi said, “Depending on what you need to load or unload, sometimes it’s easier if you can fine-tune it.” He grabbed the steel accordion door, pulled it back, and we were presented with a vast warehouse space. Despite being on the third floor, the ceiling was two stories high, and before us were row after row of bookshelves stacked high with thousands of books. I’d never seen anything like this, and sensing our unasked questions, Levi began a tour. “If you’ve ever gone to a bookstore to get a book, only to find that it’s out of stock, and they tell you they can order it. This is where those books are stored.”

Walking over to one of the industrial bookcases, I saw that the shelf had dozens of copies of the same book. Looking at the shelf above it, I found the same book. Walking to the next shelf, I saw different books, but always in droves, some with hundreds of copies. There was no overhead electric lighting, so my eye was drawn to the far corner of the space, where the light from what I presumed to be a big window shone in. Wanting a closer look, I walked towards it, but when I got there, I came upon a giant pile of brick rubble instead of a window. The entire corner of the building had collapsed into the space, toppling several of the bookshelves in the process. The books lay where they’d fallen, victims of the decay. The floor itself, made from thick, old-growth wooden planks, felt secure enough, so I climbed onto the pile of rubble to look out the hole. Below, I could see the rooftops of a few smaller buildings and the street where we’d just been waiting. I silently wondered if Levi had come to this very spot to see who was banging on his door before coming to greet us.

I heard Levi’s voice from behind me: “Last winter, we had six feet of snow blow in here. I cleared it, but it came right back, so I just left it. We’re responsible for watching the place to make sure there’s no theft or vandalism, but there’s not a lot of maintenance going on.”

“But why? Why is it like this? Why don’t they fix it up?”
Levi looked at me, trying to think of the best way to answer the question: “The buildings on the block have been condemned, so it’s supposed to be torn down, but the owners and residents have it all tied up in court, so everything is in limbo.”
“How long will it be in limbo?”
Levi shook his head, “Years, maybe even decades, no one knows.”

“What happens if they make a ruling to tear it down?”
Levi shrugged, “Then we’ll move, but for now, it’s cheap, and it’s home. I just wish it didn’t get so darned cold in here.”
“How do you deal with the cold?”
“We wear our winter coats.”
“Inside?”
Levi smiled, “Inside.” Then he turned, “Shall we continue the tour?”
I glanced out the collapsed wall and saw a rusty metal fire escape meant to service Levi’s building. It dangled ominously off the side of the structure. Looking at the attachment points, I saw that all but one of the bolts that initially anchored it to the building had given way, and now that one bolt was preventing the entire thing from crashing down to the street below. I wondered if it would hold if someone had to escape a fire on it, and whether I’d trust it enough to even try. The sound of the group’s departing footsteps broke my reverie, and not wanting to be left behind, I ran to catch up with Levi as he traveled deeper into the building.

Beyond the rows of bookshelves was a large industrial door, big enough to drive a forklift through. As we passed through it, we found ourselves in Levi’s home. Walking into the Black Adder lair was like the circus equivalent of when Harry Potter went to Ollivanders to buy his wand. A two-story stack of antique circus props, posters, books, and old medical paraphernalia, all wrapped around a room that served as a bedroom, kitchen, office, and training space. I slowly turned in a circle, trying to take it all in, wanting to appreciate what I was seeing, but it was impossible to absorb it as individual items or treasures. I got the feeling that I could pick up any item and, by asking, “What’s this?” send Levi into a nostalgic story of who, where, when, what, and why it had come into his possession.

Levi gave us a quick tour, but my ADD was kicking in as I tried to take it all in, so I ended up missing most of what he said. Then it was time for us to load up, so it was back to the elevator and down to the street. Levi went to get his van and pull it around. I waited with Isadora and her chauffeur. As Levi pulled the van to the curb. I thought, I really should offer her the front seat; it would be the gentlemanly thing to do, but then I thought, I don't know her, and I don't know the chauffeur. I know Levi, and one of the things I was most looking forward to was talking to him. So when the van’s back doors were opened, I quickly loaded my gear, then claimed the front passenger seat to ride shotgun. Isadora and the chauffeur got into the backseat, and we hit the road. Levi said it would take us five hours to get there, but assured us that all would be well since we'd be blessing our trip with a stop at Cracker Barrel.

“What’s Cracker Barrel?” I asked.

Levi’s jaw dropped, “You've never been to Cracker Barrel?!”
“I haven’t.”

“Well, it’s only the single greatest contribution to American life. You have not lived until you’ve had Uncle Herschel’s fried apples and hash brown casserole.”

Before he said that, I had not realized how hungry I was. But with that description, I was now very much looking forward to this Cracker Barrel place.

As promised, we stopped, and I enjoyed the old country store feel of my first Cracker Barrel. For the uninitiated, it’s essentially a diner, but a diner unto itself. It has an old-timey gift shop featuring toys and treats from a bygone era on one side, and the restaurant on the other.

After that, it was back on the road, and that’s when I got to hear Levi’s own story. He had been putting together touring circus shows for many years, playing clubs and dive bars across the country, bringing entertainment to any place that would have them. I asked him how profitable these touring shows could be, and he said that they had been quite profitable at one point. But with rising fuel costs, putting on a show was getting harder and harder — especially so because he insisted on having a live musician on stage and a diverse lineup to ensure the audience got a fantastic show.

“I know you can do almost everything: glass eating, fire manipulation, juggling, and lots more… So what kind of performers do you typically hire for these shows?” I asked.

“We’ve had just about everything,” he said, “I used to have a guy who would paint himself silver. And not with special silver makeup; he would take silver spray paint and cover himself.”

“Wait,” I interrupted, “isn’t spray paint super toxic? And how did he get it off after the show?”
“It is VERY toxic,” Levi confirmed, “which may explain why he was so crazy. As for taking it off, I saw him scrubbing down with gasoline one time; that seemed to work. But most of the time, he didn’t take it off. We would go into restaurants or wherever, and he’d be all silver.”

“Wow,” I whispered.

“What else, oh, we had a pee drinker one time.”
“What did he do?”
Levi smiled his easy smile, “Well, he drank pee. Usually his own, but I saw him drink other people’s a time or two.”
“Ew, gross!” I exclaimed.

“Well, not everyone can be a skilled act like a sword swallower,” he teased, “Some of us gotta do it the hard way.”

We kept this friendly banter going all the way to Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.

I’d already liked Levi before this trip, but as the miles passed, he quickly became one of my favorite people.

* * *

The tattoo and sideshow convention was non-stop stimulation. Anywhere you turned, booths were set up, and people were scheduling tattoos, getting tattooed, talking about tattoos, or showing off fresh tattoos. Mixed up in it all were we freaks and geeks. I met Dan Meyer in person, the one who was organizing this “Big Swallow,” as this event was being called. He was every bit the gentleman in real life as he had been over our email correspondence. I met representatives from Ripley’s Believe It or Not and Guinness World Records. Natasha Veruska performed a sword-swallowing act while belly dancing. I got to meet Red, the Scottish sword-swallowing dwarf. And, of course, Eric was there, though you might know him better by his stage name, “The Lizard Man." He is tattooed head to toe in green, his teeth have been filed into fangs, and he has had subdermal implants installed that give him bony-looking ridges and protrusions around his face and body. Judging him by his appearance, you might assume him to be the biggest freak of all. But if you give him a chance, he’s pretty down to earth. And highly intelligent, but not the kind of intelligence that tries to assert and prove itself. That humble intelligence that reveals itself through knowledge and articulation without being trumpeted. A quintessential example of why we can’t judge a book by its cover, there’s a great thinker under those tattooed scales.

On the second day, Friday, August 30, 2002, all of us sword swallowers took to the stage. In front of countless camera flashes and as many rolling cameras, we upended our swords. Nineteen sword swallowers, swallowing fifty swords in total, all at the same time. Once the photos were snapped, we all pulled out our swords, and that’s how I got my first Guinness World Record.
Excitedly, I went to shake Dan Meyer’s hand, but he waved off my hand and hugged me instead, “I’m so glad you could be here!”
“Thank you for inviting me; really, this means so much for all of us.”

Always humble, Dan said, “I’m honored that all these amazing people came together to make it happen; you and they deserve all the credit.”

I wanted to say more, but the legend of sideshow, performer Todd Robbins, wearing his iconic straw boater hat with a red-and-white ribbon around its crown, walked up to shake Dan’s hand and offer congratulations.

Not wanting to overstay my welcome, I turned to roll off, but Dan put his hand on my shoulder to stop me and said, “Bill, have you met Todd?”
“I haven’t,” I said, reaching out my hand.

Todd shook my hand, said he was pleased to meet me, and congratulated me on a job well done. Then he turned to Dan and said, “Something like this has been far overdue. We should do this every year.”

Surprised, Dan said, “Aren’t we going to do this every year? It wouldn’t be much of a tradition if we didn’t do it again next year, and bigger, of course!”
“Of course,” Todd smiled.

Dan continued, “You know, technically, just having nineteen sword swallowers in one room is a world record; you think they’d let us submit for that?”
Todd laughed, saying, “Dan Meyer, always the showman.”

I quietly slipped away as they laughed to allow them this rare opportunity to catch up. As I did, I spied Needles and Isadora beside the stage in one of the booths, so I walked over to see what they were up to.

I’d only met Needles in passing, but he had the demeanor of someone with clout, so I’d made a point to remember him.
He didn’t look up as I approached; he was deep in the zone, his heavy, black-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose, held in place only by sweat and concentration. With gloved hands, he was carefully installing a series of barbless, oversized, stainless steel fish hooks into Isadora’s back, from the top of her shoulder blades down to the small of her back. He gently adjusted one that was trickling a steady rivulet of blood. The leakage had traced a crimson line down the small of her back before it was interrupted by the just visible elastic band of her underwear. She was topless, with only pasties stuck over her nipples for modesty. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, “How is it?”
“It’s ok,” he said, pushing his glasses back up with the gloved knuckle of his pinky finger. “But we might have to reposition this one if it doesn’t calm down. How are you doing?”
She nodded her head, clearly in pain but unwilling to acknowledge it, “I’m good,” she lied.

Grabbing another three-inch hook, he pinched a wad of her back flesh. Hooking it in low so it would curl around and re-emerge a little higher up, he pressed it through her body. She “Umpff’ed” as it went, and I heard her exhale sharply. She looked at me as he settled this new piercing and admitted, “I felt that one.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“For my wings.”

“Wings?”
As if it were the most normal thing in the world, she said, “For my angel wings so that they can attach to me.”
I nodded as if that made sense, though I didn’t know what she was talking about.

A gentleman acting as MC while the various performers took turns performing walked over and asked Isadora if she was ready. She nodded and said, “We just have to attach the wings, then I’ll be ready.”
He nodded and said, “Ok, let me know when, and I’ll introduce you.” Then he walked back to the stage to wait.

Isadora told her chauffeur to make preparations, and he nodded. Standing to go, he graced me with a scowl, reminding me of my place, then disappeared backstage.

Needles leaned back to inspect his work, and seemingly satisfied, he waved his hand, “I think that’s good.”

Leaning over, I saw the eight hooks looping through her back flesh, neatly aligned in two rows of four. The one was still oozing, but it had subsided somewhat.

Isadora took a deep breath, then stood and regally made her way backstage. Whenever she walked, she appeared to be floating just above the actual earth that the rest of us were condemned to walk on.

Once backstage, I couldn’t see her anymore, but I could tell when she was ready because the MC nodded and reached for the microphone. Taking it, he shifted into a Greatest Show on Earth type announcer voice and said, “Ladies and Gentlemen, please make your way to the main stage because we have a special treat in store for you. All the way from Patras, Greece, please put your hands together for The Incredible Isadora!!”
The crowd was appropriately enthusiastic, and the DJ pressed play. A haunting instrumental track exuded a melancholic atmosphere throughout the room. Its brooding, somber tones were slow and deliberate, promising performance with emotional weight. As the moment grew heavy, Isadora stepped out on stage. Scantily clad, she slowly walked to the center of the stage, each step revealing more and more of the fabric wings as they unfurled from off-stage, until finally the chauffeur became visible. He was holding two long poles, each attached to the fabric at its tip, then, as the music built, he lifted them. This raised the large wings, which he then flapped up and down rhythmically as she moved and danced. I’d never seen anything like it before — dark, elegant, beautiful. Admittedly, she looked quite good moving under the lights. As I watched, one of the sword swallowers, Thomas Blackthorne, walked up and, getting my attention, said, “Have you swallowed the sword yet?”
Breaking away from the performance, I asked dumbly, “Huh?”
“Do you know about the sword?” Judging by my blank look, he continued, “You don’t know about the sword. Okay, so I made this.” As he said this, he lifted the sword he was holding. “I’m trying to get every living sword swallower to swallow it, and once they do, I ask them to sign this book.”
“How many do you have so far?” I asked.
“Seventeen now, eighteen if you say yes.”
“Can I clean it?”
“Of course, do whatever you need to prepare.”
I nodded, then opened one of my nearby road cases to fetch my sword-swallowing kit. Opening it up, I went through my normal cleaning protocols, wiping the blade thoroughly with an alcohol wipe, then opened a second and wiped it again for good measure, since seventeen other people had already swallowed it.

I sprayed it down with a few spritzes of cool mint Listerine, my preferred sword spray, then upended the large blade. It slid down smoothly, and I was impressed by the craftsmanship; a truly fine blade. Then I pulled it back out.

Opening another swab, I cleaned the blade and returned it to the man.

“If you could just sign here, it’ll be officially eighteen.”
I took the pen and signed his ledger.

“Thank you,” he said, then he wandered off to find number nineteen.

Having finished her performance, Isadora returned to the booth where the hooks had originally been inserted, and now Needles began removing them. He worked with the detached efficiency of a mechanic, his glasses perched precariously at the very tip of his nose as he squinted at the wounds. Based on her groans and grimaces of pain, the removal was as painful as the piercing itself, and her already pale skin whitened all the more.

Once he had finished the extractions, Needles dropped the last bloodied hook into a tray with a hollow clink. He gave her back a final, clinical pat with a piece of gauze and muttered, “You’re clear, kid. Just try not to lean on anything. You got your bandages?”
Isadora reached for her bag, but after some searching, realized her bandages were still in the hotel room. So she draped herself in a white, see-through cloth, which promptly soaked up the blood trickling from the wounds. This created a gunshot wound sort of splatter effect across her back. Far from concealing, it only made the black pasties over her nipples, and the little black booty shorts she’d performed in seem more sensual.

Turning to me, she said in a waifish, damsel-in-distress voice, “Would you accompany me to the room to tend my wounds?”
The gentleman in me wanted to leap to her assistance; after all, it would be difficult to dress wounds on one’s own back. But I also recognized it as a transparent attempt to get me into her room. In the split second I was considering this, another performer who was standing close enough to hear the request excitedly said, “I’ll help you!”
A wave of displeasure washed across her cheeks, and she glared at me unhappily, clearly wanting me to speak up and tell him I’d handle it, but I said nothing. She turned to him and, with a feigned smile, said, “Why, thank you, what a gentleman, in fact,” she turned to look at me again, “I think I’ll need both of you.” Without waiting to see if I’d agree, she turned and started for the elevators. The other performer fell in on her heels, and I figured, why not, so I trailed along as well.

When we arrived at the room, she stripped off the little clothing she still wore and, now fully nude, walked towards the bathroom. Over her shoulder, she instructed me, “Grab a washcloth, would you?”

Immediately, the other performer said, “I’ll get it,” and darted over to grab one. She gave me a truly stormy look before turning and stepping into the tub. Once there, she turned on the water and, once it was temperate, activated the shower. She stood in the flow until the worst of the leakage had been rinsed away, then she sat on the edge of the tub and unenthusiastically told the other guy to clean the wounds, which he dutifully did. For all but the most painful moments of the procedure, she looked over her right shoulder, past him, through the door of the bathroom, until her eyes found mine. We held eye contact for a long time, all while he cleaned, until he finally said, “I think you’re good.”

She nodded silently, then said, “Thank you, I’ll shower now.”
It was clearly a dismissal, so he stood to leave, and I stood to go, too. But as we started to leave, she said to me, “Would you bring me the small black bag from my suitcase?”
The other performer started to oblige the request, but she stopped him. “Not you,” she said, then indicating me. “He’ll bring it.”
The other performer nodded, then left us.

I walked over to the luggage, picked up the small bag, and brought it to her in the shower. She took it, then tiptoed to the edge of the tub and leaned out so far she fell into my arms. I had to hold her so she wouldn’t tumble out. I felt her bare wet breasts pushing into my chest. She tilted her head back sensually and whispered, “Thank you,” in a breathy voice, then closed her eyes in anticipation of my kiss. Still supporting her so she wouldn’t slide out of the tub, I bent my head down and planted a loud peck on the top of her nose.

Her eyes shot open, blazing in anger. But just as quickly, her composure returned, and turning back into the shower with a “humpfh,” she slid the glass door shut.

I let myself out of her room and went back down to the convention floor.

* * *

The next morning, I checked out of my room at 10:00 am, but since we weren’t going to return to NY until much later, I was “homeless.”
Dragging my gear through the lobby, I ran into Isadora, and she asked why I had all my gear. I explained the situation, and she offered to let me keep it all in her room. Puzzled, I asked, “Did you book for an extra night?”
“No, I asked the man at reception to extend my checkout, and he told me to take as much time as I needed.” She shrugged modestly as she said this, as if such a thing would have been offered to anyone who’d asked, but I knew she’d sweet-talked him into giving her perks.

I didn’t want to schlep my gear around all afternoon, so I accepted her offer. But on the way to the elevator, one of the tattoo artists, who’d been aiming a romantic eye at Isadora all weekend, walked up and said, “We’re loading up some vans to go to breakfast, are you coming?”
Isadora smiled at him and said, “Yes, of course, we’ll be right there.”
“Well, we’re all loaded up and ready to leave, but I wanted to make sure you knew; I’ll tell them to wait.” Then he hurried off to hold the vans.

Isadora and I went up to her room, and I set my cases unobtrusively off to one side. She went into the bathroom to touch up her makeup, and I looked out the window over the little square of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Time passed, and more time passed, until I got antsy because they were all waiting for us.

Despite this, Isadora was in no hurry, going about her tasks as if there was nowhere we needed to be. I watched this for a bit and decided that she probably liked that everyone was waiting for us. Finally, fifteen minutes later, she walked over to me and, assuming a stance similar to the one she’d taken the day before in the bathtub, she leaned in close, head back, and breathily asked, “Are you ready?”
I thought it was sweet that she’d let me store my things in her room, and despite our initial off-putting row, she was growing on me. So I leaned in, and we enjoyed a real kiss. Which, I had to admit, was nice.

Then we made our way down to the vans.

I was sure everyone would be irate, but no one said a word. Isadora had a power, especially over men, and since the majority of the van’s occupants were men, none dared complain.
Lunch was uneventful.

* * *

Later that afternoon, I was back in Isadora’s room, and she asked when my flight was leaving from New York.
“Tomorrow, early in the morning,” I answered, “5:00 am.”

“That is early, where did you book your room? Are you staying at the airport hotel?”
“Actually, no, I didn’t get a room; I figured I’d just go to the airport and wait there until morning.”

Isadora’s eyes widened, “No, no, that won’t do, you’ll stay with me, at least until it’s time for you to go.”

“Thank you, but I’d have to leave your place at like 2:00 am to make my way on the subway.”
“Yes, they’re open then, you’ll be fine, I’ll make sure you make it.”

She was so confident about everything, and the way she spoke was hypnotic, so I acquiesced, “Okay.”

She smiled, “Okay then.” And, as if it had only just then occurred to her, she said, “You know, if you’re leaving that early, we should probably shower now, the place we’ll be staying tonight has a shared shower situation, and… It would be better.”

She stood up as if this plan was already agreed upon and made her way into the bathroom. I watched her unrobe, then she stood with her back to me. Her nude form was a perfect hourglass shape that flowed into a fit bottom with strong legs. Like something straight out of a Playboy photo spread. After giving me a moment to take in her perfection, she said over her shoulder, “Join me.” Then she stepped into the tub.

I stood and made my way to the shower. I don’t even know why; as sometime only moments ago I’d still been thinking for myself, but now it was just so easy to do what she suggested. I stripped off all my clothes and joined her in the shower. She turned to me and leaned in, offering her intoxicating kisses. We kissed deeply, passionately. Hooking my arm around the small of her back, I pulled her tightly against me. Her round breasts pressed against my chest. Then, trusting my arms to arrest her, she arched back in invitation. I leaned in to kiss her neck, slowly kissing my way down to her breasts, then I took one of her nipples between my teeth. I bit down gently, gauging her sensitivity. In response, she grabbed my neck and pulled me in, asking for more. I did as commanded, and she let out a moan of pleasure. She pulled again, pressing the other breast into my face. I gave the second nipple some attention, but this time, I bit ethereally, beyond gently, lightly flicking my tongue across it. She melted in my arms, and I bit a little harder, then inhaled to draw cool air across her wet nipple flesh. When I was sure she’d felt the cold of the inhalation breeze, I’d warm her skin again with a fleshy lick from my tongue, then repeat the inhale to send the alternating hot and cold sensations buzzing through her. Instinctively, she lifted one leg, suggestive of a standing face-to-face love-making session. But I pushed her leg down. Righting her, I slowly kissed my way down her chiseled abs, until I was suggestively kissing the creases where the upper leg and hip meet. I switch from side to side, kissing and teasing my way, but careful not to go between her legs, I wanted her to savor the touch, wanted her to want it more than anything. She grabbed my head and began to direct me to her center of pleasure. Obeying, I kissed and licked all through her well-trimmed mound, my tongue slowly making its way lower, edging closer and closer to her bliss. I could feel the start of the ridges of her outer lips, and knew I was only millimeters away from diving full-long into her sex. But at that moment, my senses returned to me, I remembered that I hardly knew her, and more than that, I wasn’t in love with her. Every intimate moment I’d had up until this moment had been with someone I loved. I stopped and looked down at my fully erect penis, clearly turned on by what was happening, but something about it not being love took me all out of the moment. Rather than delivering on the promises my tongue had been making, I stood up. Isadora took this surprisingly in stride; she looked at me with her bright, beautiful eyes. Then, unhesitatingly, she dropped to her knees and took me fully into her mouth.

“Oh wow,” I whispered.

She looked up at me, and her eyes smiled knowingly, as if to say, “Of course it’s good, what’d you expect?”
Then she slid her mouth erotically down the sides of me, masterfully conducting a biological orchestra. She continued for a few more delicious seconds, then she stood up, leaving the promise unfinished.

Sexual as it all was, the moment broke, we exchanged a few kisses, then had a relatively normal shower experience, mostly washing ourselves, not really interacting. Near the end, she turned to me and said, “You go ahead, I need to do a few more things.”

I had expected to finish the shower together, so I was curious what these “things” were. But I wasn’t going to argue, I got out to dry off and get dressed. And she did whatever she needed to do, which took about twenty minutes.

After that, we packed up and went to the lobby to meet Levi. Isadora, of course, checked out, which surprised the receptionist, who’d probably never seen anyone do their morning check-out at 5:00 pm before.

We got in the van and headed back to New York…

* * *

By the time we arrived at Isadora’s flat, I was exhausted. The weekend itself had been non-stop, and I’d had little sleep.
Our room was “private,” but was part of a larger apartment which housed other residents. So I asked, “Where’s your guy, the chauffeur, is he gonna turn up?”
With a reassuring smile, she said, “No, he won’t be around.”
I didn’t ask how she knew this.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, already preparing something.
“Sure,” I said.

Isadora made us both drinks, a tea of some sort, but with an earthy flavor I’d never tasted before.
“What do you think?”
“It’s good,” I affirmed, still not 100% certain about it.

While we were drinking our tea, there was some commotion in the hallway: two men fighting about something. I wanted to investigate and make sure we were safe and that the commotion wouldn’t spill into our room, but Isadora reassured me that everything was okay, and I felt so very tired.

Isadora took our cups to the kitchen, then dimmed the lights and settled in next to me. She was relaxed and reassuring; I’d even say snuggly, which was so different than how she’d been all weekend. It seems her normal, larger-than-life persona had been hung in the closet with the other costumes.

Then, as if by magic, she was suddenly wearing comfortable pajama-like clothes. And I wondered how I’d missed that. I felt like I couldn’t keep my eyes open, and seeing this, she said, “Here, lay your head in my lap.”

At that moment, nothing in the world could have sounded better, and I lay down in her lap. She gently scritched her fingernails across my scalp, which felt amazing. Then, I looked up at her, into her big, hazel eyes. As I did, the whites around the edges began to retreat, as if black ink had been poured into them, gobbling up all the whites. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, so I kept staring in shock. Seeing my reaction, she asked, “What is it? What do you see?”
Now the black ink around the edges reformed in the middle, her round pupils elongated into cat-like slits, and their middles flared with a dark yellow glow. My own eyes must have widened because she asked again, “What is it? Tell me?”
Turning my head away and closing my eyes, I said, “Your eyes,” as if that explained everything.

“What about my eyes?” she asked, her voice a calming salve of milk and honey.

“They’re changing,” I said, not explaining.

I felt her hand grip my shoulder reassuringly, and she said, “It’s ok, everything is going to be ok.”

“Okay,” I said, sinking deeper into her lap.

I lay there feeling as if I were outside time, and I marveled at how strange everything felt. Then, somewhere in the far reaches of my mind, a quiet question sounded: What kind of tea was that anyway?
Then everything went dark.

* * *

My next memory was Isadora shaking me, “You have to go; you’re going to miss your flight!”
The thought of missing my flight brought me back to full awareness. I was so broke I couldn’t afford to re-book it if something went wrong, so I leaped up and started gathering my things.

