Chapters-16-30 | Mr. Bill Berry

Off Course On Purpose

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.