Children make the worst audiences. I used to think that a crowd of children was a mixed bag, but they’re monsters, all of them. Let me tell you about my day… Woah, we have to back up six months.
I work on my performance, filming myself rehearsing my show: ‘Petey’s Party Pandemonium’. On reflection, I think the name was another of my bad choices: it’s alliteration, also nominative determinism. I had put together some great sections. There was the little magic show, producing Flags Of All Nations and my sweet rabbit Oscar. There was the fart joke collection, which to be honest is universally loved. There’s musical chairs, which may or may not lead to injury, distress and litigation. There used to be Hide and Seek too, but we lost a kid once - you know, police in attendance, yada yada. That girl should become a Navy Seal, a ninja or something.
Claudia, my partner, was watching me rehearse from the doorway. Rehearsal was going okay, but Claudia saw the first signs that morning. Tears were running down my greasepaint. I was performing I Pagliacci for her, my painted smile quivering. It was all because of HIM. I don’t even know his name.
I get my work by word of mouth. Parents talk; they recommend me to one another, “His pathos tugs my heartstrings. His musical talents are endless. You should see how much he loves his art.” Who am I kidding? What sells my services is that I occupy a garden full of children for two whole hours, leaving the parents time to recover in the kitchen with a Prosecco. I was booked out for every weekend this summer, and felt like a king. Then came THE KID.
The previous Saturday, my worldview suffered its first cracks. HE was sat in the front row. I produced 100 Flags of All Nations: some cheers, some distraction evident, but THE KID just sat there, arms folded. I produced the giant playing cards, made the Queen of Hearts wink. Nothing. I reached into the top hat, made bags of sweet, sweet candy appear and threw them out to the crowd. They cheered! THE KID: nothing. Then I produced Oscar, got the birthday girl up to gently pet him. She was beaming and then she saw HIM, and, after a moment, she put Oscar down on my table. Head down, arms limp at her side, she walked back to her friends. What voodoo was he exercising on her? Oscar retreated into my arms and I put him back into his little refuge.
Sweat ran down from my neck
I would change the show around each week, but always kept the crowdpleasers. The same kids often saw me throughout the summer, but the following week HE was there again. I managed to direct him to a seat at the rear of the community hall. Sweat ran down from my neck, pooling in the small of my back. I stumbled through the magic. Oscar refused to come out, managing to find a deep part of the hat to cower in. He bit me. “Ow,” And THE KID smirked, a little smug curl appeared on his lip, then it was gone. I could have imagined it. Did I see that?
May 19th: I was shaking. I considered cancelling. I had revamped my show, brought in an expensive illusion where a fountain of playing cards appeared from the hat…
Nothing. THE KID was sat at the back and this time there were five of the little darlings, impassive, arms folded. Even Jennifer, last week’s birthday girl was among them. Behind them, dark clouds were forming. A stiff breeze blew over paper cups filled with blackcurrant, the thick red liquid dripping from the table. I felt it congeal in my throat and I coughed, fluffing my lines. My brain and hands were like strangers. My eyes were on HIM.
“Ladies and gentlemen, er, boys and girls, er, I, er…”.
…I was trembling but somehow I made it…
The hat rolled off the table. Oscar hid from HIS gaze behind my legs. The fart jokes were a damp squib. I was trembling but somehow I made it to my allotted finish time. The parents didn’t notice a thing, they tipped me. I threw my stuff into the van and high-tailed it.
I sought therapy. The practitioner was kind, supportive, took my money. I was told to reframe my thoughts. “It’s the Spotlight Effect: nobody is watching you, scrutinising you”. I don’t think he understands how performance works. Afterwards, I sat in the back of my cheerily painted van, hugging my knees, rocking.
At home that evening, Claudia cooked my soul food: a buttery, garlicky Indian curry. We watched comforting TV and she told me about her week.
“Remember Ian, the office letch? HR fired him, finally. And I completed my application for Branch Manager.” I was listening, for the first time in weeks.
“Well done. You’re still the breadwinner and I’m so happy.”, I said, “So sorry I’ve neglected us. Enough is enough. I’m going to sort things out, restore some order in our lives.” I resolved to push through my ridiculous situation.
