Only with disciplined effort do I resist rushing through the grand finale. I distribute a padlock to each of the volunteers: two airmen, a banker type, and a trio of sprightly ladies. With all the poise and undulating cadence of a showman’s assistant, I encourage their inspection. My narration flows out, as programmed as a song on a player piano. On this stage alone, it’s my fourth performance in two days.

Stewing in a haze of cigarette smoke, aftershave, and floral perfume, the medium-sized theater could be any one of a hundred. The attendance is respectable at two-thirds full. Largely from the “cheap seats” of the balcony, periodic catcalls remain standard fare, with no help from my galling if customary outfit. Astoundingly, the sequined halter and midthigh skirt are rather modest for my role.

Displayed on the prop table are two pairs of handcuffs and a set of minuscule keys. I’m retrieving them all when Charles reappears in the right wing of the stage to await my cue. He’s traded his top hat and tails for a black bathing costume that hugs his lean build from shoulders to thighs. All in line with our usual act, save for the object in his grip.

An ax.

I bristle, less from startle than confusion. A stagehand was supposed to brandish the tool, not Charles. And certainly not yet.

For a show that blends illusion and danger—from the magical mending and vanishing of items to mind reading and death-defying feats—there’s purpose to every step, glance, and gesture. To timing above all. At the climax of the act, as fears arise over the escape artist’s ability to elude his bonds, a harried display of the ax implies need for its imminent use, amplifying suspense.

It’s hardly to be used as—what? A parading of bravado?

Still, we’ve performed together with such frequency over three years of touring that my speech hitches only slightly. “Now…that our ‘committee’ of volunteers from the audience has keenly inspected the padlocks for authenticity”—I pause, prompting nods from the lock-bearing group—“death-defying escapologist Charles Bouchard shall be sealed into the galvanized-iron milk can, airtight and filled with water to its very brim.” Grandly I gesture toward the barrel-size container, just as Charles interjects.

“Een fact!” He reemerges prematurely with his faux French accent, turning the sea of heads. “So superior are my abilities to those of Harry Houdini himself, I balk at even zee most basic safeguards.”