My memories of those first tense hours in the hospital are a little hazy. I remember being wheeled into an ER room, where I lay gasping and choking, face screwed up in pain. The moment-to-moment pain was bad, but not excruciatingly so... it felt as if a bowling ball had lodged itself in my chest. The real agony began whenever I swallowed involuntarily - it was if a wave of pain rolled down my throat and into my stomach. I remember wincing and arching my back for seconds in the wake of each swallow. I will always remember those first waves of pain as being the only thing I've experienced in my adult life that made me mewl like a hurt kitten or a child.
Bedside x-rays were performed, and eventually the diagnoses came back: I had cut open my esophagus, the classic sword-swallower's fatal injury. I remember feeling a dull amazement that I had managed such a serious injury so early in my career. Throughout this time, Page remained by my side, holding my hand and talking to me, and shushing me gently when I talked too much in reply.
Nurses questioned me about my injury. To one confused medic, I struggled to explain that my injury was accidental, although placing the blade in my throat was intentional. She stared blankly at me, apparently convinced I had survived an elaborate suicide attempt.
Eventually, some nurse - I don't remember their names, now - some saint brought me pain medication. I was brought dilaudid (hydromorphone) by an anxious nurse who tried to explain that the first-time experience of using intravenous dilaudid was analogous to that of the first-time crack cocaine user. I was a skeptical, although excited, since at this point I was starting to wonder whether there was a chance I could be put into an induced coma to escape the buffeting agony in my chest. "You might hallucinate," the nurse said, and she murmured a few more warnings before the needle slid gracefully into a vein.
I sat, propped up in my cot, and waited. Moments passed, and then my eyes opened wide, and I blinked involuntarily. "This is real," the nurse kept repeating, and I started to feel vaguely annoyed that the nurse felt I couldn't discern reality despite the lovely gauzy sensation that was spreading throughout my head and body. Eventually, she quieted down, satisfied that I hadn't disappeared into some remote part of my psyche, and for the first time, the pain was muted to the same gripping discomfort I had felt the previous evening at the Palace. It was 4:30 in the morning on March 21st, and I was awake and waiting.
Throughout this time, Page waited, awake and alert. She chased down nurses when I had a question, kept my things together, and held my hand when I shivered in pain or didn't want to feel alone. We rested together until 5:30, when a doctor returned with some surprising news.
"We've decided to transfer you to a new hospital. Their trauma center is better equipped to handle your injury. A team will be here in a few minutes to transport you, and you'll be taken by helicopter." I was surprised. Cross-town traffic couldn't be that bad at this time of morning, and a helicopter ride - as thrilling as that would be, terrible injury or not - seemed excessive, like the sort of thing they reserve for people who might die unless they received immediate care. I didn't quite make the mental connection those thoughts implied, but Page did. Things were more serious than I thought.
The EMT team arrived and began 'packing me up' for the trip. I mean that literally; I was swaddled in padding and strapped to a gurney, completely immobilized from head to toe.
Page and I decided to rendezvous at the new hospital. I was hurriedly wheeled out of the ER and taken to the roof where we'd then venture to the helicopter pad.
The airlift to the hospital had a tinge of surreality to it. In my immobilized position, it was difficult to look anywhere but straight ahead, or down above my feet. I remember the doors to the roof being thrown open, and a gust of cool air hitting my face as I stared upwards at the stars, strangely visible through the smog-filled DC air. Somehow I was conscious of my height, as we were rolling across the hospital roof, and I felt a germ of terror as I realized I was being pulled against my will, with no way to defend myself if a medic should lose control and my gurney careened towards the roof's edge...
A moment later, the fear disappeared and was replaced with a new sense of confusion and amazement as I was slotted into the back of the medical copter. I understood now why a medic had asked if I was claustrophobic. I was surrounded on all sides by blinking orange lights and electronics panels; a readout suspended above my head flashed my vital signs. I could peer just past my feet and look out the rear window of the craft; I could see the receding rooftop of the hospital, then the tops of other buildings, and finally stars in the distance. I imagined that I could roll out of the helicopter, and plummet into the night air and be forgotten.
