saturday afternoon

wood-screws1

Dr. Weiss’ office.

“So, what’s the plan?” he asked.

“Perform like my life depended on it.”

“Do you have enough material to – ”

“I think so.  I dunno.  Maybe – ”

“Maybe you could tell the guy that for this one last show – ”

“No.  I can’t do that.  He was very clear.”

“Hmm.  Well – y’know what?  I think you’re gonna do just fine.”

“Really?  You believe that?”

“I do.  I believe it.  Or – ”

“Or?”

“Or…well…hmm…  Honestly?  You might be screwed.”

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friday

mad-magician1
The eye.  

I was third, as usual, and pumped.  Jack, of course, wasn’t there.  And I tried not to feel guilty about getting the opening spot at his expense.  Would Roger really have put me up in another month?  Was he just throwing me a bone for all of my begging?  It didn’t matter.  The fact was if he didn’t think I was ready he wouldn’t have given me the spot.  

My ten minutes that night went fine.  Three-and-a-half stars, maybe three-and-three-quarters, even.  I was excited for Saturday, and playing to Roger as much as anyone else.  My bits were tight and I was full of energy.  He wanted my A-game, and here was ten pure minutes of it.  And, of course, all of the New York bits were in there:  CETA, DC-10, Make Me a Sandwich, and Plrknib.  Now, I needed to be as tight and strong as possible.  Ethical or not, it was no time to back off of bits that worked.

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