Gregor the Great Escapist

    This was an early work of fiction from my Masters program and was included in my Master's Thesis in 2008. During the end of my undergrad and into my MA, I had developed a love for writers like Steven Millhauser and stories about old professions. My MA thesis is dominated by stories about ventriloquists, tight rope walkers, and a very early 20th century aesthetic. I recall playing around with a story about a phrenologist that never came to fruition. Anyway. Gregor is a great example of where I was at then. I never really did like the ending. I think I tried three or four different ones and settled finally on one where Gregor never drops into the tank. He is left standing, embarrassed and defeated, as the entire town abandons him. I hated it. The current ending feels better and more in line with where I am as a writer now.

 Gregor, the Great Escapist

Of course we knew Gregor, The Great Escapist. We knew him as a young boy playing with locks and knots and we were there under that green tent on the night of his final show. We didn’t know that he had been planning a show in his old hometown and we certainly didn’t know that it would be the last time Gregor would take the stage. We simply awoke one morning to find our town covered in posters. They were hung in shop windows, plastered to walls, wrapped around light poles, and small handbills were being distributed on every other street corner. Wherever we looked, the bold serif writing announced his return.

The posters were simple and functional. They announced the place and time of the show, that concessions and a penny arcade would be available for ticket holders, and prices of tickets for both children and adults were clearly printed on the bottom. The majority of the posters were taken up by a large picture of two hands centered and beautifully rendered. We assumed they were Gregor’s hands. The palms faced out and up as though presenting us with a gift. Metal-looking cuffs were clasped around the disembodied wrists. The cuff’s locks looked large and sturdy, as did the links of chain that connected them together.

 

The posters aroused us to excited gossip. Not because of a desire to see an escapist, we had seen a fair number, but because it was our home town boy Gregor. When Gregor left us for places out east, his name started to filter back to us as his fame as an escape artist grew. We were proud of him, and what our small town had produced, as he pushed his art to points beyond any thing that had been seen on stage before and outpaced the skills and scope of his peers. Then, at the height of his career, Gregor entered a temporary retirement after a near fatal attempt at a water escape. At the hight of tension and to the panicked shouts of audience members, his stagehands had run onstage and burst the tank with their heavy, rusting axes and Gregor flowed out flopping on the stage. We had heard rumors that he had lain there, unmoving, unbreathing, under the stage lights for almost three minutes before spluttering and rising to his feet.

Gregor disappeared for five years after that. We refused to believe the stores of those that claimed Gregor was scared to return to the stage. We chose to believe that in those damp moments unconscious, near death, perhaps momentarily deceased, he had experienced a spiritual enlightenment, a white light moment, that he was a modern day Lazarus.

When Gregor finally did return to the stage, we assumed his performance would be timid and quiet. We assumed that he would take small steps toward his former fame. We assumed incorrectly. Slowly, stories began to show up in papers that Gregor had indeed changed his performance, but not in the way we had thought. Gregor had always shied away from the shortcuts of his trade. The fake chains, hidden doors, and shills hidden in the audience were beneath him. Appearing on stage with Gregor we read descriptions mechanisms and contraptions from the nightmares of torturers. One news story had even mentioned the use of a gun in one of his new escapes. Instead of cowering from death Gregor was running a marathon to meet it.

This news helped us feel vindicated. Gregor did not feel fear, he felt invincible. His brush with a watery death had made him more daring; he could truly escape anything, even the long arm and scythe of the grim reaper. We declared our theories whenever the subject of Gregor came up. They were our main weapons in combat with his detractors. These arguments would all end the same way: we would stand triumphant and ignore their constant parting jeer. It was true that his escapes had become more elaborate and deadly, but he had never stood again at the lip of the water escape.

As the date of the performance drew closer, our excitement grew. We talked about him at every opportunity. The first question on our lips was, “Are you going to Gregor’s show?” There were some of us who had no desire to go. They felt the old arts were dead. They couldn’t find much interest in the escapists, magicians, and ventriloquists who had outlived their time. 

On the day before the big show, a line of trucks trundled their way to the fair grounds on the outskirts of town. Vendors from every corner of our county had come to take advantage of Gregor’s fame. They climbed down from their trucks and swarmed across the grounds. Canopies and booths started to rise and unfurl.

