I’m a magician. Close to 80 years of age. No immediate plans to put away the wand and take a seat in the audience.
The very first thing I do when getting out there in front of the house is to put people at ease. To move and talk and command with all my skills and knowledge. A good performer feels ageless while he or she is plying well-honed skills. Doesn’t just act younger. He feels younger, and for all intents and purposes, is younger. The pains and aches, the awkward mental and physical stumbles, are overridden by the situation.
An allegory for the president:
I have to tell you about a magic teacher I had about 65 years ago; bear with me. My teacher’s name was Jack Miller. I thought of him as ancient, not merely old, but old and decrepit. His fingers crooked, knotted, twisted. Probably painful. His body bent from decades of travels as a vaudevillian. As the bookings faded, he began teaching.
For a kid, I was pretty efficient when it came to sleight-of-hand. What was this tired old magician going to show me? Sensing my skepticism, Jack picked up a prop ball which vanished then reappeared then changed color … suddenly there were two, was it three, in this hand … except .. no, in the other hand.
His fingers had untangled. His profile straightened. He relaxed in a way that relieved me from thinking about age, mine or his. Always confident, Jack had spent a lifetime perfecting his moves and his patter. Even during his last few years, he didn’t worry audiences, make them wonder if he was going to slip up, embarrass himself. Didn’t make people nervous.
Now, I’m the old guy. Little bit disheveled, but with an act that still kills. My forte is private parties, kid shows, club meetings, assembly programs. My phone keeps ringing. Sixty-five plus years of appearances. One day that is going to end.
Sometimes when I arrive at a gig, the folks who have hired me sight unseen based on my reputation, realize they’ve booked a relic. I do what Jack did back when. I pick up a ball or a coin and impress, put them at ease. It’s going to be OK. I’ll deliver.
Here’s the thing about my career, and about President Biden’s career, though it’s pretty nervy linking the two. All the funny stuff I used to do standing up, I now do sitting down. I’ve accommodated. I’ve modified, but realize I can only make so many adjustments before twisting myself into a pretzel.
The phone rings and a lady wants a performance on the same day as another booking. Small private party. Not much of a drive if I add her show to my day. When I was younger, I’d sometimes appear at two or three kid’s parties on a busy Saturday or Sunday. But now, I am hesitating. Should I take the second show? Will I have enough energy? Is my voice going to hold up, my mind remain sharp enough to play off the crowd?
Each gig has become a test. A “can I still do it?” event. One day, I’m going to forget my lines. Find that my fingers cannot quite manage the necessary maneuvering. Make the audience nervous.
The time is going to come when my act will be a little less. Less mysterious. Less funny. Less interesting. I monitor myself. I love what I do and consider bringing laughter to a damaged world a kind of service I get to provide. I’m proud of my career. But, the way I see it, I’m a fading enigma, and the prospect of giving up the spotlight is a painful inevitability.
Obviously, presidents aren’t magicians, unless you are thinking of Donald Trump with his sleight-of-facts routine. Houdini was only 52 when he died. A stubborn man refusing to face reality, he’d tried to ignore the effects of a ruptured appendix. Joe Biden doesn’t seem to be suffering from an acute ailment, but rather from the cumulative wear and tear brought on by devoting his life to public service. Both gentlemen were/are in need of intervention.
Know when to step back, I tell myself. Each show a test. Try to be honest, and of course, if that is difficult, at least depend on the audience for a definitive opinion. They’ll let me know when they’ve had enough.
Same for you, Joe.
Kraus is a writer and entertainer.