Rolling everything to the door, I suddenly realized that I didn’t know where I was, where the nearest subway was, what times they were running, how to get to the airport, or even what time it was!
Seeming to read my thoughts, Isadora said, “Don’t worry, just walk three blocks, turn left, then two more blocks, and you’ll see the subway. Not having time to do anything more than act on that information, I dashed out without a kiss or even a goodbye.
Bursting out the front door, I leaped down the steps of the brownstone with my road cases thunking heavily on the stairs behind me. Despite it being the middle of the night, there were a surprising number of people on the street for 2:00 am.

Turning in the direction she’d indicated, I jogged the three blocks and made the left turn. As I did, I came face-to-face with a tall, thin homeless woman. She stared right into my soul, then screamed something unintelligible at me. Not knowing what she wanted, I apologized and tried to go around her. As I did, she sidestepped directly into my personal space, as close as could be without touching, and continued shouting her unintelligible tirade. I quickened my step to get around her. As I gained distance, I realized she was interspersing bible verses with words I could not understand, as if she were speaking in tongues. I continued my two-block jog to the subway, still hearing her shrieks all the way. When I got to the steps, I looked back to see where she was, and even from that distance, she still stared unblinkingly at me. She must be demon-possessed, I thought, and somehow, the demon had my number.

I fled down the stairs, my cases bouncing loudly behind me, until I disappeared into the underground.

Chapter 65: The High Price of Staying

Arriving home from the sword-swallowing convention, I found a notice in the mailbox.

In thirty days, our rent would increase from $675 to $950.

I’d known it was coming, but it still stung. The nail in our coffin was slammed home. With no steady work available, we’d have to move.

We notified the office that we’d be out on October 1st, 2002.

Far as we’d come, a little part of me wondered if we’d reached the end.

Everything with Jonathan was great; there wasn’t any tension between us, we just hadn’t managed to break through to those bigger and better things as we’d hoped.

As if the universe had noticed the precariousness of our situation, Isadora messaged a few days later. She said there was a juggling position available in a touring show in Greece.

I wrote back to ask if there was room in the budget for two, since we’re a duo, but she said no.

This left me torn. I needed the money badly, but if I accepted the gig, I’d have to do it without Jonathan. That would send me down a new pathway. A pathway building connections in Greece, and potentially a new relationship, personal and professional, with this sultry alabaster angel. It wasn’t anything like what I’d imagined. I wanted to succeed with Rootberry; I wanted us to win the championships; I wanted to overcome the seemingly insurmountable odds every artist faces and prove it can be done. Crack the code of artistic and financial success!

So, I wrote back and told her how much I appreciated the offer, but turned it down.

* * *

A few weeks later, I got another message from Isadora; after I’d turned down the initial opportunity in Greece, she’d redirected her energy to the States and managed to land a four-week-long Halloween Horror Nights-type gig at The Lost Atlantis Resort in Gulfport, Mississippi. She told me it would be a sideshow-type performance that Jonathan and I would be perfect for.

I asked about the dates, and she said it started on October 3rd and ended on November 2nd.

OMG, could it be any more perfect?!

We could move out of our apartment on October 1st and drive straight there for the month-long contract.

I talked it over with Jonathan, then we accepted the gig.

Finally, thanks to Isadora, we had something on the calendar.

Chapter 66: Lost Atlantis Resort

(Warning: Adult Themes)

Because of the Legoland contract, I’d been able to stay in one place for almost four years, the longest I’d been in one spot since I left home at nineteen. As is prone to happen when you stay in one spot for too long, we’d acquired “stuff.”

For example, Jonathan had won a big-screen TV in a raffle, which was cool; it made watching juggling tapes on VHS feel like a theater experience, but it was an item we never would have spent real money on. Since it wasn’t going to fit in his little Honda Civic, it had to go.

Conversely, I’d spent substantial time learning to throw knives, with the ultimate goal being to throw them around Jonathan in a show. But after building a seven-foot-tall behemoth target made of 2x6 Douglas Fir planks, a backstop that easily weighed 150 pounds, we’d learned that any sort of target big enough to stop knives is also too big to lug to gigs. I tried to find a home for this wooden oddity, but unsurprisingly, no takers.

Still, all that was minor compared to the most painful concession of all: I knew I wouldn’t have room for all my surfboards. Our place was less than a mile from the beach, and we surfed three or four times per week, so I’d acquired a small quiver of boards. But now we were leaving, and who knows if or when we’d be able to surf again. I looked at the four boards, thinking about the amazing waves we’d caught together, and a deep soul-ache settled in my heart. I can’t do it. I grabbed my favorite board, a 7'0" Merrick FCS Trifin Squashtail, and said, “Not you, you’re coming with me.” Then, apologetically, to my 6'10" Merrick, and the 7'4" locally shaped hybrid I’d learned to ride on, and the yellow 6'9" Rusty that absolutely came to life in surf ten feet high or bigger, I said, “Sorry guys, I gotta sell ya.” None of them answered; they were good boards, and they understood what it takes to chase dreams.

* * *

Two days before we were to hand in the keys and leave forever, I had most of my things test-packed in the car. That’s when I realized there was no way my bed was going to fit. I thought about strapping it to the top of the car, wrapping it in a tarp or something, but it didn’t seem worth it. I’m gonna be gone for at least a month, and who knows what will happen from there? We might not even come back to California, so I'm not going to pay for a self-storage here just to store my bed; it has to go. I’ll find another one somewhere down the line.

Then I reached the worst sticking point. No matter how I Tetris’ed my items around in the car, there was no room for my surfboard. I considered strapping it to the roof, but worried it would be stolen within days. So, with a heavy heart, I took it to the used board shop, too. When the surf bro handed me the cash, a little piece of my soul died. It wasn’t just that I was giving up a much-loved surfboard; I knew in my heart this was the closing of a chapter I’d never get back.

* * *

On the morning of October 1st, 2002, Jonathan had already moved his essential belongings back to his mom’s house, and I’d left my car in my mom’s driveway. Then we piled the last few of our personal belongings into Jonathan’s car in preparation for the drive to Mississippi. Before turning in the keys, I did a last sweep through the apartment to make sure we had everything. As I closed the door, I wondered what the maintenance guy would think when he opened the door and found a seven-foot-tall, chewed-up knife-throwing target with a human silhouette painted onto it. I imagine it gave him a fun story to tell back at the office.

We dropped off the keys and started the grueling drive to Gulfport and our Halloween Horror Nights contract.

* * *

I texted Isadora to let her know when we’d be getting in, and she said she’d be there when we arrived.

When we did arrive, by some miracle of convergence, we walked into the lobby, and there she was, with a hotel rollaway cart fully loaded with luggage.

The young man behind the hotel desk was busily checking her in, and after a couple of flirtatious comments and batted eyelashes, he upgraded us to the presidential suite, at no extra charge, of course. Keys in hand, she marched straight past the cart, leaving Jonathan and me to gather our luggage, her cart, and drag the lot to the elevator.

When we got to the room, we were presented with the biggest hotel room I’d ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned one wall, offering a glittering postcard view of the city. Off to one side was a full kitchen with stainless steel appliances and granite counters, the kind of setup you’d expect for a legitimate chef, not a hotel suite. The living room sprawled with overstuffed couches, a huge entertainment center, and, most outrageously, a massive, jetted, porcelain-white jacuzzi tub planted dab smack in the middle of the living room. The suite had two separate sleeping areas: Jonathan’s room had a queen-sized bed with its own bathroom, while Isadora and I would share the master, a king-sized bed, with its own spacious en-suite bathroom. It wasn’t Motley Crüe rock star fancy, but it was definitely, I’ve-heard-of-them rock star fancy.

I started unpacking my toiletries kit when Isadora said, “I think I’ll have a bath.” She walked over to the big living-room tub and turned on the water. While the tub filled, she stripped naked in front of us like it was the most natural thing. Her tight, round breasts prickled with chilly bumps as she stepped into the warm water, nipples visibly hardening. Then she lowered herself slowly into the water, a perfect striptease-esque move that only briefly revealed a meticulously trimmed patch of hair above her mound of Venus. Sinking deeply, she extended her legs out the end of the tub seductively, then, turning to us, asked, “Well, are you coming?”
Though her question was vague, we knew she was inviting both of us.

Jonathan answered first, “Ah, you go ahead,” as he patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll go shower in the other bathroom,” he added as he gathered his things.

Isadora smiled, enjoying the moment, then she looked at me and said, “Well?”
I was uncomfortable with the whole situation, so I stripped down to my underwear and climbed into the tub with the underwear still on. This sent Isadora into a bout of head-back laughter. “You’re such a good boy; I like good boys.”

Sensing my unease, Isadora raised one small snowy white foot and, in a soft voice that carried an air of command, said, “Wash me.”
I took the little bar of hotel soap, scrubbed it into a lather, and grasping one foot, pressed my thumbs along the arch in a way I knew would be pleasing. Isadora smiled as I worked, tilting her head back and closing her eyes. I continued, taking my time. I thought back to the stack of massage books I’d bought and read in high school, and the many techniques they contained. I’d become interested when someone I’d met said they were making $100 an hour for a massage, and I’d thought, I’d better learn how to do that, so I studied. My girlfriend at the time was happy to let me practice whenever I liked, so I practiced.

Returning to the present, I moved to Isadora’s calf. I drew two fingers along the muscle, bringing forth a moan from my ivory-skinned water nymph. I wasn’t doing anything sexual; the touch itself would have been professional in any other setting. But I sensed the unspoken invitation. Still, I kept it friendly, washing and massaging, without overstepping any boundaries. Which made me wonder, why was I resisting? Her beauty was undeniable. I just didn’t feel in love, and aren’t you supposed to love someone before having sex with them? I repeated my routine with her other leg until I reached the professional line at her upper thigh, then worked a little beyond that. Having finished the lower half and unable to reach any farther with her reclined, I rolled onto my knees. From there, I began to wash her arms, shoulders, and, eventually, breasts. As my hands passed over her nipples, they firmed pleasantly, showing their appreciation of the attention. I gently rolled them between my fingers, and Isadora arched her back, pressing forward, inviting more. Instead, I glided my fingers gently up to her neck, gently slathering her throat in suds. It was suggestive of a choke, suggestive of power play, but soft and gentle. She lifted her head to make eye contact and, grabbing my arm, pulled me onto her, inviting a coital embrace. I resisted, and a flash of displeasure appeared in her gaze. Suddenly, the pull became a push, and I fell back, sitting on my heels. Now she lifted herself and, rolling onto her knees, crawled onto me. I had to rotate to shift my own knees from under myself, and as I did, she reached under the water, pulled back my underwear, and grabbed me.

We kissed, we touched, we teased, but we didn’t have sex. She felt my resistance, and I’m sure wondered about it.
I wondered, too, why I wasn’t jumping at this opportunity.

I guess I’m still so heartbroken over the breakup with my seven and a half year girlfriend that I’m not ready to be with anyone, especially if my heart isn’t fully in it.

I had years of relationship experience, but all of it had been with one woman, a woman I loved.
Anything else still felt strange.

Chapter 67: Halloween Horror Nights

The next day we all went over to The Lost Atlantis Resort to see where we’d be performing. Once upon a time, it had been a Dolphinarium, and you could still see the ghosts of that park everywhere: empty tanks, rusting bleachers, coral-colored signs sun-faded to pale ghosts of themselves. The roller coaster next to our stage, however, was still very much alive, a twisting mass of creaking timbers that rattled and roared at regular intervals.

Our stage was a temporary raised platform, the kind they erect for seasonal events, just enough space for a crowd and enough riser to make our show feel official. We got our schedule and learned that we’d be performing three times a night, starting just before dusk. It was decided that Jonathan and I would kick things off with our passing routine, which had been steadily getting sharper. Isadora would follow with one of her flow acts, and then I’d close with sword swallowing. There was also an MC who warmed up the crowd and tied it all together with magic and charisma, the kind of performer who could roll with anything and keep the audience hyped between acts.

Between shows, I discovered a nearby hideaway, the backstage area of an old diving show. It was big, empty, and no one ever went there, so it was the perfect place to train. I slipped right back into my old Legoland rhythm: show, practice, show, practice. This was also the first time since A Christmas Carol at the Repertory theater that I’d been swallowing swords so regularly. I could feel my confidence with it growing each day.

The crowds, though good, were a particular kind of audience. By the time they got to us, they’d been at the resort all day, baked in the sun, fueled by alcohol, and whatever questionable food they had consumed. Then, after a full day of this abuse to their person, they’d wander into our “freak show.”

One night, during my sword-swallowing bit, it became too much for one guy in the crowd. He vomited. Loudly. The sound of which was enough to make someone else gag, and then they vomited. And then another. Four people lost their lunch in rapid succession. This thinned the crowd notably, but enough stayed that we couldn’t see the extent of the damage until the very end. When the last bow was taken, and everyone cleared, it all came into focus: four distinct puddles of offal. It’s the only time in my career that sword swallowing caused a full-blown chain reaction of nausea.

* * *

Somewhere in the middle of the contract, a familiar face showed up: Mick Thorne, creator of Neon Gravity. An accomplished juggler in his own right, he worked as a videographer in his day job. And had asked if he could come out to film us.

We said, “You want to put us in a movie? Heck yeah!”

At one point while he was filming, I asked, “How much do you want?” and he said, “Well, I’ve almost turned the camera off a few times, but then you do something else I’ve never seen before, so keep going!”

So I did, trying to hit him with everything I was working on that I had never seen anyone else do.

Innovation was always one of my primary interests; if I could break new ground somewhere, that’s where I wanted to be.

He ended up getting enough to put a two-minute segment of us in the final video: In it, I hit five-club backcrosses, a run of seven balls, and a whole bunch of my ever-developing ball work, especially three-ball stuff I’d been refining. I nailed a three-up out of five-ball pirouette, straight into an all-five-out-of-five pirouette, and even a three-up out of five-club pirouette.

Jonathan couldn’t resist slipping in a few funny bits, which gave it the feel of a skateboarding video meets juggling.

I don’t know how much play the finished video got; it was a limited-run on VHS, now lost to time. But we were happy just to be included. It feels good when a peer whose work you respect thinks your work is worth recording.

Chapter 68: Barriers

(Warning: Adult Themes)

In a blink, the contract at The Lost Atlantis Resort was winding down, and the three of us planned to head in different directions. Isadora was flying back to Greece, while Jonathan and I would return to San Diego, he to his mom’s house, and me to… well, nowhere in particular, I’d be homeless again. But I wasn’t ready to think about that yet.

The hotel reservation had expired, but Isadora had invited us to stay one last night in a nearby suburb, Bay Saint Clare, at a loft owned by a friend of hers. Jonathan took the sofa in the living room, and Isadora and I shared a small studio, on what would likely be our last night together.

We started with our now familiar “light intimacy,” but tonight she was more insistent. Not pushy, just determined. She used her hand on me, then lowered herself, trying to take me in her mouth. I wasn’t comfortable, so I held her back, quite literally holding her head with both hands, preventing her from proceeding. She fought gently against my resistance, eyes locked on mine, until suddenly I thought: Gah, what am I doing? I have this beautiful, patient, talented woman trying with all her might to give me pleasure, why am I fighting it?

So, I stopped fighting her and lay back. She wasted no time, taking me deeply until I could feel her nose press against my stomach. It was a warm, unhurried, blissful experience, different from what I’d ever experienced before, but tremendous in its own right. My last girlfriend knew exactly where all of my buttons were and could press them all in one minute and forty-two seconds (yes, I timed it). But Isadora was exploring, savoring, taking her time, making sure the journey was as good as any destination.

When she finally lifted her head, she asked, “Do you have a condom?”

“No, I don’t, do you?”

“I think I have one,” she replied, rummaging in her purse. “Unless you’ve had a vasectomy?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Aw,” she teased, “boys with vasectomies get spoiled.”

That sent my head spinning. Sure, unprotected sex was amazing, and I’d enjoyed that very much with my ex, but I wasn’t ready for that tonight, not that she was offering it. But the fact that she’d said it made me wonder if she was more concerned about pregnancy than disease, and in the height of the AIDS scare, that made me wonder about her sexual history. Then I thought, of course, she’s had more experience; she’s clearly more comfortable with sex than I am. Maybe this is why my Christian upbringing taught that you should find one woman, marry her, and stick with her forever. You don’t have to think about all this stuff. But then again, how many people actually live that way? Despite being raised Christian, I hadn’t. And I knew a ton of “Christians” who’d been married and divorced, many multiple times, so how effective is that “save yourself for marriage” strategy anyway?

Isadora found the condom, a yellow one, and handed it to me. I rolled it on, she lay back, and we started in missionary. It “felt” great, I guess it usually does. But it was mechanical, not like the lovemaking I was accustomed to. I cared about her, but it wasn’t love, and my movements reflected that. She offered suggestions, ways I could hold her, angles to make it better, and though she was right, it still stung a little. I knew what to do; I just wasn’t ready, and she was reminding me of it.

Then she suggested, “Let’s switch positions.”

She turned onto her hands and knees, a position that had always suited my body mechanics. Moving behind her, I slid my hands along her toned back, tracing the lines that led to her shapely bottom. I looked down at her soft, smooth, freshly waxed lady parts, and I’m finally in the moment. I entered fully, pulling her hips tight against me, and it clicked. We moved together, her pressing back to meet me, until we found a beautiful rhythm. But now, it’s too good, I’m trying to hold on, but she’s so warm and insistent. I hover at the edge, trying my best to slow down, but she pushes back harder, chasing her own release. I can’t hold it, and I finish hard, filling the condom.

She lets out a disappointed “Oh…” and the motion stops.

I know from experience this doesn’t have to be the end. A lot of the time, I can start round two without a break, and I can feel this is one of those times. I start to thrust again, but then remember something I’d read once, how you’re not supposed to keep going with a full condom because it’s more likely to break or slip off.

Ugh. I pulled out, tied it off, and tossed it in a nearby trash can.

“I can keep going,” I said. “Do you have another one?”

“No, that’s the only one.”

“Oh.”

I felt bad leaving her hanging, something I never would have done to my ex. I seriously considered going down on her, something I’d made a study of, even reading books and practicing enthusiastically to hone the skill. But I didn’t feel comfortable doing that with someone I didn’t love.

This sex without love business felt so very complicated, full of rules and barriers, all of which were my own, I knew, but they were there nonetheless.

So we just lay in a sort of awkward cuddle until we both fell asleep.

* * *

The next morning, she left for the airport, and Jonathan and I started the drive back to San Diego.

In the end, we’d shared a bed, played around, and finally crossed the line into sex, but it hadn’t felt intimate, largely because of my own inhibitions. Isadora had been patient and inviting, but I was still mourning the love I’d lost.

I wasn’t ready to give anyone else that part of me yet.

Chapter 69: Seattle Juggling Festival - November - 2002

Once back in California, I camped out on my mom’s sofa.

I felt more lost than ever. The time with Isadora had torn open the old wounds of heartbreak and reminded me how much I missed that kind of relationship. I also started reeling spiritually. I’d always believed in god, but the more I saw of the world, the more I experienced, the less any of it made sense. I went to a local church where I didn’t know anyone, and during the service, the pastor invited anyone who was hurting or needing prayer to come forward. I did, and when I got there, I knelt on the stairs that led to the pulpit. As he led the congregation in prayer, an usher put their hand reassuringly on my shoulder, and I just cried and cried. Over heartbreak, hope deferred, hard work, and the feeling that no matter how hard I tried, it would never be enough to bring this impossible dream to life.

I snuck off to the bathroom to clean myself up, deeply embarrassed about having lost it, and already certain I would never show my face in this church again. But then, as I was leaving, there was a small group of young people talking, and I slipped into their ranks. They were planning a bar-ble study, a bible study get-together, that they did in local bars to take the word out into the world. I didn’t drink, but I thought it sounded cool, so I got the information to-go.

A few days later, I went, and I met someone, the girl who organized the bar-ble study. On a whim, I asked her out, and she accepted, so we met for tacos. I learned that she was valedictorian of her high school, highly athletic, religious, and a late bloomer romantically, which felt comfortable. The only real red flag was that she planned to move to Costa Rica to attend medical school. I joked that I wasn’t ready for a long-distance relationship after only one date, and she said, “Well, come visit me.”

I wasn’t ready to get that far ahead of myself either, but it was an interesting idea.

In the meantime, Jonathan and I had one more major obligation to fulfill.

Now that we had two silver medals, we were starting to get occasional invitations to perform at juggling festivals. One such invite was for the Seattle Juggling Festival on November 15, 2002, a fantastic opportunity, not least because it would give us a chance to debut the new routine we’d been refining for the next International Jugglers Association Championships in Reno, Nevada, scheduled for July 2003. We wouldn’t be paid to perform in Seattle, but they were covering our flights and lodging, and we never missed a chance to attend a juggling festival.

* * *

The stage at the Seattle festival was large and beautiful; however, in rehearsal, we had a bad showing. The lighting was all from the front and above, making juggling challenging. But we didn’t stress about it too much; Jonathan and I had a habit of putting down bad rehearsals only to turn it around come showtime.

That night, performer after performer melted down, with the lighting being the clear culprit. Even our friend, the unsinkable zen-master, Matt Hall, succumbed to drops.

Finally, it was our turn, and it didn’t go much better. Everything except the ultimate back crosses, our most challenging trick, went down in flames. The crowd was gracious, but I felt like we’d let them down.

Back in the green room, I plopped down in a chair to fight off the ever-present bouts of imposter syndrome. What if we go back to the championships and have the same disaster there that we just had tonight? It would be awful.
Afterward, Jonathan, Matt Hall, Ben Jennings, Robert Nelson, and I headed to a pub someone had recommended. Sensing the mood, Ben declared it a “Tequila-shot kind of night.”

I’d never had tequila before and said as much.

“You’ve never had tequila before?” Ben exclaimed, eyebrows raised.
I shook my head.

He stood, and with the air of a high-bred British gentleman, decreed, “Tonight we teach you the ways of the world.”
By now, I’d been training for years. Living and eating clean, taking daily vitamins, lots of water, and working out. And we’d still made a mess of things on stage. It made it feel like none of that hard work and preparation even mattered. So what the heck? Why not let loose?
While Ben was at the bar ordering tequila shots, Robert Nelson pulled Jonathan, Matt Hall, and me into a quiet heart-to-heart, and the theme was authenticity. He’d known us for years, watched us chase medals, and spoke from deep experience, not just as a performer and seasoned juggler, but as a wise man. His advice was simple but powerful: be yourselves. Trust that you are enough exactly as you are. Don’t try to imitate someone else’s style, movements, or tricks; lean into your own. At the time, it might not have looked like his words sank in; we were all raw from the rough performances. But we heard him. Everyone who ever had the chance to listen to Robert Nelson heard him.

Ben returned with five small glasses, a plate of limes, and two salt shakers.

Matt Hall asked, “What kind of Tequila?”
“Patrón, of course,” Ben said, pretending to be wounded, “I’m not going to give him the cheap stuff for his first time.”
Distributing the lot, Ben instructed, “Just do what I do.”
I nodded.

“Take the salt shaker in one hand, then lick your hand between the base of the thumb and wrist.” He did so as he said it, and I copied him.

“Shake some salt onto your hand so it sticks. Then set a lime in front of you.” I did as instructed until we had it all set up.
“The full sequence is lick, shake, lick, drink, squeeze.”

Everyone got set up, and then it was cheers in multiple languages. Jonathan and I said it in English, Matt and Robert in Japanese, and Ben in French, and then we all licked, drank, and squeezed.
The tequila tasted light and green, like a field of fresh summer grass. The citrusy blast from the lime was the perfect chase. The whole process was bright and ritualistic; I liked it.

I’d tried Captain Morgan spiced rum before and Jack Daniel’s whiskey. And someone somewhere along the line let me try scotch, but all of those left me cold, and I didn’t see the appeal. I’d never understood why anyone would drink those things. But this, this I understood.

I set my glass down, and Ben asked, “Well, what do you think?”
“I think we’re gonna need another,” I answered.

Everyone laughed at this. Then Ben, in his British accent, said, “Right away, sir,” and made for the bar to acquire another round.

When he returned, the setup was repeated, but before the shots were taken, I took an exploratory sip of the tequila. Huh, it’s good just the way it is, I thought. The cheers went around again, but this time I didn’t bother with the salt. I just drank the shot as it was, and again, it was magic. I held the lime at the ready in case I needed it, but I didn’t.
Ben looked at me and said, “Like a duck to water, it seems.”

We all laughed, and then Ben gathered our glasses and returned to the bar for a third round.
Funny, that’s the last I remember of the bar…

* * *

Sometime later, I found myself standing with Jonathan in line at a late-night burger joint, though I have no recollection as to how we’d gotten there. Jonathan was looking at the menu, deciding what to order, and I thought I was hungry, or maybe felt I should be. But one whiff of the burger cooking on the grill aromas, and my stomach turned. I walked out the door and barfed in a planter box.
Funny, that’s all I remember of the burger joint…

* * *

The next memory I have, we were in the backseat of someone’s car, and the driver had stopped for gas. As I sat there, I caught a whiff of gasoline as the driver pumped. The smell turned my stomach, so I opened my door and barfed in the gas station lane.
Funny, I don’t remember anything else from the gas station…

* * *

Turns out that you can train for years, eat clean, stay sober, keep your body a temple, and the entertainment gods will still piss on you when the lights go up.

And tequila, well… Two shots tasted like summer grass. Three shots (or was it a lot more?) and I was puking in a planter box at two in the morning.

