Sophisticated Shock

Alexandra Cannon

I. SURGERY

The performance schedule was very tight that evening, so you can imagine how annoyed
everyone was when Jackson pulled out his own heart and threw it onto the stage with a wet thud.
He'd done it before. The audience was horrified, of course, but not truly surprised; they knew
what they paid to see -so did Jackson- and the goal was never to convince people that what they
witnessed was real...the goal was to make them uncertain. There is too much comfort in
knowing for sure. Watching a person remove his own heart after driving a spade through his
skin and then the breastbone to get it is usually enough to rattle the brittle cage of modern
rationale.

To be fair, though, it doesn't matter how many times an audience is told, point-blank, that
there are no tricks involved when Jackson is on stage because this is an age in which nothing
goes unexplained unless one believes in imaginary things. Contemporary audiences come to our
theatre because they think it's charming to witness a dying art, and I suppose I can understand
that. I suppose we're like newspapers or books; you may be able to find the same words
electronically, but a computer cannot replace the intimacy of holding those words in your hands.
The reason The Theatre still around is because of Jackson, because although people may initially
come to be amused, they come back to confirm what they've seen.

I watched the act from the third balcony with Strober, who wasn't scheduled to go on
until after intermission. Strober is a contortionist, and he performs every night because he never
has joint pain and I'm convinced that this is because he doesn't have any joints. I've seen him
bend his leg upward at the knee, intentionally dislocate his neck, and use his own leg like a jump
rope. I've never seen any other human being do what he does and avoid injury, or probably even
death. The man is a freak. I'm about 80% sure he's made out of rubber spiders.

I watched him from the corner of my eye as he leaned his long frame toward the stage
below, and shook his head in awe. "That Jackson," he whispered over the gasps and moans of the
crowd, "is one crazy sonofabitch. He really does look like the Duke's father from up here." He
sat back in his chair and reached his long arms rearward and down the back of the seat in a lazy,
disturbing gesture that would have popped the shoulders out of the sockets of a normal person.
For Strober, it was as natural and subconscious a motion as crossing one's arms. It seemed as
though he was going to keep his arms like that indefinitely, so I looked back down toward the
stage.

"How's he doing?" my father's voice came from behind. He settled himself into one of the
seats behind us in a quiet rustle. I didn't need to turn around to know he was in a tuxedo and had
just made a check mark next to Strober's name on the clipboard which he carried everywhere,
and which had papers that included every detail of the show one could conceivably manage,
check and double-check. "Your set is all clear now, Strober." I waited for him to check his
watch before I nodded toward the stage. He made a noise. "God damn it. This is really going to
throw the schedule." He checked his watch again and scribbled something on the clipboard. "Is
Jack upset about something?"

"It would seem that way," Strober offered. I shrugged. With few exceptions, Jackson
only did the open heart surgery trick when he was feeling very strongly about something, or for
holiday shows. My father sighed and ducked out of the balcony to radio backstage and make the
necessary emergency changes to the schedule. He was back in under thirty seconds.

On stage, under the heat of the floodlights and gels, Jackson kept his eyes tightly closed
from the pain and wiped the blood from his hand on his rapidly soaking shirt. A know-it-all
toward the front said something about the heart obviously having once been part of an animal,
and this had an unbelievable effect: Jackson's eyes snapped open, and in a rare display of some
emotion akin to anger, he invited anyone who cared to inspect the heart to come up and do so.
When nobody dared to approach, he stomped on the organ which splattered like a paint-filled
balloon all over the stage, and on the polished shoes of the lucky people in the front row.

"Oh good," my father said. "That will be an adventure to clean during the second act." He
bowed out of the balcony again to radio for a crime-scene kit just as the curtain closed and we
heart the muffled thud of Jackson collapsing from blood loss like he usually did. My father's
head peeked back inside the balcony. "Marie, I need you backstage to help Jackson please." I
sighed and stood with Strober who was already sort of stretching from what I could tell. "After
you, milady," he held the curtain apart with an elbow bent in the wrong direction and I winced
my thanks before we sprinted down the private stairwell that leads straight backstage. We were
nearly halfway down before the din of the audience milling about the hallway above bounced
down the walls and to our ears.
II. BACKSTAGE

My father was yelling because Jackson had been dragged from the stage instead of lifted,
which of course made a streaky bloody line from where he had collapsed all the way to the cot
where he now lay, still bleeding. I grabbed the spare towels from Jackson's bleed kit and a pair of
gloves while the soaked remains of his shirt were cut away. I used one towel to kneel on the floor
and prevent myself from getting all bloody, and with the other I applied pressure to the gash.