The trip took longer than I was told; eventually, we landed and the boarding process was executed in reverse as I was wheeled indoors and finally left in a waiting room. Nurses and doctors swarmed and asked questions; I answered as best I could. My neck was swollen and tender for some reason; I found it difficult to speak clearly, as my voice still had that alien, nasal quality to it. I explained that I was a sword-swallower; from nowhere, Page appeared, and offered to bring in the swords for examination.
After an hour or so of questioning - my sense of time was not very firm - a new doctor showed up, Dr. Smith (a pseudonym). It was explained that he would be the doctor in charge of my case. Dr. Smith was straightforward and very candid. After providing him with permission to speak with my parents and their contact information, he told me that I had indeed lacerated my esophagus and would require surgery to drain the wound site of air, pus, and blood. Furthermore, there was a chance that I would die of my injuries.
I should pause for a moment to say that I always understood that sword-swallowing was a potentially fatal activity. I was never under any illusion that inserting long, rigid objects down my throat and to the pit of my stomach was a fundamentally safe thing to do, and furthermore, every sword-swallower I'd known had incurred some kind of serious injury in their careers. It seemed like an accepted cost of the profession.
At that point, speaking with Dr. Smith, I had one of those uncomfortable moments where simply knowing something is possible doesn't adequately prepare you for when that thing occurs. Dr. Smith didn't mention it, but I knew from past research what the mortality rates were for the type of injury I'd received. For someone like me, who had sought medical care within the first 24 hours, I had the best chances - 75% survival rate. Every day one waited, the mortality rate shot upwards. If I'd gone home and tried to sleep the discomfort off instead of going to the hospital when I did, my chances might have slipped to an even 50-50.
Page took it badly, but she'd been been through a lot already. I felt a sort of wretched guilt for having put in her in a position of uncertainty and concern - no one should have to sit next to someone you care for, and have to honestly confront the possibility that they might not be there the next day to help carry on your shared lives. What was worse, I needed her to call my family and tell them what had happened, in the most oblique terms - I didn't want her to have to explain sword-swallowing.
In what was probably poor timing, considering our alarm at Dr. Smith's evaluation, the hospital chaplain arrived to provide spiritual comfort. The chaplain, a middle-aged black woman, smiled above me as I lay pinned in my cot. She offered to pray with me, and I accepted her offer. Page looked on in concern, and I listened silently as the chaplain prayed for my wellbeing and deliverance. The solemn mood was broken mid-prayer as the chaplain intoned, "Dear Lord, save this young man from whatever this thing is that he's done to himself," and continued with her prayer. I laughed internally; surely God had seen this sort of thing before? I knew I wasn't the first sword-swallower to confront his own mortality.
What else we discussed was hazy. As the sun came up, I was wheeled away to surgery. I remember answering the same questions, over and over - did I have any allergies, any pre-existing medical problems, and so on. I was finally placed in a room full of bright light, where strange music played in my ears - to mask the sounds of surgery? - and I was given a mask to breathe from. Moments passed, and all things faded.
I woke in a noisy room full of nurses and doctors. I was upright in a cot. Page was there. I felt better - the pressure was gone from my neck. In exchange, I had a series of tubes running from my neck to somewhere in my medical gown. An oxygen tank pumped air into my nostrils from a clear tube. I think they must have given me more drugs - the remainder of the day is unclear. I sent Page home to sleep and rest, to play with her kittens and think of other things for a while. I received news that my parents were en route from Florida - they wanted to see for themselves what I'd gotten myself into.
Finally, I was moved to my first residence outside of ER - the Trauma Center. For the first week, I would be living in the Burn Ward. I wasn't a burn patient, obviously, but there was no room in the inn, so to speak, in the thoracic recovery ward where I'd normally be placed.