Tequila doesn’t care about clean living.
Now I was embarrassed about our performance, and about getting smashed-sick drunk. But at least I’d managed to blow off a little steam.

Maybe I’m taking everything too seriously? Maybe some part of this journey is supposed to be fun?
I dunno…

Either way, there’s nothing to do but keep going.

I sat and wondered over what it all meant. And as I did, a little poem popped into my head.
Grabbing a nearby pen, I scrawled it on a napkin:
Though the lights they blind you,
and the booze blindside you,
you get back up and you do it again.

Chapter 70: Costa Rica

I came back from the Seattle Juggling Festival with no clear plan. I just knew I couldn’t keep sleeping on my mom’s sofa.
The girl I’d been seeing for just a few weeks had moved to San José, Costa Rica. As crazy as it sounded, I thought I’d go down for a visit. We didn’t have any gigs booked, and I had a little money saved from our run at The Lost Atlantis Resort, enough for a few weeks if I were thrifty. I figured: if things between us went south, I’d just pitch my tent on some lonely beach, surf, and wait to see where the winds and tides took me.
I booked the ticket for December 1st.

When I packed my bag, I didn’t bring a single juggling prop.
It felt so strange to bring no clubs, no balls, and no rings; I hadn’t gone a day in years without touching these items. Not having props felt like missing a limb. But maybe that was the point. This trip wasn’t about being a better performer or chasing the world championships; it was about something else, maybe discovering who I was again.

* * *

San José wasn’t the quiet little town I’d pictured. It was big, loud, and the roads seemed to follow their own instincts. Still, the place buzzed with energy, wrapped in mountains and rainforest, and I could feel something promising in the air. I hadn’t come for the city anyway. I was here for the girl, for the beaches, and the legendary waves.

I made my way to the address she’d given me. We spent the weekend in her small rented room, then we took off for the Pacific coast in a beat-up rental car, visiting Dominical, Jacó, and Tamarindo. In Dominical, I saw something I’ll never forget: army ants on the march. Not the tiny kind you can crush under a finger, but thick, muscular creatures in such numbers they’d carved a five-inch trail across the jungle floor, their own little hiking path.

We camped on the beaches, shared meals of fried plantains and grilled fish, and talked about our dreams. I’d been so burned in my last relationship that my heart had built a stone castle around itself. But she was different. She didn’t storm the gates; she simply climbed up to the ramparts and waited. I noticed I was letting my guard down without even meaning to. Every love is different, I guess, but this one felt new in a way that was hard to define, maybe even worth trying for, though the long distance still seemed daunting.

The time on the beach was amazing. But we had to get back to San José so she could start school. I tagged along when it made sense, and worked on my laptop computer whenever she was in class. One afternoon, we spread a Mexican blanket under a shade tree in a quiet park. The intermittent breeze carried the smell of fresh-mown grass and waves of warm air from the nearby soccer field. My girlfriend’s keyboard was clicking busily as she worked on her homework, its sound gently lulling me towards sleep. Everything was right. Even the itchy scratches from the blanket felt good. The park was a hidden treasure in the busy San José landscape. I could see why she liked to work here. We had the place to ourselves. I heard a moped engine nearby. I figured it was someone on their lunch break who wanted to get a little sunshine. The engine puttered out and was soon replaced by a strange shuffling sound. It was familiar, but in my half-slumber, I couldn’t place it. The sound got louder, and the tempo sped up. It was like the sound I used to hear when I played soccer as a kid. When I would run through the grass, the longer strands would hit my shoes and rustle. It kept getting louder, and suddenly I knew what it was: someone was running toward us! Snapping out of my reverie, I tried to sit up, but it was too late. I felt the broad blade of a butcher knife press against my throat, and with his other hand, the attacker grabbed my shoulder. In one movement, he dropped to his knees, forcing me back onto the blanket. In a thick Spanish accent, he shouted, “Don’t move!” I nodded my head gently as if to say, Yeah, I know, and slowly raised my hands in capitulation. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another man walk past. He was thinner than the man with the knife, tall too, but barely more than a boy. I made eye contact with him, and he quickly looked down at the ground. He wasn’t proud of what he was doing. Despite this, he continued his work. He picked up my backpack and slung it over his shoulder. My laptop, camera, and most of my belongings were inside. Then he grabbed my girlfriend’s backpack, but as he hefted it, she caught the shoulder strap with her hand and refused to let go. A violent tug of war ensued. He might have been thin, but he was standing up, which gave him leverage. Yanking hard, he pulled her forward from her seated position. She landed in an awkward sprawl on her belly. This brought her outstretched hand within striking distance of the knife wielder. Fast as a cat, he slashed at her hand. Instinctively, she pulled back, letting go of the backpack strap, and he returned the knife to my throat.

Having successfully collected most of our valuables, the thin guy ran back to the moped and started the engine. The man with the knife looked me in the eyes and pressed the blade hard against my throat, repeating, “Don’t move.” Then, as quickly as they’d arrived, he leaped up, covered the distance, and jumped onto the back of the bike. I pulled my knees to my chest and exploded them outward to roll to my feet. But it was too late. They were already speeding away.

I had to hand it to them. It was a perfect crime, and it was entirely my fault. The serenity of the place gave me a false sense of security, and I knew better than to let my guard down so completely. The two men reached the edge of the park where the grass turned to asphalt, and then they disappeared down a side street. A plan began to form in my mind. Breaking into a full sprint, I raced toward a different exit from the park, one that would let me head them off if they kept going in that direction. I knew they were traveling toward a stoplight, and if they got caught at a red, I might be able to intercept them. Yes, they still had the advantage. There were two of them, and they had a knife. But this time I would be surprising them, and we would be in a public space where more people could see what was happening. My adrenaline surged. The initial fear turned to rage, and I covered several hundred yards in what felt like seconds. Bursting out on the main street, I saw that the traffic was indeed stopped at the red light. I ran along the rows of cars looking for my adversaries, fully intending to do a de-biking flying sidekick at full sprint if I found them.

But they weren’t there. I returned to the sidewalk when the light turned green, but continued scanning the area. I knew every second that passed lowered the chances of me catching them. A little side street I hadn’t noticed before caught my eye. They saw us in the park, so maybe they lived nearby and pulled this stunt all the time. If so, that could be where they went. Jogging over, I slowly worked my way down the small street, looking for any sign of the bike or guys. Halfway down the block, a loud, sharp sound came from directly behind me. It was a threatening sound, the sound of an attack. Instinct took over. In one motion, I pivoted 180° and launched a murderous left-footed roundhouse kick.

Everything moved in slow motion. My foot was a bullet, and the trigger had been pulled. I was just a bystander now. All I could do was watch to see what it destroyed. My foot flew straight towards the little black and brown Yorkie who’d stealthily snuck up behind me to nip my heels. His little expression dropped, and I realized he knew. He knew that this was the moment of his death. I heard his thoughts as clear as spoken words: “Why did I have to be so brave?” Instantly, I wanted to change everything, but it was too late. Reflexively, he ducked his head low and closed his little eyes so tightly his eyelids quivered. I heard his thoughts again: “This is gonna hurt so bad.”

My foot flew straight through the space where his head had just been. The longest hairs on the top of his head brushed the sole of my foot, and the greasy fur along the side of his body rippled from the wind of my foot’s passing. My leg continued upwards until it reached the end of its available travel, but it still didn’t stop. My grounding foot was pulled from the earth, and I soared at least three more feet up off the ground before gravity overpowered adrenaline. As I touched back down, I saw the dog sprinting away with tail tucked so tightly it made his back legs wobble funnily as he ran. He looked back over his shoulder with a doggish, “I’m so sorry,” grimace on his face.

Realizing my anger over the actions of the two criminals was nearly taken out on a little creature who had nothing to do with the crime, sobered me. I felt foolish and regretted losing my head. Yes, the stuff they took was important. And yes, putting a knife to my throat wasn’t the nicest thing they could have done. But the most important thing of all is that neither my girlfriend nor I had been hurt. Stuff can be replaced, life cannot.

Still, losing my computer felt like the last of all hope slipping through my fingers. I’d hand-coded our first website from scratch on that machine and stored every photo we’d ever taken. The résumés we’d written, and goal lists for the future, countless digital bits and baudles and settings and passwords, and now it was all gone. They got my 35mm Marlboro camera, the one Jonathan had given me for the Edinburgh trip, and all the undeveloped photos from this trip that were still on the roll. They even got the little red bible I always carried, the one I could instinctually flip open to find the countless passages I’d marked or dog-eared. This last reinforced more than ever the sense that I’d been forsaken and left to resolve this riddle of life on my own.
I felt like this was a sign that it was time to give it up. Time to stop chasing foolish dreams and just accept whatever life handed me. The thought of starting over from scratch when I was already at rock bottom was too much to comprehend.

Soon enough, though, the unsinkable side of myself re-awakened. The side that reassured me and encouraged me to see this not as a loss, but as a blank slate, an opportunity to grow fresh, as a forest does after a fire.

And, maybe I’d learned an invaluable lesson: never be caught without backups of your data. It’s a lesson I should have already known; I’d chosen not to get a backup drive because money was so tight. But maybe that’s why this happened, so I don’t lose even more later on because I’m unprepared. At least this is what I told myself, and true or not, it kept me going.
When the time was up, I flew back to the States with no place to stay, no computer, and no idea how a long-distance relationship with a medical student in Costa Rica might work.

But I had a world championship to train for, and a dream still waiting to be brought to life.
And that, as always, drove me.

Chapter 71: Doubling Down

I returned from Costa Rica and was right back on my mom’s couch. This meant she could get in trouble at any moment, because I had already far exceeded the park’s fourteen-day visitor allowance. I looked for a room to rent, but I was wary. I wanted to make sure I didn’t end up in a situation that would totally suck.

A day or two later, my brother, who was living in Escondido as well, offered me the empty spare bedroom in his place. I suspect my mom had something to do with this, likely planting the idea in his head when I didn’t find a room right away. Staying with him was the best option available, and since jugglers can’t be choosers, I took it. I drove over there the next morning, a Saturday, and unloaded my car, which took all of ten minutes. Then I hung my toiletries kit in the spare bathroom, and was all moved in. How funny, I thought, all I need to feel moved into a place is to hang up my personal care kit.

I went into my new room and leaned against the wall, then I slid down to sit on the beige carpeted floor.

I felt a small pang of regret over leaving my bed behind when we moved out of the Encinitas place, because now that I was here, I had nothing.

No bed, no computer, no camera, and no furniture.
Just a couple of kitchen items, my clothes, a blanket, and a pillow.
I took a minute to think.

I’d committed to this entertainment path when I quit all my part-time jobs, and I’d committed to making it on performance money alone. Against all the odds, I’d succeeded. Legoland had been a solid contract. But now I was rapidly approaching a make-it-or-break-it, rock-bottom reality. I knew this was the most precarious stretch of entrepreneurial desert I’d yet faced, so I needed a plan.

I pulled out my most recent bank statement and saw that I had just over $4,000.

$4000 might sound like a lot, but when you’re working for yourself, money isn’t there to live on; it’s there to get things done. And I only had $4000 worth of get-stuff-done available to me.

It wasn’t much, and hitting the brakes felt insidiously tempting.

That’s when my answer hit me.

If slowing down feels like the reasonable thing to do, I have to do the opposite. I’ve gotten this far by taking the most reckless paths imaginable, and I’m going to trust that’s the right thing to do now.

Instead of saving for a rainy day, I’d championed the “spend yourself rich” strategy. Aggressively investing in things that could make me money.

Right now, what we need most to make the next leap is a kick-ass demo video and a website. But I can’t do either until I replace the stolen computer.

So that’s first!

I went out to my car, drove straight to CompUSA, and put a brand-new Pentium 4 desktop PC in my cart for $1,400. Having always worked on PCs, I planned to make it my primary workhorse. However, because we’d had nonstop trouble with the Sony Vaio digital editing setup and Macintosh was making a huge push in the video editing world with iMovie and Final Cut, I decided to get a Mac laptop, too.

I wandered over to the Apple aisle to browse.

I’d only used a Mac a few times at my now ex-girlfriend’s house, and way back in elementary school on an Apple IIe, so I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for. Eventually, I settled on a Titanium PowerBook G4—667 MHz, $2,200.

It was a beautiful machine, but the price tag tore my heart out through my wallet. Honestly, I didn’t have a high opinion of the brand, so my expectations were modest. I figured I’d use it for video editing and the occasional email while traveling for work. Into the cart it went, and I checked out.

With my bank account drained to all but zero, $4000 - $3,879 (don’t forget tax) = I had $121 to my name.
With the computers still boxed up in the backseat, I stopped at a thrift store and found a nice used office chair. It had the standard up-and-down hydraulics, but the seatback and arm heights were also adjustable. I knew it would have been $150 new, maybe even more, but I got it for thirty dollars. They also had a folding table, so I grabbed that for another ten dollars.

$121 - $40 = $81
With my new home office secured, I drove home and got to work setting up the PC. After several hours of installing drivers, updates, restarts, and a stupid amount of time spent figuring out why the damn speakers that come bundled with the machine wouldn’t work, I got the PC up and running.

Then I turned my attention to the Mac. I plugged in the cord and pressed the power button. The machine booted up, asked me to run through the quick setup, and that was it. Ready to rock in only five minutes, I was impressed.

With both machines operational, my first order of business was digitizing my CD collection. Back in high school, I’d amassed a collection of over 200 discs, partly for fun, partly because I’d toyed with DJing. But now, with the iPod having come out, I could see the writing on the wall. CDs wouldn’t be the standard for much longer, so I figured I’d unload them while they still had value. And I desperately needed the money.

One of my high school friends managed at CD Warehouse, and I knew she’d give me the best possible price for the collection. I always took good care of my stuff, so most were in excellent shape, and many were classics: Guns N’ Roses Use Your Illusion 1 and 2, Smashing Pumpkins, Metallica, Tool, Soundgarden, Stone Temple Pilots, Pearl Jam, Green Day, The Offspring, Nirvana, Ozzy, Collective Soul, Live, Creed, some movie soundtracks, and lots more.

I opened the PC’s CD tray, inserted the first album, and launched the extraction software; then, while it churned away, I slid another CD into the Mac and started the same process. After a few minutes, the Mac emitted a cheerful “bing,” to announce it was finished. So I fed it a second CD, “bing,” then a third, “bing.”

In the time it took the PC to finish one CD, the Mac had completed three! Though far from a definitive test, so far, the “workhorse” PC was losing badly to the little Mac laptop. I continued this process, running both machines in tandem, which still took all afternoon, even with the Mac maintaining its ruthless pace.

Once they were all done, I hefted my cardboard box full of jewel cases and drove to CD Warehouse. Inside, busily labeling products, was my friend Darcy, wearing her signature Beatles-style haircut and black Ramones T-shirt. We made eye contact, and she smiled her tight-lipped, no-teeth showing smile, and waved meekly. Darcy had always been quiet, one of those students who didn’t make waves, but you knew she lived and breathed music, probably spending hours in her room listening to obscure bands and filling her head with underground gems. Sorting through my box, she lit up over a few, like my double album of Smashing Pumpkins, the one with the moon and the sun on its cover. She also thumbs-upped a couple of the Guns N’ Roses albums, which she said always sold well. She sorted the whole into piles as she went, and I soon realized she was sorting by value. In the end, she set aside ten CDs they wouldn’t take at all, plus another ten worth only a couple of bucks. In the remaining stacks were the mid-range and premium titles, some worth as much as five, six, or seven dollars each. But the vast majority were stacked in the middle, all going for two to three dollars each. She offered me store credit, which would have been worth more, probably around $500, but I needed cash, so she opened the register and counted out $422, a much-needed boost to my working capital.

On the way home, I treated myself to a large Coke and two burritos from the local Mexican place. I ate one burrito immediately; the other I kept in a bag for later.

When I got home, my brother called me into his office to see his new digital camera. He’d been trying for several hours to get his PC to recognize it, but was having no luck. We fiddled with it for a bit, but his computer refused to recognize it. I brought it into my room and plugged it into my PC desktop. Same issue, no matter what we tried, the PC and the camera did not want to be friends.

“Let’s try the Mac,” I suggested, connecting the cable. Instantly, the Photos application popped up, recognized the camera, and asked if I wanted to import the images. “Yes, I would,” I clicked import, and seconds later, they were downloaded.
“Doesn’t seem to be a problem on Mac,” I said.

“That’s great, but that doesn’t really help me,” he muttered, taking the camera back to his room to continue his PC battle. After several hours, he finally got it working, but the lesson was not lost on me.

I’d always considered myself an “OK” PC user. But anytime I worked on my PC, I’d spend the first hour just getting things working—constantly installing drivers or troubleshooting hardware that wouldn’t behave. Like what just happened with my brother’s camera, it required fiddling.

But when I worked on the Mac, I’d just sit down and start working, no fiddling.

Within days, I’d stopped using the PC completely, with the Mac being the only machine I’d reached for.

By the end of the week, I realized the PC wasn’t helping me move toward my goals, so I listed it for sale and priced it to sell. I ended up taking a several-hundred-dollar loss, but the cash was worth more to me than a computer I wasn’t using.

With my computer situation squared away, I dove into web design, specifically this new thing called Dreamweaver. It was a WYSIWYG (What You See Is What You Get) web development tool that let you code directly if you wanted, but they claimed you didn’t have to know any HTML to build a website, and that intrigued me.

I didn’t have a clue how to use the software, and no one was around who could teach me. So I figured I’d go to Barnes & Noble to buy some instructional manuals and teach myself. Based on my previous experience buying Photoshop books, I knew computer guides usually cost around fifty bucks. Though I had the money from selling CDs and the PC, I didn’t want to spend it on books.

I started mulling over the problem, and suddenly a solution popped into my mind.
I went to my book pile and separated all the books that looked brand new or that I’d never read. Mark Wilson’s Guide to Magic, a thick book I’d received as a gift the previous Christmas, was the first to go in the stack. Next, I grabbed a Photoshop book I’d never found time to work through. Then another twelve to fourteen random books, all in excellent condition, with no creases or damage.

Huh, I thought, this is becoming a valuable skill, this trading of one thing that I didn’t need for another that I did.
When you’re broke, you have to get creative.

I made my way to the Barnes & Noble bookstore, knowing they would accept trade-ins without a receipt. I set the tower of books on the cashier’s counter like it was the most normal thing in the world, and said, “I’d like to return these, please.”
She eyed the stack suspiciously. “I can only give you store credit.”

“That’s fine,” I waved.

She rang up the books, and I watched as the values appeared. Several of them received only a portion of the original cover price; if a book had been sold at a sale price, that was the maximum she would offer. But a couple landed in the twenty-five to thirty-dollar range.

Two didn’t ring up at all; they must not have come from a Barnes & Noble (oops).

When she was done, she handed me a receipt: $120 in store credit.

I thanked her, then headed to the computer section to look for Dreamweaver books. I’d learned from my Photoshop studies that not every book’s teaching style suited me. So I thumbed through several, trying to work through the lessons in my head and see if the explanations made sense. I finally settled on two as the core of my study strategy:

•Macromedia Dreamweaver MX: Training from the Source, $49.99, 400 pages, ISBN 13: 978-0201799293 — my primary guide.

•Dreamweaver 2 for Windows & Macintosh, Second Edition, Visual QuickStart Guide, $29.99, 392 pages, ISBN 13: 978-0201354355 — useful for redundancy and pleasure reading.

I also grabbed two other books from the self-help and real estate sections; I was always reading and learning about business, social dynamics, communication, and strategies for personal and financial growth. Personal development, across all subjects, can never stop. I might be a high school walkout, but I refuse to be uneducated.

Returning to the register with my picks, I was rung up. The store credit covered the lot, plus a few dollars left over. Books in hand, I headed home, ready to dive in.

Knowing time was against me, I set myself a schedule. I’ll wake up around noon, drive to the Mexican place for my daily large Coke and two burritos, then come home. I’ll eat one burrito, stash the other in the fridge for later, and crack open the Dreamweaver MX book and study all day and into the night. I won’t stop until I’ve completed both books. So that’s what I did, day after day, ten to fourteen hours at a stretch, stopping somewhere between three and 5:00 am each morning when my brain gave out.

I learned about layout, tools, exercises, tables, anchor tags, menu design, framesets, layers, forms, assets and behaviors, CSS, JavaScript, and more. It was full immersion, cramming my brain, day after day.

By the end of the week, I’d covered around 600 pages of instruction across the two Dreamweaver books. I was ready to start building our first “worth looking at” website. Seven days later, on the fourteenth day of study, at 3:00 am, the website was really coming together, and I could see the finish line. I knew that if I could just power through to 10:00 or 11:00 am, I could finish it.

But there was one big obstacle between me and that goal: I had to pee. BADLY!
“No,” I told myself. “You’re not getting out of this chair until this website is done.”
I hung on for two more hours, until 5:00 am.

Now I’m doing the pee dance in my chair. It’s unbearable, and I consider rolling down the hall without getting up so I can abide by the letter of my own law: not getting up from the chair. I quickly dismiss this idea. I don’t think the chair will fit through the bathroom door, so I give up and keep working.

Now it’s 6:00 am; I’m delirious, and stuck on a formatting problem I can’t solve, and the pressure in my bladder is impossible, but I’ve made up my mind, I CAN’T go until this thing is done!
Then, a thought crossed my mind: What if I just pee myself right here? That way I won’t have to leave the chair. Huh, I thought, seriously considering it, but then it will be a nightmare to get this office chair clean. It’s fabric, it’ll soak through to the foam, no!
I returned to the formatting problem, but I just could not think. I've been staring at it for at least fifteen minutes, too distracted by my bladder to come up with any solution.

UGH! This is stupid! I jumped up and ran to the bathroom, where I experienced the best pee of my life. Once the worst of the urine had flowed out and the pain had subsided, my head cleared, and the solution to my formatting issue became clear.
Hah! I thought. That’s it! Maybe there is some benefit to taking a break once in a while.

I tried the fix when I got back to my desk, and it worked perfectly, which felt good.

Noticing a change in the ambiance, I realized that the sunrise was peeking through my blinds. Looking back at the screen, I admitted that I still had five or six hours of work left. While it would be nice to knock it out tonight (err, this morning), I decided to learn from the pee lesson and take a break.

I rolled out of the chair and curled up on the carpet with my pillow and blanket. I wondered for a moment if I’d be able to sleep, but the next moment I knew it was high noon, so sleep had come fast.

Keeping with my routine, I drove the few blocks to get my burritos and Coke, and upon returning, finished the website that afternoon.

I had taught myself to use Dreamweaver and built a professional(ish) website in just fifteen days.
I called Jonathan to tell him it was done.
“That’s great!” he said.

“Yeah, it’s been a saga, but I learned a lot. Oh, and one more thing, I know you just bought a new computer, but you’re going to have to get rid of it and buy a Mac.”

“What?” he protested, “Get rid of it? But I JUST bought it!?”
“I know. But trust me, we’re switching to Mac. You’ll see. I’ll have our demo video out in two weeks.”
“Two weeks? Impossible! Does it make that big a difference? If you can have a demo out in two weeks, I’ll buy a Mac!”
That afternoon, I returned to Barnes & Noble and, not having anything to trade, bought two Final Cut books with my own money.

On the way home, I stopped at the Mexican place and bought, you guessed it, two bean and cheese burritos and a large Coke. Then, I ran the exact same schedule I’d run to get our website built, but this time working on Final Cut and our demo video.
Two weeks later, I called Jonathan back.

“Have you had a chance to look at Mac computers?”
“Yeah, I checked them out a little.”

“Well, which one do you want to get?”
“Oh, I don’t know, I didn’t look that closely… Wait, why?”
“I think you’d better… I mean, you did promise.”

“No way, the demo video is done? Like done done?”
“It is, and it’s by far the best one we’ve done yet.”
I hear Jonathan laughing through the phone, “Allllright, I guess I’m buying a Mac.”
“Sounds good. Once you have it, come on over, I’ll show you the new demo, and we’ll get your machine set up.”
“See you in a few hours.”

I ended the call and leaned back in my office chair.

In four weeks and one day, I’d learned to use Dreamweaver, built a website, learned Final Cut, and edited our best demo video to date.

True to his word, Jonathan went out and bought a Mac with a copy of Final Cut. From that day on, he took over video editing while I focused on the website, print media, graphic design, and, most importantly, our promotional packet.
We finally had a video that was as good as the cover we’d been sliding it into.

I picked up the phone and ordered a run of fifty VHS demo tapes to be recorded, delivered, sealed in cellophane, and made ready for distribution. Then I put together fifty packets with our eight-by-ten headshot, résumé, bio, business card, and a cover letter.

Once the tapes arrived, I packed and sealed all the envelopes. I sent them out to any agent or booker who might listen. I had high hopes that we would get a gig somewhere. But the cost of this push had caught up with me.
I’m out of time and money.

If something doesn’t happen soon, like in a matter of days, I’ll have no choice but to get a job or start doing something else…

Pictured: Back cover of our demo tape, post receipt, with minor damage.

Chapter 72: Bartending School

I’d been staying at my brother’s house for about five weeks, and sleeping on the floor was getting old. I started telling people, pretty much anyone I met, that I needed a bed. Most of the time, this got me funny looks; people couldn’t tell if I was serious, and when they realized I was, it got weird. But then I mentioned it to a friend and entertainer I was having lunch with, and he said, “We have an extra bed in our spare room, you’re welcome to it.”

I accepted immediately, then he asked, “Um, why don’t you have a bed?”

I told him the situation, how we’d given up the Encinitas place, then I’d gone to Costa Rica, gotten robbed, and now I was crashing at my brother’s place.