The problem with people like Jackson is that there's no real way to medically help. In
high school Human Physiology, I learned that with a normal person, massive blood loss would
cause death from anywhere between an hour to just a couple of minutes, provided the wounds go
untreated. Most wounds can be treated simply by elevating the injury above the heart and
applying pressure. I learned about these things, about altered perfusion and tourniquets, from
experts. Obviously, though, when the problem is a missing heart, I'm just as much of an expert as
anybody. Perhaps more so, because I've done it so many times.

After a couple minutes of antiseptic prodding, the wound closed itself, and Father had
him wheeled to one of the dressing rooms. I decided to stay with Jackson in the hope of escaping
having to help with cleaning up all the blood on the stage floor; in all fairness, if anyone should
be cleaning it up, it should have been Jackson, but he was still unconscious.

I was gathering clean clothes when he woke up mumbling. "I'll show you..." he said. He
raised a bloody fist. "Animals!" Once again, I was surprised at his agitation.

"Shh, stop that," I said, swatting his hand away. "You did show them. Now you need to
get cleaned up quickly and come up with a way of explaining yourself; my father is so angry, he
could kill you." He raised his eyebrows. "Well, not kill you, but I think he'd be willing to try."

"I held your father when he was a baby," he said as he forced himself to sit up. "I used to
cut his food for him. I don't think one dalliance with improvisation will be enough to ignite such
hatred." He ran his fingers through his hair and stood so I was eye-level with his heart. "Did you
happen to notice if there is any blood in my hair?" I shook my head. "Good. I'll be out in a few
minutes then." I took that as my cue to leave.

I wanted to ask why he did it --the real reason, I mean. Nobody rips out his own heart for
something as arbitrary as improvisation, not even someone as peculiar as Jackson. He had his
back to me as I moved toward the door. He was rifling through the spare clothes and looked so
ordinary for a moment that I wondered what it was like to be an audience member who didn't
know better; who saw a heartbroken young man, and nothing more. I opened my mouth to say
something when Strober exploded through the door, panting. His hair and face were covered in
what looked like flour, which I diagnosed as a possible desperate means of cleaning up all the
blood. He looked insane, and that is saying a lot because even on a good day, Strober sort of
looks like he's just been electrocuted . He allowed for a dramatic pause before he began.

"Jackson, WHAT the flaming ostrich flip where you thinking?" he asked, nodding his
head with each word in a little puff of flour.

A momentary and confused silence descended. "I'm not certain how to answer that,"
Jackson began. "Flaming ost-"

"It's a saying, never mind, never mind," he waved an impatient hand. "Why did you do it,
though, on this night of all nights?" his eyes implored. "Oh, Jackson, the Duke! The Duke is
here! In the audience! With his aunt! And because of your act, she's now in Shock. And because
he's the Duke, they never signed a waiver." Jackson and I exchanged looks. "She could die,
Jackson," he said softly. "Oh God, we're really in the shit." A voice called for him from behind.
He turned back toward us. "You'd better get out of here," he said. "Marie, take the coach, and
take Jackson and don't go home. Drive as far away as the horses will go. Send word in the
morning." He turned and slammed the door behind him.

I felt that horrible freezing jolt of adrenaline sink through my knees and arms. I looked at
Jackson. "I didn't know he would be here tonight. Nobody said anything-"

"I'm not going anywhere," Jackson said, turning back to the pile of clothing. And that was
that. My heat sank as I went off to find my father.

III. SHOCK

There are many different types of shock, of course, most of which are most easily
explained through example:
Extreme Surprise: Six-year-old Timmy learns that there is no tooth fairy.
Electrical: Timmy jams a fork into the toaster.
Natural disaster: Aftershocks from an earthquake flatten Timmy's house.
Medical: Timmy's mother suffers an acute drop in blood pressure and is rushed to the
E.R.