The date was Saturday, March 22nd. It was the start of several weeks in the hospital.
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.
By mid-February, I was committed to performing at the March 20th Weirdo Show at the Palace of Wonders:
As you can see, the lineup included a 'Scottish Cowboy', myself, a burlesque dancer, two fire performers, and someone impersonating Jesus Christ, doubtless in honor of the Easter weekend. The lineup was sent to myself and the other performers a day in advance of the actual show - too late to back out, if I'd wanted to!
But before the 20th arrived, I would spend several weeks in misery as I tried and tried to develop an act around my swords. My problem was that I was so enamored of the actual sword-swallowing, I'd given no thought to presentation. In my mind, it was amazing enough to see someone swallow sword after sword, upping the ante each time in terms of danger. But three weeks before the show, I had to come to grips with a few uncomfortable facts about myself:
1. I had absolutely no performing experience in my adult life.
2. Any public speaking I'd done had covered the dryest, most technical subjects, and I was used to writing for business audiences, not rowdy bar crowds.
3. I wasn't schlocky, I wasn't a huckster, and I had no interest in aping the other performers I'd seen. Unfortunately, I also didn't know how to interpret other acts as inspiration for my own material.
In desperation, I started pressing friends of mine with performance experience for tips. I bought drinks for friends and begged them to share everything they knew, and I wrote down every hint, suggestion, or observation they could offer.
Finally, I scripted a draft a week before the show. I ran through the act in front of Page and some friends. I stammered, I mumbled, I flailed my arms, stumbled and rambled, and managed to swallow some swords in between. The response was gentle, but withering, and I rewrote the act. Page offered to be my 'lovely sidekick' and pass swords back and forth as I spoke my act, and after a friend complimented us on some ad-hoc comedic bickering during a rehearsal, Page became part of the act. Together, we wrote comedy, slashed segments that fell flat, worked on a dramatic arc and finally pulled together a routine that worked. It was gently funny, played to the crowd and kept the action going. All I had to do was rehearse my lines and give Page her cues, and for the first time in months, I heard a voice in my head say, We can pull this off!
Above: The author swallowing the Robin Hood sword and kneeling for the camera. Note the expression of terror and amazement on Page's face!
Above: A stop-motion animation of the actual sword-swallowing act. The photos were taken the night before the performance.
I spent nearly every free moment rehearsing my lines and getting 'in character'. Rex Libris is basically me, just twice as loud and maniacal. I made a list of hints to help differentiate my 'act' from being a lukewarm script reading with a few sword-swallows thrown in. My suggestions:
1. Lift sentences at the end. I have a tendency to 'drop' my sentences. By raising my tone at the end, I could infuse each statement with more energy than I normally would.
2. Enunciate! My father would be proud of me for remember to enunciate, to project my voice powerfully and with clarity.
3. Stick to the script. I'm a terrible ad-libber when I'm nervous. Stick to what works and don't ramble.
4. Make broad gestures, not small ones. I'd have to remember to use the stage to 'embrace' the crowd, to draw them in and make them part of the performance. I have a tendency to make small, mincing gestures if I'm unsure of what I'm doing. I'd have to be bold, no matter what.
5. Don't pace! Like #3, I tend to stray nervously when in front of a crowd. Find a spot and plant yourself there.
We performed a final run-through to friends, and everything went smoothly. The act was coming together! Page had settled on a cute dress for her role as sexy sidekick. I'd decided to wear dark slacks, a white dress shirt, and an elegant black velvet vest. My hair would be brushed up in a giant chestnut-red pompadour. Page had found a wrought iron lawn decoration, shaped like a narrow pyramid, that would hold all of my swords. In a figurative sense, the stage was set - and the following evening, that would be the literal case. I was as ready as I could be, terrified and thrilled.