He thought about this a moment, then said, “How about this: Why don’t you stay in our spare room? In trade for rent, you can coach me on my show?”

“Well, that’s an idea,” I answered. “So, you’re saying free room and board, and I’ll help you develop your act, write routines, and build up your skills?”

“That’s the offer,” he affirmed.

I thought about it for a few seconds. Things at my brother’s were okay, and I’d been getting a ton done, but I didn’t have any money for rent, and I didn’t want to overstay my welcome. “You know what, okay.”

“When do you want to move in?” He asked.

“What are you doing this afternoon?” I countered.

“Nothing.”

“How about this afternoon then?”

He reached into his pocket and took a key off his key ring and handed it to me, “Here’s your house key.”

“Wait, don’t you need it to get in?”

“No, I’ll just use the secret key. Take the first bedroom on the left side of the hall, the one with your bed in it!”

“Ha,” I laughed, “that’s right, my bed is already there, I’m already half moved in!”

I thanked him and went home to pack. It was my typical twenty-minute move-out. Then I drove to my new place and moved in, another ten-minute affair. Once I’d gotten my things settled, I told my new student, “I don’t know how long I’ll be here, could be a year, could be a month. Once I land a good contract, I’ll be gone. So we need to treat every session as if it were the last. Take everything I say to heart; we might not have much time.”

He nodded. “When do you want to start?”

“Right now. Go set up your show in the performance space. I’ll meet you there in a few minutes.”

The house was big, a regular full-sized home with an entire second wing added on to accommodate multiple generations. But now that the kids were off at college and the older relatives had passed, only a skeleton crew of residents remained. This extra space meant an entire room had been set aside for training, with mirrors along one wall so you could watch yourself from the audience’s perspective. It was an excellent rehearsal space.

After giving him time to set up, I joined him there.

“What do you want to work on?” I asked.

“I was thinking about adding a ball-spinning act, but I don’t have a routine.”

“Okay, let’s write one.”

I grabbed my own spinning ball, and we spent the next few hours experimenting. We tested several music tracks until we found one that felt like a fit. By the end of the session, we’d created a three-minute-long ball-spinning act.

He was a great student: driven, talented, smart with money, and disciplined. I was sure he’d go on to become a successful entertainer.

* * *

That same week, Jonathan and I heard that world champion flair bartender Christian Delpech was in town, performing his signature bottle-flipping, shaker-juggling, high-energy bar work. Our disciplines were different, but there was plenty of crossover between juggling and flair, so we reached out to see if he wanted to train together. He’d heard of us, too, and was stoked to meet up. So we agreed to meet on the cliffs overlooking Moonlight Beach in Encinitas.

When he arrived, he looked every bit the legend: lean, tan, and carved like a statue, with jet-black hair pulled into a tight ponytail. He moved with the casual precision years of practice give, as if gravity behaved just a little differently toward him.

We practiced together for two hours, swapping tricks and techniques. And he told us stories about bartending in Vegas, confirming the rumors we’d heard that top flair’tenders were pulling in over $100,000 a year.

Afterward, we asked if he thought we’d make good flair’tenders. He laughed, “You guys would crush it. Your juggling skills would transfer over easily; you should even think about competing.”

“Huh, that’s an idea,” I said, “we just might.”

We thanked him for the session, and he split.

Jonathan and I went to Rubio’s to get some tacos. Over lunch, we decided we needed to learn flair bartending, if only as a backup for when the juggling gigs were thin. Jonathan pulled out his phone and searched for bartending schools. He found one and called. A woman answered and said that if we were willing to come in to do the paperwork and interview today, we could start classes the following Monday.

“All right,” Jonathan said, “we will see you soon.”

After lunch, we drove straight over.

The woman doing our paperwork was kind and curious. We told her about training with Christian that morning, and she leaned forward with interest. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to do that stuff,” she said, “You mean like flips and spins and all that?”

“That’s exactly it.”

She sat back, thinking for a moment, then grinned. “Okay, how about this? You teach the other instructors and me some flair tricks, and in exchange, we’ll give you the full bartending course for free. How does that sound?”

Jonathan and I looked at each other. “Sounds like you’ve got a deal.”

She gave us our class materials, and by Monday, we’d both memorized the twenty most common drinks. From the get-go, it was obvious we weren’t typical students. Not just because we’d memorized the drinks, but also because of our juggling skills, we were ridiculously fast. During class, there were often speed competitions, but the only fair matchups were when Jonathan and I went head-to-head; any other student got crushed, as we’d often finish all three of the assigned drinks in the time it took them to finish their first.

I learned a lot, and we graduated at the top of the class, but there was no time to celebrate. I was broke, so I’d already mapped out a list of bars where I planned to drop off applications. Jonathan and I sat in his car outside the school, talking through the places we each wanted to hit. I told him I was about to start pounding the pavement, but as I finished the sentence, his phone rang.

Chapter 73: Pebble Beach

Jonathan answered his phone and put it on speaker.

The voice on the other end of the phone said, “This is Dave Sterling from Sterling Entertainment. I received one of your promotional packages, and was interested in booking you for a corporate event we have coming up.

Jonathan looked at me as if to ask, “Did you send this guy a packet? Do you know who this is?”
I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “Maybe?” I’d been sending packets to anyone I could get an address for.

“Hi Dave, this is Jonathan Root of Rootberry. What kind of experience are you looking to create for this event?”
“Well, good question. It’ll be at Pebble Beach, and the audience will be very VIP. Are you familiar with the Passing Zone?”
Jonathan nodded, “Yeah, Jon and Owen, they’re two of the best, why?”
“Yes, they are, and we’d originally thought to bring them in for this, but they’re a tad over the budget. Then I got your package, and this looks really great, so I wanted to get a quote from you.”

We’d heard that the Passing Zone was going out for $15,000–$25,000 per show, giving us an idea of what “out of budget” might mean. So this wasn’t some small-time agent; this guy was big league.
Jonathan looked at me and said into the phone, “Well, if you’re looking for a forty-five-minute show, we could do it for you. How about $4,000?”
My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe Jonathan had asked for so much, but at the same time, if they were considering the Passing Zone, if we’d said a number too low, he’d of probably thought we weren’t up to the task.
The pause was agonizing.

Then the voice on the other line said, “Sounds good, let’s do it.”

Jonathan got the rest of the event info, which was only a week away, and we blocked the day on our calendar.
When Jonathan hung up, he pressed the end button repeatedly just to make sure it was hung up. Then we exploded!
“$4000!!!” I shouted!
“Our highest paying gig to date!” Jonathan answered.

Oh my god, we both needed the money so badly, and this was a godsend.

I thought back to Owen telling me on the rooftop that night, “Keep getting better, keep raising your prices, and don’t worry, there’s plenty of work for all of us.”

He was right, we’d just landed a gig for $4000, and all the hard work I’d done sending promo packs out suddenly felt worthwhile. Most of the attempts you make in this business fall flat, but now and then, something sticks.
On the day of the gig, we arrived early to set up.

We met the booker, Dave, who was nice enough, but he kept reminding us how important this show was. “Hit a home run here, and I can get you a lot more of these.”

His promise added pressure; getting gigs like this on the regular was what we needed.

After rehearsal, he told us to go to the restaurant next door for a bite to eat. “Don’t worry about the tab, I’ll come over in forty-five minutes to square up the bill.”

We thanked him and walked over to the restaurant.

When we walked in, we were the only customers there. We opened the menu, and the prices made my wallet wince.
I looked over at Jonathan, and he nodded silently in agreement.

When the waiter came over, we both ordered the chicken with potatoes, which was the cheapest option on the menu.
Our plates arrived, and we each got two small pieces of chicken with a little scoop of nothing-special potatoes. Don’t get me wrong, the meal was good, not overly large, but well prepared. True to his promise, the booker came by right as we were finishing up. He sat and asked how everything was, and we told him it’d been great. The waiter dropped off the bill, and I couldn’t help but glance over to see the damage.

Our lunch, two plates of chicken with potatoes, plus tip, was an even $150.

Ugh, we gotta crush this performance, I thought. We have to.

When showtime arrived, the booker announced us, and we took the stage like it was the most important performance of our lives. There were only sixteen people in the audience. All of them were seated in folding chairs in the little meeting room off to the side of the restaurant. We did our best, but I could see in their eyes that we weren’t up to par. They were clapping and laughing to humor us, not because we were knocking their socks off.

After it was all done, the people shuffled out, and the booker thanked them for coming. Once they were gone, he came over and said curtly, “Nice show,” as he handed us our check. His tone made it clear that he didn’t think it was a nice show at all, but we thanked him anyway for the opportunity. He turned and left without another word, so we broke everything down and left.

We knew we’d blown it. But I tried to follow up with him a few weeks later anyway; he didn’t respond.
We learned an unexpected lesson in the process. We’d produced promotional materials that were better than we were. And because of it, we’d gotten a show we weren’t ready for.

Nice as the $4000 was, getting a show we weren’t ready for hurt us long term. Because if we’d gotten that agent just a year or two later, when we’d been a year or two better, we might have gotten all those additional shows he’d hinted at.
At least we had $2000 in each of our pockets, money we desperately needed, so there’s that.

On the drive home, I planned my next move. First thing in the morning, I’d start turning in those bartending applications.
But that evening, the phone rang again.

Chapter 74: Circus Circus

Jonathan answered the phone and put it on speaker so I could hear too.

“Hi there, I’ve got your promo pack here and I’m looking for a fill-in act. I’d need you for four weeks, three ten-minute shows per day, five to six days per week. Are you interested?”
Jonathan nodded as he listened and said, “It sounds interesting, when would you need us to start?”
“The act that was supposed to come was starting in ten days. Could you be here and ready to go in ten days?”
I was already pouring over my big paper desktop calendar just to be sure there weren’t any conflicts. I didn’t see any, so I gave Jonathan the thumbs up.

“Uh, yeah, looks like we could do it, what’s the pay scale?”
“I could give you $1500 a week to start. If your first four weeks go well, we can discuss extending the contract and possibly raising the rate.”

Jonathan looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders as if to say, “We don’t have anything else going on.”
“Okay, we’re interested. Where’s the gig?”
“Circus Circus,” the voice answered back.

“In Vegas?” Jonathan asked excitedly, no doubt thinking about the conversation we’d just had a few weeks before with Christian about and the possibility of flair’tending.

“No, I book the shows in Reno, but it’s the same thing; you’ll be working on the midway.”
“Oh, okay, well yeah, we’ll do it.”

“Ok, great. In fact, can you get here a few days early so we can work through your act? You’ve got great skills, but I think I can help you add a little polish.

“We’ll look into accommodations now and try to get there a few days early.”

“Okay, great, I’ll send your contracts over.”

“Excellent, then we will see you soon.” Jonathan hung up the phone.

Turning to me, Jonathan said, “I guess we’re going to Reno.”

I smiled, excited, but also already thinking about what all it was gonna take to pull this off.

“So,” Jonathan began, “first question, are we getting a hotel, or are we moving?”
“If we knew for sure it would extend, I’d say move, but if it’s only four weeks, man, I dunno.”

“A hotel would be way more expensive than an apartment, so if we can find an apartment that will let us do month-to-month, I think we should move. Then, if it only lasts four weeks, we’ll just stay up there and try to find other work.”
“Yeah, and it’s not like we’re getting non-stop offers here, so we might as well. Plus, if it is a wash, we can move to Vegas and bartend.”

“Okay, that’s the plan, let’s do it.”

* * *

Later that night, I saw my student/landlord and asked him if he remembered what I’d said a few weeks earlier, on the day I’d moved in, about how I might be here for a month or a year.

He nodded and said, “Yeah, I remember.”

“Well, a contract came in; I’m moving to Reno to perform at Circus Circus.”
“Oh, well, that’s great; when do you start?”
“I leave in a couple of days.”
“Ah, that is fast…”
“It is, but I appreciate you letting me stay here for a few weeks. In fact, why don’t you set up the studio? Let’s do a couple more run-throughs of your bits; maybe we can add a little more polish.”
He brightened at this, “Yes,” and he was off to prep for rehearsal.
This would be the last time we ever trained and rehearsed together, but he had “it,” and I knew he would be okay. Some people have the it-factor, or the spark, that something that defies description, but is clearly there, and you just know they’re going to make it.

* * *

Jonathan found us a studio apartment just a few blocks from the Circus Circus casino, and he paid the entire deposit to secure it.

I mention it because after I’d paid all my bills, I didn’t have enough left for my half of the deposit. If he’d needed me to pay for my half right then, we wouldn’t have been able to secure a place. Not that that would have stopped us. We’d have found a way, we’d have slept in our cars if we had to, showered at a local gym, twisted balloons in freaking gas station parking lots along the way for tips if we had to. Nothing would have stopped us, NOTHING!
I don’t remember packing my car for the move. But I do remember the drive: we’d taken I-5 through Sacramento, then over to I-80, and were now chugging up Donner Pass. I was in my little white Suzuki Swift three-door, and Jonathan was just ahead of me. He was driving a little blue Honda CRV hatchback he’d bought at an auction for $1500. Neither of our machines was built for conquering mountain passes, most especially when loaded with all the worldly belongings of a couple o’ dreamers. It was all I could do to maintain 35mph on the uphills. Then it started snowing, and a few miles later, the snow had built up on the sides of the road and covered the surrounding mountains. I’d been to the mountains to sled as a kid, and I’d been snowboarding a few times, but this was the first time I’d ever driven in heavy snow. Each time a big rig passed me, I wished I could have afforded a more powerful vehicle, as the wind from its passing blew my little car all over the road. I wondered if this would be how the story would end. I could see the headline:
“Juggler in clown car blown off cliff in Donner Pass today, god have mercy on his foolish soul.”

But we didn’t get blown off the side, and eventually crested the mountain. There, nestled in the valley below, was our new home, the city of Reno.

We navigated to our apartment, located just a few blocks from the Circus Circus casino. Our “apartment” turned out to be an old blocky motel raised up on concrete pillars, with an asphalt parking lot tucked underneath. Finding our spots, we crossed the pothole-covered asphalt to enter the lobby. Once inside, the stench of old cigarettes slapped us in the face, and a bored man behind a glass check-in window ignored our entrance. We told him we were just arriving, and he gave us two keys.
The elevator was old and filthy, and the cigarette butts on the floor made it clear no one cared about the no-smoking signs. As we creaked up toward the second floor, I noticed the spot where the “last serviced” placard should’ve been—just a clean rectangle and four empty screw holes, like the elevator had given up on pretending anyone maintained it.
Exiting the elevator, we entered a dimly lit hallway with carpet that looked like it had been installed in the sixties and not cleaned since. Finding our number, we cracked open the door and entered a tiny room. Everything about the place screamed neglect. The only renovation they seemed to have made was installing a cheap laminate kitchenette along one wall. Looking at the window AC unit, I saw that the filter was encrusted with years of gunk.

It wasn’t nice, but it was cheap, and we needed cheap more than we needed nice. We made a few trips up and down the elevator to bring in our essentials. Then Jonathan said he was going to shower. He walked into the bathroom, then said loudly enough for me to hear, “Interesting.”

Curious, I walked over and saw that our bathroom had a shower and tub combo, but the tub had a series of ports installed. Looking at an emblem by the faucet, it proudly proclaimed this tub to be a genuine Jacuzzi brand bathing experience. There were also a number of knobs and controls on a panel, but the instructions for their use had long been worn or washed away. We’d never seen a Jacuzzi bathtub before, and curious, filled the tub halfway, then started fiddling with the knobs. The ports began to belch and wheeze as bubbles came out, then the jets vomited forty years of hair and filth into the bathwater. We looked at the knotted strands floating in the now-brown water and agreed we would never again turn on the Jacuzzi jets.
I heard a knock at the door, and I told Jonathan, “I’ll get that; you enjoy your shower now.”

“Oh, you know I will!” He answered sarcastically as he drained the water and looked for something disposable to wipe the tub out.

I closed the bathroom door as I left, thinking it was probably the manager at the door, needing to tell us something like, “Don’t use the Jacuzzi tub,” and opened the front door without looking through the peephole.

A man with wide and wild eyes stood before me, so I asked, “Can I help you?”
He looked past me, whether to see if I was alone or if there was anything worthwhile to steal, I’m not sure which, but it put me on edge. He didn’t say anything, just kept looking past me, so I moved so I was interposing myself into his gaze, “Can I help you?” I asked again more emphatically.

“Uh, yeah man, you got a lighter?”
“Nope, don’t smoke, sorry.”

“Oh, alright then,” he said, then he turned and walked down the hallway.
Without watching to see where he’d go, I closed the door and twisted the deadbolt home. He’d done nothing overtly wrong, but he gave me the heebie-jeebies. We just got here, and already I don’t feel safe.
When Jonathan finished his shower, I told him about our visitor so we could keep an eye out. We also decided not to open the door anymore unless we knew the person.

* * *

The next morning, we contacted Mark, the booker at Circus Circus, to let him know we were in town. He told us to come by the office and gave us directions.

We drove to Circus and parked in the garage. Then we found his office.

Knocking at the door, we heard a yell, “Come in!”
He greeted us warmly and started asking how the drive up was, where we were staying, and other similar questions. Luckily, Jonathan was holding up the conversation aspect, because I was hypnotized by the hundreds of VHS tapes, literal stacks of promo shots, and assorted performer/circus memorabilia piled head-high on every flat surface. Next to Mark’s desk was a TV and a VCR on a rolling stand, with at least eighty more VHS tapes haphazardly sitting on its shelves. Unable to contain myself any longer, I broke in, “This is awesome!”
Mark laughed, “Yeah, you wouldn’t believe the stuff that comes in. Check this out, I just got it a few days ago.”

He turned on the TV and loaded a tape. Pressing play, a trio of elephants running in circles with riders standing on their backs came on the screen. I watched as the riders began performing acrobatic balancing tricks on the moving elephants!
Mark commented, “The tape was postmarked from Africa, and it’s amazing, but obviously, I can’t book it here. Even if our stage could accommodate it, how do you ship an elephant from Africa?”
Stopping the tape, Mark popped in a few more for us. There were tight wire acts, Chinese acrobats, and of course, jugglers. He had the most insane repository of circus promo I’d ever seen, and I’d have happily sat there watching tapes all day. But Mark turned off the TV and asked, “So how did you guys learn? Did someone train you?”
Jonathan answered, “No, we watched tapes and practiced a lot. And we went to a couple of juggling clubs and a circus club, but we haven’t had any formal training.”

Mark listened, then nodded, “Well, like I said on the phone, you’ve got good skills, and with a few tweaks, I think we can make you into a real act. Are you free this afternoon? What’s your typical training schedule?”
“We are free, and we train all the time.”

Mark looked at his watch, “Let’s take a break for lunch, then you guys can go grab your gear, and meet me back here at 1:30 pm. We’ll go to one of the conference rooms to run through it, and then I’ll show you the midway where you’ll be performing.

* * *

We returned at the appointed time, and Mark led us to a conference room with garish carpet and high ceilings.
“I’d like to see your full act. Do you guys want to warm up a bit?”
Unpacking our gear, we said, “Naw, we’re ready. We just need to set up real quick.”

Mark nodded, then pulled up a chair to watch.

Once set up, we hit play on our boombox, and our track started.
We ran through our routine, which was essentially the same one we’d performed at the 2002 IJA Championships in Reading, Pennsylvania.

We started with six clubs, worked up to seven and eight, and eventually reached nine; however, we struggled with nine.
To his credit, Mark didn’t say a word; he just watched, taking occasional notes.

Once we were done, Mark told us how much he liked it overall, which was great, but we were braced for the inevitable “notes.”

“Do you have any ball or ring routines?” he asked.

“Um, yeah, we could do something with either?”
“Ok, why don’t you work up an opening sequence with rings, just to mix it up so it’s not all club juggling. Then, can you show me some of the transitions? The poses you do at the end of each sequence?”
We obliged, showing him the sharp poses we’d put in throughout the act to cue the audience to clap.

“Hum, yeah, these aren’t working for me,” Mark said, “it seems robotic, like you’re Olympians instead of performers. I want something warmer. Why don’t you try something like this?” Mark mimed juggling, then gathered the invisible props and just raised his arms to the side, as if offering the audience a hug.

“So, like this?” I asked, holding my arms out to the sides in a crisp “T” shape.

Mark shook his head no, “Close, but look.” He walked over and physically turned my hand over. I’d been posing with my arms stretched out, with palms turned down, which felt crisp, but read as impersonal. Turning our palms up and adding a slight bend at the elbows created a warmer, more inviting feel that didn’t just look better; it felt better, too. I tried it out a few times and liked it, so I committed it to memory.

He then ran us through all of our poses, correcting each until they “felt right.” Then he asked us to do some nine-club runs.
We did, bringing it in cleanly about half the time.

“Okay, so nine clubs is hit and miss for you, but I think we should still put it in. Let me ask you this: Do you feel nervous when you’re about to throw it?”
I admitted that I did feel nervous.

“Why do you feel nervous?”
“Because it’s hard, and I’m never 100% certain we’ll nail it on the first try. I hate dropping on stage.”
“If you had three tries, and it didn’t matter if you got it on the first or second, would you feel less nervous?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”

“Are you confident that you’d always get it if you had three tries?”
“Pretty confident, it’s not out of reach, it’s just inconsistent.”
Mark thought for a second, then he said, “Okay, try this, I want you to get a nice run of nine going, and then, instead of just stopping, I want you,” he pointed at me, “to start gathering the clubs, however it works for you, tuck them under your arms or whatever.” Then he pointed at Jonathan, “And I want you to keep throwing until Bill has all the clubs, make sense?”
“Yeah,” I said, “kind of like the club gathering competition they do at festivals.”

“Exactly, just like that. But here’s the kicker, when the ninth club is coming down, I want you to bobble it. And not just bobble it, I want you to make it the most dramatic, club pops out, then you recover, but it pops out a second time, so you run for it, and it just slips through your fingers, kind of bobble. Really milk it. Can you do that?”
I wrinkled my nose at this, “You want me to drop, DELIBERATELY?”
“Yes, and the more dramatically the better, create as much drama as you can without actually catching it in the end.”
“Okay,” we threw nine again, and when it was time to bring it in, I started gathering the clubs into my arms. Clubs six, seven, and eight get tucked into the pocket of my arm, and then I reach up for the ninth as it comes in, but instead of catching it, I leave my hand open, which causes it to bounce erratically back into the air. Taking a few steps, I chased it, then deliberately bobbled it again, chased it more, then it hit the ground with a plop.
“Yes! YES! Just like that, can you do that every time?!”
“Probably, I’d just have to practice it a little.”
“Perfect. Okay, here’s what I want you to do. The first time you throw nine, it doesn’t matter what happens; if you drop, so what, pick up and try again, it’s fine. But if you get a nice long run, I want you to do the gather-and-bobble at the end to build the drama. Then throw it the second time, and if you legitimately drop, well, you still have a third try. No reason to stress out. But if you have another nice long run, and it’s feeling solid, maybe you do the bobble on the gather again, which will build the audience into a frenzy, and then when you finally get it on the third try, they’ll go nuts! But, if it’s feeling unstable on that second try, you can just bring it in and finish the act there, and not have to do it that third time.”
It was so smart, and I liked it; it took away so much of the pressure and gave us a battle plan for any eventuality. No matter how we were feeling, we had options. And, it was showmanship. I’d never really thought about how the things we were doing actually affected the audience, other than “drops are bad, so don’t drop.” Being given permission to drop, as a way to make the show better, was new.

“Alright, we’ll try it, thank you.”
“Excellent, the only other thing I can think of is numbers. You know how many you’re juggling, and I know how many you’re juggling, but the audience doesn’t know how many you’re doing, so maybe get some big posterboard numbers to hold up each time you add a prop, then hang it somewhere on the case, I dunno, just a thought.”
“That’s a great idea, we’ll work on incorporating it,” Jonathan said.

“That’s enough for now, pack up your gear, and I’ll show you where you’ll be performing.”

* * *

The Midway is a long, high-ceilinged area with all the classic carnival barker games. Bright colors and blinking lights fill the space. As we walked the rows, we saw guests trying to toss a ring over a bottle to win the big prize, shoot water into the clown’s mouth until the balloon attached to his head popped, throw darts at balloons, and toss softballs into baskets perched at just the right angle so it’s almost impossible to get the balls to stay there. At each of these booths, there were countless stuffed animals of differing sizes, prizes meant to tempt the foolish, or be claimed by the rare winners of these carnival games.

In the center of this buzzing amusement was the Midway Stage, a place where visitors could gather to see a free show every thirty minutes, all day long. To the right of the stage was the musicians’ pit, featuring a keyboardist, drummer, and guitarist. On cue, these three would bring forth all the sounds and drama of the circus. As we approached, a tall ringmaster in appropriate garb took the stage. Holding the microphone, he gave an elaborate introduction about the Far East and the amazing talent we were about to see. “Ladies and Gentlemen, from Beijing, China, please welcome Je Shou Gwong and Qiuyue Shu Xue.”

The audience that had gathered cheered, and Mark said to us over his shoulder, “Right on time.” Then he clapped excitedly.

The lighting shifted to a more somber blue as two performers in traditional Chinese attire marched stiffly onto the stage. Each carried a large red ceramic jar. To begin, they swung the jars deep between their legs, then launched the jars high into the air. After a few of these tosses, they began to switch places after the throws, so as to catch the jar thrown by the other. Then, they swung the jar between their legs, and, throwing it head high, caught it in a balance on its rim, directly on their foreheads.

