The Sword Swallowing Librarian

The Life of a Sword Swallowing Librarian

Duke leaned out the bay window and inhaled the smell of the warm ocean air. His heart fluttered and he smiled. Duke knew any sign of spring meant him returning to the streets to perform his sword swallowing act. Duke looked below to the crowded sidewalk. “Good money to be made today,” he thought. He had a special skill that allowed him to earn cash on the street. There were only fourteen sword swallowers in North America, and none of them performed on the urban center sidewalks. With his act and current tattooed motif, he could quickly make money. He clapped his hands together and hurried away from the window.

Duke reached for his five swords and placed them in a backpack with a small brass pot to collect change. He grabbed cleaning supplies and towels to wipe the saliva from the blades. Duke may swallow these swords thirty to forty times before his day ends. He lit a cigarette and walked down the stairs from his apartment and onto the bustling sidewalk of 7th street. 

It was a perfect Sunday morning in the city. Overcoats and frowns were replaced with spring clothes and smiles. Duke was a librarian in the Mission District during the week. He worked in the Special Collections department overseeing the historical relics and books mostly preserved from the city’s rich history. Duke’s love for books and antiquity led him to work as a library clerk during the week, but his thirst for living on the edge compelled him to live another secretive life on weekends. The city was large enough to remain relatively anonymous while he pursued a more reckless existence. 

Duke started to quietly sing an old circus show tune. He walked several blocks before discovering the ideal location for his act. It was a wide sidewalk area with heavy walking traffic adjacent to a city park. He leaned on the park’s iron fence with his backpack on his shoulder while he finished the last of his cigarette. He waited a few more moments for the traffic to lessen, and then he rushed to place his “money” pot down on the sidewalk. Duke stripped off his shirt and straightened it on the walkway. He leaned over and hurriedly reached for the five swords in his backpack and laid them on top of the shirt. This would create a break in traffic flow to allow him enough room to perform. He scanned the street and noticed that people were already slowing their walk and curiously looking at him and the swords. “Perfect,” he thought. He reached for two blades, stood up, and turned away from the gathering audience. Duke lit another cigarette, took a long drag, and placed the burning end on the base runner of the park fence. He closed his eyes briefly and a smile quickly formed. He could hear the scattered voices of the crowd forming around him. He banged the two swords loudly and turned to face the crowd. 

“Ladies and gentlemen! I plan on swallowing five, thirty-inch swords!” he shouted. 

The crowd gasped, and one lady screamed loudly. When the astonished sounds quieted, Duke continued, “I have seen a lot of strange people on the street such as myself, but you have not seen a sword swallower, as there are only fourteen left.” 

The crowd began to talk amongst themselves as the excitement grew. Duke continued, “Had I made any money at it, I would be damn sure I wouldn’t be hustling any coins on the streets of San Francisco.” 

Some in the crowd laughed, but most were nervous. Duke was familiar with the skepticism held by a new audience. An audience member shouted, “How could a sword swallower do that without killing himself? This must be some kind of trick!” 

“This is not a trick. I will swallow these swords,” Duke said assuredly. He turned his wrist back and forth to display the blades. “When I finish here, and you care to give something,” he pointed with a saber, “the pot is right there,” he urged. Duke reached for the other three swords and was now holding five in his hands. He raised them to the crowd, banged them loudly together, and laid the blades one on top of the other to form a ‘sword sandwich’. He lifted the sandwich above his head and opened his mouth. The crowd grew silent and then gasped. 

Duke looked at the audience. He nodded, smiled, and said proudly, “That’s right, I will swallow this shit!” A few bystanders erupted in laughter. He paused with the swords held above his head, looked at one lady whose jaw had dropped, and responded jokingly, “Close your mouth, lady. I’m the one who’s swallowing this.” 

The crowd erupted with laughter.

Duke raised his head and shouted, “Down the hatch, without a scratch!” He paused and quietly finished, “I hope.” 

The blades entered his mouth, and he swallowed all five of them with only the handle of the swords resting above his lips. He heard the familiar cries of fear and shouts of encouragement. His audience in awe, he leaned forward and turned to the crowd to his left so they could get a full view of what he had just done. He circled quickly to the right and then to the center. He stayed in that position for a few moments longer, and then he pulled the dripping, saliva-filled swords out of his mouth. The street erupted in a loud roar. People were slapping each other’s hands and laughing. Duke laid all but one of his swords on the shirt and reached for his lit cigarette behind him, propping it between his lips. He turned to face the applause. He pointed with a sword, “I’ll remind you that if you care to give something, the pot is right there,” he shouted over the applause.

You could hear the sounds of coins dropping into his brass pot. The sidewalk was filled with laughter and raised voices as people shared what they had just seen. Duke methodically reached for his backpack, grabbed cleaner and a towel, then wiped the speckles of body fluids from the blades while he smiled at his admirers and watched the crowd slowly disappear down the street. When the audience completely dispersed, he dumped the money from the pot into his backpack, returned the five clean swords onto his shirt that lay in front of him, and watched as new people began to slow down and take note of the tattooed man. 