After graduation, I returned to DC with a bound collection of lecture notes covering all of the acts we'd reviewed, and a knapsack full of tools and handmade supplies that I'd used for practice and performance. Unless you knew where I'd been, the contents of my 'sideshow bag' would have seemed awfully suspicious: a mousetrap, sterile wipes, several 40-penny nails, a wire coat hanger stretched into a narrow loop, mouthwash, several practice torches made from snips of coat hanger and cotton tshirts, a length of rubber tubing, scouring pads for smoothing metal edges, and a handkerchief that reeked of lamp oil and Coleman camping fuel.
When I got back, I had to make a decision about my priorities. Clearly, sword-swallowing was my main goal. I set the stretched coat hanger and mouthwash out since those would be my main practice tools. Fire performance was the second most appealing act, but I was faced with the lack of a good practice space. Even using the smallest torches constructed out of an 8" piece of metal and a swath of cotton could produce a flame that would blacken the ceiling of my apartment; indoor practice was out of the question, and I didn't know how my neighbors would react to the sight of me prancing about in the courtyard behind my apartment, spitting flame and waving torches.
I decided to concentrate almost solely on swords. I set up a practice area in my bathroom, and settled on a simple daily routine:
- Wash down practice 'sword' (the coat hanger) with non-flavored Listerine and rinse in hot water. The coat hanger had been scoured of any rough edges or paint, and had been pulled into a narrow diamond shape, approximating that of an actual blade.
- Assume the correct posture: legs firmly planted, back straight, head tilted nearly straight back, eyes fixed to ceiling, mouth wide open.
- Gently guide the coat hanger down along the tongue, past the uvula, and down until it encountered the epiglottis.
- Attempt to relax the epiglottis and let the coat hanger pass.
- (Optional) Gag horribly and vomit/cough violently/tear up/make loud retching sounds.- Repeat the above seven times daily.
At Sideshow School, we'd been admonished to practice 'seven times daily, seven times a week'. It sounded a little numerological, but in practice one could probably practice that many times a day and not incur too sore a throat from the constant spasming and poking. I, of course, threw restraint to the wind and practiced one to two and half hours a day. Coworkers commented on my scratchy voice, and I constantly nursed an aching throat with tea, ice water, and anything else that could ensure I'd be able to practice again that evening.
A week after returning from Sideshow School, I managed to get the hanger down. The sensation was startling, and my body rejected the full length of the hanger for the first few times I managed to pass the epiglottis. I realized I'd made a crucial mistake - my mental image of how my GI tract was oriented in my body was out of alignment with the reality of how my body was constructed. By angling a little to what I felt was my left, I was actually placing the hanger in the correct position. After a day or so of thrilled practice, the hanger could be reliably inserted all the way down my esophagus and into my stomach.
I decided to try using a real sword. Page, my girlfriend, had spent years as a reseller for Cutco, a cutlery company. Like all sales organizations, there were plenty of competitions and recognition for top sellers, and Page had walked away after five years with an assortment of trophy swords, daggers, and other mementos in recognition of her achievement. Page had since moved on to a business of her own, and most of the swords lingered in disuse, gathering dust in closets or wedged between dressers.
Page offered me a perfect starter sword. The blade was 13" - shorter than the coat hanger - made of thin, flexible steel, with a flat, unornamented blade and a securely fixed handle. The only task was to smooth the edges and point - the tip was sharp enough to draw blood if you weren't cautious around.
I returned to my bathroom workshop and set about dulling the sword. I'd purchased steel wool of various grades, and a handheld steel file, and a respiratory mask to prevent the inhalation of steel shavings. After about an hour's work, I'd buffed away the sharp edges, and reduced the steel tip to a gently rounded nub. My technique for removing edges was amateurish, and it showed: the blade was scored around the tip, leaving an unsightly crosshatch of scratches that I'd have to dull out later. I inspected the sword, rubbing it with my fingers, tissue paper, and microfiber cloth to detect any nicks or rough areas I'd missed. After a few touchups, I considered the blade ready.It took another week to be able to swallow my new sword. Although my body was accustomed by now to the rounded shape of the coat hanger, it was completely unfamiliar with the sword. The sword was also much thinner and more rigid; consequently, I had to be much more gentle with it, as it could still cut or hurt me despite the dulled tip. I think that week was the most painful of all, as my throat worked to accommodate this new object.
