Why I'm not a Fire Breather
Having a magician for a Dad is pretty fucking cool.
It wasn’t just because my birthday parties were the envy of every kid in town…although that was pretty sweet, too. There were a lot of advantages.
For one thing, my Dad had the coolest den in the world. Especially when we were living in Boissevain. We didn’t call it a den, though.
It was the Magic Room.
This is the room where Dad kept all his magic tricks and books. The walls of the room were adorned with posters of past shows, and of other magicians: ones that my Dad knew, and ones that were famous and historical. On a long table in the corner, my Dad would spread out tricks he was building or repairing. We’d spend hours in the Magic Room, perfecting tricks, fixing props, or just talking about magic.
I was Dad’s assistant. I took my work very seriously.
The best part about having a magician for a Dad, though, was the out of town shows. About every second weekend, or so, Dad and I would pack up the car and fling ourselves to the farthest reaches of Manitoba. We'd unpack our equipment in church basements, town halls, outdoor festivals and (sometimes) legitimate theatres. Part of my job, during the show was to be a stick…also known as a “plant”. I’d hang out in the audience until I was picked as a volunteer for one of Dad’s tricks, then I’d go onstage and do my shtick, screwing up my Dad’s act until he pulled out the real illusion at the end. Then I’d head backstage and start getting the next trick ready, or packing the last one up.
It was a hell of a good childhood.
But the very best part were the drives.
I got to sit with Dad in front seat. Sometimes he’d let me pick the radio station as we bombed up and down the highway. At roadside restaurants, I’d get to order a hamburger and fries for lunch…as long as I ate a healthy supper that night. And we talked about anything and everything. Whatever we felt like.
On those trips, Dad wasn’t just my Dad. He was my friend, too.
Most of these father/son conversations are mashed together into a hearty, comfortable stew. But there was one conversation we had that I doubt I’ll ever forget.
I was seven years old, and we were on our way to Morden Manitoba. It was a yearly pilgrimage. Every year, Morden held the Corn and Apple Festival, and my Dad held a prominent spot on their outdoor stage. It was a windy day, and Dad and I were having a chat about what tricks were sturdy enough for the gusts, and which would likely blow away. I was carefully jotting down the tricks we should probably do. I felt this was very important, although I doubt Dad would have been able to read my scrawling, unsteady printing.
This done, Dad starting telling me about some of the magic shows he did in college, long before I was born. He reminisced about some of the acts he shared the bill with (including Doug Henning...Remember him?), and told me the tragic tale of a fire breather he knew who met his demise in mid-show. It seems the poor fellow was holding in a sneeze, and involuntary sucked in and swallowed the lighter fluid he was holding in his mouth.
The gravity of this tale was not lost on me. I nodded very seriously as my Dad recalled the horror. Showbiz was a dangerous profession. It was full of perils and pitfalls. One must stay alert, in order to survive.
There was a silence. It seemed that some wisdom was about to be imparted. My Dad looked very, very somber. It seemed that my friend was becoming my Father again. He reached over to the radio and turned down the volume. This was a sure sign that what he was about to tell me was incredibly important.
I was all ears.
He spoke.
“I want you to promise me that you’ll never. NEVER. Breath fire.”
I wasn’t sure what to say.
On the one hand, I could understand Dad’s apprehension in me taking up this profession. After all, he knew a guy that died! This was, no doubt, an incredibly traumatic experience…one that he would definitely want to repeat with his son.
But on the other hand...fire breathing was really, really cool
I squirmed in my seat, trying to avoid Dad’s gaze.
This would have been easy, if we didn’t live in Manitoba. The highway was straight, flat, and empty. Dad didn’t need to watch the road very closely at the moment. He could almost completely dedicate his attention to me.
I tried to reason with him.
“But lot’s of people do fire breathing, and don’t die…” I started.
“It’s dangerous”. He replied.
“But maybe if I really practiced…” I argued, weakly.
“Promise me.” He said, firmly.
I looked out the window. Telephone poles whipped by as I pondered the weight that our conversation had suddenly taken on.
It was the very first time I ever felt like Dad might be wrong about something. What if I did do fire breathing? What if I became the best fire breather in the world? What if I used my fire breathing powers for good, instead of evil? What if my fire breathing saved the world?
Although I had never considered the vocation before, Fire breathing suddenly became extremely important to me. It felt like might be my Destiny. And I didn’t want to have to choose between my Destiny and my Dad.
I choose my words very carefully.
“What if I did do fire breathing? Would you be mad?”
“Very mad.” He said.
That wasn't good. I decided to elaborate.
“But…what if I was all grown up? And I was a fire breather. And I was careful. And I got really good. Would you still be mad?”
My Dad considered this.
“I wouldn’t be mad.” He answered. “But I’d be very worried that something might happen to you.”
This didn’t sound as bad.
“And I’d still love you very much.”
That eased things considerably in my seven-year-old mind. The fact that my Dad would still be my Dad, even if he found out I breathed fire, was pretty much all I needed to hear. I nodded my head and tossed away my new-found destiny.
“Okay. I won’t”.
My Dad nodded and turned up the radio.
It was a quiet drive for a while. Then Dad remembered a funny story about a juggler he did shows with, and we were friends once more.
To this day, I’ve never breathed fire, and I don’t think I ever will.
But it’s nice to know that I could…if I really wanted to.
I hope you enjoyed some of my road memories.
Jim Out
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