One Step Ahead of Disaster  

The most amazing dancers, in my opinion, are the ones who appear to be out of control, on the verge of losing their balance right before recovering and transitioning into some extremely difficult and equally impressive move. The audience believes they are struggling, stumbling, hanging by a thread to their routine; but in truth its all a carefully choreographed ploy, a clever deception to enhance their mastery of motion.

The way I am proceeding through life lately seems very similar to the intentional awkwardness, the calculated lurch, the well-timed trip of the deceptive dancer. I teeter on the brink of disaster, staggering along the precarious edge of that proverbial treacherous cliff, barely managing to avoid an awful plunge headlong into the abyss. I feel as though I am flying by the seat of my pants, almost unable to make my moves until the very last second. To the casual observer, it must appear as controlled chaos; a gimmick, a gig, some kind of schtick. If only it were.

For all my ad libbing and landing on my feet, I fear I am little more than a single step away from slipping on a banana peel and sliding off the stage. If I seem to be well strapped into the pilot’s seat, I’m not. I am hanging for dear life to the tail.

It may seem like I am holding it all together, but any appearance of cohesiveness or togetherness would be entirely due to chewing gum, spit, a few stray strands of duct tape and some lucky prayers.  Everything I have organized, from finances to romance, seems just seconds from flying into the air, like a tray full of food travelling in multiple directions at full velocity, away from an ice skating waiter who failed to land his triple axel and is consequently flailing his limbs like wild windmill blades.

I feel like that Chinese acrobat on the bicycle – the one with eight comrades extending out to his side like an inverse human pyramid, all of them holding a flaming sword in each hand. The one steering the bike (me) is on an extremely unsteady and unpredictable course, heading directly for the audience. His nervous, edgy colleagues want to know what his plan is, but he just laughs. "Plan? There’s no plan!"  

"No plan?" The worried acrobats repeat.

Don't worry about it. I'll figure out as I go. That’s right, I’m improvising here. I’m riding on a wing and a prayer. My life is like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, that silly Beatrix Potter-based attraction for kids at Disneyland. Around every corner is a locomotive bearing down on a collision course. I swerve at the last possible moment, only to head directly for that powder keg with the extremely short fuse. You know the one? The inevitable explosion sends me airborne, flying through the still night air, and ultimately through an open window and into the plush comfort of the finest French bordello. “Bonjour monsieur! We’ve been expecting you.”

“Huh? What gives?”

Of course the authorities are coming to take me away. I am running red lights while being pursued by Keystone Cops. Wrecking balls swing past me in wickedly close shaves as I dodge open manholes and duck machine gun bullets. When will I crash? When am I going to burn? Lord knows It's just a matter of time until even the Road Runner, the Pink Panther and the three Stooges all get their comeuppance.

I figure I'm as good as a goner. The clock is ticking. The whole shit house is about to go up in flames and I will meet my ultimate and inevitable demise while the audience laughs wildly with unbridled, knee-slapping hilarity of it all. It all seems like a Vaudevillian comedy, a Buster Keaton routine; but I'm terribly afraid that there is nothing funny at all about the outcome. I fear that in the end, the plot will turn to tragedy. Disaster, death and despair are my dates. A dark, somber outcome is definitely my fate.  I am only waiting for the other shoe to drop, the axe to fall.

I am blindfolded and the sergeant lights my cigarette. “Any last words?” he asks.  The poor soul to the left of me yells out “Vive le France.”  The other bugger to the right proclaims “Remember the Alamo.” I pause for a moment then let out my heart plea. “Mr. Wizard! Aunty Em! There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home…”

OK, there are three viable endings to this short, pitiful story:

First, it’s all just a bad dream. I click my heels three times, wake up and find I’m safe in the suburbs of Middle America. Kind of a reverse David Byrne. This is my beautiful wife! This is my beautiful home!

Second, the director yells “Cut! It’s a wrap.” The actors exhale and quickly fall out of character. The prop department rushes in to dismantle the set and I am praised by my colleagues. “Excellent dress rehearsal, Hoyt. We’ll start filming bright and early tomorrow.”

Third, my psychoanalyst glances at his watch and stops me mid-sentence. “I’m sorry Mr. Smith, but that’s all we have time for today. Hold that thought. We’ll get back to it in our Thursday session. Are you taking the medication I prescribed? Please leave a check with my receptionist on the way out.”