Finally, two weeks after walking out of Sideshow School, I had technically achieved my goal of being a sword-swallower. I could pass the blade down, bringing the cross-guard (the 'flanges' of the hilt extending to the sides) to rest atop my cheeks. I proudly demonstrated my new ability to a horrified girlfriend, who cheered and winced at the same time. I felt no fear, although I was acutely aware of the dangers involved.
I settled into a regimen of daily practice with both the coat hanger and the short sword. December had arrived, and I purchased my second sword: a 'Robin Hood' sword, with a 20" blade.
I can still vividly recall the day I received my first purchased sword. I tore open the long box, cast aside the receipts, catalog and bubble wrap, and withdrew the sword, sheather in a rigid leather scabbard. I pulled the sword out and laughed in fear; the blade was nearly an inch wide, and as I held the blade in front of myself in the mirror, I could see how deeply the tip would penetrate - much further than the practice 13" sword had gone.
Although the coat hanger and the Robin Hood sword were approximately the same 'blade' length, this was a real sword; steel, less flexible - capable of inflicting injury, even after I'd worked away the sharp tip and the nicked edges. I began prepping the sword, working away over hours to bring it to a uniform, smooth surface. Eventually, I began gingerly experimenting with the new sword; letting my throat and tongue explore its dimensions, and slowly working towards the same level of comfort I possessed with the coat hanger and short sword.
By early January, I had the long sword down, so to speak. I was growing in confidence, and the sore throats were becoming a thing of the past as I grew in ability to suppress the gag reflex and pass the swords as if it were perfectly natural. I worked on a few variations; I could lean forward with the blade lodged in place, and let a volunteer (i.e., Page, the only person I trusted to do this) remove the sword with their hands, as I'd seen other performers do. I could even manage a slight 'drop'; I could insert the sword part-way, and then allow the muscles of my throat to control and then release the blade, allowing gravity to complete the 'swallow'.
February saw the acquisition of three new weapons, one of which I couldn't use. I purchased a cavalry rapier which seemed grossly out of scale to the image on the website. I would have need an esophagus the size of a paper towel roll to accommodate it, so the sword went untouched into the closet, perhaps to serve as a home defense weapon if we should ever be assaulted by brigands. The next sword was a disappointment and a pleasure at the same time. Described as a 'Classic German Sword', the blade appeared to be ideal: slightly longer than the Robin Hood sword at 23", the new sword would test the limits of my physical ability to swallow a sword. Furthermore, it was lighter and thinner: performing a drop would be easier, and having a smaller sword would open the possibility of swallowing two swords at once.
Unfortunately, at no point did the seller (Budk.com) make any mention of the crudely-embossed swastikas all over the hilt of the sword. I was furious upon opening the box; the sword lay like a snake on my bed, spiteful and untrustworthy. I had a dilemna. On one hand, the sword was perfect for my needs; the dimensions and weight were just right, and the sword was dull to begin with, lessening the amount of time I'd need to get it into a usable state. On the other hand, the hilt was desecrated with ersatz Nazi icons; it looked like a rebellious middle-schooler's school-notebook sketch of what he might imagined an SS officer's dress sword might look like.
I don't think of myself as a superstitious person; I'd call myself an enthusiastic skeptic, if anything. But it was hard to look at that cheap sword, crudely illustrated by some lunkhead with a fetish for Nazi imagery, and think of it as something I wanted to risk my life with. If anything, my revulsion at the thought of having a swastika poised an inch from my mouth in a very intimate pose could be dangerous; I needed to maintain my concentration and relaxation, two things which would be threatened if I were constantly distracted by an image I felt uncomfortable around.