None of these refer to the Duke's aunt, however. No, she suffered from capital-'S' Shock,
or, as it is more widely known, Sophisticated Shock; the Shock That Nobody Talks About. From
the French Choc Sophistiquée, Sophisticated Shock has the highest degree of complexity of all
forms of the condition, and it is triggered when a horrific event is witnessed in conjunction with
the recollection of a strong emotional memory which somehow correlates. The name of the show
is Sophisticated Shock, which of course nowadays is referred to as more like a form a deadly
catharsis. There is no known cure, people either come out of Shock or they die--rather
unpleasantly, I might add. Typically, the heart beats so fast that it explodes. The likelihood of
someone as elderly as the Duke's aunt surviving such a thing was not likely.

I had all of this in the back of my mind, but I focused on seeming calm, the way my
father does in crisis. A brief intermission was being held, and I could hear the excitement in the
crowd beyond the heavy velvet curtains. "They said she may die!" "Oh, how thrilling, how
thrilling!" "Nothing is more enlivening than to know that one has survived witnessing what
another did not, wouldn't you agree?" "Oh yes, absolutely." Actors and performers were readying
themselves, warming up by running back and forth in near-perfect silence across the stage floor,
which was immaculate. Emotionally, though they were frenzied, chaotic. They pointed at me,
and then to the direction of Jackson's dressing room as a means of asking how he was. I lied and
made a fainting gesture to make them think he was still unconscious.

I finally reached my father's office, where I could hear voices from behind the heavy
wooden door, shadows moving in the light that shone underneath. I took a deep breath and
knocked.

IV. THE DUKE AND THE POCKET WATCH

There was no cessation in speaking, but the door was opened. Impossibly, Strober had
beaten me there. He stood there, surprised and flour-free, and motioned for me to come in. He
placed his hands on my shoulders in a protective gesture and guided me away from the door. To
my horror, the Duke was there, pacing back and forth in the most elegant frustration I had ever
seen. My father sat behind his desk, staring at a pool of light that reflected off the polished wood.

"I do not care that this monstrous act was performed capriciously; I care that my beloved
aunt, and last surviving relative on my mother's side, is now in Shock and will now most likely
die the most horrible death imaginable." His moustache twitched. It was waxed to the brink of
becoming one solid mass. It was curled very slightly at the edges. Not enough to make it look
cartoonishly evil per se, but enough to seem, at best, perverse.

"I implore you to exercise reason in this matter," my father began. "Of course, the
performer in question will be reprimanded, and in the future, we will take the greatest of pains to
ensure that no performer becomes so egomaniacal that he feels he has the right to dictate what an
audience sees over what I have dictated. You have my word that the act in question will no
longer be publicly performed. Furthermore, we will cover all medical costs on your aunt's
behalf-"

The Duke pounded his fist on the desk, rattling the pool of light. My father didn't flinch.
"We do not require your financial help! And as for who dictates what in the future, you can
forget it; I will have him hanged!"

"Excuse me," Jackson startled everyone. He was dressed impeccably, and even from the
doorway where he stood, his presence filled the room. The Duke looked up at him, more enraged
than intimidated. I noticed for the first time how short the Duke was now that he had turned to
face the rest of us, and how red his face, though the latter was probably due to being flushed with
anger. "Sir, you may have me hanged as many times as you like. I only came here because I
wanted to personally apologize for my display earlier. Had I any notion that your aunt would be
in attendance and the effect I would have on her, I most certainly would have pursued another
course of action."

"You-" The Duke floundered for the right words. "Mister..." he trailed off, having
realized he did not know Jackson's surname.

"Jackson, Sir," Strober said.

"Mister Jackson," he continued. "Your behavior is unusual and perverse. I don't care to
hear the particulars of what you would have done, because that solves nothing. I will see to it that
you are punished for your lack of judgement, and that this theatre is permanently closed." With
that, he stormed over toward the doorway, where Jackson politely stepped aside to let him
through. "Don't think about leaving town," he spat as he passed the threshold. "So help me God I
will hunt you down, and I will see to it that every person you ever loved suffers." The door
slammed behind him. I looked at my father, who had placed a hand over his eyes in grief. It was
seeing him that way that struck a chord of coldest terror in my heart, that somehow motivated me
to move past Jackson and through the door.

