STANDING ON TRADITION

STANDING ON TRADITION

“Why are you standing on your head?”

            I tried to look up and focus on the person asking the question.  He was a small man with a thin mustache that appeared to be painted above his lip.  He had a squeaky voice, the kind that reminds one of the little whiners back in grade school who used to wipe their noses with their sleeves and then touch everything within touching distance with their slimy, germ-ridden paws and say they didn’t feel good.  I hesitated to correct him on his terminology referencing my posture since I didn’t want to engage the little twerp for any length of time.

            “I do this every New Year’s Eve to remind me how lucky I am to live in America where one has the freedom to do what they want as long as they don’t harm others.”  The little man frowned and didn’t seem overly impressed with my answer.  

            “Are you sure it’s not some type of inversion therapy?  I hear that works wonders for your back and core.”  He tried to act proud of his insight which, of course, is common fodder for any number of nitwits who google inversion therapy.

            “Like I said, it’s a habit I got into.  It started with a dare and then it just grew a life of its own.  After doing it my first year in college, my friends asked if I planned to do it again.  I thought about it and decided, yes, I would.  The second year, I put out a hat for donations, betting people how long I could remain upside down.  It paid for my books.”

            The little man threw a dollar into the fedora I had put on the ground.  I thanked him as he walked away, then answered before he could ask.  “Every once in a while, I have to get down otherwise the blood will rush to my head and cause headaches and high blood pressure.”  I figured the banal explanation was worth a dollar.

            After a few minutes, once the little man had gotten out of sight, I went back to my handstand as a couple more passers-by drifted toward the corner where I had set up shop.  A rather attractive young lady and her friend, an older man that probably was her sugar daddy, stopped and watched as I went upside down.  

            “Why are you standing on your head?” she asked.

            “Actually, I am doing a handstand, supporting my full body weight with my hands, with my head below my feet.  If I were truly standing on my head, well, you can see how difficult that might be unless, of course I was a contortionist.”  She laughed and I continued.  “I started doing this every New Year’s Eve in honor of my grandfather who used to work with Harry Houdini in his magic act.  Houdini and my grandpa would hang upside down with handcuffs binding their hands, preventing them from getting loose.  They were then lowered into vats of water and had to release themselves from the shackles to keep from drowning.  Houdini succeeded.  My grandpa didn’t.” I tried to sound disconsolate.  “I do this in his memory and raise money to sponsor young magicians here in Brooklyn with the proceeds I get from donations from good people like you.”

            She smiled and extended her sympathies for my grandfather, nudging the sugar daddy, who had remained silent except for rolling his eyes, to put money into the hat. 

            “Thank you,” I said as I stood up.  “You may have just saved the next amateur magician from a fateful end.”

            A few more people came by and donated to the magician’s fund, though I only used that story twice since I decided to go with an inversion therapy premise after hearing it from my small friend.  Another of my staple stories was that I was late being born and had to endure almost three weeks more than normal in the womb with my head downward, so I have to go upside down every once in a while to gain my equilibrium.  That was my best story for cash but my favorite was the Houdini tale followed closely by the time I spent in India under a yoga master who taught me how to be upside down and meditate on keeping the blood from rushing to my head.  The yoga master was a female and I gave her the name of Dolly Lama.

            “You’re here again!”  I heard a couple say as I looked at them quizzically.  “We were here last year when you were standing on your head,” they added.  It was an older couple probably in their sixties.  The man wore a red puffy jacket, reminiscent of George Costanza, that made him look much larger than he was, accentuating his ruddy cheeks and a rather large greying beard, while the woman reminded me of Edith Bunker with a screechy voice that sounded like she was complaining whenever she opened her mouth.  “How’s your inverted meditation going?”

            “I remember you two,” I lied.  “So nice to see you again.  Well, I didn’t have enough money to get back to India…”

            The woman interrupted.  “I thought you said it was Nepal where you studied.”

            I smiled at her and took her hand.  “Yes, Nepal was back in 2014 but the Dolly Lama moved to India.  Better tax structure,” I added as she nodded her head in agreement along with the bearded gentleman, like I had said something of common knowledge that they were both aware of.  “Excuse me, I have to go back to my spot,” I advised them as they contributed to the hat.  Once they left, I gathered up my belongings and started for home.  “Fifty-five dollars,” I muttered.  “Not bad, not bad at all.”  I stuffed the money in my pocket, put on the hat and made my way to the subway for the short ride to Flatbush. 

            I usually performed my annual headstand ritual by Prospect Park.  As I went down to access the trains, a juggler was performing.  I threw a couple dollars into his coffee can and started away until he dropped one of the rubber balls.  I dutifully went back and retrieved a dollar from the can.

            “What’s up, Mack?” he shouted.

            I furrowed my forehead and replied “You dropped a ball.  I’m not going to donate good money to a half-ass juggling act, especially one where the elements don’t play a factor.  No wind, cold, snow, or rain underground is there, Bonzo?”  I smirked.  “On second thought, here’s the dollar back.  You’re going to need all the money you can get for juggling lessons.”

            The juggler hurled several profane expletives my way as I made my way to the tracks.  Once on the train, I sat and contemplated the surroundings.  The usual advertising splattered the walls in the car along with a few choice selections of graffiti, but my thoughts drifted to that New Year’s Eve many years ago.  I was about eight or nine and my grandfather challenged me to a handstand contest.  He had heard that I won an award in Boy Scouts for accomplishing the longest time and he was sure he could do better than me.  No, he did not hook up with Harry Houdini in any way.  Grandpa passed away when I was fourteen.  We had performed the handstands for the family every year and he could never beat my time.  To this day, I continue the New Year’s Eve tradition, with a few story fabrications thrown in for good measure to entertain the passers-by.  

As the train pulled into the station, I smiled with fond thoughts of my grandfather and a bit sad that he had never gotten the chance to work with Harry Houdini.