Thursday, March 20th. I don't recall much about the day at work; I probably spent most of it trying to concentrate on projects and failing. The drive to and from the office was spent reciting my lines, injecting as much expression and enthusiasm as one can while careering down the Dulles Toll Road during rush hour.
I met Page at her apartment where we gathered up stage materials, switched into costume, fed the cats and made sure we had everything I needed. We had to hustle - the show wasn't until 9, but the goal was to arrive at the Palace by 7 so I'd have time to switch into costume and do a dry run of the act on stage before any customers filtered in.
We arrived on time, and greeted Priscilla, the Palace bartender; Marie, sound person, and some other friends and significant others. The bar was desolate and quiet. Page and I retreated to the back stage area, a tiny dressing room that could accommodate perhaps four people at a time, if none minded sharing the lone mirror in the room.
The first issue was makeup. I was skeptical at first, but Page did a fantastic job of making me look younger than my age. With pride I looked upon myself; polished leather shoes, fitted black slacks, pressed white dress shirt and the sleek, velvet vest. My hair reached to the ceiling in an improbably pompadour. The look was perfect; handsome, not slovenly, but faintly ridiculous. I looked around the dressing room; almost every inch of the walls were covered with the signatures of past performers. In a few hours, after I'd performed, I knew I'd have the right to scrawl 'Rex Libris' upon the Palace walls as well.
The next task was to set up lighting and stage arrangements. Marie, the sound person, gave us some bad news: the control board for the lighting system was out for repairs. So we had only a few options for lighting: no lighting, one light on the front of the stage; two lights, one in front, one in back, or basically everything on at once. We chose the two-light option, since Page would be stationed to my left flank, and I would be front and center. With the lights up, I realized I had an advantage in the glare: I could barely see the crowd. The fewer eyes I had to make contact with, the easier my job would be.
I was entitled to a drink. I have a strict policy of not practicing or performing while intoxicated, but a single glass wouldn't hurt. Backstage, I sipped my gin and tonic, and waited. 7:30 arrived, and I knew I had to get out there and review. Setting my glass down, I gestured to Page, who began gathering up the swords and the stand. I strode up the short steps leading to the stage, took a deep breath and passed through the curtains. Outside, the MC fulfilled his part of the rehearsal, but I barely heard a word until the stagelights filled my eyes and I heard "and now, Rex Liiibrisssss..."
"Good evening, Palace of Wonders!
My name is Rex Libris, and this is my lovely sidekick, Page Terror!
Some of you may know Page from her burlesque performances, but tonight, she'll be assisting me with my own dangerous pursuits!"
I gesture to Page, who tears a cloth away from the sword stand, revealing the blades with a flourish. Smiling, she hands me the first sword - the Robin Hood blade.
"Tonight I will be swallowing swords for you. Sword swallowing is a dangerous art that dates back thousands of years; only a few living performers exist today. There is no trick; the swords you see in front of you are entirely real; they do not fold up into the handle, and they made of steel hard enough to pierce through my tender flesh. To prove to you that the swords you see in front of you are indeed sharp, Page will assist while I slice this firm banana in half with my sword. The banana, please, Page!"
Chuckling, Page extends an innocent banana and shields her eyes. With a quick chop, I hack the banana in half. Page gathers the banana bits as I turn my gaze back to the glare of the stage lights. I can dimly see smiling faces at the bar as the other performers watch.
"If you've never seen this act performed before, it's really very simple. All I have to do is pass two feet of solid steel down my throat, suppress the gag reflex, pass the blade through the esophagus and finally bring the point to the very pit of my stomach... Page, you did wash your hands, right?"
I give Page a skeptical look over my shoulder and she makes a noncommittal nod of assent. I look back at the crowd, and I hear Page spitefully cough on the next sword. I hear a chuckle from the audience; it's all scripted.
"One mistake, and this will be a very brief performance!"
I heft the sword in front of me, holding it aloft flat in front of my chest for the audience to see. Gingerly, I lick the blade, wetting so as to gather any errant dust and make the blade easier to pass down my throat. At this point, I'm wishing I'd had a second gin and tonic.
I orient the sword so that its tip rests upon my tongue, the blade in alignment with my body. I breathe deeply, then exhale slowly. Like an archer sure of the moment, I swing the blade up in one smooth motion, arcing my head back to face the top of the stage. The blade descends, muscles relax, and the sword slides gracefully to the pit of my stomach. Thrilled to have made it this far, I bow to the audience, bending down to one knee to grin wildly. I can only bear the presence of the sword in my throat for a few moments, so I quickly resume my posture and withdraw the sword, passing it back to Page.
Page retrieves the sword and steps forward with the sai. Together, we face the crowd.
"Next up, I have something a little exotic. Who here remembers the 80s? Do you remember the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? One of the turtles had one of these - this is called a sai. For a special prize, who can name the turtle?"
Greggi Glitterati (not his real name) - the fellow who is doing a Christ impression - correctly calls out, "Raphael!".
"Congratulations, you've won a prize. Page, tell them what they've won!"