"Your Grace!" I called. The Duke whirled around. Even in the dark, I could feel the blaze
in his eyes. "Please," I said. "I can only imagine what you must be feeling, but this isn't the way
to solve anything. The show is called 'Sophisticated Shock;' all attendees know that they watch at
their own risk. " He opened his mouth, but I continued before he could rebuke me, before I lost
my nerve. "And Sir, Jackson is...he's not what you think." He shook his head in incensed
bafflement. "He..he doesn't die, Sir. What you saw tonight- that was real. He doesn't die."

"He can't die?" he hissed. "He can't die?"

"I don't know if he can't die, I only know that he doesn't. He's very old, Sir. And you
won't be able to kill him."
 "Oh? And how is it you are privy to that information?"

"My family has owned The Theatre for years, Sir. He's been with us always. In a way, we
inherit him -of his own free will, or course- like a living heirloom."

"A living heirloom? It is not enough to tell me that he cannot die, but he is passed down
through the generations like a pocket watch!"

I nodded. "And if you shut down The Theatre, which has been here for nearly two centuries, I
don't know that he'll have anything else to live for...except perhaps revenge."

"You're threatening me?" He gave a short laugh, and for an absurd moment he seemed
happy. "Do you truly think that I am stupid enough to believe what you are saying? Everyone
knows how he does these tricks! Everyone knows the actors use false organs, that this act is
continued by look-alikes; it is obvious."

I started to protest, but he held up his hand. "If she dies, then he will. I fear no heirloom,
no pocket watch!" He whirled around, satisfied with his metaphor, and left me standing, dizzy
from confrontation and the fear that Jackson would finally have his wish granted of being found
out.

"You should, Sir," I said. "This is one watch you should fear."

I could hear my father giving orders to continue the show as scheduled.

V. ASSESSMENT

Back in the office, Strober wrung his hands and twisted his arms almost 360 degrees
around. "Holy jumping up and down," he said with great solemnity. "We are so, so, so
unbelievably fucked."

VI. POST-ASSESSMENT

While the Aerial Ballet in Silk was being performed (my favorite act aside from
Jackson's; acrobats swing above the audience on large red ribbons suspended from the ceiling),
Father, Jackson, Strober, and I all took turns exchanging horrible ideas.

"We make a petition!"

"We fight him in court; legally, and publicly."
"Anarchy. Have him overthrown."
"Go ahead and let him kill me. Let him try. He'll be too horrified to try shutting us down.
And make all the executions public. It would be great PR, in the long run."
"Maybe we could kill him," Strober said, bending his fingers backwards like they were
made of rubber. "Snap his neck, inject him with insulin...that sort of thing."

"No, no, we need to be smart about this," my father said. "There must be something he
wants, some way we can redeem ourselves."

"What if we found a way to revive his aunt?" I suggested. "If we go to the hospital now,
we may even beat him there. If she recovers and we can win her over, then there's a chance he
won't shut us down." A muffled "ooh!" came from the audience, which I interpreted as fate's
consent. It was the best idea any of us had had, and, out of sheer lack of time to consider other
options, we decided to do it.

VII. REVIVAL

The hospital was lit more brightly than the day, but eerier than the most ungodly hours of
the night because it seemed empty. Our shoes echoed something awful off of the floor, which
was a sickly green color and over-waxed unto being slippery. The sterility of the place made me
think that something was being hidden, like the building was overcompensating for something
ghastly.

We saw a nurse coming, and for some reason, I ducked into the stairwell and out of sight.
While the three were busy trying to explain themselves, I realized they were diverting for me,
and I ran up the stairs, down another identically deserted hallway, and back down the opposite
stairwell into the Sophisticated Shock ward.

