The Performer
A satirical tale of success and independence.
In a town of old Earth, there lived a man of great renown. He possessed a sprawling ranch house on fertile land, herds of fat livestock, beautiful children, and a wife whose grace was whispered about throughout the region. The townsfolk marveled at his wealth and spoke glowingly of his occasional generosity when he descended from his estate to mingle with them at the tavern or marketplace.
Eight years prior, this man had arrived with mysterious wealth to purchase the grand property. The townsfolk speculated endlessly about his fortune's origins—mining ventures, shrewd real estate dealings, or perhaps enterprises best left unspoken.
It was eventually revealed by a well-traveled citizen that the man was, in fact, a famed performer with a most remarkable talent: he could pull himself up from the ground using only the straps of his boots. This citizen recounted having witnessed the spectacle years before at a traveling show.
There, the performer would lie flat on his back, grasp his boot straps firmly, and through remarkable contortion and strength, lift himself upright without touching the ground otherwise. After each demonstration, he would challenge the strongest men present to replicate his feat. None could, and their pockets were lightened considerably for the attempt. Though it was not all for a loss: the performer graciously shared his daily regimen for maximizing strength while maintaining flexibility.
The townsfolk marveled at this tale but none dared ask for a demonstration, content to respect their neighbor's privacy while admiring his success from afar. “Such extraordinary talent,” they would say, “no wonder he has achieved so much.”
One day, a visiting child playing with the performer's son innocently asked if the boy had ever witnessed his father's famous trick. The boy replied that he had not—if he wished to see the show, his father told him, he must save and purchase a ticket like anyone else.
Later that day, after mustering courage, the visiting child approached the performer and requested a show for the town. The performer, with a beneficent smile, agreed to perform in a fortnight.
That evening, the performer's wife objected strenuously to this plan. Years ago, she had refused to continue her role in the act—perched in the rafters, manipulating the nearly invisible wire attached to a harness beneath her husband's clothing that made the impossible feat possible. He had found other assistants for a time, but eventually promised to retire from performing to live quietly with his family.
“The town has been good to us,” he insisted, overriding her protests. “And a man must maintain his reputation.”
When the appointed day arrived, the townsfolk gathered eagerly, paying a week's wages for the privilege. The performer thanked them profusely for their support, speaking eloquently about self-reliance and the rewards of determination. “A community is made of individuals who must not be weighed down by the whole,” he proclaimed. “If none of us can stand on our own, how are we to stand together?”
He then lay on his back, grasped his bootstraps, and began to strain impressively. After several failed attempts, he chuckled nervously about being “out of practice” and the “good life” having softened him. The crowd tittered and chuckled. “What a card,” one woman whispered to her neighbor.
As he made another attempt, he glanced upward to where his wife should have been, only to find the tavern keeper there instead, holding the wire aloft for all to see. “Fraud!” the tavern keeper bellowed, yanking the rope and lifting the performer into the air, a puppet for all to behold.
Though driven from town that very night in disgrace, within a week rumors began circulating that perhaps this too had been part of the performance—a masterstroke of showmanship. Some insisted he would return triumphantly any day now to demonstrate his real talent.
After all, hadn't he built his empire through his own extraordinary abilities? Weren't his wealth and status proof enough of his exceptional nature? Surely a man who had pulled himself up by his bootstraps wouldn't deceive them—such men always told the truth, didn't they?