Jarrid Deaton
The magician is on the ground, amplified womb sounds pulsing in his ears. A few more seconds and he gets his eyes to open. His assistants are keeping their distance, and through the static he hears the end of the conversation.
…..“He said leave him alone for two minutes after the fall,” one of the assistants says. “What was he thinking, not using a mat? The crowd don’t care if you use a mat. It’s 10,000 volts and then him crashing to the ground. You think they’d whine about a mat?”
…..“Man, this looks pretty bad,” says another. “His fucking face is on fire.”
…..“Keep it down,” says a man standing beside a camera crew. “I don’t want to have to edit this for the DVD. Well, shit.”
…..“He didn’t rehearse or nothing,” the first assistant says. “I don’t even know how it was supposed to work.”
…..“Not much difference between rehearse and hearse,” says the other assistant. “Wait, he’s moving.”
…..The magician, known to audiences as Paxton Haze, rolls over on his back. The left side of his face is scorched and still burning. The live electrical wire continues to hum twenty-five feet above him.
…..Paxton manages to stand and turn to the crowd. No broken bones. He opens his mouth and the flame shimmers across his teeth and cooks his tongue.
…..The crowd cheers.
…..“Cut the power on that,” says a stage hand, pointing at the sparks that shoot from the frayed power line.
…..Waving off the advancing emergency crew, Paxton makes his way backstage after smothering the facial flames with a curtain. In his secure dressing room, a year-old picture of his wife and daughter enjoying Christmas at her mother’s Kentucky home sits on a table beside three bottles of anti-depressants. The picture was mailed to him by his daughter.
…..He shouldn’t have reached this point, shouldn’t be backstage. All thought, all pain, was supposed to be rendered void by now. He sheds the ruined trench coat now covered in holes where the electricity escaped his body. He places his hand on his chest and feels the urgent beat of his heart, something that he now imagines to be boiled and dripping with grease. It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
…..The end of tonight’s show was really designed to be the end. A fancy accident with its true purpose hidden beneath stage lights and liquid smoke. A fine exit for a magician. But it didn’t work.
…..“The trick,” Paxton mumbles, and continues to breathe.
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Jarrid Deaton lives in eastern Kentucky. He digs Nick Cave tunes and Bloody Marys. He received his MFA in writing from Spalding University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Underground Voices, Thieves Jargon, decomP, Thirst For Fire, Pear Noir!, and elsewhere.