The warm, spring San Francisco day was replaced with the usual cold and breezy night. Duke performed well today and was handsomely rewarded. He spent several hours rolling up his bounty in a booth at Grady’s bar in the Mission District, an old Irish bar in great need of fresh paint and new furniture. The place smelled of stale beer and smoke. The windows were boarded and painted to match the dark green walls. The cash Duke counted had attracted three familiar prostitutes to his table, whom he happily invited to share a drink. Duke was drunk and in a playful mood. He passed over a handful of rolled-up change to each of the girls that shared his booth.

“Here is a little bitty for you and a little bitty for you and you.” He smiled at them, playfully draping his arm over a young woman. He continued, “And now how about a little bitty for me?” 

The girls broke out in laughter. 

The table was full of shot glasses and hundreds of dollars in rolled-up quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies. The street gig always paid well as long as you didn’t stay in one place too long. One of the drunk women shouted, “Duke, you make more money on the street than I do! Can you teach me your act?” He looked at her with concern and replied softly, “Sure, baby. I can teach you how to swallow a sword. But first, we should practice with something a little smaller.” His concerned look slowly changed to a grin, and the table cackled loudly. 

A young waiter walked up to the booth. As Duke smiled at him, everyone quieted and said, “Line them up with what they want.” The ladies smiled at him and began giving their drink orders while Duke fidgeted in his backpack, pulling out an old army canteen. The waiter interrupted one of the prostitutes and replied sternly to the sword swallower, “Sir, you are not allowed to bring your own drinks in here!” Duke waved at him drunkenly and said, “It’s OK! It’s medicine! Sometimes the food I eat doesn’t agree with me.” 

He unscrewed the canteen and took a long swig without swallowing. “Sir! I am going to have to ask you to stop!” the waiter shouted. 

Duke clutched his arm, reached for a lighter, and mumbled to him with a mouth full of white gas, “It’s OK!”

Duke flicked his lighter and brought it towards his mouth. His eyes rolled back in his head, and then he looked clearly at the waiter, smiled, and crossed his eyes while he blew a six-foot-long flame out of his mouth. The women screamed. Duke squeezed his stomach and groaned, “Oh God! My food didn’t agree with me today.” The waiter was flailing at Duke’s arm and shoulder. He released him from his clutches, and the young server stumbled onto the floor. He quickly picked himself up and ran towards a bouncer stationed at the front door. The ladies sharing Duke’s table were paralyzed with fear. Duke placed his head on the table and laughed. He was too drunk to notice that no one was laughing with him. Two beefy bouncers suddenly approached from the shadows of the bar. One lifted him out from the table, placing his arm around his waist, and helped him walk out the front door while the other bouncer filled his backpack with the money scattered on the table. Duke clutched the bouncer’s waist, looked up at him with a glazed, playful look, and slurred, “So, this is how it works in San Francisco?” He made the bouncer smile, and the patrons laugh as he was escorted out into the street. 

On Monday morning, Duke wakened to the sounds of his alarm clock. It was 6:00 am, and he was still wearing his clothes from last night. He was resting upright in his chair. A record was still spinning on the player. The needle was lodged in the center of the last album played from the night before. His favorite one of the month, “Orange Blossom Special” by Johnny Cash. Duke pulled himself out of the chair, lifted the needle from the record, and turned off the player. He then walked to the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and buried his head under the tap.

His throat was sore from sword swallowing, and his breath smelled of vodka and cigarettes. Duke shaved, put on a long-sleeved oxford shirt to cover his tattoos, and wore a freshly pressed pair of black slacks. He combed his wet hair back with pomade. Duke walked over to the card table and reached for the vodka bottle.

“Mouthwash,” he joked. 

He took a long drink, smiled, and smacked his lips. He set the booze down and made his way towards the front door, taking the stairs and headed out to make the 6:45am trolley to the library.

Duke sat quietly on the trolley. The morning fog prevented him from a view overlooking the bay. When he made it to his stop, he lifted himself up and groaned loudly.

Duke ambled towards the front entrance of the library. He was greeted by Marjorie, the head librarian, and Sylvia, the receiving clerk.

“Good morning, Duke! Happy Monday and Congratulations!” The head librarian announced.

Duke straightened up his posture. Her words surprised him. “Huh? Congratulations for what, Marjorie?” he asked.

She smiled widely. “Well, my library clerk extraordinaire! You are ‘Employee of the Month’ which means a nice bonus!” Marjorie declared.

“Oh, that’s wonderful, thank you very much! I don’t know what to say!” Duke replied.

Marjorie responded, “How about taking a month off of sword swallowing and finding a more stable group of friends?” The clerk and librarian’s laughs echoed through the building. They were all blushing. “If you keep this lifestyle up, you may become a part of the city’s special collections.” Marjorie joked.

Duke, lost for words, lowered his head and smiled sheepishly. Someone close to the library must have discovered him on Sunday and watched his antics from the street as well as the bar. 

“Don’t worry, Duke. Your secret is safe with us.” Marjorie assured him.

They giggled as Duke made his way to the elevator and closed the doors. He selected the 4th floor. The inside of the elevator door was covered with a print of Duke with his shirt off, covered in tattoos, and his neck bulging with five hilts exposed from his mouth.

Duke chuckled. He folded his arms and stared at the poster. He was more disappointed with the universal acceptance of his after-hour antics rather than being discovered. He shook his head and then said sarcastically, “Well, maybe I need to upgrade my gig to hanging from a helicopter fastened to a straitjacket. Clearly, the librarian/sword swallower gig has lost its shock value.”