He found in the act of drinking a sliding blurring exercise in inertia, similar to gliding in neutral down a rail-less canyon road. It wasn’t so much the speed or delirium that was attractive to him, moreso the unspoken possibility of careening off the edge at any given moment—that without a thought or consideration he could find himself floating, weightless in a two-ton tomb of metal and diesel. Suspended in the crystalline air by some divine thread, plummeting and silent and peaceful and dead before dying.

Drinking also made days like these easier.

—

His fist falls on the door seven times, the shape of that shave-and-a-haircut pattern maybe almost discernible if not for the screamsquealing of children at play, the admittedly sloppy tempo of the knock itself, and the fact that he’s forgotten that this is a backyard party, and that he’s been instructed to enter through the side gate in the notes for this gig. So there he sways, eyes sliding from doorbell to doorknob, pondering his next move. Finally, he fumbles for his phone in his pocket. Opens the AktNow™ App (3.5 Stars on the App Store and 4 on Google Play [Notable review: “good, but devs need to specify if the entertainment is clowns or magicians with some sort of badge. i didnt know i ordered a clown for my nieces birthday until he got here and when we tried to turn him away because my niece hates clowns he started screaming and crying about how this always happens to him and making a scene while trying to force himself in. we threatened to call the police and then he left. extremely uncomfortable experience” {Developer response: “Thanks for the feedback! We’re getting right to work on implementing a more visible method of discernment among entertainment types. We also took the liberty of looking through your order history and found the clown in question. We will no longer be inviting him to contract with us.”}]). Realizing his error, he picks up his trunk and makes his way to the sidegate. The weight of the trunk on his left side adds a lopsided effect to his already woeful ambulatory dog paddle.

As it always happens, as the sounds of the party draw nearer, so too do the idle thoughts of suicide. It’s time to do your job, it’s time to pull the rabbit out of the hat, it’s time to pull the gun out of the hat, it’s time to pull the trigger, it’s time to pack up your things, it’s time for the next party. He’s been having trouble telling if this ideation is still some sick internal joke he plays for himself, or if it’s becoming earnest. He stands at the gate, unmoving. Frozen but not rigid, he deflates, and the limpness that he feels in the pit of his gut makes its ambling way up and down his spine.

It wasn’t always like this. He got into this business because he loved attention, loved entertaining, loved children even! And he was good at it too, it seemed that he had a natural predisposition for sleight of hand. At some point though, like every job, relationship, or really any responsibility in his life, these loves wilted into apathy, then resentment, and then ultimately overwhelming fear. His habit of boozing grew from an aid to a necessity to the end goal of his vocation.

Why he persists, he doesn’t know. The question itself is so exhausting that this, too, paralyses him—rendering him little more than debris on a current impossible to navigate, much less divert (Ha!) into a more favorable direction.

Flaccid, he shoulders the gate open. The children don’t take notice of him—a blessing—and the rest of the adults are otherwise preoccupied. He smiles meekly at the three or four parents who note his entrance, and they return his meekness with dips of the chin and otherwise cordial acknowledgement. He exists, he’s here, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it now but get on with it. He shuffles on.

He gets to work unpacking his trunk in the corner of the yard, behind the refreshments. Showtime in seven minutes.

—

The routine itself is usually bearable, if only because it’s a routine. In this moment everything is mechanical, every action performed is choreographed and perfect. The robot performs to a smattering of human bipods mounted with videocameraphones, the computer interfaces with the computer, a perfect feedback loop increasing in pitch. Even the children watch the performance through the lens of these handheld realtime selfsimulacra. Stonegrinned, eyes glassy and unseeing, the magician continues, as if he himself is also a dispassionate observer. Rabbit. Scarves. Fire. Rings. Coin. The routine is usually bearable, if only because it’s a routine.

Two teenagers in the back, one of them vaguely resembles a past love. The male is pantomiming and gesticulating and cruelly skanking to the electro-swing that accompanies the act. The phantom of my lost lover laughs with her companion and at the magician and records both performances forever, to be uploaded to infinity, so everyone can laugh.

—

They’re laughing at me? Why are they laughing at me? I’m just a performer. I’m a magician. It’s my job to entertain. I’m doing magic tricks! Of course I look ridiculous right now, why would you mock me? Why, why, why, why? What did I ever do to you? Is it not enough that I’m here for your amusement, you feel compelled to humiliate me while I’m here for your sake?

This is fucking ridiculous. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take this anymore. I can’t take this anymore. I should be laughing at all of you freaks. That’s right, you’re the real freaks. Happy birthday to your freak son! I’m the best magician in the county! Hate, hate, I hate you all. You could have booked a fucking loser like Jared, and you got me instead. I’m doing all this for you! I could have been someone huge, and I chose to be here for the sake of you, for the sake of the party!

How did I get here? Okay, I was connected by the app—I was chosen because of some combination of proximity, pricing, and a cumulative personal rating from other gigs in the past along with parameters specified by the customer. None of these systems are in my control, none of this routine is in my control. I am delivered, I am delivered here, not by chance, not by God, but by some hateful combination of both, conspiring to kill me. To kill me! To slaughter me, like a cow in some awful cartoon machine that creates the goo for hamburgers.

Jesus Christ, she looks just like her. She’s laughing just like her. They’re all recording this. I’m less than nothing. I’m less than nothing. I’m nobody. I don’t have a name, I don’t have a soul. I’m dying. I am less than a blip in an algorithm, and my death is being livestreamed. AAAAHHHHHHHHH—

—

On the ground, convulsions.

Hair ripped out, screaming and lashing and full of pain.

Cracked and numb and bleeding all over.

Sobbing and dying, dying!

Grass in mouth taste like puke.

Worm who know what worm is.

Ragged croak and death rattle.

Motionless

totally spent.

Serene.

Electro-swing music blaring.

End

—

Hello! Thank you for contracting with AktNow!

[John] rated you (0 STARS). Here’s a note from [John]!

“what the fuck man? needless to say, i reported you to aktnow for your little fucking stunt.u ruined the entire fucking day. if i ever see you again, your fucking dead.”

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