Holding this balance, they slowly turned their heads to the side to turn the jar; this movement was punctuated by quick jerks back to center. This caused the jar to slowly spin in its perched position until it had made a full 360-degree turn. Now they held their arms out stiffly to the sides and turned to face each other. Dropping to a crouch, they began to launch the jars at each other, one throwing higher than the other, causing the jars to switch from one performer’s head to the other. They’d repeat this, switching the jars back and forth. This insanity continued, even escalating to include acrobatics, a shoulder stand, and all manner of impossible exchanges. For the finale, they threw the jars up with a snap of the wrist, causing them to spin dramatically on their heads. The audience clapped in appreciation, then dispersed to find other entertainment along the midway. Mark led us to “the pit”, an area next to the stage where the performers entered and exited, and introduced us to the two performers. Both spoke minimal English, but were friendly and shook our hands. When I shook the larger of the two’s hand, it felt like I was shaking hands with an iron statue; he was a solid man. As we spoke with them, I noticed that both had patches of hair missing from their scalps where the jars would land. And looking closer, I realized that those areas had built up thick bony ridges of tissue, the body’s reaction to the relentless years of abuse, like a skull callous.

The performers took their leave, and Mark led us onto the stage to check out the space. The stage itself was wooden and laminated, like a raised basketball court, and a large red carpet was rolled out over it. Mark pointed up into the rafters, bringing our attention to the flying trapeze and tightwire rig. “The flyers tend to be the stars of the show, but we have had just about everything on this stage over the years.”
The MC walked over and introduced himself, “John,” he said.

Mark interjected, “Not just MC, he also does the Dog Gone Silly Dog Show, a long-time house favorite.”
John laughed and said, “True, me and the guys like to get out here and raise hell now and then.” Then to us he asked, “Do you have an intro card? What do you want me to say about your act?”
“Oh, we don’t, but I’ll get you one,” I said.
Mark interjected, “And what about music? Do you have sheet music?”
“Um, no, we’ve always been canned, just CD or whatever.”

Mark thought about this, “Maybe we give the guys a little break during your set, play your CD, and just have the drummer keep with you so we still have the energy of a live band.”
John nodded, “That’ll work.”
Just then, a couple of the stage technicians walked out and introduced themselves. “Pedro”, said one of them as he heartily shook my hand, “what do you need before each performance?”
Mark said, “Pedro and the guys will be in charge of your setup. Once they know it, they’ll make sure all your gear is exactly how you want it. When you arrive for your sets, all you have to do is warm up and have a great show.”
“Oh, great, yeah, I can show you,” I said. Pedro and I retreated to the pit to set up our gear, while Jonathan stayed on stage to talk with Mark and John.

Once our show cases were assembled, Mark instructed Pedro to place our cases and props. Jonathan and I grabbed some clubs to work out our lighting cues. We weren’t performing, but a crowd began to gather — we were on stage juggling after all. Having an audience for a tech rehearsal made me really nervous; I’d never had to work these things out in front of a crowd before. But there was no curtain around the space; it was a “live” circus, and everything happened right out in the open. I knew we were just rehearsing, but it felt like a performance. We did a few mock/simplified run-throughs to familiarize the tech team with our act. Throughout, the drummer listened and thumped along with us, slapping down background beats. It was all happening so quickly, and I guess I don’t know what I’d been expecting. We’d been hired, this was happening, and we needed to rise to the occasion.

After rehearsals, Mark showed us where the weekly schedule was posted, and I saw that we were already listed; our first show was in three days, at 11:00 am.

Three days to implement all of Mark’s notes and convert our little theme park act into a world-class juggling presentation. We had a lot to do.

* * *

After rehearsals, we stopped at a little Mexican joint we’d spotted earlier, Beto’s Taqueria. Over burritos and horchata, we mapped out a plan: First thing in the morning, we’d find a practice spot, and run the act nonstop for the next three days until it was time for our first show. Fired up, we jumped into Jonathan’s car and tore out of there, with Jonathan driving like a man on a mission.

As we turned down the side street behind the rundown strip mall that led to our equally rundown apartment-hotel, I heard the unmistakable slurp-slurp of my straw reaching the bottom of the cup. My horchata was gone; only ice remained in the large Styrofoam cup with the generic Smart & Final lid.

That’s when I saw it, the big green trash can sitting at the curb, the kind garbage truck lifts with steel forks. One lid was flipped open, just enough to tempt me. As fast as I could, I hand cranked the window down. Jonathan glanced at me, puzzled, but didn’t ease up on the speed. We were doing at least forty, and mid-turn. Holding the cup out the window, I loaded up for a hook shot, intending to chuck it over the car’s roof and into the tiny square opening.

The odds? Ridiculous. One in a million. In my head, I’d already pictured myself jogging back to pick Styrofoam off the street. But I figured, why not give it a try? At worst, we’d get a laugh. At best… well, I didn’t even let myself imagine “at best.”
I trusted my intuition and whipped a fast hook shot.

Because of the car’s roof, we couldn’t track the cup’s arc, so both of us craned toward the driver’s side window, waiting. A heartbeat later, it appeared in our peripheral vision like a little Styrofoam meteor, dropping from the sky, then swish. Nothing but net. Straight into the can.

We exploded. Shouting, laughing, pounding the dashboard as if we’d just won the championship. Sure, it was largely luck, but also, it wasn’t. Jugglers develop an uncanny sense of timing, honed from thousands of catches and throws. In that ridiculous, split-second stunt, all that training had channeled itself into one impossible shot.

For us, it felt like an omen. A wink from the universe. Day one, and we’d already pulled off the impossible.

Chapter 75: Blood on the Pine

Jonathan found a gymnastics space just a block from our apartment, so we went to check it out first thing in the morning. The facility turned out to be a grocery store-sized building with wall-to-wall gymnastics flooring, a juggler’s dream come true. We signed up for a month-long membership and went straight to work.

Mark had given us notes on the general direction he’d like us to take the act, but we still had considerable flexibility in how to execute them.

He’d asked us to incorporate ring or ball juggling, so we worked out a ring routine, something we could put into the act quickly. We decided to start with six, work up to seven, then eight, and finish with a run of nine in ultimates pattern, plus a fun finish. We weren’t really ring jugglers, but we managed to create the act and run it clean several times in only an hour.
One of Mark’s notes was checked off.

Then we sat down to discuss what else might work.

Jonathan said, “Your three-ball work has gotten really good. Maybe we could open with that?”
“I’d like to develop it, but I don’t really have an act yet.”

“Do you have an opening sequence?”
“I do,” I admitted.

“And what about a strong closer?”
“Um, yeah, I think so.”

“Okay, do the opener, add-lib the middle, and end with the closing sequence.”

“And just make up the whole middle?”
“Sure, and in two weeks, you won’t have to make it up, you’ll just have an act.”
“True…” I couldn’t think of a good counterargument.
Jonathan changed the CD and started a track I’d been thinking of using for a three-ball routine and said, “Alright, let’s see it.”
Grabbing three balls, I stood up and said, “Wait, wait, restart it from the beginning.”

“Are you ready?” He asked.

I stacked my three bean bags, one on top of the other, and nestled them between my hands. “Hit it.”

The track’s distinctive bap-bap, buh-bap, bap-bap, buh-bap, bap-bap, bap-bap, BOP! came on, and I threw all three beanbags straight up. Ripping a fast pirouette below them, I came around and went directly into a side-stepping weave pattern.
And just like that, my three-ball act was in the show.

* * *

I don’t remember a lot about our first few shows on the Midway. It was super stressful trying to remember all the changes and new tricks. We’d open the act with my two-minute three-ball act, which got a little stronger each day. Then we’d go into our team’s work, starting with the brand new ring act. Then we’d transition into our club passing routine, the routine we’d competed in the IJA championships with, so it was all the hardest things we could do. We’d also added in Mark’s other suggestion, holding up cards with numbers printed on them each time we added another club, and of course, at the end, we were doing the nine clubs bit where I’d miss once or twice to build the drama. It was all great stuff, but also a lot to assimilate.
Like anything, though, it gets easier with repetition.

* * *

About a week in, Jonathan and I were having lunch at the Circus Circus employees’ cafeteria, and the progress of my three-ball act came up.

Jonathan said, “It’s good, but I think the ending needs to be a little punchier. What else could you do to finish stronger?”
“I’ve thought of doing an ass catch, but dang if that wouldn’t be a hard one to get consistent. And to end with it, there’s no way to cover if I botch it.”

Jonathan nodded, “It would be hard, it would be risky, but it would be awesome too.”
“So you think I should learn it?”
Jonathan held his hands up nonchalantly, “I’m just saying it would be awesome.”

I shook my head because I knew he was right. An ass catch needed to be the final move of my routine, a make-or-break, Hail Mary kinda move that any audience, even a non-juggling one, could appreciate.

So I started practicing the ass catch a little every day. At first, I was happy to get it five to ten times in a session, but after a week of training, I landed it nine times in a row. Unfortunately, I missed the tenth, which was so sucky. One of the old rules of thumb in juggling is, “If you can hit it ten times in a row in practice, you can hit it in a show under the lights, and with people watching.” I had missed the tenth, so I wasn’t ready to try it in a show, but it was getting close. I decided to keep going until I got it ninety-one more times, TODAY, in one session. Not in a row, just total, and all other juggling objectives for the day were abandoned.

Ass catches for reps, and go.

It took a few hundred attempts to reach the one-hundred successful executions. I’d get into grooves where I’d hit it multiple times, then I’d miss it thirty times straight. I’d start overthinking, misjudge the throws, but through failure, I learned every imaginable way for it not to work, as well as the very narrow margins needed to hit it.
97…
98…
99…
and 100 successful ass catches.
I was sore for two days after that one session. And I didn’t try the trick again for a few more days after that to give myself time to recover. But the next time I tried it in a practice session, I got it ten times in a row, which meant it was ready to go into the show. In just a few weeks, I’d learned and added a huge finale trick to my three-ball act.

* * *

The time flew by. We improved notably, and our four-week fill-in spot at Circus neared its end. Knowing we’d need a plan, Jonathan and I started talking about what we might do next.

The next IJA was being held in Reno, and the competitions would take place in a hotel theater just a few blocks from where we were living now. The main convention would be in a large conference center on the same block as Circus Circus. The thought of competing without having to go anywhere, sleeping in our own beds, and eating our regular meals sounded too good to be true, so we decided to stick it out in Reno, whether we had work or not, until at least the competitions had come and gone. Then we could move to Vegas, or wherever the contracts next led. And it’s not like Reno was bad; there were innumerable places to mountain bike and snowboard.

* * *

Two days before our contract was up, Mark came down to watch one of our shows, and then afterward, he invited us up to his office to talk.

Once we got there, he asked, “So, what’s ya’ll’s plan? Are you competing in the IJA again this year?”
“We are competing, and plan to stay in Reno at least until the championships.”

“And for the championships, would you essentially do the act you’re doing here?”
“Yes, we might make a few minor adjustments, but yes, we’re running the act on the Midway.”

Mark drummed his fingers on the desk, clearly weighing some possibility in his mind. Then he said, “I have Anthony Gatto scheduled to start on July 1st, so if you’d be interested in staying on until then, I could extend your contract by sixteen more weeks. That way you’d get to practice your act right up until two weeks before the championships, how does that sound?”
“It sounds amazing.”

“Okay, great, and I see that your act has improved noticeably, so I’m gonna bump you up to $1800 a week.”
“That also sounds great,” we said.

Mark looked at his desktop calendar and tapped his pen on the table in thought. “Actually, you know what, how would you feel about performing on the midway the week of the championships? Obviously, you’d be off on the day of the competitions, but if you filled in here, it would give you a chance to run the act a bunch right before you take it in front of the judges.”
“That sounds awesome, but I thought you said Anthony would be here juggling then?”
Mark smiled, “Well, it’s kind of a surprise, but Anthony is going to be performing in the IJA’s Cascade of Stars show, so I want to pull him off the midway so no one from the festival can see him beforehand. It’s a win-win, you guys would get to practice until the final moment, and we hold Anthony back for the main show, sound good?”
“As long as it’s cool with you and Anthony, it’s cool with us.”

“Okay, I’ll get your contracts written up.”

We stood to leave, but Jonathan stopped and said, “Actually, we’ve got an idea we’d like to run by you.”
Mark looked up from his desk, “Shoot?”
“What are the chances of bumping us up to six shows per day, so we could start doing a second act? Three of the juggling act, and three of another?”
Mark’s eyebrows raised, “What else do you want to do?”
“We’d like to do an extreme comedy and variety spot. Bill would sword swallow and juggle a chainsaw, and I’ll do some of our comedy bits?”
Mark thought about it for a second and said, “Can you show me the act?”
“Absolutely, when do you want to see it?”
“Can you do a run-through today?”
“Sure, what time?”

* * *

A few hours later, after we’d finished one of our regularly scheduled shows, Mark had all the technicians stay on to do a run-through of our new second act. Similar to how we’d done when we set up our act when we first arrived, I explained to Pedro and the guys how we wanted everything set, and they got the gear ready. Then Mark stood to one side while we ran through. Jonathan opened with our flying pig act, a bit where he’d put on a toy space helmet and spin a winged pig that was tied to the helmet around his head. As he did this, he’d tell jokes, and I’d throw bits of toilet paper over the string until they caught like streamers. Then I’d take a whip and whip the strands of paper off. After that bit, I’d sword swallow and juggle. Next, Jonathan would juggle while simultaneously jumping over a Skip-It toy, and for the finale, I juggled the chainsaw.

When we were done, Mark gave us notes, and we ran the whole thing again. After the second run through, Mark said he was seeing the vision and asked if we could do it again.

“We can do it ten more times if you like, whatever it takes to get it right.”

Mark recommended some changes, then asked us to run it again.

We did, and everything was feeling good right up until I juggled the chainsaw. While juggling the eighteen-pound monster, I suddenly felt a shock of pain through my right hand. I knew I hadn’t caught or bumped the blade, so I couldn’t explain what went wrong. I finished my final throws, then raised the saw above my head in victory.

Mark clapped and walked out to the center of the ring. “Very nice, it’s really coming together. Okay, almost everything is working, but there are still a few tiny tweaks we can make.”

As he was saying this, I glanced down at my right hand and saw that I had a huge gash in the webbing of my thumb. To control the bleeding, I pressed my thumb over the wound as tightly as I could, then squeezed the rest of my fingers over the top of it to try to staunch the flow. Mark began to give us his notes, walking animatedly around the stage as he did so, acting out the adjustments he thought we should make. Undeterred, the blood began dripping through my fisted-up fingers. As the drops fell, they made penny-sized red circles on the light pine colored stage. I started stepping on the droplets, then, as surreptitiously as possible, scuffed my shoes over them to try and make them disappear. Jonathan saw what I was doing and started distracting Mark, trying to keep him from seeing me. I kept scuffing the marks, but I couldn’t keep up. The blood was dripping everywhere, so the jig was up. There was no way I’d be able to get through another run through without everyone knowing something was wrong. We were going to have to fess up, and we both knew Mark would cut our act if he thought it was too dangerous.

I was about to confess, but Jonathan put his fingers to his temple and said, “Oh no.”

Mark looked at him and asked, “Are you okay?”
Jonathan closed his eyes and furrowed his brow, clearly in pain, then he opened his eyes and looked at Mark and said, “I’m sorry, I’m getting a migraine. If I don’t take my medicine, I won’t be able to see in twenty minutes. Mark, would it be okay if we took a break so I could run home and get my medicine?”
Mark was sympathetic, “Of course, whatever you need, we’ve pretty much got this down anyway, go ahead.”
I leaned in and said, “I’ll pack down the gear so we can go.”

Jonathan nodded, eyes closed in pain again, and Mark, fully focused on Jonathan, asked if there was anything else he could do to help.

I slipped off the side of the stage and, out of sight, opened my hand to look. My entire palm was filled with blood, and it had thick streaks where it had dripped out the backs of my fingers. The web of my thumb was ripped open as if I’d grabbed a jagged piece of metal, but that was impossible; I’d caught the handle of the chainsaw, just like I’d done countless times before; it made no sense. I examined the chainsaw and found that the handle had blood spatter all over it, but otherwise it was the same as ever. Now I was at a total loss as to how to explain what had happened. I picked up the saw in my uninjured hand and held it as if I were catching it. As I did, the bolt that attached the handle to the saw itself stabbed into my hand, not enough to cut me, but enough to be uncomfortable. That’s when I realized where things had gone wrong.

Because the saw was too long to fit in a travel case with the handle attached, we’d devised a half-inch bolt-and-wingnut fastener for the handle to make it removable. That solution had been just the ticket. From the very first time I’d ever put the bolt through the handle, I’d always placed it with the bolt facing up, or away from my hand. It wasn’t something I’d done consciously; it’s just how I’d put the handle on the first time when I tested it. When all the testing had gone well, I’d just kept putting the bolt on that exact same way every time after. But now, we had the technicians helping set up the gear, and they didn’t know I put the bolt in a certain way each time. As a result, they assembled it with the bolt facing the opposite direction. The first few times I’d juggled it, I hadn’t choked up on the handle at all, so I hadn’t noticed this change. But on that last run through, I’d choked up on the handle, and when I did that, the full weight of the chainsaw drove the sharp bolt straight through my hand.

Satisfied with the discovery, I made a mental note to explain this nuance to the technicians and to shorten the bolt to reduce the likelihood of a repeat incident. I grabbed a black hand towel from my case and wrapped it around my hand. Looking over, I saw that Mark was leaving and Jonathan was coming over to me. We finished packing up and, without a word, made our way to the parking garage to leave. As soon as we’d gone through the glass double doors, Jonathan asked, “How’s your hand?”
“It’s ok, I just couldn’t stop the bleeding.”

Jonahan laughed, “I know!”
Then I asked, “How’s your migraine?”
We both laughed at this, knowing full well he’d faked it to get us out of there. “It was the only thing I could think of!” he defended. “I didn’t know how bad it was, but I knew you couldn’t continue.”

“No, it was brilliant, thank you! At least now we have a shot at getting our second act out there and developing more show material.”

* * *

Thanks to Jonathan’s quick thinking, Mark approved our second act.

Starting the next day, we were doing six shows a day: three juggling and three comedy sideshow.

I had to bandage my hand with layer after layer of tape, but no matter how I wrapped it, the wound tore open time and time again. Six shows a day, six days a week, three of those shows filled with intense juggling, and three more with high-impact chainsaw juggling. It took weeks for the gash to heal enough that I could stop taping it. But despite these setbacks, we were getting better.
A lot better.

Chapter 76: David Iannaci

One night between our sets, I decided to check out the Just For Laughs comedy club at the Sands Casino, which was just a short walk from Circus Circus. When I arrived, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a suit was greeting and seating everyone. He was friendly, cracked a few jokes, and then led me to a table near the front. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was carefully seeding the crowd, helping to ensure that the show would be as good as possible. When showtime arrived, I was surprised to see the doorman get up on stage and introduce himself as the MC, “My Name’s David Iannaci, David— Iannaci— half Jewish and half Italian, which means if I don’t get it wholesale I steal it, Ehhhh!” The crowd laughed at this, and he did some more schtick, getting us all warmed up. Then he introduced the first act of the evening. “Yo Vinny, get out here!”

As we applauded the next performer, David turned and opened a suitcase. He quickly put on a big headpiece with sunglasses and a sparkly gold coat, then turned back to us and played Vinny, a cool, hip groove master. It was an impression act. He then switched to another character, then another, then he talked about how he’d always dreamed of being a drummer, so he

carefully set up a table with a short mic stand on top, and began to drum on the table. He started slow but built to a genuinely impressive cacophony, and just as he was about to hit his final notes, the vibration through the table caused the microphone to break loose from its stand and clank noisily onto the tabletop, trailing its cable as it went. David Iannaci, the old-skool

seasoned vet, threw his sticks down in frustration, and the audience roared. Another thing I didn’t know at the time: he did this mic-drop bit every night, and every night it slayed. After that, he introduced the middler, who got up and did their thing, then he brought out the headliner. Start to finish, it was a great show, but David, the doorman, was the best of all.

As I was leaving, David made a point of stopping me, thanked me for coming, and asked where I was from. “Here,” I said, “my friend and I are doing a contract on the Midway at Circus Circus.”

That was all he needed to hear: “You wanna come do an opening spot for me one of these nights?”
“Yeah, that’d be great,” I said, so we exchanged information.

Because the Sands was so close, and Jonathan and I had regular downtime between shows, I started popping over periodically to see the comics and say hi to David; then, as we became friends, I started hanging out there on the regular.
I remember one night, David calling me up and saying, “Hey, you free? If so, you gotta come see this comic from the valley!”
“Is he good?” I asked.

“No! He’s terrible, very blue, can’t read the room, has no act. You gotta see it!”
So I’d pop by the club and learn just as much from what didn’t work as I did from what did.

By now David started taking me back to the green room before and after shows, and whenever we’d be back there, he’s always give me sagely advice, the advice of a seasoned pro, advice from the guy who’d done it all, seen it all, played the big rooms, and, as he put it, “I would own this casino if I hadn’t put it all up my nose.”

He’d been clean and sober for years now, but at the peak of his career, he’d been a slave to cocaine.
“You know how I quit?” he asked one night.
“What, the cocaine?”
“Yeah, it was right before a show, and I was jonesin’. I needed to be fixed up real bad, sweating, paranoid, so I had my dealer meet me in the green room while I was getting ready. Thing is, he showed up, and took his sweet time — he always did that — drove me fruuugggiun nuts. He knew I was in a bad way, and he’s dragging it out, practically making me beg for it, and suddenly this thought came into my head: I don’t need this shit. So then I turned to him and said, ‘Hey, I don’t need this, why don’t ya’ take a hike.’

He was shocked, ‘What, I thought you wanted to get fixed up.’
‘I did, but not anymore, get out, and don’t ever come around me again, I don’t wanna see you, I don’t know you, get out!’
The dealer gathered his things and got ready to leave, but as a parting shot said, ‘Later, when you got your head back on straight, call me, I’ll pretend this conversation didn’t happen.’

As the door closed, I shouted after him, ‘Go ahead, wait by the phone, but you won’t be hearing from me!’”
I waited to see if David would say anything else, but he didn’t, so I asked, “And that was it, you never used again?”
“That was it, been clean ever since. Though I think my doctor’s tryin’ to do the same with these here percocets. Damn sciatica gets me,” he cut into one of his character’s voices and crossed his eyes wildly, “Whaa Whaaa Whailll pifff rererere!!!”
When I didn’t know how to react to this, he said in his normal-ish voice, “I’m sayin it huyts!”
David took me under his wing, and he taught me all the old-skooler rules, like don’t eat at events.

“You’re the talent, not the guest. You wanna have spinach in your teeth or fish dip breath when people come up to talk to you after the show? You gotta be classy. You glide through the room, because when you get on that stage, you never look better.”
And on costuming: “Don’t ever sit in costume, you work hard for those creases, and they should cut straight through to the back row. You need to look immaculate, and when the show’s over, you come straight to the green room, change out of costume, and immediately hang everything up so those creases stay perfect. Has anyone ever shown you how to properly hang a pair of slacks?”
“No,” I admitted.

So he showed me the right way, the way I’ve hung my slacks up every time since, the way I’ve shown my own students, and anyone else who would listen. I’ve been classy: I’ve kept my costumes immaculate — though I admit I do sit down in them sometimes — and I almost never eat at a gig. If I do, I brush my teeth right after. I’ve upheld these classy standards and taught others to do the same. David taught me a lot about being a performer and a man.

Soon enough, David was putting me on as an opener and paying me a little on the side for it. The stage at Just For Laughs was very small, though, so most of the time I’d just hop up and do my three-ball act. Which by now had been refined down to a tight one minute and fifty-six seconds. The Sands shows fell right in between our sets at Circus, so I’d do five shows at Circus, then walk over to the Sands with three balls in my hand, do a set there, then walk back to Circus to do our final set of the night on the Midway.

We’d been running our shows so consistently that I would try to get through entire days, six to seven shows, without any drops. I remember one day we’d gotten through our five Circus shows flawlessly, so I was trying to make it a dropless day. I got up on the stage at The Sands to do my three-ball act. I did my opening sequence, then I had a blowout. No biggie, I picked up and started raging again, no sooner than I’d started, another blowout, shit, pick up and go again. Now I was trying to redeem myself, and blam, another blowout, then another, and another. UGH, what is happening? The audience was trying to clap for me as encouragement, but I couldn’t get through more than five to ten throws without another miss; it was excruciating. Throughout I was counting in my head.
10…
11…

juggle juggle, drop
12…
13…

juggle juggle, drop
14…
15…
And then I went for my final trick, the ass catch, the most important move of the routine, BAM, MISS!!! URGGG!!!! I throw it again and nail it, blessedly. I tried to take the front of the stage and bow, but it was awkward. The audience could tell I was good; I was clearly doing hard stuff, but I’d completely failed to accomplish the act with my sixteen drops. I left the stage in defeat, but David defended me to the crowd, called me his protege, and claimed me as his own even though I’d just stunk the place up. Any other comic would have made a joke at my expense, but David didn’t need to take cheap shots at me to get laughs. I walked back to Circus, and in our final show that evening, we went flawlessly.

So it was five flawless shows, a sixteen-drop meltdown, and another flawless show. No matter how good you get at juggling, you can never assume you’re going to slay it; the gods of gravity can frown at any moment.

Another time, David and I were hanging out in the green room, and he started talking about the bell curve of an entertainment career. He talked about how he was on the down slope of the backside, and how I was on the up slope on the front side. “When you are on top, it seems like it will never end, but no matter how high you climb, eventually, you have to come down. So make sure that you have a good place to land when you do.”

