Essay For My Therapist

It seemed like such a neat idea at the time but, in the catbird seat of hindsight, I really should have known better.

My son Adam was celebrating turning nine and we had hired for his birthday party what I later learned was a bargain-basement magician to entertain the tots in the backyard. Ed Truby was his name and, per his website, he claimed to be a "Magician Extraordinaire!" His rate was not at all unreasonable so I contacted him via email and we hit upon an agreed upon price for the agreed upon date and time: a Saturday afternoon in lovely Glendale, California.

My wife Marjorie prepared the food - well, catered it really - but who was going to complain? There was plenty of it and, in the end, they were kids, so what do they know? I have yet to meet a nine-year old whose culinary radar is acute enough to respond to food in any way beyond: "This sucks!"

Nonetheless, their bellies full, the twenty-five tykes gathered cross-legged in the lush green grass of our backyard while I stood before a rope-fastened bed sheet curtain and announced: "Ladies and gentlemen, may I present The Great Truby, Magician Extraordinaire!!!"

Out came Ed Truby, bedecked in a flowing silken cape of purple and orange that starkly contrasted his black Velcro-fastened sneakers, all-too-snug jeans and a white T-shirt that, were it moistly adhering to a comely lass, I would have found pleasing to the eye. Sadly, it suffered the indignity of being worn by a man whose looks rivaled the most sordid ne'er-do-well. He stood no more than five and a half feet tall, his shameful rotundness surpassing healthy in every way. Like Danny DeVito with a weight problem. OK, like Danny DeVito. I was altogether certain that, prior to his departure, I would find him stuffing food into every available pocket of his trousers.

The kids were clueless however, eagerly clapping away before the man had so much as pulled a rabbit from his hat.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you!" he exclaimed, whirling his black wand as if it were a conductor's baton. Behind him stood a four-foot long black box, hoisted upon a pair of sawhorses, its broad side facing the kids.

"For my first trick, I'd like to perform the sawed in half child! What do you say, kids?"

The children cheered and clapped with the same wild abandon with which they had greeted him.

"May I have a volunteer from the audience, please?"

A dozen hands rocketed upward, each accompanied by fervent pleas of "Me! Me! Me!"

"OK. How about you, young chubby?" Truby said, pointing into the audience.

From the mire of his squatted position, Billy Finkelstein lugged himself off the ground, mustard sullying his intelligence-challenged face as he waddled his way up front. I never liked Billy, justifying my loathing on the beatings a similar chubby inflicted upon me in my youth.

"Give him a big fat round of applause, huh, kids?!" Truby yelled with a lurid smile. The kids obeyed, clapping feverishly, excitement lining their innocent faces. I glanced at my son, who had never appeared happier.

"What's your name, sonny?" he asked.

"Billy Finkelstein!" the boy called out. I half-expected a "Sir, yes sir!" to follow.

Truby took fat Billy by the hand. "Now, if you will, Billy, come back here." He opened the rear compartment to the black box, allowing Billy to squeeze his way inside. Truby's hands quickly latched the pear-shaped boy inside, save for his head and feet, which poked out from opposite ends, one untied sneaker lace drooping downward. Billy turned to his audience, an astoundingly stupid grin infesting his doughy face. His feet wiggled every time he smiled. "Are you in there good and tight, Billy?
"Yup.”

"Can't move your arms I hope."

"Not really, no."

"Good. That's what I want to hear." Truby now walked back to a large velvet sack, extracting from it an outright massive saw, its otherwise shiny blade speckled with rust. "Now how many of you want to see Billy sawed in half?"

The kids cheered and clapped wildly.

"OK! That's what I want to hear! Are you ready, Billy?"

"Yup," Billy replied, turning left and grinning to all as if showing off a recently-extracted tooth.

Ed Truby grabbed his saw and placed it above the wooden box, its hoisted blade positioned midway through the belly of little - well, pudgy - Billy Finkelstein. He began sawing, the kids cheering him on. "Saw! Saw! Saw! Saw!" they chanted. Truby worked the blade with near religious fervor, his dark eyes taking on a maniacal gleam. The blade dropped quickly now, having clearly churned its way through the box and now pushing squarely into Billy.

A look of confusion leaped up from the boy's surprised face followed by a sharp “Owww!!!!" and sounding as if he had been bitten by a wasp. Something was wrong, his "Owww!" suddenly escalating to a flurry of blood-curdling screams that coursed across the lawn like a flock of frightened birds. There was a collective confusion not only on the faces of the children but on my face as well, each bearing the dire recognition that something completely unanticipated was occurring before our eyes.

My gaze was riveted upon Truby, who sawed like a man possessed, his massive arm lunging back and forth with demonic urgency, sweat trickling down his already damp face. Suddenly, I found myself tormented by the notion that I was not exactly getting what I had paid for.

Fat Billy, his eyes wide and pleading, was screaming in horror-soaked anguish, his feet wiggling helplessly below. The box shifted somewhat to and fro, prompting Truby to bring a brawny arm firmly down upon it, pinning it in place so as to allow the steady rush of his madly sawing arm.

The children stared in bleak, abject horror, their innocent faces frozen into silent, terrified screams.

Finally, the blade plunged through the bottom of the box. Chubby Billy, silent and unmoving, stared skyward into an infinity not of his own choosing.

Ed Truby tossed away his saw, its blade dripping a steady stream of blood. He brought both hands to opposite ends of the box and pulled each away from the other. Blood cascaded from the severed box as the torn, shredded viscera of little Billy Finkelstein splashed onto the ground in an audible splatter the likes of which I pray I never hear again.

"Ta-dahhhh!" Ed Truby yelled, proudly holding both hands aloft, just before sprinting toward the front yard and the rusty and dented AMC Gremlin in which he had arrived and probably resided.

Billy Finkelstein had damn well been sawed in half, the horror of which would be indelibly etched into the memory of every child who bore witness.

Boy, was my wife pissed.

THE END