Sub•scrib•bler (səb-skrĭb′lər) n.

“No performer should attempt to bite off red-hot iron unless he has a good set of teeth.”

— Harry Houdini

My brother somehow came into the possession of a large book on Houdini at the perfect time for two young, aspiring illusionists looking for the next “great act.” I suspect we got it from the North Woodstock Library, accessible off a little shortcut bypass about a mile from our house between English Neighborhood Road and Route 169. The library, an 1843 schoolhouse, was chock-full of old donated books from other libraries and the dusted-off collections of older patrons. Lots of Zane Gray and Hornblower, and a smattering of Scandinavian titles like “Eric and Britta” (about a boy and his reindeer), but definitely short on newer, shinier titles peddled by Walt Disney and George Lucas. This library appeared to be more serious than our school library. It did have a nifty LP record collection, which we thought was pretty cool.

The librarian was a neighbor of ours, well liked, very sweet, but not sugar sweet (like some of our elementary teachers).  Being too sweet–at least for New Englanders–was patronizing, and appropriate for toddlers only, not for future men. Our librarian (her name escapes me now) wasn’t patronizing at all, nor was she pushy.  She encouraged browsing and may have pointed us in the direction of a particular corner of the library, but she was careful not to pull individual books from the shelf to sell them, as mom was apt to do having grown impatient with our uninspired browsing efforts. All suggested titles were swiftly and arbitrarily dismissed, and we had our reasons for doing so; good reasons:

Once, I remember being forced to read Island of the Blue Dolphins. By forced, I mean kept in my room for hours at a time until I finished it. I think my mother reckoned that this book and I would get better acquainted if we were locked in the room together, or perhaps “duke it out” until only one of us was left standing. The book won, handily. I can still remember shifting restlessly back and forth in my bed, the top bunk of our bunk bed, trying to stay awake, trying to focus and be even mildly interested in the story, reading a single page over and over and over because it just wouldn’t stick. First of all, the protagonist was a girl. Second of all, it was boring. Does this book description sound enticing to you?

O’Dell tells the miraculous story of how Karana forages on land and in the ocean, clothes herself (in a green-cormorant skirt and an otter cape on special occasions), and secures shelter. Perhaps even more startlingly, she finds strength and serenity living alone on the island.

My mind wandered before I could get through half a page. This was when I decided I was to be a math guy, not a reading guy. It wasn’t until high school, unfortunately, that this plan changed abruptly with the introduction of Algebra II, but the Island of the Blue Dolphins episode would always be likened to some kind of Gulag internment, however brief it was.

Now the Houdini book, THAT was different. It had pictures of the Great Houdini tied, chained, bolted and wrapped in all variations of physical restraints and from each one of these impossible traps, he mysteriously escaped. No one knew how he did it (or we didn’t read that far) and his unfortunate death was proof that the danger and risks of his profession were real. Yes, we could do this! We could test each other’s ability to escape from any number of traps. We had all the materials we needed at home; belts, ropes, rags and sheets–and we wouldn’t have to ask for them. The rules were always the same: Start small, just one or two restraints, leave the room, and then see how long it would take for Houdini to get out. With each successive binding, all participants taking turns, more restraints were added so that if you were one of the last to have a turn, yours would be the most difficult. It was important not to watch Houdini slip his trap, so the escape always happened behind a closed door. No one wanted to give away their secrets of escape.

I couldn’t tell you how many times we played this game before we introduced it to one of our friends from church, we’ll call him Peter, but it was probably too many. It didn’t end well, I’ll say that much. The game was new to Peter so he, naturally, wanted to see us do it first before he took his turn. Unfortunately, that meant that by the time his turn came, our creative juices were really flowing and we concocted a brilliant battery of restraints that no one, perhaps even the real Houdini, could break. As it turned out, we were right–at least for Peter. After tying his hands behind his back and his legs together, we rolled him up in a bed sheet and laid him on top of our bunk-bed ladder (our makeshift stretcher for transport). After he was placed on the stretcher, we carried him downstairs, slowly and with great care, removed him from the stretcher, placed his body under the stairwell, and then closed the stair well door behind him. He panicked. He panicked and started to scream as if he’d been thrown into a pit of vipers. We didn’t expect that. We quickly released him from our handiwork and then promptly took him home. I should say, our parents took him home and we were thenceforth forbidden to play “Houdini” with any of our friends.

Houdini went into hibernation for quite some time until our little sister resurrected it, wanting to play the game herself. Big, big mistake. Jonathan and I were older now and wanted something more dramatic to impress our sister. The game’s object somehow morphed from slipping a difficult trap to striking horror in the hearts of each participant. So, when our little sister’s turn came, we tied her hands and feet behind her back and carried her up to the bath tub. Shutting the door behind us, so as not to arouse undue suspicion, we set her, tummy down and facing the water spout so she could witness the water slowly rise as she struggled to set herself free. I had the drain opened so that its rise was very, very gradual, but she didn’t know that. All was going well–the water running, fear beginning to take root in Houdini’s mind, until mom walked in, horrified, and put a stop to it. The look on mom’s face was, “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?” and, “What if I wasn’t here?” and perhaps even, “Who are these monsters?”  I pointed out that the drain was open, but there was simply no explaining this away. That was the very last time that Houdini was played at our house.

© 2010 – 2011, R M Braaten. All rights reserved.