The Duke's aunt was easy enough to find, because she was the only one with a private
room. I entered as quietly as possible only to find that I was alone with her. She looked horrible;
her skin was almost gray, and her breath came in straggly, ill-timed gasps, but the worst of all
was how dead she looked, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, mouth agape. I held my breath and
waited for her to blink before I came closer. I realized in a rush of despondency that she was not
being tended to because everyone already seemed to know she was going to die. And who wants
to be around when someone's heart blows up? Well, I had seen enough strange things done to the
human heart that I knew I wouldn't be so terribly fazed if her time came while I was in the room.

I forced myself to touch her hand. "I wouldn't want to die alone," I whispered. Of course,
she didn't answer. "I wonder what it was that you were thinking of, when this happened." The
door swung open before I had the chance to hide.

"You!" the Duke yelled. "What are you doing here! I'll have you arrested!" I was so
frightened that my knees shook. "You will stay right here and wait for my guards to arrive, and
then you will be taken to jail," he fumed. "Haven't you done enough? Why do you torment and
dishonor me like this? I will see to it that you serve time for this. And you can bet that I'll have a
restraining order come morning."

"I came to pray for her, to pay my respects," I said, which was essentially the truth. In
actuality, my plan for reviving her without Jackson's help was some combination of wishful
thinking and talking at her.
 The Duke sighed, too exhausted to continue with his yelling. "She's thinking of my
father, of course," the Duke said. I stared. "My late father, he died right in front of us in the
Horrible Blind Jousting Accident. You were asking her what she was thinking of when I walked
in."

"But...I thought you weren't there. In all the newspapers it said you were away...even
your Twitter account said-"

"Blast Twitter to hell! I was there! Of course I was there! What son doesn't watch his
father participate in the millennia-old tradition of Blind Jousting? Can't I mourn him in peace? If
the public knew I had been there, then every conversation, every interview, every thought of me,
will be tainted with the knowledge that I watched my father die. I can't relive it every day. I
won't. That was the singularly most horrible moment of my life." I didn't know what to say, or
why he was telling me all of this, so instead I looked away and noticed the window over the
hospital bed. It was too high for anyone in it to look through and see anything but the sky. Such a
cruel oversight. Even still, I imagined how the sunrise would look through it, creeping in full
resplendent regalia over the windowsill and into the room to strangle what little darkness still
loomed. This was how the idea took me.

"Jackson is often told that he looks a bit like your father." The Duke stiffened at the
name. "From a distance, I mean. Maybe it was the resemblance that made the connection so clear
to your aunt and not to you."

"Of course it was clear to me," he said. "Of course it was. I was sitting right next to her. I
saw the same thing she did."

"But you're not in Shock." There was gorgeous, chocked silence (save for the raspy
breathing) as he stared at me. "If that's true, it doesn't make any sense that you aren't in Shock
yourself, since you said that you correlated seeing the open heart surgery trick with the death of
your father which was -what did you say? The singularly most horrible moment of your life?"
His moustache twitched, but still he said nothing. "I wonder what the public would do with such
a rumor that the Duke was not mourning more than his aunt; your father's sister-in-law misses
him more than you do." It was a bold gambit, one that could result in my taking a punch to the
face (the Duke could easily say I attacked him and he was merely defending himself), but he
seemed to see my point.

"How dare you.." the moustache twitched again. "You do understand that the public
believes I was absent for that particular event."

"I understand that the public loves a good conspiracy theory."

"YOU-!" he stammered. "What is your name? Marie?" his features softened marginally
and he nodded toward the bed. "That is her name, too." He sighed, defeated. "You are most
unpleasant, Marie."
 "You do what you have to."

"What are your demands? And be reasonable."

"My only demand is that you leave The Theatre alone, that you allow Jackson to do what
he wants." He nodded. "Most people sign the waiver, you know. Despite the fact that the name of
the show is 'Sophisticated Shock,' we've had very few instances of it. It's more tongue-in-cheek.
And it draws a different audience than another name like, say, 'Freakshow' would." He nodded
again. "So, are we agreed?"

"Agreed." Just then, Strober exploded through the door (again), still looking electrocuted,
followed by Jackson and Father. The Duke gasped.

"Well spank me cross-eyed," Strober said. "That sounded an awful lot like solving a
problem."