From behind me, Page calls out gleefully, "You've won... A BANANA!", and tosses the wreckage of the bisected banana to Greggi. Laughter.
"This is a little shorter than the sword I've just used, but it's dangerous in a different way. Sir, would you please inspect this blade?"
Page hands the sai to Greggi.
"It's quite heavy, isn't it? Thank you."
Page retrieves the sai and begins cleaning it.
"You've washed your hands too, right?"
Page hands the sai to me.
"Now, this is basically a thick steel spike. It weighs twice as much as the first sword you saw - I dropped this on my foot a month ago, and the bruise is still there, a month later. If I should lose control of this, I wouldn't be able to prevent it from punching through my throat." (Ed.'s note: A month and half later, and I *still* have the bruise. I think that darn thing broke something.)
I heft the sai, and like the previous sword, swallow it successfully. No bow this time, it's too chancy, the sai weighing as much as it does. By this point my throat is aching already; the sai didn't go down gently, I suppose. I'm halfway done.
I return the sai to Page in trade for the long sword. This is the easiest part of the act; the sword is thin and light, especially compared to the broad Robin Hood sword and the thick sai.
"This sword is a little longer; the blade itself is 24 inches long. It is also the longest sword I am physically capable of swallowing. This sword goes all the way down into my stomach and the tip will rest just above the entrance to my small intestines. I should tell you that this is my first time performing at the Palace of Wonders, and I've got butterflies in my stomach, I'm a little nervous! So you can help me out by being sure to clap and cheer wildly after I swallow this sword. I promise this'll be entertaining - and if something goes wrong, if I slip and don't survive - Page will rifle through my wallet after the show and distribute the contents.
Here we go - Look out, butterflies!"
I tip my head back, wet the blade and lift the sword aloft, just as I'd done with the Robin Hood sword. I rest the blade on the tip of my tongue, throw my head back and slide the blade down... and it stops.
The blade stops, midpoint behind my sternum. It goes no further. I am staring in confusion at the ceiling, and for the first time become away of a tight discomfort in my chest.
I remove the blade and apologize to the glare. Nerves, I say. I'm shaken, but still composed - I've done well so far. I try again, relaxing as much as possible.
It stops again. Confused, I say to no one in particular, "It just won't go down. Page looks at me with concern and, I suspect, growing embarrassment. "I'm taking five," I say, and chuckle, but mentally I am already racing backstage out of shame and confusion.
"I don't know what happened!", I cry, and pause, attempting to gather my wits. Page runs to get another gin and tonic - nerves, I keep thinking, just nerves. I decide to practice backstage a bit, starting with the simplest object - my practice coat hanger. No problem. The sai - no problem, but difficult. I'm noticing a growing tightness in my chest, though; a small ball of pain behind the sternum. It's nerves, more heartburn - nothing to worry about. I try the Robin Hood sword, and this time - it stops, in the same place as the long sword. For the first time, I worry - this has never happened before. The blade simply will not pass. I have the presence of mind not to force the blade, but I am confounded.
I try again with the long sword. Same outcome. By now, the doors are opening, other performers have arrived, and I no longer have access to the stage. I pace frantically, trying to calm down, drinking glasses of water and wincing at the tight pain in my breast. Page and I confer. If we can't do half the sword act, we'll have to improvise. Page, in a moment of total selflessness and ingenuity, offers to perform a burlesque act midway. I'll use the coathanger and the sai, and then defer to her while she performs for a few minutes before we bow and exit. It's a way to save the evening despite my rebelling body.
The show begins. I am a wreck backstage, but the show organizer, Sprocket, is understanding. Swords are a dangerous business, he opines, and reminds me to take it easy. Offhand, he asks me a troubling question: What's it like when I cough?
I head to the bathroom to find out. Facing the sink, I cough as mightily as I can, despite the growing tension in my chest. I spit, and a thick gobbet of blood lands below me, stark against the white porcelain of the sink. Blood. I'd bled before during practice, from slight scrapes I'd incurred, but nothing to worry about. This was different. I spat again, with the same effect. In misery, I admitted to myself that it was time to go.
The next hour passed in a whirlwind of confusion and growing pain. I begged off from Sprocket, who understood completely and encouraged me to get medical help. Page gathered some of the show supplies and headed out the front, making excuses for me as I darted out the back door, swords in hand. By now the pain was undeniable. Page and I argued for a moment, then headed home to drop things off and change before I went to the hospital.
30 minutes later, I was in a haze of agony in the passenger seat, barely able to speak as my chest seemed to swell with pain. We drove to the nearest hospital, Washington Adventist, and I hobbled to the ER admittance desk, stiff with discomfort. My voice had changed, too; I sounded nasal, as if something had inflated within me.
I felt dull panic when I first entered the ER; the waiting room was mobbed, with family members and lone patients slumped across chairs and tables, waiting to be seen. I explained my situation as best I could to the admitting nurse, and a moment later was called in for triage. As soon as I mentioned spitting blood, the nurse exclaimed, "We'll see you right now... no waiting for you."
That would be the last evening I would see the outside of a hospital for more than two weeks.
No comments:
Post a Comment