That was David, always honest, always practical. He’d seen enough to know how quickly the spotlight fades. But he was also quick to remind me to push harder than the next guy: “If you are working on your act fourteen hours per day, there’s someone else working on theirs fifteen hours per day.”

* * *

Another time, David had to go out of town, so he asked me to cover the club for him. Basically acting as the host and doorman. The day before he was set to leave, we were hanging out in the green room after a show, and he asked me, “While you’re covering the club, what do you do if the comics ask you for something?”
“Um, try to be helpful and make sure they have a good show?”
“NO,” he rocketed back, “You tell them, ‘NO!’”
I laughed, thinking this was a joke, but David remained serious, so I asked, “Okay, I’ll tell them no, but why? What are they gonna ask me for?”
David cut into his Vinny voice, “Oh, you name it buster, they’ll ask for it, and when they do you just remember what David told youze, you tell ‘em NO, David you see, he’s on your side, he’s one of the good guys.”
I laughed and said, “Okay, I’ll tell ‘em no.”

David looked at me for a second, then, in his normal voice, said, “I hope so.”

* * *

The next day, I opened the room, got the comics settled, seated the audience, all the things I was supposed to do. And through it all, I was on guard, careful to ensure that any special requests from the comics would get a swift no. But neither of them asked me for anything. They came out and did their sets, the audience had a good time, and it was easy peasy. After the show was over, I cleaned up the room, reset the chairs, and when it was time to lock up, told the comics it was time to wrap up. As before, they were easy-going, cracking jokes, just a couple of funny guys. As I locked the place up, one of them asked, “Do you live here in town?”
“I do, my teammate and I are doing a contract at Circus Circus on the midway.”

“Teammate? Are you a ball player or something?”
“No, no, we do a juggling act, but we’re a duo.”
“Oh, that’s cool, so where do you live?”
Pointing off in a northwesterly direction, I said, “Over on that side of town.”
“Oh, that’s great, is there any chance you could drop us at -he named some small casino- it’s right on your way.”
David’s voice rang in my head, “If they ask for anything, you tell them NO!!!”
But then I thought, it is on my way, what’s the harm in just dropping them off, so I said, “Sure, hop in.”
We got in the car, and I set off for the casino. The drive was pleasant enough, but as we drove, the comic in the backseat discovered that I had a stack of promotional packets tucked into the pouch on the back of the seat.
“Hey, is this your promo? Can I take a look?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said over my shoulder.

He pulled out the packet and started ooh’ing and ahh’ing. “Man, so you send out a team headshot, a second headshot that has four different photos on it, a VHS tape, a résumé, a bio, and a cover letter? Damn, how much does one of these cost you?”
“Uhh, I don’t know, including shipping, probably fourteen to twenty dollars a piece.”
“How many do you send out?”
“We thought our contract at Circus Circus was going to end, so I just sent out a bunch, sixty to seventy maybe, but then we got extended by four months.”

“Where do you send them?”
“Agents, bookers… We sent two dozen to the cruise lines, and we even sent a few directly to entertainment managers on board ships. Anywhere we can think to send them.”

“Man, I need to be better about that. I’m actually supposed to be sending out a couple this week. Could I have a couple of these mailers?”
My initial impulse was to say yes, but David’s voice rang in my head again, much louder this time, “You tell them NO!!!”
I was torn. Here’s a guy who’s trying to move forward in his career, so I wanted to help him out. But then I thought, wait a minute, I’m spending a small fortune sending out all this promo, and it’s not like he’s asking to borrow a couple of empty envelopes lying in the backseat, he’s asking if he can disassemble packets I’ve already got packed and ready to go, essentially pulling me backward a step so that he can move forward a step.

David’s words came out of my mouth, “No.”

The comic waited a moment. I think he thought I’d explain myself, but I didn’t.

“It’s just a couple of mailers, is it really gonna hurt you if I take a couple?” the comic argued.

I felt a storm begin to brew in my belly. I’ve given up everything for this. I’ve busted my ass to get here, and now you’re gonna guilt-trip me, while I’m giving you a ride, motherfu…
Sensing the explosion, the other comic turned to the guy in the back, “Man, that stuff’s expensive; if you need to send out mailers, go get yourself some mailers.”

The guy in the back dropped the issue, and I didn’t say anything else about it.
Soon after, we pulled up in front of the casino, and they climbed out. The comic who’d been in the front seat thanked me graciously for the ride, and the comic who’d been in the back hovered in the door to say, “Hey, sorry about that, I was out of line.”

I said, “It’s all good, we’re all just trying to make it.”

The backseat comic nodded, then he stepped out. Before closing the door, he turned back to me again and said, “Hey, we’re only gonna be here for an hour or so, would you mind picking us up and dropping us back at the Sands?”
Oh my god, David was right, if they ask for anything, you gotta tell them NO!!!”
Before I could say anything, the other comic said, “Dude, seriously?” Then he said to me, “Thanks again, we can make our own way back, have a good night.”

He closed the door, and as I pulled away, I heard the cool comic railing the other for being a mooch.

Gah, David was right, but how did he know? He was certain enough that this would happen that he warned me.
I know it’s hard to come up as a comic. The years it takes doing the club circuit, making crap money, it’s a tough life. I guess up-and-coming comics have to find every way imaginable of getting ahead, just like Jonathan and I had to find our way.
I covered the club for the next two days with the same two comics. They were nice enough, and they didn’t ask me for anything else the rest of the weekend.

A few days after that, I saw David, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Did you tell them no?!”
I hesitated, the words catching in my throat, but it’s not like I was gonna lie to him.

David looked at the sky, threw his hands in the air, and, in Vinny’s voice, exclaimed, “Oy Jeezuz!”
Then he looked back at me, and I interrupted whatever was coming next, “You were right, and I learned my lesson. After the first night, they didn’t ask for anything else.”
“After the first night…”

“Yeah, I gave them a ride after the show.”

Vinny: “A Reide? Whare’d did dey wanna go? To the stwipcleub?”
“No, just to a casino, and they did ask for more, but I did what you said, I told them no.”

David considered this, then he nodded. “You did good,” then in Vinny’s voice, “cuz if nots, I tell ya’ there’d be hell ta pay when I gots deze hands on thooose guuyyz!”

* * *

David was a friend and a mentor who taught me so much. And he’s been with me, in spirit, at every gig since, his voice forever in my ear, always reminding me to glide through the room.

In your journey, you’ll find your David. And when you do, learn their ways, cherish the time you have together. Because no matter how much time you get, it’ll never be enough.

If you’re reading this, David, wherever you are, thank you…

Chapter 77: Machetes and Misunderstandings

We didn’t know what would happen after the Circus contracts, so we kept it on the down-low that we’d moved out of San Diego. We didn’t want the agents and bookers we’d worked with to take us off their rosters just in case we ended up moving back.

So it wasn’t surprising when the Fern Street Circus called to see if we were available for a high-end corporate event. The money was good, and the event was on our one day off from Circus, so we accepted it.

Pulling it off, though, would be pretty breakneck. We’d have to drive to San Diego, bust the show, then drive back to Reno, all in one day. We talked about it and decided to rent a car to avoid putting wear and tear on our own cars. They’d always been reliable, but the fear of breaking down was real. So we rented a car in Reno and drove to San Diego to do the show. After the gig, around 11:00 pm on Sunday night, we left San Diego to return to Reno. It was a ten-hour drive, and we had shows the next morning, so there was no time to lose.

With me behind the wheel, we passed Los Angeles, Bakersfield, and Stockton. By then, it was so late there were hardly any cars on the road, and I didn’t want it to take the whole ten hours to get back, so I let my foot get heavy on the pedal. The rental car we’d gotten was a luxury sedan, not what we’d reserved initially, but they’d offered a free upgrade, so we figured, why not? As we crept up to ever higher speeds, it remained smooth, even into triple digits. After a bit, I glanced down and realized we were going 117 mph. Ekk, that’s not safe, so I slowed us down to a more reasonable 109 mph. The miles were ripping past, but then I saw a car’s lights in my rear-view mirror.

It was taking the on-ramp with intent, like it might be giving chase.
Uh oh, I immediately dropped us down to 90 mph in case it was an officer. Yes, still speeding, but at least a defendable speed. Once the car caught up, it swung over behind us and got really close. Based on this vehicular body language, I figured I was about to get zapped. Looking over at the passenger seat, I saw that Jonathan was dead asleep, so I tapped him and said, “Hey, take the radar detector down and hide it.”

Jonathan woke and slipped the anti-speed-trap device off its windshield mount and threw it under his seat. A few moments later, the telltale cherries and berries lit up the night, and we were being pulled over.
I pulled to the side of the road, and the officer walked up to my window.
“License and registration?”
“Yep, here’s my license, and here’s the rental car paperwork.”
“This is a rental?”
“Yes, sir.”

“Okay, sit tight,” the officer said as he walked back to his car.
He was gone for a while, so I was sure I was getting a ticket.
A little later, a second police car pulls in behind the first. But I didn’t think much of that; it was the middle of the night, and hardly anyone was out, so maybe the second guy was just popping by to lend support.
The original officer returned to my window and asked, “You say this is a rental?”
“Yes, sir.”

“Where’d you rent it?”
“Reno.”

“When were you in Arizona?”
“We weren’t in Arizona.”

“Where are you coming from?”
“San Diego.”

“So you weren’t in Arizona?”
“No, sir.”
The officer nodded, but seemed troubled by this. He raised his flashlight and aimed it through the windshield while scribbling in his notebook. His beam kept drifting back toward us, quick little sweeps like he wasn’t sure what we might do. Once he’d finished writing, he turned and walked to his car.

He was gone for a long time. Then I heard a crackling sound, and a voice rang out over the police car’s loudspeaker, “Driver, drop the keys out the window.”

Jonathan sat up straighter in his chair, “Here we go.”

I rolled the window down and dropped the keys out on the asphalt.

“Driver, with your right hand, reach out the window and open the door from the outside.”

I did as commanded.

“Step out of the car with your hands up.”

I complied. As I stood, I put my hands on top of my head and turned to face the blinding spotlights and headlights.
“Hands higher, and turn around.”

I raised my hands higher and turned my back to the voice.

“Walk backwards towards the sound of my voice.”
I started walking backwards.
“Stop right there.”

I did, and waited. I hear footsteps, then an officer grabs my right wrist and twists it behind my back. “Spread your legs,” he commanded.

I took a step out to widen my stance. The officer then kicked my right leg out, with an angry shout of “WIDER!”
I turned to look over my right shoulder and said curtly, “I’m not giving you any trouble.”

His face was backlit, but I could see he’d heard me. He reached up and grabbed my other hand, twisted it behind my back, and put me in handcuffs. The cold sensation of the metal encircling my wrists was foreign; I’d never been in cuffs before. He gave me a pat-down and went through my pockets. Satisfied I wasn’t armed, he grabbed my now connected wrists and lifted my arms to force me into a half bow, then turned me around to walk towards the cop cars. As we passed through the spotlights, I realized there were now five police cars in total, all with officers posted, guns drawn and pointed downrange. Damn, I thought, they take their speeding really seriously around here, then I was pushed into the back of a car. I was shirtless, and the cold plastic seat made my skin jump, so I tried not to lean against it all at once.

Looking through the thick wire security screen separating the front seat from the back, I saw that the officer who’d initially pulled me over was in the driver’s seat. He lifted his right hand to his mouth and, pressing a button with his thumb, said, “Passenger, reach out the window with both hands.” The words shot through his speaker system downrange to where Jonathan was still in the car. I saw Jonathan reach out of the passenger side window.

“Passenger, open the door from the outside and step out.”

I saw Jonathan open the door, but he didn’t get out; instead, he just held his hands out so they could see them.
Realizing the problem, I leaned forward and said through the security screen, “His seatbelt is still on.”
The officer didn’t acknowledge me; he just waited for a moment, then he pressed the button again: “Passenger, take your seat belt off and step out of the car.”

One of Jonathan’s hands disappeared from sight, then he stepped out of the car with his hands up.
I saw that Jonathan, just as I had moments ago, wasn’t reaching his hands very high up. So I said from the back seat, in my most authoritative voice, “Passenger, put your hands higher and turn around.”

Again, the officer did not acknowledge me, but he pressed the mic button and said, “Passenger, put your hands higher and turn around.”

Jonathan did this, then, knowing what was coming next, I continued my impersonation, “Passenger, walk backwards towards the sound of my voice.”

The officer pressed the button and echoed me, “Passenger, walk backwards toward the sound of my voice.”
I watched as Jonathan made his steps backwards, and when it looked like he’d gone about as far as I had, I said, “Passenger, stop right there.”

The officer pressed the button and said, “Passenger, stop right there.”
To the officer, I said, “This is kinda fun.”

The officer glanced back at me over his left shoulder with a look that was half stern and half bemused. I got the feeling I wasn’t responding the way typical detainees do.
Jonathan stood there with his hands up. The officer pressed the button and said, “Passenger, slowly reach down and lift your shirt.”

Jonathan reached down and lifted his shirt, presumably, so they could see if he had a weapon. I piped in and said to the officer, “Ah, you got me on that one, but I didn’t know because I’m not wearing a shirt.”
Despite himself, the officer smiled at this.

I watched as one of the officers walked towards Jonathan. Once there, the process was repeated; they put him in cuffs and put him into one of the other cars.

Now that we were both “in custody,” the officer seemed to relax, if only slightly. Without looking at me, he asked, “Are there any weapons in the car?”
My head exploded at this question: “Uh, yeah, a bunch.”

“Really?” He lifted his notebook and, with a pen at the ready, asked, “What do you have in there?”
“Oh geeze, there’s six machetes, two swords, a couple of whips, a blowgun, a chainsaw, a big saw blade with a handle attached to it, seven torches, and a gallon of fuel in the back. Let’s see… Oh, there’s two backpacks in the backseat, and each of them has a pocket knife. Umm, yeah, I think that’s all, but I guess it depends on what you consider a ‘weapon.’”

He’d written down the first couple things I’d said, but he stopped writing somewhere around “blowgun.” For the first time, he genuinely turned around to look me in the eyes. “Okay, we’re gonna search your car. Anything else you wanna tell me?”
I thought for a second, “Uh, no, I think that’s everything.”

He picked up the intercom and pressed the button. “One Adam Victor Vector 48, Gobbledygook 157,” police-speak came out of his mouth, but I didn’t know what any of it meant.

As one, four officers rushed our vehicle with guns drawn. The two in the lead tore open the driver’s and passenger’s side doors, while the support officers covered them in case someone was still in the car. Then a fifth officer with a shotgun jogged forward and posted up by the trunk. He shouted something to the officer by the driver’s side door, and that officer popped the trunk. As it flew open, he jabbed the shotgun into the truck, ready to apprehend someone, but all that was in there were our show cases. Satisfied that no one was hiding in our vehicle, they pulled all of our bags out of the car and started going through them. Out came the knives and swords, and whips, all the stuff I’d told him about. Then I saw one of the officers pick up one of our juggling clubs and look it over carefully with his flashlight. The officer next to him said something I couldn’t hear, and the first officer shrugged as if to say, “I dunno what it is?”
Now the officer with the shotgun signaled to the officer in the car with me, and he started asking me more questions.
“When were you in Arizona?”
“We weren’t, we were in San Diego.”

“Uh-huh, and who’s the other guy?”
“That’s Jonathan.”

“What’s his last name?”
“Root.”

“How long you known him?”
“Uh, about six years.”

“How do you know him?”
“He’s my teammate.”

“Your teammate?”
“Yeah.”

“You like a sports team or something?”
“No, we do a juggling show.”

The officer wrote down this important piece of information. “Right, so when were you in Arizona?”
“We weren’t in Arizona. Why do you keep asking that?”
“If you weren’t in Arizona, why do you have Arizona plates?”
“I told you, it’s a rental; those are just the plates it came with.”
“So you were never in Arizona?”
“On this trip, no.”

“So you have been to Arizona?”
“Well, yeah, like 9 years ago on a trip with my mom.”
“But not on this trip?”
“No.”

“Right…” He seemed unconvinced. “Hang tight,” he said, then exited the vehicle.

Through the window, I saw my officer huddle up with another officer; they seemed to be exchanging notes.

I didn’t know it at the time, but Jonathan had been getting the same treatment: they asked him the same questions, and when they didn’t like the answers, they asked him the same questions again to see if his story would change.

After some time, two more officers joined the huddle. One of them spoke into his shoulder mic, and I heard cross-talk coming from the police radio in the front seat of the car I was in. A dispatcher responded, but it was more code I didn’t understand.

Then two officers returned to the rental car, pulled everything out of the glove box, and went back to the front windshield, where, with flashlights glowing, they took more notes. One of these grabbed his shoulder mic, and the radio came to life as he read off numbers to the dispatcher. More time passed, and my hands started to get uncomfortable behind my back. I suddenly wondered whether I could swing them under my legs so I could put my hands in front of myself. I really wanted to try but decided against it, thinking my Houdini-like display of flexibility might piss them off. Now the four officers huddled again, and I could tell from their expressions that something was troubling them. Police cars must have some sort of super-insulation that keeps outside sounds out, though, because I couldn’t hear anything they were saying. Now the big guy, the one who’d covered the trunk with the shotgun, joined the huddle. The other officers gave their reports, and I realized he was some sort of authority, maybe a Sergeant or something. As they spoke, he nodded his understanding, but he seemed to be getting mad. When they were done reporting, he raised his right hand and stabbed his index finger at one of the officers. I don’t read lips, but he seemed to say, “If we don’t have anything on these guys, we need to get them out of here NOW.” Then he turned and looked at me through the back window. Feeling included for the first time, I leaned close to the glass and flashed him my most winning juggler smile.

His brow furrowed at this, then he pulled something out of his belt. With a twist, a flashlight came to life, and he shone it at me through the glass. Realizing he hadn’t been able to see what I did, I leaned close to the glass and gave him another angelic smile. I hoped this second one didn’t come off as contrived; the first one had been organic and in the moment, whereas the second one had been an act.

The big man shook his head side to side at my antics, an air of, “This can’t be happening,” in his demeanor.
He turned off his flashlight and returned it to his belt. Then he turned to the officers, gave some instructions, and marched stiffly off to his car.

Two of the officers came over to my door, while the other two went to Jonathan’s car.
My officer, the guy who’d originally pulled us over, leaned in with a smile, “Let’s get you out of those cuffs,” and, grabbing my arm, helped me out of the car. I stood up, and he held my arm to steady me (not that I needed steadying) while the other officer unlocked my cuffs. My officer continued, “Seems this was all a big misunderstanding. When we ran the VIN number, the vehicle came back as stolen. And the plates didn’t match the VIN, so we thought you’d switched the plates to try to hide that it was stolen.”

The other officer said, “We thought we had a couple of car thieves.”

My officer continued, “Turns out the dispatcher got one of the numbers wrong, so you gentlemen are free to go.”
The second officer piped in again, “Yeah, but look on the bright side, it got you out of an expensive speeding ticket.”
They both laughed nervously, and I laughed along with them.
“You gentlemen have a good night now.”

As if someone had hit the end-of-shift alarm, all of the police cars fired up, and the officers quickly disappeared into the night. I got the feeling that they wanted to get out of there and away from us as quickly as possible.

Their haste left me with the distinct feeling that our rights had been trampled on. I wasn’t mad, though, just happy it had all worked out. I appreciated the opportunity to experience the inner workings of our law enforcement system, without having to go to jail in the process.

Jonathan and I now stood on the side of the highway at 4:00 am, alone and cold, but free to go.

As we walked to the car, Jonathan said, “Well, that was fun.”

“Exhilarating,” I responded with a laugh.

When we got in the car, our stuff was EVERYWHERE. They hadn’t been super careful unpacking. In the backseat, our backpacks were spilled out. I saw our two pocket knives on the seat between the backpacks, right where I said they’d be. Oh well, I thought, let’s get home. I started the car and pulled back onto the road. As we drove, Jonathan did his best to put everything back in order. He looked down at the floor by his feet and laughed.
“What’s up?” I asked.

He reached down and picked up our radar detector. “They pulled this out from under the seat, so they know we’re speeders.”
I laughed out loud. Indeed, that was one thing we were genuinely guilty of.

We were still in the Stockton city limits, and I knew they wanted nothing more to do with us tonight, so I let my foot get heavy on the pedal again. At least until the next city line, I knew we could drive as fast as we wanted.

Chapter 78: The Kickover Quest

As expected, our drive back from San Diego turned into an all-nighter, and we rolled into Reno with barely enough time to shower, grab breakfast, and load up for our first show at Circus. My body still felt the miles, but the fatigue didn’t affect the act. We were already halfway through our second show and were still dropless for the day. A few more clean throws, a quick side switch, then I picked up a seventh club to launch into our popcorn sequence. Popcorn is a shifting, lopsided run of patterns where the weight of the rhythm bounced between us, layered with self-throws and oddball passes to keep the whole thing feeling lively.

Halfway through this sequence, I noticed an attractive blonde walking away from the midway. I watched as she made her way to the escalator, did a 180° turn to enter it, and stood on one of the steps slowly descending to the floor below, where the hotel’s main casino resided. Throughout this, I kept juggling, passing all the right tricks at all the right times, and catching Jonathan’s incoming throws, but keeping my eyes on her all the way down until finally the safety railing interposed itself, blocking her from view. Only when she’d disappeared did I snap back and realize what had happened. I’d grown so comfortable with our act that I could do it quite literally, without looking. I thought about that as we juggled eight, and then nine, and finished with a flourish to the applause of the crowd.

It’d been nearly five years since we’d decided to try and win the world championships, and for the first time, I thought we might actually be good enough to do it. And if we did do it, what then? What would the next objective be? Do I try for the individual’s championship too? Am I good enough?
I shared these musings with Jonathan over lunch, and he thought about it for a minute, “How long would it take you to put together a routine for individuals?”
“I’ve got a couple of sequences that are strong, but I don’t think I’d stand a chance this year. But if I start working on it, I might be able to compete in individuals next year.”
Jonathan nodded, “Well, start putting it together, if by the time the championships are here you’ve got an act, enter it into prelims, you never know, you might get in.”

“Okay, but we’re here to win teams, that’s what we’ve been gunning for, I don’t want to dilute the focus.”
“Our act is the tightest it’s ever been; it’s not going to hurt anything if you work on a solo routine. If anything, it’ll give us another act for the show, and we’ll need a full hour of material if we’re ever gonna do cruise ships.”
“True, and I guess I don’t have to enter it if it’s not ready.”

“Exactly. Do you have a plan for how you’d structure the act?”
“I’d open with my two-minute three-ball act. Flow into five balls, do some of my quirky patterns, and end with something clean. Then I’d start into three clubs. I could do some nice tricks, but I was thinking that instead of focusing on the tricks, I’d put most of my energy into the transitions, finding as many interesting ways as I can to get from one pattern to another. For the finale, I’d end with five clubs plus sword swallow.”

Jonathan’s eyes widened at this last part, “Has that ever been done before?”
I shook my head, “No, it hasn’t.”

“It gives you a gimmick.”

“It does.”

“Have you already tried it?!”
“I haven’t.”

“Is it even possible?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve practiced five clubs with my head tilted back in the position I would be in if I were sword swallowing, and it seems doable.”

“If you can do that, it would be awesome!”
I nodded, “Okay, I’ll start working on it.”

* * *

Most mornings, before our shows were scheduled to begin, I’d squeeze an hour of training in at Circus. The Midway was all but deserted until the first of the free shows started, so I’d head down to a big open area by the stage and run my solo act.
I didn’t need to invest much time in my three-ball act; I was already doing it every day in our stage spots, so the performance time itself served as training. I also didn’t have to put a ton of energy into a five-ball act because I’d done a five-ball act when we were working at Legoland. It wasn’t the most insane five-ball work around, but it was okay. For the grand finale, I wanted to juggle five clubs and sword-swallow, which would be difficult but also simple to train. All I had to do was practice five clubs with my head tilted back, while visualizing myself sword swallowing at the same time. So that really only left me with one major piece to work out, the three-club routine.

I knew I wanted to do a flashy start, so I began there. I’d throw all three clubs up, a flash start, and when they came down, I experimented with all the places I could go. What about a 180°? Now my back is to the crowd, so I should do back crosses and throw all the clubs behind my back since the audience will be looking at my back. Or, what if I turn 90° to the side? Now I should do flashy twirling flourishes, since the audience will see the club pattern from the side. This experimentation led to the creation of a set of rules that formed a framework for my routine. After each trick or pattern, I had to change my pattern, angle, or height. If I were facing the audience, I’d look for a way to turn to the side. If I were throwing high, I’d transition to throwing low. If something was fast, the next thing should be slow, and I wanted as few “setup” throws as possible between tricks. Avoiding the rhythmic, juggle juggle juggle, big trick, juggle juggle juggle, big trick, style popular at the time. By the end of the first hour, I’d stopped even thinking about it as a series of tricks; the tricks had become anecdotal. It was about the plane shifts, the rules, and finding interesting transitions in the in-between places.

To my surprise, a sequence I liked began to emerge in just one session.

Making it solid would be something else, but at least I had a base to work on. The biggest problem now was that I didn’t have a powerful finishing move. What could I do with three clubs that was undeniable, something with the wow factor? Kickover (now known as scorpion kick) flashed into my mind, and I groaned to myself, Ughhh, that’ll take forever to learn. The Kickover was a trick I’d first seen in an IJA video in which Tony Duncan won the gold medal. He’d taken a juggling club and balanced it on his forehead. Then, he let the club fall behind him, and without looking back, he blindly kicked his foot up, striking the club with the bottom of his foot. This caused the club to fly back up in the air, over his head, to where it could be integrated back into the juggling pattern. It was a sick trick, and especially impactful because everyone, juggler or not, could appreciate its difficulty. It was one of those tricks that looked as hard as it actually was.