It was then that I recalled a similar sword I'd seen at Sideshow School. Someone at Coney Island had fallen into the same trap and ordered a sword only to discover it was embossed with swastikas. The solution had been to wrap the sword in black electrical tape; since the handle was black, the overall effect was to produce a nondescript appearance that prevented the audience (or the performer) from seeing the hateful symbol at the base of the blade. I decided to use the same compromise - I wrapped the hilt in black tape, tamping it down to match the contours of the handle. In the end, I was satisfied. The blade didn't look great, but it didn't look evil, either.
The next weapon - not a sword, per se - was much more exotic. I'd never seen one used before, but an instructor at Sideshow School had spoken of the sai as the one sword he could never manage to swallow successfully. Intrigued, I'd ordered a pair - they didn't come singly, it seemed. I knew nothing about sais, save that they were some kind of martial arts weapon, and a member of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles had wielded one.
I strongly suspect that what I'd purchased was a parody of the authentic martial arts weapon. The sais that I received were basically two-pound octagonal steel spikes with a tip that tapered off into a blunt end, with decorative curved flanges ("tsuba") on the side. What these weapons lacked in grace, they made up for in menace; for all the world, they looked like ornamental tire irons.
The sais were trickier to prepare for use. Although no part of the sai was sharp, the ends terminated in a blunt tip where the end had clearly been sheared away. It took hours to wear the edge down into a rounded end approximately 1/8" in diameter.
In the long run, I never really got comfortable with the sais. I could swallow them, and they looked great, especially when bowing to the audience as you looked positively demonic with the flanges spread back across your cheeks. Still, their odd shape and heft made them hard to work with; a drop of any kind was out of the question, and even bowing was hard because of the additional weight placed on the throat. Still, the sais became part of my repertoire, which was now focused on the Robin Hood sword, the long masked sword, and the sais. The short sword had been relegated to practice-only.
Throughout early 2008, I was performing for friends and parties, practicing daily alone or in front of anyone who would watch. My routine followed a basic progression: the Robin Hood sword, with a bow to the audience with the sword in situ, the sais, optionally with a bow if I felt I could manage it, the long thin sword, with a drop at the end, and finally two swords simultaneously. Swallowing two swords involved pressing the Robin Hood and long sword blades flat against each other in alignment, and then swallowing them like any other. Weirdly, this was actually easier for me than swallowing one sword, but vastly more dangerous. If I failed to maintain posture, lost my balance or became jarred, the blades could scissor inside of me, cutting away at tissue, or - worse - perforating dual sides of my esophagus or stomach. This portion of the act always received the most extreme care from me. If you've ever seen me swallow two swords, the look of trepidation on my face was absolutely genuine.
Throughout all this, you've probably noticed that my focus was entirely on the technical aspects of sword-swallowing. Presentation was absolutely secondary. This became a problem in February, when I was offered a slot in the March Weirdo Show at the Palace of Wonders. The Weirdo Show is kind of like open-mic night, with a little more structure. The performers aren't pulled off the street, but you're never quite sure what you'll get, and it's a great opportunity to try out new acts or show the Palace crowd acts that wouldn't normally be included in the typical sideshow or burlesque event. Suddenly, I was faced with a new challenge: Sure, I could swallow a sword. How could I make an act out of that?
In a previous post, I talked about performers at the Palace celebrating 'sideshow' or a carnival theme. The history of traveling carnivals and the exotic array of amusements they offered are well documented elsewhere, so I'll confine my comments to the so-called 'working acts' that were on display at the Palace. 'Working acts' included taught arts such as sword-swallowing, feats of apparent endurance, fire eating, and so forth that were usually present in the 'sideshow' accompanying a carnival.
Once I'd decided that I wanted to learn sword-swallowing, the immediate difficulty lay in finding a competent and available teacher. Professional sword-swallowers are vanishingly rare, and those that were local were either unwilling or unavailable to teach. As suggested, my best bet was to attend Sideshow School, a series of classes hosted over the course of a week in Coney Island, New York. I'd never been to Coney Island and only knew of it by reputation as a fading icon of American culture, well past its heyday.
