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‘OK, lovely ladies,’ Eric said, picking up three long clubs and clambering back onto his unicycle. ‘Showtime!’
Eric’s colleague was gathering a crowd in the large central piazza of the pier, shouting his encouragement through a squeaky loudhailer.
‘Our amazing, one-of-a-kind show is about to start,’ he yelled. ‘Trust me, people, miss this and you’ll regret it for the rest of your life! Come closer, please, gather in. Plenty of room for you all!’
As we watched the intrigued onlookers shuffling into place, Lizzie told me that Eric had regular visitors who would come often to watch his shows. And it was certainly a spectacle. Within minutes of welcoming his audience, Eric was balanced on a unicycle, with flaming clubs in his hands.
‘Now I may or may not have done this before and it may or may not have worked in the past,’ he grinned, causing the people at the front of his audience to shriek and step back as he wobbled towards them. ‘So if this all goes wrong, at least I’ll be able to say I went out in a blaze of glory …’
The crowd gasped as he appeared to almost topple off the unicycle before regaining his balance and perfectly juggling the firebrands, eliciting another cheer and enthusiastic applause from his rapt audience. His colleague then took over the commentating duties as they launched into a well-practised banter about their supposedly dubious juggling skills, moving on to carving knives and watermelons, then axes. Clearly loving the eager applause, Eric hopped off the unicycle and sprinted up the steps to the Pier’s first-floor level, where he hopped over the banister to mount a unicycle with a seat that extended almost two metres above the wheel.
Lizzie and I laughed, gasped and applauded along with the crowd, watching the consummate professionals at work. As they neared their big finale, I looked up at the clearing sky and noticed the man from the coffee kiosk leaning on the first-floor balcony where Eric had climbed onto the unicycle. He was smiling as he watched the show, and once I saw him I couldn’t stop staring. With the benefit of distance I was able to take in his appearance fully. He didn’t look like a tourist, nor did he appear to work at the Pier, yet he seemed entirely at home standing there, laughing at Eric’s antics. It was only when he half-turned his head and looked straight at me that I averted my eyes. His smile widened in recognition and he raised his hand in a little salute. Blushing, I turned back to Eric’s show – and I was just about to tell Lizzie to look when I realised he had gone.
Meeting him had been the most random of happenings, but for some unknown reason it completely caught my attention. The memory of his smile was still dancing in my mind when Eric’s show ended with a thunderous round of applause and the audience began to noisily disperse to Pier 39’s other attractions.
Taking his final bow, Eric bounded over, wiping his brow with a towel.
‘Did you enjoy the show?’
‘It was incredible,’ I replied. ‘How on earth do you ride that thing and juggle?’
‘I’ll let you into a secret,’ he beamed, leaning closer in case any of his audience heard his confession. ‘For about twelve months I couldn’t. Not that it stopped me trying. Thankfully the punters thought it was part of the comedy show. Good job Chad and me are such convincing comedians, eh?’
Eric’s performance partner appeared and handed him a bottle of water. ‘Hey ladies. Eric said he had a rent-a-crowd coming down today. Good show?’ His accent was pure mid-West, a laid-back, lazy drawl that perfectly fitted his surroundings.
Lizzie nodded. ‘Amazing as always, Chad. Although I think you almost gave that lady in the front of the crowd a coronary with your axe-juggling.’
‘Ha, I saw that. What can I say? I have that effect on women.’
Lizzie promised Eric another dinner invitation soon and we left them to prepare for their next show, for which the audience was already gathering. We walked away from Pier 39 towards Aquatic Park and Ghirardelli Square. The shroud of mist over the Bay had cleared to just a thin layer on the horizon, making the distant blue hills appear to be floating over the deep blue-green stretch of water. Tourist boats buzzed towards the red span of the Golden Gate Bridge and around the ghostly ruins of Alcatraz Island, enjoying the freedom to explore the Bay that many of the infamous island prison’s inmates literally would have died for.
When we reached the Powell Street terminal of San Francisco’s iconic cable cars, my cousin nudged my arm.
‘I reckon we should brave the queue and have a cable car ride. You can’t come here and not try it out.’
The queue was considerable, wrapping around the manual turntable and back up the street, but the warm afternoon sun was shining and the atmosphere amongst the waiting tourists was affable. We joined the back of the line, Lizzie amused by the touristy thing we were doing.
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