We looked for excuses to divert from our regular paths and to stroll slowly along the grounds, interpreting and making guesses about the constant activity. The younger of us, free of responsibilities for the day, took seats on a small hill and watched the vendors work. We warned them to keep their distance and stay out of the way. The vendors were selling all of the staple carnival foods. There were signs for popcorn, sausages, candied apples on sticks, and fresh lemonade. There were also vendors preparing to offer us new and more exotic fare. We watched as a large block of ice slid into a machine that ground the block into cool white piles of snow.

Once the makeshift vendor city had settled on a shape, we heard the rumblings of a new wave of trucks coming down the road. These trucks were sturdier than the vendors’ trucks, but were weighed low against their tires. We saw the strange tarp-covered shapes in the back of each truck and knew it was the penny arcade. The lead truck carried the two large green tents that would house the arcade and Gregor’s show.

As the sun disappeared behind the hills, our patience began to wane. We had hoped that once his stage and tent were ready, Gregor would arrive. We had seen no sign of the escapist so decided to return home for our dinners. We went home in small groups, a small bit of disappointment resting in our stomachs.

We learned the next morning that Gregor and his truck had arrived late in the night. He had directed his crew and they unloaded by the dampened light of hurricane lamps. The unloading had gone on for most of the night, but Gregor had stayed hidden and hooded under a cloak. One restless young man had snuck in close and claimed to have seen the lamps reveal three rusty axes being carried into the green tent.

If this tidbit of information wasn’t enough to give us a second wind of excitement, then seeing Gregor looking in shop windows certainly did. We remembered how Gregor had looked when he left all those years ago, but there was only a shadow of that in the man that had returned home. He was taller than we expected. His black mustache and goatee were new and immaculately trimmed, and his pale skin was pulled tight on his angular face. When he spoke, we noticed he had replaced our local accent with a heavy European one. He spoke slowly and precisely, picking each of his words carefully.

Gregor had refused a formal ceremony welcoming him back home, but had agreed to allow our mayor to introduce him at the show that night. He wanted to spend the day, again, as one of us. We welcomed him back enthusiastically. We reintroduced ourselves to him, but he remembered all but the youngest of us who had been born in his absence. We didn’t swarm him with questions or requests for autographs. We treated him as Gregor, our neighbor, Gregor, our friend, or Gregor, our son. We were proud of him and knew he had represented our town well.

Two hours before curtain time, we made our way down to the site. We followed a trail that had been roped off and flanked by multi-colored lights. At the end of the trail was a small booth where we paid our entry fees. We jostled in line impatiently. The glow and smells of the site played at our senses. We had arrived with our pockets and wallets full. We wanted to experience every part of this great show. Once through the gate, we gorged ourselves on our favorites, leaving the remainders in our wake. Soon the ground was littered with half-eaten treats, broken apple sticks, and crushed lemonade cups.

With our stomachs filled, the penny arcade became our new focus. The clicking, humming, and clanking of the machines drew us past the green flaps. The tent was filled to the edges with mutoscopes, bowlettes, digger machines, and various automations. There was an old turban-wearing woman in a glass case, who, after a coin was inserted, would open her eyes. Her hand would move over five tarot cards, then stop and dispense a small handwritten fortune from a slot in the front. In one corner stood a clockwork cowboy who would challenge us to high-noon duels. There was even a roped-off section of mutoscopes for the more mature of us. They had names such as: Bath Time, Birth of the Pearl, and The Artist’s Model. We overheard one man complaining that the mutoscope called Dance of the Seven Veils went black before the last two veils were removed.

As we milled around, Gregor was there with us. He was dressed in an off-white tailcoat and walked among us, shaking hands and thanking us for coming. When the time came, it was Gregor who cleared his throat and asked us to step in and take our seats. He pulled back the tent flap separating the stage and seating from the penny arcade.

