Juggling, Part II

I.

It started with a question:

“What do you want to do with your life?”

“I want to be a writer.”

“What are you doing about it?”

Silence.

I didn’t like the question, but after years of avoiding its impenetrable gaze, it was staring me right in the face. I didn’t like my response either. Even the non-words, stacked atop each other in what I had hoped would be a formidable silent barricade, could not withstand the searing truth.

In the aftermath of this conversation, I began thinking about probable responses in the way I labored over formulating the perfect retort to a caustic remark; it consumed me.

My excuses, once so convincing, had lost their appeal. It’s a lonely place to be, really, when you’re out of excuses. The masses have gotten tired of hearing them and have slowly abandoned you to listen to the sound of your own voice. I imagined myself as being left behind by the circus, standing in the middle of an empty field littered with stale, damp popcorn, tattered fliers, and trash. Forgotten stakes, a few cigarette butts, and the shriveled corpses of popped balloons are the only remnants of the bustling show that turned the nothingness into a wonderland.

Alone, I began thinking about the juggler.

I thought of him juggling in the park, an easy smile across his face. I thought of him juggling staplers and hole-punchers in the stairwell of an anonymous corporate building, white paper dots flying everywhere. I thought of him brushing those paper dots out of his hair while putting the staplers and hole-puncher back in their usual place on his desk. I thought of him sitting down in his chair with a small sigh, barely audible over the click-clacking of synchronized keyboards, before contributing to the din.

II.

It has taken me weeks to find a response to the initial question. My fingertips have been poised over the keys, hesitant, waiting. I have watched the cursor blink against the blank page countless times, an unbiased metronome controlling the rhythm of the non-words in my mind. On the eighth day, a break through: write.

III.

The juggler doesn’t talk about juggling—he throws things in the air. A writer doesn’t talk about writing, shouldn’t write solely about not-writing because it’s safe—a writer writes.

IV.

And so, I write.

Juggling, Part I

I responded to a Craigslist roommate ad my fifth year of college and found myself living with a juggler, a pilot, and a Mexican Jack-Johnson-wannabe with a penchant for grooming his genitals; I discovered the evidence on more than one occasion floating in the toilet like a furry Portuguese Man-O-War. I even found a hair stuck between the blades of my Mach 3, which I left in the shower to shave my legs. I asked the juggler and the pilot if they had used my razor and they said, “I have hair down there” and “I do that at my girlfriend’s house”.

Silence.

We erupted into a fit of mock dry heaving, followed by uproarious laughter. Everyone told me to confront him but I never did. What was I supposed to say?

But this isn’t about “Jack”. This is about the juggler, but before he was the juggler, he was just “Matt”. He was quiet, a lanky fellow with sad eyes, a slow smile, and a mop of brown curls. I left him alone most of the time because he was always studying, or appeared to be studying, as both the pilot and the juggler were majoring in aerospace engineering. Shortly after I moved in, I discovered the pilot was a movie junkie. We spent much of our time watching movies from his vast collection of pirated DVDs; of all the roommates, I was the easiest to persuade to postpone homework.

One such afternoon, he asked if I wanted to watch a movie, and since it was 4:30--too early to start studying--I agreed. I sat down on our dingy, sagging couches while he walked to the kitchen to get chips, salsa (El Pato), and salt. I should mention the pilot ate his chips and salsa in a particular fashion: take chip, scoop salsa, sprinkle with salt. Eat. Repeat. He had just started his chip-eating routine when he turned to me, crunching furiously, and said, “Have you seen Matt juggle?” I raised an eyebrow. The pilot sprinkled salt onto his chip before continuing.

“Matt wants to be a professional juggler but his parents won’t let him.” I raised the other eyebrow, grabbed a chip, dipped it in salsa, and after a moment’s hesitation, sprinkled it with salt. Instant upgrade. The pilot, excited he had converted me, raised his arms into the air and yelled. “See? The salt makes the whole ‘chips n’ salsa’ combo better. Anyway, yeah, Matt juggles.” I salted another chip. Crunch.

“Juggles? Like, he juggles balls? Really?” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. Drip. Salsa had dripped onto my pants. I wiped it up and licked it off my finger.

“Matt is fucking crazy. He juggles knives and chainsaws and shit. I’ve seen it and thought, you are fucking nuts, man!” Crunch. Salt. Crunch. I imagined Matt, tall and quiet, tossing three roaring chainsaws into the air at a construction site. I don’t know why I imagined him juggling chainsaws at a construction site. It was either the construction site or the circus. It freaked me out.

“If he wants to be a juggler, why is he majoring in aerospace engineering? Couldn’t he have picked an easier major if he just planned on juggling after college?” The pilot quickly brushed the salt off his lap and stood up to get us beers.

“Matt is also obsessed with planes and flying shit. Like me.”

Matt never talked about juggling—I don’t think he knew I knew his secret—so I didn’t bring it up. I thought I would one day catch him juggling spoons or empty beer bottles in the living room so I waited. And then I saw him as I was leaving for school one day, juggling in the park next to our apartment. A six or seven-year-old kid was watching him with his head cocked to the side, eyes squinting from the effort of trying to follow the pins flying high above Matt’s 6’ frame. He had a wide, easy smile across his face, his eyes hardly blinking. He looked really happy. Anyone who saw him at that moment could tell he was doing what he loved, what he wanted to do for the rest of his life.

When I told him I saw him juggling in the park, he just smiled and said, “I was just practicing.” I asked him if he would juggle knives for me, as long as we were outside and I was standing far away from him. He salted a chip and said, “Sure”. Crunch.

He got a few paid gigs at Disneyland performing in the parades. I never got to see him but his face lit up when he talked about them. I admired him for pursuing his dream despite the fact it seemed to contradict reason. That didn’t seem to matter—it made him happy.

We graduated in June and parted ways. Last I heard he had followed his girlfriend up north to Stanford where she was attending grad school. I think he got an office job like the rest of us, maybe an office with a view. Matt was a genius. Although I can’t say for sure, I bet he is still juggling. I secretly hope to see him juggling in the parades at Disneyland. Even though I know he’s up north, I still look for him among the brightly-colored, spandex-clad jugglers, a tall and lanky fellow with a genuine, easy smile across his painted face.