by David D’Ettore
“Why are you standing on your head?”
A small man with a thin mustache that appeared to be painted above his lip stood by me. He had a squeaky voice that remind me of the whiners who would wipe their noses with their sleeves and then touch everything within touching distance with their slimy, germ-ridden paws. I hesitated to correct him on his terminology. I didn’t want to engage the little twerp.
“I do this every New Year’s Eve to remind me of how lucky I am to have the freedom to do what I want.” The little man frowned.
“Are you sure it’s not inversion therapy? I hear that works wonders for your back.” He tried to act proud of his insight which is common fodder for any nitwit who googles “inversion therapy.”
“Like I said, it’s a habit. It started with a dare, then grew a life of its own. After doing it my first year in college, my friends asked if I planned to do it again. I decided, yes, I would. The second year, I put out a hat for donations, betting people how long I could remain upside down. It paid for my books.”
The little man threw a dollar into the fedora. I thanked him as he walked away, then answered before he could ask. “Every once in a while, I do have to stand up otherwise the blood will rush to my head.” I figured the idiot explanation was worth a dollar.
After a few minutes, I went back to my headstand as more passers-by drifted toward the corner. An attractive young lady and her friend, an older man that probably was her sugar daddy, stopped and watched.
“Why are you standing on your head?” she asked.
“Actually, I am doing a handstand. If I were truly standing on my head, well, you can see how difficult that might be unless I was a contortionist.” She laughed and I continued. “I started doing this every New Year’s Eve in honor of my grandfather who worked with Harry Houdini. Houdini and my grandpa would hang upside down with handcuffs binding their hands. They were lowered into vats of water and had to release themselves to keep from drowning. Houdini succeeded. My grandpa didn’t.” I tried to sound disconsolate. “I do this in his memory and raise money to sponsor young magicians here in Brooklyn.”
She extended her sympathies for my grandfather, nudging the sugar daddy, who had remained silent except for rolling his eyes, to put money into the hat.
“Thank you,” I said. “You may have just saved the next amateur magician from a fateful end.”
A few more people came by and donated. I decided to go with an inversion therapy premise after hearing it from my small friend. Another story I used was that I was late being born and had to endure almost three weeks more than normal in the womb with my head downward, so I have to go upside down to gain my equilibrium. That was my best story for cash but my favorite was the Houdini tale followed closely by the time I spent in India under a yoga master who taught me how to be upside down and meditate. The yoga master was a female and I gave her the name of Dolly Lama.
“You’re here again!” I heard a couple say as I looked at them quizzically. “We were here last year when you were standing on your head.” They were an older couple, probably in their sixties. The man wore a red puffy jacket, reminiscent of George Costanza, that made him look much larger than he was, accentuating his ruddy cheeks and a large, greying beard, while the woman reminded me of Edith Bunker with a screechy voice that sounded like she was complaining whenever she opened her mouth. “How’s your inverted meditation going?”
“I remember you two,” I lied. “So nice to see you again. Well, I didn’t have enough money to get back to India…”
The woman interrupted. “I thought you said it was Nepal.”
I smiled. “Yes, Nepal was back in 2014 but the Dolly Lama moved to India. Better tax structure,” I added as she nodded her head in agreement along with the bearded gentleman, like I had said something of common knowledge that they both were aware of. “Excuse me, I have to go to my spot,” I advised them as they contributed to the hat. Once they left, I gathered up my belongings and started for home. “Fifty-five dollars,” I muttered. I stuffed the money in my pocket, put on the hat, and made my way to the subway for the ride to Flatbush.
Once on the train, my thoughts drifted to New Year’s Eve many years ago. I was about eight or nine and my grandfather challenged me to a handstand contest. He heard that I won an award for accomplishing the longest time and he was sure he could do better. No, he did not hook up with Harry Houdini in any way. Grandpa passed away when I was fourteen. We had performed the handstands for the family every year and he could never beat my time. To this day, I continue the New Year’s Eve tradition, with a few fabrications thrown in to entertain the passers-by. As the train pulled into the station at DeKalb Avenue, I smiled with thoughts of my grandfather and sad that he had never gotten the chance to work with Harry Houdini.
Bio:
David D’Ettore was born in Rochester, NY and graduated from the University of Notre Dame. He has had poems and a short story published. He has also written two novels; a parody; a poetry collection; two memoirs; and a multitude of essays.