40SOMETHING FIRE-EATER
An editor bites into the mid-life-crisis flames of doubt
Time is the fire in which we all burn. — Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry The flame dances mischievously as I bring it toward my face.
I can feel the heat and my eyes are locked on this amorphous bit of orange and yellow that I’m guiding to within inches of my skin. More precisely, to my lips.
“In what way was this a good idea?” I think to myself, admittedly not for the first time today.
This is, without a doubt, my worst mid-life crisis yet.
It’s a hot, soupy Sunday in July, and I’m standing in a Gatineau shed. I’ve got a hollow aluminum rod in my hand with a flaming tip. My head is tilted back, and I’m trying to overcome every right-thinking instinct in my body and place the tong down squarely on my doctor-doesthis-look-infected extended tongue.
Welcome to my fire-eating course.
From the periphery, my teacher talks me, calmly and steadily, through what’s about to happen.
“Head back. Deep breath. Tongue. Spout.”
And with that fortifying benediction, I move the tong and the fire downward, as if in slow motion, closer and closer until it’s ...
Well, more of that in a minute. Let’s talk about how I got here.
Surely you know that witty rejoinder “Slow news day, eh?”
It is the piercing catcall of readers whenever a professional journalist comes up with a story or oddball piece of “content” that doesn’t quite square with certain readers’ sense of the solemnity of “news.”
Well, the other day, we really were anticipating a “slow news day.”
It was the Friday afternoon, and as we mapped out our weekend plan in the newsroom, there just didn’t seem to be any events looming that had any sizzle.
Then, a plugged-in colleague came across a peculiar sounding something on Facebook. (A fire-eating workshop in Ottawa. Hosted by a Mr. Shade Flamewater of Flamewater Circus.)
“What about this?” she wrote in a message to me and several others.
And that’s where my problem started. Or, perhaps more honestly, was exposed.
Of late, I’ve been feeling some of that perhaps all-toopredictable ennui that comes at a certain point in a privileged person’s life, when the adrenalin of a good career starts to ebb, and you find yourself taking stock of what you’ve accomplished and what you have not.
On the list of accomplishments: A good job. A few things written. A few more edited. A few promotions secured. A hat collection I can be proud of, and a television I consider to be more than adequate in size.
On the list of have-nots? No kids, no loved ones, no living pets, and no real reason to think anyone will remember me when I die. (OK. Hold on, give me a sec. Breathing deep. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Just a little panic attack, here. No biggie.)
I’ve been undeniably more anxious. Things I used to do without worry or hesitation have become harder, a little less intuitive, a little more daunting. There’s a history of anxiety in my family, and the spectre of mental health demons has been lingering in my rear-view mirror as I pass the halfway point on, as Tom Cochrane so Canadianly put it, this highway of life.
Maybe none of this was on my mind as my colleague shared the web link to the fire-eating workshop.
Yet suddenly, gazing upon a picture of a bearded madman scarfing down flame like cotton candy at the circus, my inner 11-year-old, who’s supposed to be forever frozen in time, with his Metallica cassette tapes and his Reebok Pumps, sprang up to grab the wheel and, more dramatically, the keyboard.
“Oh, cool! I’ll do that,” typed my 40-turned-11-year-old fingers.
(Pause. Blink. Stare. What did I just ...? Oh, for the love of ... stupid, stupid, stupid.)
Amused eyebrows raise from colleagues. Words of encouragement flow from those who don’t have a vested interest in whether or not I become a disfigured mess from an Andrew Davidson novel. I have officially volunteered. OK. No big deal, I tell myself. It’ll be fine. I mean, it is cool, right? Who wouldn’t want to know how to eat fire? Impress some folks at parties, add to my NSFW skill set?
I may be mumble-grumble years of age, but I can still do fun, unexpected things outside my comfort zone, right? I’m still fun and edgy, yeah?
The audience for my internal monologue seems oddly unconvinced.
So, back to the shed.
I’m here with about a dozen or so other would be fire munchers.
They seem great. Fun, funky people, who almost all appear outwardly a little more selfassured than I’m feeling. (It’s hard not to resent that kind of resolve.) There’s a public servant, at least one couple, and some entertainers who have past experience with fire and are looking to up their burna fides. Sorry, I pun when I’m nervous.
And I am nervous. Maybe it’s the setting. It’s a nice enough backyard shed. It is, honest. There’s a gracious host, who’s offering water and bathroom accommodations. It’s just that this quiet yard, with the old beat-up couch in the garage doesn’t quite scream “Nothing could go wrong here.”