Monday is usually a rehearsal day, but I headed to town to consult with an old friend at his place of business. Ted was an antique dealer with a taste for showbiz ephemera, flyers, fading theatrical props, you know - junk. He was supportive when I told him my woeful story.
“You need to rebuild your confidence. And I’ve got an old illusion you can borrow which always impresses the sceptics – even your nemesis.” Ted walked me through it but wouldn’t show me it in action. He explained it in detail. We did a dry run a hundred times.
“It’s a complex thing and it’s a devil to reset.”
Today, July 22nd brought me to a big ticket gig: a large house off The Boulevard, all Porsches and BMWs. It was a birthday party for a 10 year old boy, audience of 25. There was also a DJ, “JAY-SNEE”, caterers, and all that. Julia, the professional party organiser, helped me unload the van into the lawned area to the rear. JAY-SNEE was laying down some beats, the music was “slay”, apparently. Two younger girls were dancing round and round, holding hands. The rest were inside, filling up at a counter stacked with shipped-in burgers (plant-based and regular). Soon they were coming outside in twos and threes. I had my little platform ready. Julia was making conversation.
“I do a lot of business up here. The people around here are the best.” I nodded, sipping water, wishing it was a cold beer.
She continued, “I heard good things, so happy to book you. If it goes well I can see it working for the both of us.” I sucked harder on my straw. The seats had filled up well, Julia shepherding kids forward, but still they took the back seats first. Out of the house came the last group. The five of them seemed to march at us, arms folded. They took the front row. In the centre was THE KID, wearing an oversized ‘Birthday Boy’ badge.
Suddenly I was 10 years old, performing card tricks for my magic-hating Dad. I had changed up my act though, and my confidence really had returned. I told myself I wasn’t a little boy any longer. I kept it together all afternoon. Julia helped me set up my new finale. We fetched the heavy wooden cabinet from the van; it was inscribed with cabalistic symbols and smelled funky. We wheeled it upfront. This drew an “Ooh” from most of the crowd. I asked for a volunteer and 20 hands shot up, even a mother raised a glass of wine by the kitchen door. But I ignored them all.
“You, birthday boy! It’s your special day- you get to be the star of the show.” I spoke right at him, hoping he would not refuse. His entourage looked at him but I needn’t have worried.
“Sure, Petey.” THE KID stepped right up. The cabinet stood six inches above the grass, on sturdy rubber wheels. Julia held it still while I rapped each side, the top and bottom with my cane. “Indubitably solid!”, I shouted. I opened the doors, front and back, stepped jauntily through it. “Take my cane boy, walk through it, test its rigidity and lack of hidden compartments!”
THE KID indeed took the cane, repeating my actions, he whacked every part of it, hard, inside and out. Then he stood inside, smiled at his little gang and stamped his feet harder than I would have liked. The illusion stood. I signalled to JAY-SNEE and he played a long drum roll. The audience leaned forward. I walked round the wooden box once more, slamming the two doors shut and shouted to the heavens:
“ABRACADABRA!”
There was a flash of magnesium from beneath, then the cabinet forcefully deconstructed itself, becoming an empty pile of planks on the floor.
The children, most of whom knew my act, sat slack-jawed. The small crowd of adults at the kitchen door clapped and cheered wildly. The DJ started up some party tunes; the adults continued applauding and the children began dancing and clowning around again. Meanwhile, I discreetly packed my illusions away into the van. The collapsed cabinet smelled even more funky, sulphurous.
In the house’s attic was a walk-in cupboard. I’d checked it out earlier, made sure it was roomy. The spider webs were a nice touch. I left the dim attic light on.
There was no audience in the attic for the trick’s denouement, but a flash of fire and brimstone revealed the kid stood there dishevelled, catatonic. He walked downstairs and out through the kitchen door. I caught his eye and he retreated inside. The kid will be fine, but I can’t attest to what he might have seen on his journey to the attic.
The finale must have redeemed me somewhat with Julia. She said, “Here’s my card, and that’s my private number. Seriously, call me.” I looked over my shoulder.
“The parents are looking a little agitated. I’d better go.”
I hit the road, played some AM rock, my foot on the gas. I sang along to Def Leppard:
“Pour some sugar on me… Ooh, in the name of love… Pour some sugar on me!”
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