We wasted no time as we found our seats. As delicious and entertaining as the night had been so far, this was what we had truly come for. Our feet shuffled and we whispered anxiously, but as soon as the house lights dimmed we became silent and still. The stage lights went up and the only sound was the distant thrumming of generators. Gregor walked smoothly onstage followed by the mayor and sheriff. We applauded as the mayor stepped forward. His introduction of Gregor was more of a speech, but it was fitting of his government position. We clapped as he ended and Gregor stepped forward with the sheriff following close behind. The sheriff had removed his handcuffs from their holder and was laughing with Gregor.

“I’ve asked the sheriff to help me with a small demonstration to start our show.” Gregor’s voice rolled from the stage and over us like a comforting breeze. The handcuffs were closed around Gregor’s outstretched wrists. He raised his cuffed hands above his hand and tried to pull them apart. The loud click of the tightened chain was all the indication we needed that Gregor was securely cuffed.

“Enough to hold a criminal,” Gregor said as a piece of black cloth was placed over his hands and the cuffs. “But let us hope the sheriff is never confronted with a criminal trained as I have been.” With a clatter, the cuffs fell to the ground. Gregor wiped his now free hands with the cloth and bowed slightly at the waist. We applauded, but out of politeness. We had seen simple tricks like this before. We had not come to see Gregor for simple tricks. We had come to see something more magnificent.

Something more difficult.

Something more dangerous.

The sheriff exited the stage to Gregor’s right as a woman walked on from his left. A spotlight followed her to center stage. Gregor and his assistant were opposites beside each other; Gregor in his white tailcoat, his pale skin, and dark hair; his assistant in a sheer black dress, her blond hair, and olive skin. The two held hands and bowed deeply. We clamored to applause, but pattered quickly to silence as a large wooden structure was pushed onto the stage. We gave a collective sound of awe as the stage lights revealed the wooden structure to be a gallows. Gregor removed his jacket and stepped up on the gallows platform. A perfectly tied noose hung there waiting. The assistant stepped forward as stagehands came onto the stage carrying chains and ropes.

“Many a man has met his death at the end of the hangman’s noose.” The assistant had the same accent Gregor had adopted. “The question is, will the master be the next?” Gregor was bound, shoulder to ankle, in the chains and ropes while one of the stagehands was securing the noose around his neck.

“The trapdoor of this gallows is controlled by clockwork,” Gregor stood firm as he shouted out at us. “My assistant will wind the master spring and set the cogs moving. If I am not free by the last turn, this will truly be my final show.” We sat up straight in our seats. This had a taste of what we wanted.

The assistant moved to a small wheel on the side of the gallows and gave it three sharp turns. With each turn, something in us clenched tight. The only sound was the light clanking of Gregor’s chains, and the metronomic click of the mechanism’s cogs. As a tooth moved, its click reverberated in the tent and we scooted forward in our seats. Soon we were perched like birds on our seats and Gregor had loosened some of the knots. The clicking grew quicker and we stifled a scream.

Gregor was close to freeing his hands and still the cogs clicked faster. Gregor was reaching for the noose when the last click sounded and the trap door fell open. From the back of the tent, a scream rang out and the chains and ropes fell to the ground with a crash that jarred us out of our seats and to our feet. Gregor straddled the opening and smoothly removed the noose from his neck. We roared with applause and took long deep breaths. The assistant surprised us to silence. She had struck a small brass gong that rang above our applause. In those tense moments, we had forgotten she was there. We wondered what she had been doing during that great escape.

All the pieces of the gallows escape were cleared from the stage and replaced by a velvet-covered box. The box towered over the stagehands moving it and our palms began to sweat when we heard a sloshing sound escape through the dark cloth. The assistant once again stepped forward.

“Gregor is not just the great escapist, but the greatest escapist.” Two of the stagehands walked to the large sheet and each grabbed a corner. “Tonight, he will prove that he can escape from anything.” The stagehands pulled on the cloth and we gasped at the sight of the large water tank.

It was all metal, glass, and murky green water. Our hearts raced, hands clenched, and throats grew dry. We looked to Gregor to try to discern something. Maybe a hint of fear or a cocky smile, but there was nothing. He looked out at us, never at the tank. Only when he was secured in a straightjacket and weights did his expression change. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. When he opened his eyes once more, he took a brief look at the water escape. Gregor looked determined, as he was helped up a set of steps to the top of the tank.