If it screams anything, it’s more of a “This is where they’ll find your charred body,” before you’re added to the Darwin Awards’ list of dim-witted fools who meet a grisly demise of their own making. Breathe, damn it.
I may have come into this with a bit of a misconception, it occurs to me, as Flamewater, who’s from Sydney, Australia, and has been plying this trade for more than a decade, amiably walks us through the entry-level moves and talks to us about the “burn cycle” of camping fuel. (There are three stages to the burn cycle. It’s important to know how hot your torch is burning before you do any tricks.)
I really thought there was going to be a trick, see ... some sort of hocus-pocus sleight of hand that would dampen any real danger, so long as I followed the rules.
My 11-year-old self figured nobody would get hurt. Of course he did. That chubby little idiot.
Two hours later, I’ve already burned my lip and my finger. Small blessures to be sure, mostly a consequence of my own hesitation when performing moves that need to be fluid and precise when one is, quite literally, playing with fire.
But let me be clear, fire hurts. Not like that Indiana Jones movie where the guy’s face melts right off him, but, I mean, you know, there’s a sting.
“It’s totally crazy dangerous. That’s what makes it so fun,” Flamewater says later with a smile as we discuss his chosen profession. “You don’t see guys going skydiving who are like, ‘It’s super safe, like nothing can ever go wrong.’ ... It’s thrilling, it’s dangerous, that’s what makes it exhilarating, you know?”
(He and I may be at different points in our lives, it occurs to me as he’s talking.)
Flamewater comes across as a great coach, a knowledgeable guy. And while he makes the art accessible, he doesn’t instil any false sense of security.
He’s patient with students, even this remedial one, and gives encouragement to those already showing promise.
The instructions are kept simple. “Head back”: refers to my head; “Big breath”: refers to the gulp of air I’m supposed to take;
“Tongue”: refers to where I am trying to place a newly burning torch, early enough in its “burn cycle” that I can endure its moderate heat.
And “spout” referring to the circular shape I need to make with my mouth to control the flame I’m meant to puff out.
At this point, I have two options. I can either put the thing in my mouth, or I can look at my classmates, tip my cap, smile, and run away like a little baby.
Let me be clear: I’m looking up the alley and wondering, if I sprint, if I can get around the corner before anyone finds me.
Maybe it’s the courage of being in a crowd, maybe it’s shame, or maybe it’s the paralyzing effect of fear, but my hand lowers the flame onto my tongue.
Heartbeat. Micro-second-long pause. Open eyes.
Huh. Neat.
The fact my tongue hasn’t turned to a smouldering black mass fills me with a bit of confidence.
Head tilted back, I pull out the torch, puckering my lips and ... Nada.
No puff of fire for me. Didn’t quite get the shape right and I misordered even the few basic physical manoeuvres.
It’s OK. Let’s go again. This, I mean, yeah, this could be fun.
Meanwhile, my fellow classmates are catching on. Some incredibly quickly.
You can tell who’s performed onstage before. They have the body language and the confidence of movement. They’re not just inhaling fire, even here, on this humble stage before a meagre audience, they’re performing.
Real performers have a fearless quality I’ve always admired. I realize it’s literally for show. Everyone is human and everyone has frailties, but performers overcome. They tuck their insecurities firmly in their back pocket, step onstage and become something bigger and better, braver and bolder.
What better metaphor for life is there?
I think we all get these moments, big and small, where we need to stand up and step onto our own, personal stages. They can pop up during our jobs or in our personal lives — little situations where we need to be our better, braver selves to face the challenges that life provides.
It gets hard sometimes. Cobwebs of doubt can creep across self-confidence during these, our workaday lives.
Sometimes stepping outside your comfort zone can help to restore that confidence.
Maybe that’s what a mid-life crisis kind of is. Not so much a clarion call to buy a sports car, hit on a 20-something or flee your good job, but a reminder that courage and spirit are muscles we need to work on, and flex sometimes, just to remind ourselves we still have them, that we haven’t forgotten how to do and be something more than clockpunching, dishwasher-loading, Netflix-watching automatons.
And maybe this is preachy of me, and, sure, maybe I’m a little high on fumes, but whether it’s fire-eating, or zip-lining, or, harder yet, working on your rela- tionships, it’s the “trying ” part that’s good for us, I think.
If you try and fail, you get a story, something you can laugh about over drinks and good company. It’s something you can write about in the paper, if you’re lucky.
But if you don’t try, there’s no memory, there’s no story.
And that fate might be worse than even a “slow news day.”
So, as the man said, friends: Head back. Deep breath. Tongue out. Spout.
It’s totally crazy dangerous. That’s what makes it so fun.