Pierre the Street Performer

I balance on a tight wire above the city.

So many people down there. Walking, buying, selling, thieving, lying. What a collective persona to behold.

I wanted this view, 150 feet above the squalor. I understand them better this way. I spent the better part of a week thinking up the means of this artistic feat and another week executing it: a tight wire strung between the two spires of the church of Elitch.

The crowd, those who bothered to look up, gasped as I leaped in a graceful pirouette and landed on the tight wire. I bobbed, and my legs vibrated with the thrum of the wire like a plucked lute string. What note am I? Middle C? Balanced, neutral, essential.

I cartwheel across the center of the wire.

As this musing graces my thoughts, I notice with an ounce of annoyance the two men across from me dressed in silly city guard costumes and shouting something at me from the spire window.

Can't they see I'm busy? The nerve of some people.

I make an about face, turning my back on the interlopers. I take a few steps along the tightwire and pull a jump-rope from my trusty satchel of tricks. Middle C is too commonplace, too cliché, too droll. That is not me at all—no.

I skip and hop along the wire, jump-roping above the city square. The crowd is growing below me like sand at the bottom of an hourglass. As I near the far end of the wire, an "officer" shouts something and tries to grab me!

Little does he know that by doing so he has joined the performance.

On the last pass of my jump rope, I loop it around the back of his head, spin in a circle with my back arched and my arms outstretched to twist it around his neck and take a step toward the center of the tight wire. The guard's shouts change. Now he sounds like a squealing girl. A different type of music. What note is that? F-sharp?

He windmills his arms as he teeters at the ledge on the tips of his toes. I can even hear some laughter from the spectators. I realize with a smile that my performance has become a comedy. Very well.

I throw guards off their balance and twist with a flair just in time to dodge a crossbow bolt a guard fires at me from a window. The bold lodges itself neatly into the thigh of a guard at the opposite end.

Gasps, applause. Each attempt to bring me down from my wire is met with failure and increasing laughter from the crowd below.

Why do they laugh at the suffering of fools? Such is comedy, course. But why? We laugh at the buffoon’s pain, the nincompoop’s misfortune, the incompetent city guard clinging to the ledge for his life. The fictional fool on stage can’t seem to succeed at even the simplest task without injury or mishap, and we laugh at the poor wretch! Is this not sadistic of the audience below? Is it not evil of them to laugh at this guard who’s been shot in the leg with a crossbow bolt, or at the other who now dangles from the wire as his comrades try to lift him to safety?

I hop off the wire and let myself drop. I grip the wire in both hands, and spin around the wire once, twice, three times. The applause grows.

A handstand, then a one-armed handstand. I complete feats of acrobatics to my heart’s content. The drama of my show has been building for some time. It must soon come to a crescendo; I can feel it.

And here it is! A guard has procured a metal file. The lot of them bare their teeth in bloodthirsty grins. Murderous and scowling, they cut my wire. The crowd gasps and points.

Magnificent! The final act is upon us.

I sit down on the wire. My feet dangle over the heads of so many people now gathered to witness my show. A new emotion rises from my audience to greet me: fear. Fear for my safety. Fear for my life.

Perhaps they are not so sadistic. After all, they seem to care that this story ends well for me. The seem to want me to live.

As I sit, centered on my wire, I swing my trusty bag of tricks around to my lap. From it, I produce a baguette. I tear off a morsel. In exaggerated pantomime, I display my nonchalance.

I wonder: perhaps we see ourselves in the comedy's fool. We witness the tragic irony of trying to live without mistakes, and we laugh. Yes, that's it. Comedy releases us from the shame of living. When we laugh at the fool, we laugh at ourselves. We see someone who is so much more a fool than ourselves we laugh with relief and comfort. For no longer are we the greatest fools we know. The fool of the comedy is the scapegoat of our shame.

I feel the coiled wire snapping and untwisting as the guard furiously file away at my wire. Murmurs of alarm and concern ripple through the audience. My performance remains aloof, my candor unconcerned. I finish my meal, savoring their confusion.

The audience are the real fools. Not the poor wretch in the comedy upon whom they laden their shame and allow to suffer for their amusement and relief. The audience are fools for believing it is real. The truth is that it's all meaningless illusion. Every last bit of it.

Just before the guards cut through the wire, I spring into a dive. The wire snaps and whips the masonry with enough force to slice a man in half. I plunged head-first toward the ground.

The audience gasps, then screams.

I smile. What wonderful fools. All of them.

And I vanish into a cloud mere inches from the ground.