“Pain.”
Melancholy engulfed the auditorium. So much of a performer’s art was in the invisible work: the ability to read the room, to add touches here and remove others there like a chef over a pot of bouillabaisse. A true artist could manipulate the emotions of hundreds of people within the space of a sentence.
I smirked. “Some of you are thinking, ‘I’m not here for a philosophy lesson. Get on with the tricks already.’？”
The crowd tittered, lightening a little.
“There is a point to all of this preface. I cannot promise to ease all pain. If you were shot in the gut or punched in the jaw, I cannot say you would not feel it. If I could, I would be standing on a much bigger stage and have a lot more money.”
The crowd laughed louder this time. The contract between performer and audience was a promise of seduction. I had them again.
I said to the older man with the mole, “Please open that toolbox. Inside it you will find a hammer.”
Mole quickly located the tool. I asked him to hand it to Red, then turned to her. “You will notice there’s a beach towel on the table in front of you. I want you to remove the rose from the vase and set it aside. Then you will wrap the vase inside the towel and break it with the hammer.”
Red did a double take, as if she’d misheard. I urged her on, gesturing to the audience. “These fine people paid good money for their tickets, and we only have”—I checked my watch—“forty-seven minutes left.” Red lifted the hammer and smashed the vase into smaller and smaller pieces inside the towel, wincing as she went about the task. I asked her to unwrap it so the audience could see the broken glass.
I positioned my microphone in front of Red’s mouth. “Can you confirm this is actual glass you’ve obliterated?”
“Yes.”
“Hand one of the smaller shards to me.”
Red did as instructed. I held the piece of glass in the air for the audience to see. A big screen above our heads projected everything happening onstage for those in the back of the theater.
“You’ll recall we were talking about pain a moment ago. Are you aware that studies have shown pain is exaggerated by fear?” I glanced at Red, waiting for an answer. She shook her head, more focused on the glass in my hand than on anything I was saying.
I brought the shard close to my face, twirling it between my fingers. “If you’re relaxed and believe whatever you’re about to go through won’t be painful, then you’ll feel none or only a fraction of the pain you’d experience if you were anxious.”
I extended my tongue and placed the piece of glass on it, prompting gasps around the auditorium. I closed my eyes, exhaled deeply, then brought the glass into my mouth and swallowed.
“Thus, the key to eliminating much of the world’s pain is to first eliminate its fear.” I opened my eyes and flaunted my empty tongue. I hadn’t even felt the glass traverse my esophagus.
The audience went wild, hooting and clapping. Their faith was mine to lose.
I asked Mole to hand Red a pair of shears from the toolbox. I told Red to cut off a piece of the rose’s stem, then guided the young woman into swallowing it, thorns and all. She trembled at the beginning, but with my whispered reassurances, she pulled off the feat without a hitch. By the end, she was grinning. I asked the crowd to give Red a round of applause, then thanked her for her participation and dismissed her.
When she returned to her seat, her friends fussed over her, impressed by her thimbleful of courage. They patted her shoulder and squeezed her hand, aching for an iota of magic to rub off on them. I’d seen it a thousand times. I would see it a thousand more.
For the next year I would perform in front of the entire country, at least one stop in every state. The long hours and late nights were finally paying off. Soon I would need an assistant, someone to book my travel, see to my meals, and ensure every stage was properly set up. In two months’ time I would perform in a theater twenty minutes from my hometown. I had not yet decided whether to invite my father; we hadn’t spoken in five years.
I shifted my attention to Mole, asking him to remove the drill bit set from his toolbox. He handed me one of the smaller pieces, which I swallowed whole. The audience gasped again, equal parts horrified and delighted. Mole ingested a tiny screw with my calm direction. I thanked and released him.
I moved on to the last student. Bifocals had been patiently holding the small blue box all this time. I wrapped my arm around the reluctant man’s neck. Participants always assumed this chumminess was genuine. It comforted them to consider us partners.