“Watch carefully,” he told us. “Tonight I make history.”  Gregor’s toes poked over the edge of the tank and he looked down into that abyss. We couldn’t imagine what was going through his mind as he faced his personal grim reaper. None of us dared breathe in anticipation of the splash and our minds wandered to the image of the rusty axes waiting and ready just offstage. The longer Gregor stood there the more palpable the tension became. We saw any movement or twitch of the escapist as a signal of his descent.

Gregor’s right foot slid out tentatively over the water. It hung there and we shifted in our seats. The water was a dark green, as though the tank itself hadn’t been cleaned in some time, and we hoped that we could see Gregor through the murky nature of it.

Someone shuffled their feet.

The glass looked thick and the riveted metal casing looked ominous and threatening. Gregor adjusted his shoulders in their restraints and the locks clattered. The silence and tension swallowed us and for the first time, Gregor took his eyes from the water and looked out at our anxious faces. He closed his eyes and held his breathe. 

From the front row a throat was cleared and Gregor gave a small hop before slipped down into the water without any a splash and only the slightest disturbance of the water's surface. The assistant ran forward, slamming a large metal lid onto the tank and brandished a large golden padlock. The clang of the lid jolted many of us from our seats, prompting others to scream for them to sit down; we all needed to see what happened next. The assistant had already locked the gold padlock into place. It stood out stark brilliant against the water trap. It looked so new, so pristine, against all of the rust, murk, and obvious age.

No sound came from the audience or anything outside. It was as though even the wildlife of the countryside was waiting on Gregor’s next move. Even the water in the tank appeared unmoving. We expected to at least see some hint of thrashing, of Gregor breaking loose from his bindings, but nothing. And time stretched on.

The first indication of worry came from the assistant. Her large smile was starting to sag and her eyes darted from us, to the tank, to off stage. A gasp came from the back of the audience and a man near the front murmured something signaling the panic to set in. 

Suddenly the audience was a mass of confusion. Shouts for help rang out as a small group tried to make their way to the stage. Suddenly the assistant was fidgeting with the gold padlock getting more and more desperate as it refused to yield to the key that she had. But she was quickly swept aside as the stage hands, large men, muscles rippling, carrying the trusty axes we had heard about in countless stories and rumors.

The chaos of the audience halted as the first man drew his ax back swinging it forward with all of his strength. The ax head glanced off the glass without so much as a scratch to it’s surface and the look of shock on the large man’s face was a mirror of our collective surprise. Quickly every man with an ax took to the tank of water as though they were trying to fell a tree. When one of the axes broke, sending the rusted head skittering off the side of the stage, all the men stopped, sweating, out of breath, and still the water tank looked untouched.

And suddenly there was Gregor.

He was free from his restraints, his face and hands pressed against the glass, looking out at us all. His appearance from the murky water was so sudden there were screams and someone fainted only just being caught by their partner. He surveying his audience through the water and glass, then looked at his assistant and fixed her with a caring and calming glance. Her makeup was running down her face. Her perfect and beautiful work spoiled by her moments of fear and panic. She looked back at him, nodded her head, and composed herself, rising to her feet to once again present the water trap.

Gregor gave us all a final look, a smirk crossing his face before he vanished back into that murky tank. That smirk, his mustache and goatee askew in the water was the last image any of us had of Gregor.

The vendors, penny arcade and tents were gone when we woke the next morning. The only sign of Gregor’s final show were a few forgotten pieces of garbage and the flyers still in shop windows, but after a few weeks, even these had disappeared from our town. No one knew if they ever got Gregor out of that tank. And if they did, was what they got out alive or dead?

Some of us insisted that it was all part of the show, part of the escape. That Gregor was off somewhere preparing an even more elaborate, more spectacular performance. Others though disagreed. They thought that this was his revenge, his way of paying back debts for all the near misses and death defying. And still there were darker rumors, that Gregor was still in that tank. That the assistant was set up in a mansion out East and that Gregor and his tank had been moved into the parlor, where Gregor would float forward against the glass tank, giving her and her visitors that same smirk before pushing back into its depths.