Fire Eating, Would You Do It?

Fire Eating as it is done at the Circus. How do they do that?

I lived in Las Vegas for a time. The Casinos have wonderful, practically free events, where the impossible is shown to be possible. I don’t drink, so I would order two sodas or Virgin Mary’s, so I could stay and watch. If I had visitors at my home, I would bring them along. I also don’t gamble. I’m the “goody-two-shoes-woman” in literature. Most would call me boring. I don’t mind.

One year there was a respected hypnotist playing at the Casino. I can’t remember his name, but he was bald, middle age, and very convincing in his ability to get people to act silly on stage. The reason that we bought the tickets was that my husband and I wanted to see the fire-eating concession. The Hypnotist (let us call him Morris) decided to work on the entire audience. I think my husband had a clue of what the events were to be, I did not.

Morris went through many stages of events; even one where everyone got on the floor, closed their eyes and pretended to be asleep, while he talked in soft tones to us. He was giving us courage, or so he said.

He did a few tricks on stage. The usual where someone clucked like a chicken. One was where a guy from the audience came on stage and put his hand through a square piece of hardwood. My husband volunteered for that and he split the wood in half. My husband had taken Impact Training and coached it for many years in Australia.

The last event was when a group of his staff got on stage and they showed us how they could eat fire. It reminded me of watching the circus as a kid, where the flame throwers ate fire and by using a bit of lighter fluid (of some kind) whirled the flames out from their throat over 2 feet high.

I had no idea that the audience would be taking part in this next event.

You see, when I was about ten, I was snooping into my brother’s fort outback. As I was about to walk out the twisted hallway to the outside door, my middle brother appeared. He had heard me, and got a few smudge pots (the ones you used to see flaming warnings around holes in the road). He poured out the fluid onto some wood pieces and set it on fire, encasing me inside the fort as it filled with smoke and burned nearly down. He barricaded himself in the doorway to be sure I couldn’t get out. There was nothing in the fort except a small table, a few chairs and a handful of match covers with girly pictures on them nailed to the wall. As the smoke billowed inside the fort, I began coughing. I lost my breath and fell to the floor. I realized that his intent was to kill me. I got up to a crouching position and ran headlong into my brother, moving him just enough so that I could get to the outer doorway for fresh air. He made me promise not to tell my mother, or there would be other crimes he had planned to put me through. It took over two years before I could breathe air without the smell of smoke from my lungs.

When the Las Vegas audience was lined up to go onto the stage, I turned to my husband and reminded him about my childhood and how I was traumatized by fire. He took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, “Honey, don’t you think it is past time for you to overcome that tragedy and kick it to the curb?” I knew that he was right. The only way to overcome events that had chained me with fear was to confront them head-on. I trembled, but kept walking up the stairs toward the fire sticks held by the staff. I think I could feel the encouraging pressure of my husband’s hand on my back.

When it was my turn, I grabbed the arm of the staff member and said “wait a minute, I have to breathe.” What I didn’t know was that the longer you wait to put the torch inside your mouth, the bigger the flame gets. I could see the flames growing larger; my eyes were widening. I had to push away fear. I grabbed the arm of the staff member and thrust the wand of fire into my mouth and squelched the fire. He gave me kudos and patted me on my back. He could tell I was not a friend of fire.

I am no longer afraid of fire-eating or fire walking. I still appreciate the power of the flame and how, as the power of ocean water, there is death awaiting those who aren’t brave enough to fight. Fear can take your breath away...permanently.

Carpe Diem!