Sideshow School had several compelling advantages: It was hosted by Todd Robbins, the same man whom I witnessed eat a crushed light bulb in front of a shocked, impromptu audience at the Palace of Wonders a year earlier. Besides sword-swallowing, the advertisements for the School promised "fire eating, the human blockhead, glass walking, magic and other famous sideshow acts." The cost for the course was $600: expensive enough to weed out absolute dilletantes, but affordable considering the scope of the acts to be covered.
In November 2007, I drove to Coney Island to attend two weekend sessions, each three days apiece. Unfortunately, Todd Robbins wasn't available to teach, but stand-in guest teachers Adam Rinn and Donny Vomit were fantastic substitutes. I was clearly a bit out of my element; I hadn't even considered the performance angle, which turned out to be the hardest challenge I encountered throughout the courses.
The structure of Sideshow School was simple enough: Adam or Donny would demonstrate an act, explain the principles behind it, and then hand us the necessary tools and have us try it out. By 'us', I mean myself and the other two students for the weekend sessions - we were a small class.
It was some of the most fun I've had in my adult life! There was a profound sense of being part of a little-understood tradition of weird entertainment, and a thrill in seeing skilled performers gamely pitch acts such as the human blockhead (thrusting long nails, spikes and even live drill bits into the nose), the Elektra routine (incorporating high-voltage lightning tricks into a stage performance with audience members), walking on broken glass (relatively) unscathed, lying atop a bed of nails and enduring the weight of other people, 'eating' fire, and even handling enormous serpents. Unfortunately, the one act that I was determined to learn was the most difficult, most impassable (literally).
We practiced daily by attempting to swallow a bent coat hanger. It seemed impossible at first; the most any of us accomplished during our time at School was to develop a constant sore throat and gag horribly as we tried to coax our epiglottis into allowing the foreign twist of copper to pass smoothly beyond the pharynx. I was proud of other achievements, though: I left knowing I could tolerate fire in my mouth and on my skin, and for a final recital, I had a blockhead routine that was funny and a little gross, and had been the hardest act to write for, since I felt it was the silliest.
Above: The author being crushed atop a bed of nails. What endurance!
I left Coney Island with a sense of accomplishment, but also a sense of dread. I'd known instinctively but hadn't really considered the implication of my completion of Sideshow School. Why had I gone, if I hadn't wanted to perform? Even if I could have swallowed a sword then, I would have only overcome one small challenge, since what point was there in keeping a performance art to myself? I'd have to start thinking about how I wanted to show off my new talents to the world. There was one intermediate challenge, though, before I even considered my performance style: I had to actually swallow a sword.
I saw my first sword-swallower at the opening of The Palace of Wonders, a carnival-themed bar in DC. The Palace opened in July 2006 in the H Street area of Northeast DC. I'd lived near the area for a few years already, but H Street had a reputation for being something of a no-man's land: fraught with crime, violence, and immune to the gentrification that was spreading slowly through the fringes of the established Capitol Hill neighborhoods. Page and I had visited the area during the evenings on a few occasions to dine at the Argonaut, a nautical-themed bar not far from my apartment, but until the Palace opened, there was little motivation to explore past the H Street/Maryland intersection.Later, I learned that H Street had suffered terrible riots in the wake of Dr. Martin Luther King's assassination, and hadn't really recovered economically since the violence of 1968. The following AP photo illustrates the degree of damage H Street suffered through the riots, and the extent to which the same block has been reclaimed today:
Page and I were accustomed to trekking out to U Street or NoVA for drinks with friends; the prospect of having a 15-minute drive to a new watering hole was big news. We'd seen an announcement on DCist about a new carnival-themed bar a few blocks from Argonaut, and decided to head over on opening night to see what a carnival-themed bar really had to offer.