VIII. SURGERY REVISITED

The reason Jackson is famous at The Theatre is not just because he can rip his own heart
out. On a normal night, he starts the show by asking a vaguely romantic or nihilistic question (it
depends on whom you ask) like "Have you seen my love?" before wandering around the
audience a bit and eventually ceding the stage to the next act. Throughout the night, though, a
bizarre story line follows in which he "interrupts" other acts in search of his love. The performers
then pretend to become so agitated that they 'kill' him, comedically or romantically (also depends
on whom you ask). In any given night, he may be shot, stabbed, hanged, dropped from the
ceiling, et cetera. The plot varies night to night, but the two constants are that he never finds his
love, but he never gives up, either, which is why people adore it. Sometimes, he'll mill about
with the audience during intermission or outside after the show, always in character. I wish The
Duke and Aunt Marie had seen him on one of those nights instead.

When Jackson offered to give Marie his heart, the Duke looked so horrified that for a
moment, we feared he was also in Shock, but finally he spoke. "You'll die," he said.

"I will not," Jackson promised. I explained that he'd done it many times before for people
who were wait-listed for various organ donations, and it was around then that the Duke
rediscovered his ire.

"I know what this is," he took a step away from Jackson, "I know what you're trying to
do. And you must take me for a great fool." He spun toward me. "You mentioned the unsigned
waiver. You're trying to legally compensate for that by pretending to try to save her life."

"No one is pretending!" My frustration burned behind my eyes, causing them to well up.
"You're an idiot! Jackson is offering to go through an enormous amount of pain for the sake of
your aunt, and all you can do is come up with conspiracy theories? What about compassion—did
that ever cross your tunnel vision?" The Duke took a dangerous step toward me and made a noise
that can only be described as "hup-hup-ha-WHAT!" but I continued. "I will not plead with you,
your Grace. If you do not consent to this, I promise you, by morning every member of the press
will know of your presence at your father's death, and the serious implications that exist in your
lack of Shock after having witnessed the same event Aunt Marie did, while allegedly thinking
the same thing. It should have produced Shock in both of you; there's no way around it." I
stepped toward him. "Think about it. They'll say you didn't love your father. They'll say you
dishonor his memory by lying about your presence in his last moments." I was so close to him I
could smell the wax on his moustache. I leaned in and whispered "If you do not allow Jackson to
help your aunt, so help me God will ruin you. And if you try to shut us down, Jackson will come
after you, and I will let him do it. We'll see if you're so fearless then." The Duke looked at me,
wide-eyed, before turning to face Jackson, who was still looking at me, surprised but pleasantly
so.

"But what if you're the wrong blood type?"

"I don't have a blood type."

"What if she rejects the heart?"

"Let me put it to you this way," Strober said. "If she rejects it, then you know it was just
her time. If not, then you have her back. The only thing you can know with certainty is that she'll
die without it."

It didn't take much maneuvering to find willing surgeons since the Duke was involved.
We weren't allowed in the operating room; instead we sat in a small observation room while the
procedure took place. After Jackson regained consciousness, he jumped off his operating table to
join us.

I don't know why, but I closed my eyes when the surgeons cut Marie. It was so different
from seeing Jackson hurt, maybe because I feared she would probably die, and I had never
actually seen someone die before. I kept my eyes closed for hours, at times half-sleeping, and
other times imagining I was walking through The Theatre, trying to recall every inane
housekeeping detail: the plating on the seat numbers which are made from real gold and which
are meticulously polished before and after each performance, along with the door knobs, faucets,
handles, railings, and a few other things that really oughtn't be polished so often, like door
stoppers. Each seat is vacuumed and cleaned individually, each candle is replaced at the end of
the night, and every floor light is reloaded to capacity with oil. There are 111 lights in the grand
chandelier above the dished floor, and each bulb is replaced every two weeks when it is cleaned.

I did a mental walk-through. Exploring The Theatre when it is empty has the same
hushed, religious feel as exploring cathedrals when they are empty. When so many people share
an experience in transcendency, the feeling lingers, a tangible thing. I don't know how long I was
holding onto that image before I felt a hand shaking me and I wonder who was being addressed
when a voice said "It's OK, Marie, open your eyes."