I’d tried it before, and even gotten it a few times, but those successes had been flukes, the result of luck and persistence rather than any real grasp of the trick’s inner workings. By now, the championships were only weeks away; there’s no way I could get a trick that difficult wired in that quickly, so that was out.

I racked my brain, trying to think of an alternative finale for three clubs, something more reasonable to learn, but I just couldn’t think of anything else as good. The juggle gods had answered my question, and the answer was Kickover.

Ok, I thought, what the hell. I stood up and balanced a club on my forehead, getting it stable, and I let it fall behind me. When the moment seemed right, I whipped my left foot up and, with a mighty kick, missed the falling club entirely. I heard the plastic-y thunk sound of the prop hitting the carpeted floor.

This is pointless, I thought, but on the heels of that thought were the words, do it again. I repeated the balance and got another air-ball kick. Do it again. I tried again, and this time I felt the club ever so slightly graze the inside of my foot. It still fell to the floor, but that minor touch gave me information. I now knew that I needed to swing my foot about two inches farther to the right so the falling prop would land in the middle of my foot.

I balanced the club again, conscious to kick more to the right. This time, the club landed solidly in the middle of the sole of my foot, but when it did, there was no energy in it; it had landed when I was at the end of my kicking stroke, so the club landed on a stationary foot.

Ah, more information, I’d kicked too soon.

I balanced it again, to the right this time, and waited longer. I dropped the club again; this time, it landed on the sole at the right spot and at the right time, so the kick actually had some power. The club absorbed the energy and flew wildly off to my right, totally uncatchable, but better. I was beginning to understand how I might work out each piece.
By now, I was out of practice time and had to go to the green room to get into costume for our first show, but my curiosity about kickover was piqued. I knew I’d be revisiting it soon.

* * *

Each day, I worked on kickover, training in a similar way to how I had with the ass catch, improving gradually. Quickly, I discovered another quirk of the move: if you kicked it just wrong, instead of flying up, it would smack you square in the back of the head. Never enough to do any real damage, but plenty hard enough to send my temper off the cliff. I had to fight through several phases where this head shot came in consistently; on those days, I hated the kickover. Eventually, I learned that I could reduce these head shots by always placing the club in just the right spot on my forehead during the balance, one more tiny detail on the road to consistency.

After a week, I had a day where I felt really good, so I pushed myself to do the trick 100 times in one session. The day’s training was filled with curses and frustration, but, like the ass catch, I stuck with it and got it 100 times.

From that day on, the trick was there-ish. I had confidence in my ability to do it, if not on the first try, within a few tries. So it was integrated into my solo championship routine and practiced alongside everything else during run-throughs.

Pictured: Kickover, or Scorpion Kick

Chapter 79: Talking Chihuahua

The phone rang, and it was a local used car dealership asking if we would be willing to do a commercial with them. They had seen us perform on the midway and thought we were great. We had never seen any of their commercials or been to the dealership, but it was a paying gig, so why not? We accepted it without really knowing what we’d be doing, but trusted we could handle it.

On the day of filming, we drove to the lot.

For a used dealership, it was surprisingly nice. The place sat on a corner, with a wide asphalt lot and rows of cars lined up, paint polished and windows reflecting the hot Reno sun. The inventory looked really clean, no dented junkers shoved in the back row, just solid, presentable vehicles that looked like they could’ve been on a new-car lot just a few years before.
We parked and walked up, and I was surprised to see a full filming session in progress. They weren’t messing around. Big professional lights were set up, heavy cameras perched on tripods, and a guy with a long boom mic stood ready. The host was a beautiful Latina woman with a striking presence. She carried herself like one born to be in front of a camera.

We introduced ourselves and met the crew. One of the technicians explained the setup: apparently, this dealership had a little Chihuahua who was the real star of the show. The routine was simple: they would smear peanut butter on the roof of the dog’s mouth, and while the little guy licked away, they filmed close-ups. Later, in post-processing, they’d dub in a voiceover, making it sound like the dog was talking about that week’s deals, a big sale, or a particular vehicle they wanted to push.

This is where we came in; they wanted us to juggle clubs around the host and the Chihuahua, just to add a little spectacle as the dog “delivered his lines.” I also did a sequence with sword swallowing, in which the host, smiling confidently for the camera, pulled the sword from my throat. I can only imagine what they had the dog say in the final clip. I never did get to see it. But the whole experience was fun, and they paid us well for our time.

That very well could have been the end of the story, just another gig on the ever-growing list. But a few weeks later, I took my little Suzuki Swift into the shop, and they told me it would cost over $2,000 to make the necessary repairs. The car had been a champion, delivering me through unbelievable trials, moves, and tribulations. But now, I wondered if it was worth investing another $2000 into it, the worry, of course, being that it might just need another couple thousand six months down the road. Remembering how kind the folks at the used car dealership had been, I decided to pay them a visit.

When I walked in, one of the sales reps recognized me from the video shoot and asked if I needed anything. I got the feeling he thought I was there in relation to the commercial, but I explained the car situation, how it was going to need $2000 in repairs, and said I might be in the market for a vehicle.

He nodded and said, “Please, go walk the lot. If you see something you like, we’ll get you out for a test drive. If you like it, I will make sure you get the best possible deal.”

Something about the way he said it made me feel like a friend or family member, not just another customer, and I knew he meant it.

I went out to the lot and made a loop. Near the end of my walk, I entered the section where the trucks were kept. First in the row was a 2001 Toyota Tacoma SR5, which had always been the vehicle I’d envisioned myself owning if I ever became “successful.” It was silver, with light-tinted windows and a moonroof, an extra cab, the electric package, four-wheel drive, and a manual transmission. Instantly, I knew this was it. I didn’t even look at the other trucks. The only thing I didn’t know was whether I could afford it.

I went back inside, and he grabbed a key for me. I took it for a spin and was reassured; this was the one. With its enthusiastic V6, I’d never again be stuck on a mountain climb doing 35 mph, win!
The only negative was that it had 120,000 miles. But I figured, being only two years old, those had to be highway miles. I could live with that.

Even with the higher mileage, they had it listed at $12,700. It wasn’t cheap, but the car was clean enough that the price made sense.

I went back into the office, expecting we’d start by talking price, but he pulled out the paperwork and started to write me up.
“How much do you have for a down payment?”
“I could do $2000?” I said.

“How’s your credit?”
“It’s good, I just don’t have a lot of credit history.”

“It’s ok. Would you be okay with setting up a savings account with our credit union? The one thing is, you have to maintain a $500 minimum balance.”

“Uh, yeah, I could do that.”

“Ok,” he continued writing for a bit, then slid a sheet of paper over to me. “How does this look?”
I looked at the sheet:
He’d crossed out the original price of $12,700 and revised it to $9,000.
Down Payment $1,500
Credit Union Savings Account $500
Financing $7,500 at 5%
As I looked it over, he said, “The best part, when you’re ready to make your final payment, call the credit union, have them apply the money in the savings account towards the balance, and you’ll get some money back.”
It was a 36-month loan, so my payment was about $225 a month. A manageable commitment that made me feel like a real adult, financing my first vehicle.

The deal looked more than fair. I looked him in the eye, as my parents had always told me to do when making a deal, and said, “Thank you.”

He reached out his hand, and we shook.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said, “Do you want to trade in your old car?”
“Oh, yeah, that’d be great, but you know it needs a bunch of work.”
He looked out the window, “It’s the little white one?”
“Yeah, that’s it, it’s been a great car, just needs work.”

“For anyone else, you’d be lucky to get $300 for it, if that.”

Considering the deal he’d already given me, I would’ve let him have it for $300.
He thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “I’ll give you $500 for it, does that sound fair?”
“More than fair,” I said.

“Okay.” He reached for the paper he’d drawn up and added the $500 trade-in, which lowered my vehicle loan to $7,000.
“Give me a minute to put all this in. Then I’ll need you to sign some paperwork. But here’s the key, if you want, you can start transferring over all your stuff.”
That sounded great, and I got to it.

Forty-five minutes later, everything was sorted, and I rolled off the lot in my “new to me” truck.
As I drove towards home, I couldn’t believe it. I’d just bought my first vehicle with money I’d made from juggling. And got a deal on it, too, because I was a juggler. What a crazy thing!
I pressed the buttons and rolled down the power windows, letting the hot Reno air rush through the cab. Then I popped the moonroof and turned up the stereo. What a great sound.

Years earlier, I’d sold my little brown, broken-down truck just to buy a handful of juggling props. At the time, it had looked like a reckless move: Who sells their vehicle to buy juggling equipment? But those props had given me the chance to get good, to build an act, to hit the road, and eventually, earn money as a performer.
Now, after all that work, those same props had bought me this truck. And not just any truck, the truck I’d always dreamed of owning.

It felt like proof that sometimes the strangest decisions, the ones that don’t make sense to anyone else, are exactly the ones that set the wheels in motion.

Chapter 80: Hall Pass

Our official run at Circus Circus came to an end.

The pace had been relentless. But we’d grown tremendously, not just as jugglers, but as entertainers.

And with the contract finished, we had two weeks to prepare for the world championships. The plan, same as always: Train, focus, hit it hard.

Then the phone rang…

* * *

Jonathan glanced at the screen and said, “It’s Matt Hall.”

He tapped the speaker button.

“Brother Hall, what’s happening? I’ve got you on speaker here with Bill.”

Matt’s cheerful voice filled the room: “My brothers! I was talking with Lisa last night, and I told her how I wished I could go train with you guys. She looked at me and said, ‘Why don’t you?’ And I thought, yeah, why don’t I? You both know how bad I want to do the championships, and you both know I’ve tried two times before, and have been rejected both times. One year, they said I wasn’t juggling enough; another year, they said I didn’t have the whole package. But this year? This year I’ve worked harder than ever. I’m the complete package. And to make absolutely certain, I want to come train with you guys for a week. Tear me down, mold me, what do you say?”

Jonathan and I looked at each other and grinned; we didn’t need to discuss anything.

“That would be awesome!” Jonathan said. “When can you be here?”
Matt howled in victory. “I could be there in two days.”

“Let’s do it!!!” we shouted in unison.

“Ok, I’ll see you in two days.”
Click.

* * *

Two days later, Matt arrived in Reno, and we took him out for a famous $5 steak at one of the casinos. On the drive back, the car buzzed with conversation about juggling, our acts, tricks, and the upcoming championships. Matt could barely contain his excitement. He told us about all the big tricks he had worked out, including one that made me perk up immediately: the Three Ball Whirlwind.

The Whirlwind is where you juggle three balls, throw them all high into the air, spin yourself in a pirouette, catch the first ball, spin again, catch the second, then spin a third time before catching the third ball back into the pattern. As a fellow three-ball aficionado, I knew how brutal that trick was.

“Wait,” I said. “You’ve got the Whirlwind down?”
“I’ve got it DOWN,” Matt said with full confidence.
“Ten out of ten?” Jonathan asked.

“Ten out of ten,” Matt replied.

Wow, I thought. He had been training hard.

When we arrived at our apartment, we stepped out into the dimly lit parking lot. As we unloaded Matt’s car, I reached into the backseat of my truck for an ever-present set of juggling balls.

“Hey Matt,” I said, grinning, “show me that Whirlwind.”

Matt laughed. “What, right now?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“But these aren’t my beanbags.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got it down,” I teased.

“Well, yeah, but I’m not warmed up.”

“True,” Jonathan said, “but it’s ten out of ten.”

Matt is unsinkable, and though he did give us the “you guys are bastards” look, he took the beanbags and set up for the whirlwind. He tried it, but one of the beanbags flew out. He tried again, but this time he lost one in the light from a floodlamp. Then the ground wasn’t even. Then this, then that… He tried it ten times, and not once did he get close to landing it. He tried two more times, just for effect, but both failed.

“Well, that’s out,” said Jonathan knowingly.

Matt protested, “Naw, man, this doesn’t count. Tomorrow in the gym, I’ll show you.”

* * *

The next day, we all went to train, and Matt showed us the whirlwind. True to his word, he could hit it most of the time. I 100% believe he’d had sessions where he really was going ten-for-ten. But it wasn’t consistent enough for a world-championship act where every drop hurts you a lot. By the end of that first day, Matt agreed to cut it.

The second day was a repeat of the first. Jonathan and I would do our team’s act, then I’d do my solo act, then Matt would do his act. Throughout, we were all open to and freely gave out notes for improvement.

Day three was more of the same. Jonathan and I would run our team act, then I’d do my solo, then Matt would do his act. Round and round, hour after hour. The gym echoed with music, juggling crashes, and more than occasional curses when things went badly. We all gave and received notes, then we ran it again and again.

We noticed that if Matt blew a trick early in his act, he’d shout, “Stop stop, start the music over, I’m gonna go again.”
But Jonathan wouldn’t do it. “Nope. You gotta work it out. Can’t call for a do-over in the middle of the competition.”
This drove Matt crazy. He hated pushing through after an early flub. But it was necessary. You’ve got to keep the focus even when things go sideways. Drops lead to more drops.

Matt’s act was packed with difficulty. He clung to those hard tricks, worried that without them he wouldn’t make it past prelims. We tried to pull him back, to lower the degree of difficulty so he could go clean. Eventually, Jonathan proposed a deal:
“Any trick that gets missed three times in a row during run-throughs? It gets cut. Deal?”
Matt agreed, confident he could beat the rule.

But over the next two days, trick after trick got cut. Each one stung. Matt’s frustration built until, after one particularly rough run-through, he collapsed next to us on the floor and said, “There’s nothing left. We’ve cut everything that was good.”
I didn’t know what to say. We’d pushed him hard, for all the right reasons, but still, I could feel his pain. I stood up, grabbed my props, and said, “I’ll run mine again.”
While I was juggling, I saw Jonathan lean over and speak quietly to Matt. I don’t know what he said, but when I finished my run, Matt stood with renewed resolve and said, “I’m going again.” From that moment on, he was better. And every day after that, he improved by leaps and bounds, sharper, cleaner, more confident.

By the end of the week, we’d all run our acts fifty-plus times and were as ready as we could be.

The day before Matt was scheduled to drive home, he said, “You know what I’d love? If we could go to the casino where the competitions will be held and see the stage. Just so I could have it in my mind, visualize it, and know what it’s gonna be like.”
This was a tailor-made mission for Rootberry, and we said, “Let’s do it.”

Matt was like, “Seriously? They’re not gonna let us in…”
“Maybe they do, maybe they don’t, maybe we sneak in? Let’s go see.”

So we walked to the casino, just five minutes from where we were living.

When we entered the casino, I imagined the Mission Impossible music playing in the background. We walked to the theater’s entrance, and just as we got there, a friendly-looking janitor pushing a large wheeled trolley with an assortment of cleaning apparatus in tow exited through the main doors. I reached out and held the door for him to make his exit a little easier.
He looked at me and said, “Why, thank you, sir.”

“Of course,” I said, “many hands make light work.”

He smiled at that, and seeming to realize we had more on our minds, asked, “Is there something I can help you fellas with?”
“Actually, yes, or maybe? We’re with the convention that’s coming through next week, and we’ll be performing on this stage during the main show. Since we’re already in town, we were hoping to take a look at the stage and see what’s what. It would only take a minute.”

The elderly janitor chuckled softly, then said, “Well, shucks, I thought you was gonna ask for something hard. That’s an easy one.”

With that, he abandoned his rolling cart and led us into the theater. The room was dark, but we followed the emergency floor lights, and reaching the end of the walkway, we were able to get a reasonably good look at the stage. We discussed what it might be like and wondered aloud how challenging the lights might be. The janitor overheard us and said, “Would you like me to turn the light on?”
“Could you?” we asked, “That would be great!”
“I can’t do all them fancy lights, but I know where the work light switches are, and if you want, you can go right on up there, get you a feel for it.”

This was a dream come true. Matt, Jonathan, and I got onstage and started walking around. When the work lights came on, Matt said aloud, “Do you think he’d mind if I juggled?”
“I doubt it, just don’t fall off the stage.” We all laughed, and Matt opened his ever-present bag of props.

I watched as Matt visualized himself taking the stage, looking out at the imaginary crowd, starting his act, and even running sections of it on the actual stage we’d be performing on. It was glorious.

We didn’t want to be greedy, though, so we wrapped things up. As we passed the janitor on our way out, we made sure to thank him again.

“No need to thank me, that was great! So you guys are in the show?”
“Yes, it’s the world championships. It’s like the Olympics of juggling, and we’re all hoping to get a medal.”

“Well, from what I just seen, you gonna do just that.”

We laughed and said, “We hope so.”

We walked out of the theater, feeling for the first time like we might be ready.

Chapter 81: IJA - Reno Nevada - July - 2003

A few days later, we were back on the schedule at Circus Circus, filling in, just as Mark had promised. He scheduled us to the gills to make sure we got in lots of practice. We had performances right up until the day before the IJA festival actually began.
We finished our last show and packed up, knowing we were as prepared as we could be.

* * *

Reno is always buzzing, but now, jugglers began populating the downtown streets, and I saw colorful backpacks with props protruding at every turn. It felt surreal. To already be living right here, and have the International Jugglers’ Association festival right in our backyard? It was a dream come true.

We begin to see familiar faces, and hugs or waves are exchanged; the salutation of the day is repeatedly echoed: “Good luck at prelims tomorrow!”
Yes, tomorrow: Tuesday, July 15, 2003, at the Golden Phoenix Hotel Casino Theater, the team’s preliminaries: 10:00 am–4:00 pm.

We’ll be there.

That night, to my surprise, I slept easily.

* * *

The next morning, Jonathan and I had our normal breakfast, then left for the Golden Phoenix. Mark regularly had us perform sets at Circus as early as 10:00 am, so it felt like any other day and any other show.

We arrive, check in, and wait patiently. I don’t feel nervous at all.

“Rootberry, are you ready?”
“Yes, we are.”
“Ok, take it away.”

The music started, and we went into our ring routine, everything falling into place nicely. Even though the stage was different from the one on the Midway, we were relaxed. Unlike years past, this felt like a walk in the park. Near the end of our six-club passing bit, Jonathan threw a high triple to put me into five clubs solo. For some reason, the club flew out like an NBA all-star shooting a massive airball in the big game. It was so ridiculously out of range that we both burst out laughing. Then we picked it up, did it again effortlessly, and continued the act.

Other than that one flub, the rest of the act was dropless.

We took our bow, thanked the judges, and packed up.

As we walked to the parking lot, Jonathan looked at me and said, “How did you like that triple I threw you?”
“The one that went to our invisible third teammate? Loved it!”
We both laughed, and Jonathan continued, “I don’t think it hurt us.”

“No, and if we could magically have that exact run through at finals, I’d take it.”

“Me too!” Jonathan nodded, then added, “Now there’s just one more big hurdle to get over, tomorrow…”
I know he means the individual competition prelims, which are scheduled for the next morning, Wednesday, July 16, 2003, 10:00 am.

I shake my head, “Yeah… I’m still not sure I’m going to enter.”

Jonathan’s face grew serious, and he seemed to be looking at something far away, clearly thinking, “Well, you do what you want, but I think you should.”

I nodded, appreciating his support.
We got in the car, and I thought back to the previous year when we’d won our second silver medal. At the end of our act, we’d dropped nine clubs two times in a row, and when we recovered, I’d decided not to try it a third time, so we left the stage in failure.

That was on me, and I’d made a bad call.

Now, my greatest fear was that entering the individuals could split my focus, and possibly put me in a bad headspace for the team’s competition.

If there’s any chance it could hurt our team effort, it’s just not worth it.

* * *

Later that night, I still hadn’t made up my mind about the individuals.
But just in case, I went to bed early.

Midnight rolls around, but I can’t sleep. I’m thinking a million miles an hour. I consider taking Benadryl, but I don’t want a Benadryl hangover either, so I don’t.

1:00 am… I’ve never been a good sleeper.
2:00 am… Ughh!! I have to sleep!
3:00 am… Jeebuz, I get up and pop a Benadryl.

3:43 am, still wide-eyed, I glance at the clock…
4:00 am, sweet sleep...

* * *

My alarm goes off at 8:00 am, but I feel like garbage. I just want to skip it and stay in bed. Lying there half asleep, I decide that the team competition is what really matters; that’s what we’ve trained for. I pull the covers back over my head.

Fifteen minutes pass.

Thoughts run through my head…
Well, if I got up and went now, I’d just have to skip shaving…
I stay in bed.

Another thirty minutes.
If I went now, I could skip a shower and still make it…
Still, I stayed in bed.

Another fifteen.

If I went now, no breakfast, no shower, no shave, I’d look like a total scrub walking in there… So I can’t go, it’s too late…
Then, I hear Matt and Jonathan in my head. We’re back at the gym where we were all training together: “You’ve got a good act, at least try.”

“Ughhh, fuck it!” I spring out of bed, splash water on my face, grab a costume I’d already worn for a day of shows at Circus, and grab the prop case I’d prepacked just in case.

I quickly cover the few blocks to the Pavilion.

When I arrive inside, jugglers mill around the lobby, warming up with beanbags and clubs. I check in at the table and wait for the doors to open.

When they do, we all go in, and several competitors go on before me.

Then a voice calls out:
“Bill Berry, are you ready?”
“Yes, I am.”

“Do you have any special requests for lighting?”
“Yeah. General wash, blue or purple gels, sixty-five percent. No follow spots. House lights at twenty percent.”
The lighting tech nods and adjusts some sliders. I hand my CD to the audio guy.
“Feel free to punch it,” I tell him. “I wanna feel the music.”
The lights snap on.

“How’s this?” the tech calls down.

I squint up. “Looks good.”

The audio guy leans forward. “When should I start the music?”
“After they announce me. I’ll walk to the center. As soon as I stop, hit play.”

A judge says, “If that’s everything, you can start whenever you’re ready.”

“Thank you,” I say. “I’m ready.”

I walk to the wing and pause. In the dimness of the third row, I spot another competitor. I’ve never met him, but I know who he is. For months, the juggling message boards have been buzzing: He’s coming to Reno. He’s going to win everything. He’s a virtuoso, a technician on another level.

Oddly, that takes the pressure off. If he’s already slotted to win, I can just have fun.

I step onto the stage with three beanbags in hand. Stride to the center, stop, and boom, the first beat drops, my throw flies perfectly in time. I love it when that happens.

Three balls. Clean. Crisp. In rhythm. My body tunes itself, my earlier haze burns away. Every sequence lands. Every trick clicks. The pirouette, the reach-through, the ass catch, BAM! Palm, dead center. One more high throw, catch over my head, freeze, and style. My three-ball act is done, and no drops!
The judges clap.

“Let’s do this,” I whisper to myself.

Five balls. My opening move is mine, something I’ve never seen anyone else do before. Five-up stacked flash start, and it comes in clean. I flow through pirouettes, behind-the-back catch, BOOM, I’m still dropless.
Judges clap again.

Three clubs now. Flash start, music hitting perfectly. Sequences, transitions, and backcrosses are tight. Triple spin, quarter turn, blind throw behind my back, to Albert throw, and it comes in as a 3D overhead cascade. I hold the pattern, set one club into the forehead balance, belly lock, then release. The club falls, vanishes, and, smack, my foot kicks it cleanly back into the pattern, perfect scorpion kick! I can’t believe it, I’m still dropless. Final catch of three club, nailed it!
I’m on fire!
Now the sword. As I prep, I suddenly realize I’ve never actually done this before. I’ve rehearsed, visualizing it with my head tilted back, but never the real thing. And now I’m about to swallow a sword and juggle five clubs, for the first time, LIVE, in prelims.

I breathe deep.
Sword in hand, I place its tip at my lips. Tilt, relax, slide. Smooth. It goes down.
Clubs up. First throw, clean. Then the next four fall in. Rhythm. Don’t be greedy. Triple spin high, spot it, and as it comes down, I scissor-catch it between the two clubs already gathered in the hand. OMG, I just went dropless!
The judges’ table erupts, and several of them pound on the table.

It works, the sword swallow and five club juggle actually works!

I pull the sword out, bow, and, smiling ear to ear, pack up my gear.

As I step off, I glance back. The virtuoso is next. I hesitate, not sure whether I want to watch him. What if it gets in my head and makes me tense up? But then I think, I just went dropless, my act is going to go however it goes, let’s see what he does.
I take a seat.

He comes out strong—sick tricks, monster difficulty, and I think he’s going to get the gold for sure! But then he drops. And then drops again. Ten, twelve misses. It’s brilliantly difficult, no doubt, but droppy. I wonder how the judges will score it.
He leaves the stage, stiffly, I thought.

I wonder: Did my act get in his head? He’s so much better than me. But he watched me, and I did go dropless, that has to mess with someone, it’d mess with me…
As I’m thinking this over, one of the preliminary judges comes over to congratulate me on an act well done. We have a nice exchange, and he’s about to go back to his chair when I think of something.

“Hey, can I ask you for a favor?”
He looked back and said, “Sure, well, probably, what’s the favor?”
“If I did well enough to make it into the competitions, and if Jonathan and I also make it into the competitions, could you stack the cards so that Rootberry does their act first, and I go on later with my solo act?”
The judge considered this, and I sensed that he was wondering why, so I added, “We came here for teams. That’s why we’re here, so I want to put everything I have into that. I’m worried that if I went out and did my solo act first, and heaven forbid, had a bad showing, I wouldn’t be able to shake that off and deliver my best in our team’s act. But if we do teams first, whatever happens, I’ll know I’ve given it my best.”

From across the room, the lead preliminary judge said to the next competitor, “Are you ready?”
The competitor answered that he was, so I knew the gentleman I was speaking to had to go. “Only if it makes sense and isn’t any trouble,” I added, “whatever happens happens.”