It was an astounding experience. I don't actually remember much about the opening night, except a feeling of amazement at seeing a sharply-dressed, middle-aged man stun an unsuspecting crowd by smashing and consuming a light bulb taken from a bar light fixture, and then a host of other acts I later came to recognize as part of the 'sideshow' or carnival repertoire of 'working acts'. More on those later. After that first wild night, Page and I pledged to return almost daily to see more shows - we were hooked on the weirdness of the acts and the strange ambiance of the bar. I'd never been to a carnival in my life, and to a circus only once - and just long enough to develop a lifelong terror of clowns - but I could see the gaudy appeal of tattooed burlesque dancers, fearless men and women sustaining improbable weights upon their bodies while lying supine upon a bed of nails, or unflinching performers swallow steel blades that came to rest at the very basin of the bowels. It was this last act that captured my imagination the most. All of the acts, if any danger was involved, were sure to include a spiel that defined (and perhaps slightly embellished) the risk to the performer, but it was the sword-swallowers who really seemed to court disaster in their act. Night after night, we returned to the Palace to witness daredevils swallow two-foot long steel blades, thin neon tubes, enormous broadswords and almost anything else that could possibly be accomodated by the esophagus.
After many months, I finally worked up the nerve to ask the resident sword swallower how she'd learned the craft. I was rebuffed at first; I was told sternly that the danger was real, and it wasn't a performance art for flippant, drunk bargoers looking for a party trick. To prove the risk of injury, the performer showed me a scar upon her neck. During a performance, one like any other, she had managed to injure herself seriously. After hospitalization and surgery, she'd been unable to swallow swords for weeks, but eventually decided to return to performing.
I didn't care, of course; I was sure of my sincerity, and felt intuitively that this was a stunt I could perform, with time and training. Finally, I was told to go Sideshow School, located in Coney Island in New York City. I'd never been to Coney Island - all I knew was that it had some kind of fair there - and I wasn't sure what kind of person signed up for this kind of class. My decision was made, though, and in late 2007, I enrolled in the fall session for Sideshow School.
I realize most of the people who will visit this blog will know in advance who I am, and how I ended up in my current position. However, there are probably a few of you who found this page by accident, or know me but aren't acquainted with my activities for the past six months or so. I'll start with the basics.
I'm 29 years old, but I'll turn 30 on April 9th - next week! I've lived in metro DC since 1996, including four years at American University where I studied journalism. I've lived all over the city, but currently reside on Capitol Hill, right next to RFK Stadium. I am not a sports fan, though, and have never seen a game despite living next to the stadium for almost four years.
By day, I work for a large telecommunications company you're surely familiar with if you live in DC, and suffer a 2 1/2 hour commute daily to Ashburn. If you think that's crazy, you're right; I used to work for a smaller company that got bought out by aforementioned telco giant, and my daily drive went from manageable to maddening.
When not slogging through traffic along the 66/Dulles Toll Road corridor, I'm usually at home, reading or tinkering on a computer or electronics projects, and spending quiet evenings with my cat, who, for sake of his privacy and anonymity, will be referred to throughout this blog as Fluffybear. I know that sounds ridiculous, and it is, but I dote on him constantly and no longer feel shame in thinking of him as basically the teddy bear of my adulthood. Here's a picture of him:
Many of those quiet evenings aren't spent at home. My girlfriend, Page - again, a nom du net for the sake of her privacy - lives in neighboring Prince George's County with her three cats. I'll frequently head over after work, cat carrier slung over my shoulder, for an evening of television and a nice bottle of wine. We're big fans of sprawling adventure series such as Battlestar Galactica, Lost, and recently Dexter, and she's managed to get me hooked on America's Next Top Model and Project Runway.
Anyhow, sounds like a pretty mild lifestyle, huh? Well, it was, until the Palace of Wonders opened up. More on that in the next blog post, when we finally get to swords and to the series of events that led to my current incapacitation.
