by ben robinson

(A personal account by a magician who actually survived the Bullet Catch)

In 1993 I closed a private show for high rollers in the main theatre of the Commerce Card Casino in California. Reverend John Booth was on stage to mark the bullet. (Good idea to have a priest around when you're playing with guns, ya know?) Something always happens when John is around. When the shot was fired through the glass I received a shard in the hand.

I caught the bullet and finished the performance bleeding profusely. I received several stitches in the hand. I wrote a whole book about a trick (one of the first hardbacks to cover the history and performance of only one trick) and still I was injured by a mistake I made.

The first shot teetered on being unconvincing to the audience when we demonstrated what was to happen. Quick thinking cleared up the dramatic confusion. I told the marksman in a stage whisper "Put the barrel right up against the glass." I paid for my mistake. My blood stained tux shirt (which I wore untucked during the performance without a coat or tie) was streaked with blood. I sent this shirt to Bob Lund for his museum. Maybe Bob will put it on display as a real momento of a modern accident with a trick I no longer think should be performed. It puts the wrong ideas in people's minds. Since Twelve Have Died came out I have noticed at least 25 new tricks and articles about the bullet catch. There have been at least two new deaths: Magic Marvo in South America and a woman named Nellie in New Zealand. People send me this kind of news.

There's romance in myth. There's human terror in bleeding for your day's pay and possibly losing tendons or nerves in your hand. When you make your living with your hands, it's not a great thing to have your hand taped to your shoulder for a week to let the wound heal. I don't enjoy the sight of blood. I prefer to keep mine inside my body.

The problem was that the authorities would not let my marksman fire a shot in rehearsal several days before the big show. It would have disturbed the poker tournament in the adjacent room. Consequently, we could not measure the distance the glass would fly. So, we measured it in my marksman's garage. Worked fine we thought. The night of the show though, based on the blocking of the glass in stand and the placement of me and the gunman -- it all sort of got lost in the back stage shuffle. No lights could be turned on backstage and we set the stage properties by flash light. The rifle was closer to the glass, and the glass was closer to me than we had planned and I received a shard in the left palm before I hit the ground. The tension was so great prior to the shot that when the gun went off I went down with a less than elegant fall -- a whiplash effect...a planned car accident.

Another memory: With a twinkle of drama and a light reality check, I asked the audience not to take any pictures when the shot was fired. I implored them. When the rifle cracked, 30 flash cameras went off. Modern society breeds tabloid mentalities; death sells. What did Roseanne have for dinner last night?

The bullet bounced out of my mouth when I went down, and I thought, "Wonderful...now if the bullet is lost and can't be found with any discretion, I have no finish." Luckily, the bullet lay about three feet away from my head, directly up stage left. As I crawled to a standing position I picked up the bullet with my teeth -- no one would be the wiser. As I went in the direction of the bullet, before I picked it up that is, I saw a spot of blood on stage about the size of a silver dollar.

"Great, " I thought, "what a break, this will add some realism that I hadn't planned on..." and I carefully wiped my cheek in the fresh blood.

As I rose from the stage (this all happened in about 4 seconds) I reconsidered the virtues of having blood from an unknown source on my mouth. Surely it could not have been mine. I felt no pain. Probably from the Chinese acrobats that were on before me -- they are always cutting themselves on leaps and falls...yeah sure.

It was mine alright. I rose, with my left hand contorted into a beggar's plea. A healthy stream of blood gushed from my palm and ran down my arm. I made my way to the microphone center stage with the bullet between my teeth. The blood had soaked the entire left side of my shirt. I spat the marked bullet into the metallic plate and had it identified as the one fired from the rifle by our committee of one – Dr. Booth.

"Ladies and gentlemen, you have just witnessed my fifth and final bullet-catch. Goodnight!" Few will ever know what it's like to address an audience with a complete lie while the truth is dripping out of your hand. I'm not lucky to know this, but lucky to live through it without serious injury.

Later, backstage, and in the dressing room, I sweated and became a tad hysterical. I was taken to the Security Offices, viewed the accident on videotape and was denied a copy. Next stop: the hospital via the paramedics for the most expensive cab ride of my life.

Three hours and three stitches later I learned there was no glass in my hand, no nerve or tendon damage, and, no casino Worker's Compensation...wonderful.

Actually, reflecting on this I realize the most horrendous part of the ordeal. It was waiting to be seen in the Emergency Room while gang members from the Cripps and the Bloods (apologies to gang officials if spelling is in error) entered the hospital in handcuffs still waring with each other with words instead of knives and guns. One guy had a nice chest wound resembling opened lobsters I've eaten in Maine. Their captors cared little for their comfort.

When I was released from the hospital I went back to the casino to wait for my friend Johnny Ace Palmer to pick me up. Outside the casino, a woman who had seen my grisly performance walked by. She noticed my bandaged hand soaked with blood and lymph. She looked aghast. "Tha..that..was for real?!" she uttered in shock.

"Yes," I replied with quiet exhaustion.

She fainted dead away in her white fur coat right there at the casino entrance as she waited for her limo to be brought round.

Money can't buy you a strong stomach.