A former competitor himself, he nodded his understanding, then returned to the judging table without a word.

* * *

My prelim is complete, so Jonathan and I meet up to grab lunch before circling back to the gym. There’s a board posted with all the festival announcements, and we know they’ll post the preliminary results soon. As we approach, we see that Matt Hall is already there, bouncing like a pogo stick.

Seeing us, his eyes grow wide, then he shouts, “Guess who made the cut?!”
“Matt Hall,” I say.

“YESSS!” He pumps his fists. “Guess who else made it?”
“Rootberry?”
“Yes!—but not just Rootberry. Berry too! We’re all in!”
I blink in shock. No way. My solo act was just a skeleton, something to grow into in the coming years. I never expected to make the finals.

I push through the assemblage to see for myself. The list is posted. But it’s not just the finalists—it’s also the running order for tomorrow night. Rootberry in the first half, Berry in the second.

The judge granted my request.

So no excuses. If I fall apart up there now, it’s all on me.
All my life, I’ve asked for one chance.

One chance to break the mould, and live a life different from the one I’d been assigned.

Come on, universe, I whisper. You’re giving me my shot, let me rise to the occasion and take it…
The universe gave no answer…

Chapter 82: Game Day

Thursday, July 17, 2003: The Championships.

I’m standing next to the main curtain. Matt Hall is on stage performing. I saw his act so many times when he came to train with us that I know it move for move, and yet, he still found ways to improve it since we saw him last. He is electric, feeding off the crowd, and nailing everything! Then he has a little flub, nails it again, then another miss, but in every way, he accomplishes his routine and brings it home.

When he strikes his final pose, there is thunderous applause, and the audience knows they are seeing something special.

Matt struts off stage ten feet taller than he was when he walked on.

He has a good chance to medal, I think. And after what he’s gone through to be here, what it took for him to do this act, he absolutely deserves it.

As he comes off stage, I grab him in a bear hug and pick him up. He throws his arms in the air and starts shouting, “Five, fucking five,” (the number of misses he’d had), but it isn’t a lamentation, it’s a victory cry. For the difficulty, five misses is an A+. Forgetting ourselves, we are way too loud, and a couple of people backstage shush us. This brings us back to the present.

“Oh, yeah,” Matt whispers, “it’s not over.”

The main curtain has closed, so we run out to strip all of his gear from the stage so the next act can set up.

It’s funny, with most of the other competitors I feel a sense of competition, a desire to do my best and try to win. But with Matt, I don’t feel any of that. I’m not competing with him; we are competing together. If what he just did out there wins him the gold medal, so be it. I’ll be just as happy if he wins as if I won myself.

Now, with Matt finished, I can focus, or zen out, or who knows what, because the next thing I remember is a backstage tech saying, “Rootberry? You guys are up next.”

The main stage curtain is closed, so I carry our prop case out to its place. I can hear our friend and MC, Ivan Pecel, filling time while we set up. He says to the crowd, “And now, I present to you the sounds of juggling.”

As I hang our juggling clubs on their display hanger, a soundtrack in the front of house starts. It is in the vein of one of those “Sounds of the rainforest” or “Crashing waves” CDs. But instead of the peaceful sounds of rain or sea birds calling, it is the sounds of different juggling props being dropped on various surfaces. The audience laughs, and I chuckle along with them.

As I busily set up our case, Jonathan directs the placement of some “additional elements” that we’ve added especially for tonight’s performance.

There’s a folding table with three chairs set up on the audience’s right. Rhys Thomas (a brilliant performer), Mary Jane (dear friend), and The Butterfly Man (Robert Nelson of Pier 39), all well-known persons from the juggling world, come out and sit at this table. These three will be playing our “judges.” We figured that since we’d gotten silver the last two times we competed, we’d just bring our own judges.

Once they are set, Jonathan directs the techs to put another table with two chairs centerstage, but toward the back curtain, so we can still use the whole middle area for juggling. Bryson Lang comes over and sits at this table. We’ve always loved his quirky juggling style and sense of humor, so we asked him to be our onstage commentator, kind of like what you’d hear at a sporting event. The second chair is reserved for Ivan, our second commentator. But he’ll come back and join after the act begins since he’s out in front acting as the show’s MC.

Ben Schoenburg, owner of the Serious Juggling prop shop and well-known five-ball juggling marathon runner, appears. He is wearing black shorts and a black-and-white striped soccer referee’s shirt we’d provided. We shake hands, and to prove he is ready, he shows me a set of yellow and red penalty cards.

Glancing into the wings, I see all the other good souls who’ve agreed to be here, and I can’t help but smile.

Everyone has shown up, and everything is in place.

The presence of this entourage was the culmination of a quiet awakening Jonathan and I’d had several months before.

After two years of chasing gold by trying to be like someone else—first the West Coast rock-and-roll archetype, then the rigid gymnastic clones of the act who’d beaten us in year two — we realized that we needed to discover “Us.”

One night over dinner, we made a pact: This year, win or lose, we do it our way.

And that “way,” we decided, would be a playful homage to our lives.

We’d both grown up on soccer fields, so we traded our normal costuming for soccer jerseys. And since both of us love extreme sports, we wanted to find a way to bring that wild, reckless energy onto the competition stage.

So in preparation for this night, we’d quietly become the architects of a conspiracy, complete with secret phone calls and the cashing in of all manner of favors. One by one, people agreed to play a role, and this one-of-a-kind play within a juggling act slowly materialized. There were no rehearsals; we never got everyone together to block it out. We just took people aside individually, explained what we envisioned, and trusted that when the time came, everyone would be great.

A technician waved at us and asked, “Are you ready?”

I look at Jonathan, and he nods, so I give the tech the thumbs up.

The technician says something into his headset. And the main curtain begins to open.

Whoa, I think, not yet!

Ivan is still doing his “sounds of juggling” bit, and he hasn’t even introduced us yet.

But it’s too late, the curtain is already half open.

I leap to attention, facing stage right and freeze, right hand over my heart; everyone else on stage does the same. We appear before the crowd, shadowy figures, on an unlit stage.

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Ivan standing at the podium, and wonder what he’ll do now that we are fully exposed.

What Ivan knows, but none of us do, is that the “Sounds of Juggling” bit is over 7 minutes long, and there’s no way to shorten it.

So we stand there, in the dimness, at full attention, for the longest four or five minutes that have ever passed upon the earth.

During the wait, Ivan looks over at me and wordlessly whispers, “I’m sooooo sorry!”

I smile and nod slightly, wanting to let him know it’s all good.

Eventually, the music comes to an end, and Ivan is back. “There you have it, folks, ‘the sounds of juggling.’ Available for just $19.95. But if you act now, we’ll throw in ‘The sounds of the diabolo’ for just ten dollars more.” For emphasis, the sound of diabolos hitting the ground plays over the house system.

The crowd laughs nervously at this, enjoying the joke, but also acknowledging that we’ve been standing there for an eternity.

Ivan unhurriedly organizes some papers, acting as if there’s nowhere he needs to be and nothing he needs to be doing. Then, as if he’s only just realized we were there, he says, “Oh, are our next performers ready?”

This gets a huge laugh. Of course they’re ready, thinks the crowd.

Ivan waits until I physically nod in the affirmative, then says, “Oh, so you guys are ready, ok.” This gets another big laugh.

“Please welcome to the stage, Team, Rootberry!”

The crowd cheers, the stage lights come on full, and the final notes of the US National Anthem blare from the speakers.

When the national anthem ends, the “NFL on FOX” theme song comes on. Jonathan and I greet the crowd, then we shake hands, and the act begins. As I throw rings to Jonathan, Ivan, who’s now joined Bryson at the table on stage, says in his best announcer voice, “Here we have Jonathan Root and one Bill Berry.”

Bryson responds, “I hear that they met at fat camp years ago.”

The crowd cracks up because Jonathan and I are both rail-thin.

We crack up too because we never saw a script of what they planned to say, so it’s as big a surprise to us as it is to the crowd.

We begin our ultimate seven-ring routine, passing to each other with both our left and right hands, which will earn us additional points for difficulty.

Ivan says, “I heard they met in prison?”

Bryson doesn’t skip a beat, “Well, prison was first, and then fat camp, that was when Bill was a whopping 400 pounds.”

“Bill has always been a bigger individual.” Ivan agrees, “He is a very tall man, he must be at least 5'6" or 5'7" ”

“When he had an afro, he was 6'4" ”

“Yeah, well, he needs a haircut, really.”

“They use the same shampoo.”

Ivan and Bryson continue this back-and-forth commentary with jokes, at one point even pulling out a box of Cheerios that they’d haphazardly pasted a picture of us onto and announced, “Rootberry Burst Cheerios, soon to be available in your local cereal aisle.”

We finish our ring routine and switch to clubs. Throughout, Ben Schoenburg races back and forth, making a show of looking for violations or rule-breaking; his referee’s whistle swings wildly as he goes.

Halfway through the six-club passing portion of our act, an adoring fan (Matt Hall) rushes the stage and, holding up one of our promotional headshots, begs for an autograph. Ben is on him immediately, first issuing a yellow card, then, when it has no effect, breaking out the red card. When Matt refuses to vacate the field of play, Ben gives the signal, and two security guards in bright yellow jackets appear. The bigger of the two — at over 400 pounds (for real)— our friend, Tim Clancey, strides out ominously. Beside him, in a jacket so oversized it drags on the ground, walks Aidan Bennett, who at a solid sixty-three pounds, is a force to be reckoned with. Tim grabs Matt and picks him up, while Aidan grabs one of Matt’s ankles.

Together, they carry Matt off stage.

Throughout all of this, various sports tunes, “Jock Jams”, “We Will Rock You”, and other songs you’d expect to hear in a stadium play in the background.

Then it is time for a break. After all that hard juggling, we need an “intermission”.

Two young juggler girls bring out stools and set them for us. Jonathan and I sit in our chairs while they towel us off and give us water. During this halftime break, juggler Aurora Bennett, all decked out in cheerleader garb, does cartwheels across the stage, then jumps onto our judges’ table and does a dance. A second cheerleader, clearly a man dressed in drag, is also doing gymnastics. His sequence culminates in a roundoff back tuck, but the spin is so fast, his wig flies off mid-rotation. He runs off stage in feigned embarrassment, and the audience roars at this confirmation of their suspicions.

“Intermission” over, we get back to the juggling. We do our eight-club sequence and pull in eight-club singles.

Jonathan gives me a smile. I know what he’s thinking. We’ve tried eight-club singles in every one of our championship routines before, and every time before, we’ve missed it, but this time, we pull it in clean.

Now it is time for nine, and we get in a nice long run.

At Circus, I’ve been doing the bit where I miss a time or two on purpose to build the drama, but in competition, I worry the judges might not realize we are dropping on purpose, and I don’t want to be penalized, so I bring it in clean. As I catch the last club, I quickly turn and place it like a football. Jonathan races across the stage and boots the club high in the air and off into the wings. We wait, watching as if we are waiting to see if it will go through the uprights, then we erupt in victory when it “goes in.”

Ivan and Bryson at the announcers’ table stand up and shout, “It’s good!!!”

An immediate celebration breaks out. Everyone who’s been a part of the act rushes the stage and creates a mosh pit, then people from the audience run up and join the fray.

We don’t even get to take a final bow because the throng picks up Jonathan and carries him off stage in victory, his reward for making the “winning kick.”

Ben Schoenburg, our referee, is left standing in the middle of the stage, where he does a masterful job of acting like he’s just seen sports history made. Then all eyes go to our three on-stage judges. They stand together, each holding up a card with the number ten printed on it. A perfect score!

The lights fade, and the curtain closes.

Chapter 83: Mr. Bill Berry

We did it, our team’s act was a success!
We’d had one drop and two minor flubs, but nothing that could hurt the act.
I’d put in my best possible showing for the team.

Now the pressure is off. No matter what happens during my solo act, I’ve delivered. We’ve done what we came to do.
Act after act goes on, until eventually, I’m the next up. The act before me finishes, and I hear Ivan begin my introduction. I take a deep breath and feel a surprising calm wash over me. Instead of the typical anxiety I feel before performing. I’m relaxed, so relaxed that I actually yawn through Ivan’s next words, “Please welcome, our next performer, Mr. Bill Berry!”
The crowd cheers, and I make my way out to the center of the stage. As the applause wanes, I smile at the crowd, hit my mark, then turn into my first move. The props fly out in perfect time with the music. In prelims, I told the technician to “make me feel the music,” and he obliged! Every beat vibrates my bones.

I don’t think. If you’re thinking, you’re dropping — an act must be an extension of you. And it is. Every throw familiar, each breath choreographed.

I line up for my final three-ball sequence, high throw, fast pirouette, catch back into cascade, throw high and slightly behind me, spot it, bend over, reach through my own legs, bam, I feel the beanbag plop in my hand as I hit the ass catch.

The crowd roars, and I’m as thankful as I am stunned. I just ran the most challenging part of the act, and I’m dropless. Is this a dream?
Next up, my five-ball bit, and it goes well. At the end, I do my three-up out-of-five pirouette and miss, so I repeat it and miss again, then skip it and finish clean, moving on.

Next up is three clubs, which also goes well. I have one drop, but it doesn’t hurt the routine. I hit everything else, including the kickover.

Now it’s finale time.

I walk over to the prop case to prep the sword for swallowing, but my heart is pounding from exertion and adrenaline, so I force myself to slow down. I knew this might happen, and in preparation for it, I’d placed a water bottle in the case. I take a moment to crack it open and drink, enjoying the feel of the cool liquid as it trickles down my throat and splashes into my stomach. I mark that pathway in my mind; it’s the road map, the path the sword must follow. I gather the five clubs and return to the center of the stage. Taking another moment to prepare, I inhale deeply to calm my system, then upend the sword. Once it slides into place, I launch the five-club juggle. The pattern materializes beautifully, obediently, as if this were just another old trick in my bag.

Only Jonathan and Matt know that this is only the second time I’ve ever done it in its full expression, and I’m the first person to ever do it in competition. As an artist, as a creative, we spend our lives trying to break new ground, to create or invent something new, and I’ve finally gotten good enough at something to do just that.

The clubs continue their journey, spinning flawlessly.

I throw one club high, gather the other four, and catch the high-thrown club between the two held clubs like a Mr. Miyagi chopstick move, a perfect scissor.

As I pull the sword out, the audience detonates. A roar rising so violently it feels like the walls themselves might buckle. They scream, they stomp, they pound the air with their fists.

My excitement rises along with them. Dropping all the props in my case, I stride to the front of the stage, bow, and blow the crowd a kiss. As the lights begin to fade, I run off stage.

Whatever happens next, I’ve done what I came to do.

Chapter 84: Deliberation

A few more jugglers went on after me, but I didn’t watch any of them. I stayed backstage, listening instead, gauging the room by sound alone. The swell of applause, the pauses, the sudden spikes. It seemed like several of them did well.
Then it was over.

Ivan explained that he would perform while the judges deliberated and began his show.

We never knew how long that might take. Some years, when the judging was tight, the debates behind closed doors could stretch on and on as various opinions were bounced around in an attempt to compare the difficulty of a unicycle act with that of a juggler or a diabolist. Apples and anvils.

Ivan, one of the funniest human beings alive, was crushing as always, and the crowd was thoroughly entertained. But as the minutes dragged on with no sign of the judges, he slipped backstage, poked his head around the curtain, and whispered, “Hey, you wanna do anything? I’m out of material and we gotta fill this time.”

Jonathan, Matt, and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“Sure,” we said. Anything beat standing backstage, melting in anticipation.

We grabbed some props and walked onstage for an impromptu demo. Matt told the audience how he’d come to train with us and that we’d cut some of his hardest tricks from the routine. Then he showed them exactly those tricks, and because the pressure was off, nailed them all!
We all laughed, and Jonathan said, “We should have left that in!”
Matt smiled knowingly, “I told you I could hit it.”

Jonathan and I followed with some passing patterns that had never made it into the act.
Throughout it all, Ivan kept up a nonstop stream of commentary, stitching the whole thing together with his humor.
Eventually, a runner walked onstage and handed Ivan a stack of envelopes.

He turned to the audience. “The results are in. One more round of applause for Matt, Jon, and Bill.”
The crowd obliged, and we slipped back into the wings.

From behind the curtain, we heard Ivan crack a few final jokes. Then he opened the first envelope.
“In the individuals category, in third place, our bronze medalist, Vova Galchenko!”
The crowd roars, and I feel the rush of wind on the right side of my face as Vova passes, making his way on stage to accept his award.

Dorothy Finnigan waits onstage, her long, straight black hair gleaming under the stage lights. When he gets to her, she places the bronze metal over his neck and gently kisses his cheek.
There goes my medal, I think.

I’d had a good routine and only three mistakes, but I knew it wouldn’t be enough. There’s no way a routine built around transitions and a sword gimmick was gonna win, and I knew it.

The MC’s voice rings out again, "and in second place, with the silver medal.”
Maybe, just mayyyyybe, I'll get the silver, I think.
"Matthew Hall!"
The crowd roars louder than ever, and forgetting my own internal monologue, I cheer with them. “Go Matt!!!!!” I scream, Oh my god, what an achievement, I feel so proud of him!
Matt charges onto the stage, dancing energetically as he receives his medal.
I look out at the two medalists, both of whom are better jugglers than I am, and I resolve myself to the fact that there’s zero chance I did well enough to top them; it’s over.

My thoughts shift to tomorrow and how much harder I will need to train. What can I change to make the routine better for next year? Do I even have it in me to train this hard for another year?
I take a few steps towards the back of the theater. I want to be off in a corner by myself when they announce the winner.
The voice from onstage continues, “And in first place, our gold medalist, and new world champion, Bill Berry!”
Thoughts explode in my head like lightning: What?! I never win! I’m always the underdog, the one who hears, “Better luck next year, kid.”

The huddle of competitors who’d been waiting, hopeful their own names might be called, turned their heads towards me.
And suddenly I realize, this is the moment; my feet carry me forward without me even asking. I step onstage and feel the heat from the stage lights hit my face, the crowd surges like a breaking wave, a wall of sound that crashes down on us.
Dorothy, in her elegant red dress, walks toward me, and I bow so she can place the medal over my neck. We hug, and she kisses my cheek.

Then a man with immaculately groomed hair and a stylish grey suit walks towards me.

He is a legend, one of the best jugglers to have ever lived, Albert Lucas.

He reaches out his hand, and I feel the strength in his grip as we shake.

Then he hefts a giant silver cup in his other hand, the Lucas Cup, the most coveted award in our field, and putting it in my hand, he says, “Now, you are the best in the world.”

I thank him and turn towards the crowd. They go crazy in appreciation, and I realize this is the one thing I never thought to train for. In the thousands of hours of practice, I never imagined I’d actually win. Not knowing what to do, I step to the front of the stage and, with as much gratitude as I can muster, I bow.

Then, I take my place next to Matt & Vova, the silver and bronze medalists, awash in the energy of the moment.
Ivan continues, “And now, for our team’s competitors… In third place…”

As he says this, I wonder if I’m supposed to stay out front or if I should go backstage and wait with Jonathan. It’s something I’d never considered, a problem I’d never imagined needing to solve.

I whisper to Matt, “Should I stay out here or go back with Root?”
Matt thinks for a second. “Stay, he’ll be out here in a minute anyway.”

“You think so?”
Matt gave me a look of certainty, but then shrugged as if to say, “We’ll see.”
“With the bronze medal, the Jugheads.”

The Jugheads came out to receive their medal.

“And in second place, with the silver medal, Vova and Olga Galchenko.”

The crowd roared for them; they’d done an incredible routine. They were the team slotted to win; everyone had thought they’d sweep everything, and yet, they’d been called out for silver. A small part of me wanted to believe that maybe it was possible, that maybe we’d finally won the teams, but I didn’t dare to believe it for fear of the heartbreak if we hadn’t even placed.
“And finally, in first place, with the gold medal, your team’s champions, Team Rootberry!”
An explosion ripped through the room, and Matt Hall was thrown six feet into the air, at least it seemed like it because he jumped so high! Turning to the side stage, I see Jonathan walking out in his soccer jersey costume. I cross the stage to meet him and grab him up in a bear hug. This was everything we’d dreamed of, trained for, and bled for. From that day when we’d sat in the back of his little blue truck and dreamed of a life so much bigger than either of us really believed we’d ever achieve, and now it was real, we’d done the impossible. Only once before in the International Jugglers Association Championships’ fifty-year history had a team won gold while an individual from that team also won the individual championships, all in one year.

We’d made history.

Dorothy placed a gold medal over Jonathan’s neck, and a second one over mine. Then Jonathan was handed the team’s trophy, the equally coveted and striking counterpart to the Lucas Cup.

We stepped to the front of the stage, trophies in hand, to thank the audience and judges. As we did, they stood up, our peers, friends, and heroes, all in acknowledgment of what we’d done.
A full standing ovation.

Suddenly, Jonathan had the microphone and addressed the crowd, thanking them for this amazing moment. He always knew just what to say.

Then, turning to me, he handed me the mic.

I didn’t want it, but I knew I had to take it, so I did, holding it like a snake, until some unrehearsed, unplanned, shock state words spilled out. What they were, I do not know, maybe something about the work, the shock, or the dream.
After all, what is one supposed to say after achieving the unachievable? I do not know…

Then it was over, and I was backstage in the locker room, changing into my street clothes, putting my costume in a bag, listening while one of the other performers sat in a chair mournfully re-living every throw from his own performance, and tearing himself apart over each of the mistakes. I felt for him, because I’d been him, more times than I could count.

I looked in the mirror and saw the two gold medals around my neck, and wondered if I should take them off or wear them for the rest of the night. I decided it’s probably ok to wear them tonight.
Bags packed, Jonathan and I made our way out of the theater and over to the festival hall.

Chapter 85: Bill Fry

The next morning I awoke feeling ebulient, but also kind of the same as before…
Somehow, I’d always imagined that winning the world championships would instantly change everything. But I guess I’d never given much thought as to how exactly it would do that, just that it would.

I mean, doesn’t it?
The tsunami of the whole experience, the tension, the awards, the crowd, it was all incredible, no doubt. And when we’d gone to the gym after, we were congratulated by friends, strangers, and juggling legends alike.

I’d even had a few people I’d known for years start acting weird around me, like I was famous or something. One I’d even stopped and said, “Hey man, it’s just me, same as I ever was.” He nodded as if he understood, but he still had the wild eyes of a man talking to the world champion rather than an old friend.
So, things were different, but I didn’t feel any different.

I wanted to think more about it, but my work was far from finished.

Today is the three-ball competition, or the Dan Holzman Competition, as we call it. I’m hoping to do well with my three-ball juggling act.

I throw on some clothes and head to the gym. Upon entering, I see the festival already in full swing, with hundreds of people juggling innumerable objects. I’m about to join in on the fun when a man who looks to be in his early fifties stops me.
“That was a great performance you all put on last night!”
“Hey, thank you.”

“I’m Bill Fry,” he paused, seeming to wait for my recognition, but when none came, he added, “I’m one of the most successful jugglers that no one has ever heard of,” then he offered his hand.

We shook, and I said, “Good to meet you, sorry, I’m unfamiliar with your work.”
“What about Gravity’s Last Stand?” he continued.

“Ah, yes, I have heard of Gravity’s Last Stand.”

“GLS was my team, but I’ve been solo for years now, mainly working colleges and cruise ships, so I don’t make it to many festivals anymore, which is why no one’s heard of me. Have you ever thought about doing the college market?”
“We’ve thought about it, sure, just have no idea how to get into it.”

“Are you working anywhere now?”
“We’ve been doing the midway at Circus Circus, but Anthony Gatto is replacing us. So, we’re not sure what’s next. We might move to Vegas.”

Bill Fry considered this for a moment, then said, “My partner and I run a talent agency out of Florida called Everything But The Mime, because when we started, we had a magician, a ventriloquist, and me as the juggler, so we could offer everything but a mime, and the name stuck. In the last thirty years, I’ve been everywhere, done it all, seen it all, and even bought the t-shirt. I’ve been to almost fifty different countries, performed on hundreds of college campuses across the country, and bought a condo on the beach. It’s been a dream. But I’m ready to retire, so I’m looking for my replacement. It’s the reason I came to this festival, and it’s the reason I stopped you. I really liked what you did on stage, and I think with a little work, you guys could be a world-class act. Do you have a promo kit?”
“I do, would you like it now?”
Bill’s eyes widened, “You have one with you now?”
“Well, in my truck, I always have a couple packed and ready to ship. I can grab one for you if you like?”
Bill laughed, “That would be great.”

“Okay, I’ll grab it.” I started back out to the parking lot, and Bill walked with me. When we got to my truck, I pulled out a clear cellophane envelope with our solo and team eight-by-ten headshots, résumés, bios, and of course, our new demo tape. Bill quickly flipped through our materials and nodded his head in approval.

“I’ll take this back with me, we’ll review the tape, and if we like what we see, we’d like to have you come out to Orlando so we can get to know you a little better. We’ll tell you how the college market works, and if you’re interested, we’ll sign you.”
“That sounds real good,” I said.

“Oh, one more thing, would you guys be willing to move to Florida?”
“If there are good opportunities, we’d be willing to move anywhere.”

“We have connections all up the East Coast and can get you a lot more work if you’re local.”

“A lot more work sounds real good.”

“Okay, we’ll be in touch.”

We shook hands and parted ways.

Then I walked into the gym, still feeling as if nothing had really changed.
But it had changed.

And everything about our lives was about to be very, very different; we just didn’t know it yet…