Jimmy the Giant

Stan returned to the dressing room, steam billowing off his torso, a sweat-dampened V on his aqua sequinned top.

“Magical,” he declared. “Get me a G and T, would you, lovey?” he asked the assistant politely, eyes shining with accomplishment.

“That was one of the best experiences ever, Jimmy. Maybe 'the' best.”

Jimmy was bent over in his chair, tying the laces on his huge patent leather Oxfords.

“Enjoyed yourself then, Stan?” he asked in his distinctive low voice, not looking up.

“Marvellous, just marvellous,” said Stan. “That crowd is wonderful. What a night. This night will go down in history. A million watching on the telly, I’m told.”

Jimmy took a huge swig from the fine crystal tumbler resting on the counter. As he drank, he saw the twinkling bulbs framing his mirror. The Scotch burned his throat; he grimaced.

“Five minutes, Jimmy,” a young woman shouted through the half-open door.

He hauled his near seven-foot frame upright, knees burning and creaking, and nodded to his assistant.

“Ready.”

The assistant helped him into the huge golden cloak with its high collar, making him look like a merciless Ming emperor. His props swung inside the folds — a theatre within a theatre.

He picked up his pith helmet. Watching himself in the mirror, he carefully placed it over his famous mane of thick, slicked-back black curls. His skin was clammy, eyeliner smudging around bloodshot eyes, giving him a sad, ruined look. No time to fix imperfections now.

Beads of sweat formed. He reached for the cigarette smouldering in the ashtray, took several long drags, like they might be his last. Staring into the mirror meant staring into the void where his soul should have been. For the first time, his eyes allowed him to see his nothingness — his empty self reflected back.

*What can they see in me that I can’t see in me?* he wondered. A lifetime of feeling like an imposter.

“Time, Jimmy,” the woman said, waiting at the door.

Jimmy walked to the stage. Behind the curtain, he listened for his cue, running through the opener in his head.

*…bet the butcher he can’t get the beef… top shelf… no… steaks are too high. Yes. Then rope trick, the sleeve. Okay. Got it. Okay.*

“And our next to the Royal needs little introduction,” the emcee boomed. “Your favourite, the one and only… give it up for… Jimmy… the… Giant!”

The arm swept wide, the emcee vanished to the wings.

The curtain pulled open. Jimmy strode forward, majestic, though with the faintest hesitation in his step. At centre stage he stopped, threw his head back, arms lifted wide, cloak draping like the Jules Rimet trophy. Tonight, everyone would share it.

The crowd roared. They rose to their feet, clapping as if it might never end. The rhythm surged in waves—dying, surging again, nobody willing to be the first to sit. The volume was deafening. Then came the chant, rolling through the theatre like a terrace anthem: *We love Jimmy, we love Jimmy!*

Jimmy scanned the audience. Faces swam up through the glare. He grinned.

“I went to the butcher’s the other day. Bet him fifty quid he couldn’t reach the meat off the top shelf. He said, *no—the steaks are too high!*”

Laughter.

“What d’you reckon, mateys?”

He strolled the width of the stage, pointing into the crowd. “How you going, matey? Haha!”

Back to the centre. The spotlight pinned him; the rest was darkness.

“So ha—” He began tugging a cord from his huge sleeve. Looked at the audience, tugged more. “So huh—” His face turned comically puzzled as the rope kept coming.

“I’ll tell you what…” He hitched up the cloak and hauled on another rope. The crowd sniggered. He pulled, and pulled, and pulled. His head swung side to side in mock effort. The pith helmet began bobbing up and down as if the rope ran straight through him.

The theatre exploded with laughter.

He yanked until the rope spilled across the stage. “Did you like that, mateys?”

Then his gaze fixed on a woman in the front row. A red hat. Then—two red hats. Four. The lights were blinding now. Sweat streamed down his neck, his back. His breathing thickened, laboured.

He prayed it wasn’t another panic attack. He’d been taking the pills religiously.

Behind him a voice called, “You’re dropping your props, Jimmy.”

He turned, confused. The curtain was talking. Why was the curtain talking?

At his feet lay the evidence—fake flowers, ropes, rings strewn around. He forced himself upright, raised his head to the lights, and bellowed his catchphrase: “How about that, mateys!”

The crowd erupted. Feverish, wild. To them, it was new material, a fresh routine. Some nodded knowingly, others punched the air, swept up in the moment.

Then the pain hit. A searing line from crotch to chin, spreading across his chest, dark and relentless, like eyeliner bleeding into tired wrinkles.

Concentrate, he told himself. For a fleeting moment he was back. The red hat became one again before quickly becoming sixteen.

The pain sharpened, his jaw locking, breath shortening. His great frame buckled and free-fell like a demolished building. The golden cloak bloomed around him as he collapsed, a magnificent burst of fabric against the stage floor. The pith helmet and toupee flew free, leaving his scalp gleaming under the spotlight—like the pistil of a vast, golden flower.

Inside his costume he thrashed weakly, like an animal caught in a hunter’s net, desperate hands clutching at his chest but finding no relief.

The crowd was still laughing, some doubling over, slapping their knees. A man in the balcony whistled, thinking Jimmy’s fall was the topper to the rope trick.

He couldn't move, jaw twisted, chest seizing. His huge hands clawed the air once, then dropped like tree limbs. The spotlight blurred, a white fading into blackness. So this is it, he thought dimly, he could see the faces of his old sailor mates, the guys who encouraged his act. His finale.

“Is this the act?” someone asked backstage, panic in their voice.

“Cut it,” the emcee said, miming a chopping action at his throat, his stage smile stiffening.

The manager snapped, “Dave, Frank—get him off!”

The curtain swept shut. Spotlight was cut. In the sudden dark, Dave and Frank hauled at his cloak, dragging his massive frame like a toppled statue, his pith helmet kicked to the wings, the toupee in Frank's pocket. Out of sight, the audience’s laughter faltered, becoming a silence.

Backstage was frenzy. “He’s shit himself—Jesus Christ—get an ambulance!” Frank barked. They ripped away the cloak, loosened his collar, slapped his cheeks. Jimmy’s stare was glassy, unblinking.

"Jimmy, you with us, Jimmy?", said Dave.

Dave bent low, his ear to Jimmy’s lips. After a moment he shook his head. “Nothing. He’s gone.”

Onstage, the emcee stepped forward, forcing brightness into his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, a brief technical interruption—please remain in your seats.”

The house lights came up harsh and flat, bleaching the theater bare. The audience shifted, muttered, still half-believing this was part of the act. A few clapped nervously. Then silence.

Behind the curtain, Jimmy lay sprawled, his huge frame slack, eyes wide to the rafters. The great cloak that once made him a god now lay in a heap at his side.

For the first time all night, there was no applause. Only the slow hum of the lights, and the hollow echo of a man who gave everything to the stage—and left it there.