The biggest danger for magician David Blaine when he hangs upside down above New York's Central Park for 60 hours next week? Going blind.
That's the analysis of Dr. Massimo Napolitano of the Hackensack University Medical Center in New Jersey. He is the chief of vascular surgery and is advising Blaine on the stunt.
Napolitano told the Bergen Record for a story Saturday that hanging upside down for a long time increases blood pressure in the head, especially in the eyes. That could lead to blindness.
The doctor doesn't say how long the blindness could last, but he says there's also a risk of swelling and cramps in internal organs.
Nevertheless, Napolitano says the stunt could yield valuable data for doctors.
After Reading this article on the Internet, the writer got inspired to write this short story below, aptly titled, "Hanging Upside Down," dedicated to the magician, David Blaine...
“You must have another mistress, don’t you?”
“No! I told you before…you’re it.” He gently unravels one of her long lean legs and unwraps it from his torso gaining full movement of his body again. He stands up, with some unsteadiness, announces he has to use the toilet.
“You drink too much,” she preaches to him, “that’s why you always got to go pee sooo much!” Her suddenly softened voice assures she is just teasing.
When she hears no response back from her proclamation she untangles herself from her sheets, (1,000 cotton count, the sales lady at Macy’s informed her when she made the purchase) and trails after him. Once outside the bathroom, she continues to speak through the crack of the door. The cat follows and meanders through the gaping slice.
“You’re an alcoholic, you drink all the time!” She (not the cat) chants, peeking in.
“Hey,” he barrages in a not-so-serious way and slams the door closed (the cat starts to scratch and momentarily feels trapped-can’t get out), “What? I can’t get a little privacy around here?”
She laughs a belly laugh and saunters back into the nice warm bed.
When he returns he is in much better spirits. Now his bladder is no longer full of beer. Since the start of the long drive back from the city he had been regretting not having used the restroom when he was in the bar. Feeling much relief, he continues with the entertainment and thus proceeds to pretend to dive into the bed. She giggles to signify her approval of his flirtatious actions.
“Tell me who they are…wait, no names, I don’t want to know…names, I might know them, tell me how many there are instead.”
“What are you talking about?” He touches her hair nervously. She proceeds to climb back on top of him again, enveloping her legs around him but this time takes his arms and pins them back in hopes that he will play defenseless. He does and she is quite smitten at they way in which he freely reciprocates.
She doesn’t repeat the question for she wants him to ask (it) again. She licks him on the cheek, and laughs again. He, of course, repeats the question; she, loving the naivety. Again, “What are you talking about?”
“Your mistresses!” She raises her voice just a little to show she means business even though she really doesn’t. “All of them! How many? Tell me; tell me, I know I’m not the only one.”
“Do you have any cigarettes?” His eyes are completely off her. He is looking on the top of her desk. She whips one from her box by the computer desk/coffee table off to the right side of her bed. He searches for his lighter. He can’t find it. He is just about to ask her for a match (she told him once she does not own a single lighter because she explained, she always loses them) but then he remembers where his lighter is. He contorts his body to halfway slither off the bed momentarily and dangles his arms to the floor where he can reach the lighter out of his pants’ pocket and all the while he is holding her stare in unison. In high school, he often won in silly staring competitions and it seems he hasn’t lost his knack for it yet.
“Honey…”He changes his tune with her when she instantly looks away to indicate annoyance. He quickly corrects himself when he remembers that she hates being called “honey” or “sweetie”, or any other pet name for that matter, really-she positively can’t stand it, he can call his ‘dumb girlfriend’ any one of those stupid-silly- condescending- sexist names but never Sofri. “ ‘Call me by my name and nothing else and… whatever you do, don’t call me in the morning.’”
He lights his cigarette and hopes the conversation has descended, like magic, magically disappeared. He inhales, too deeply and almost chocks. She is back to staring at him again. She is searching for something in his eyes, for the truth, and the answers to something. But why? Why must she know? He is not her boyfriend! But she just wants to know, who else? If he is cheating on his woman, she finds it hard to believe there’s no one else. It really isn’t that important to her, she is just curious.
“David Blaine, that magician!”
“What?” She takes the cigarette he is smoking out of his hand and takes a drag and playfully blows the smoke directly in his face.
He doesn’t seem to notice and instead continues to explain, “The magician, you know the magician?”
“Yeah, what about him?” She blows another puff of smoke his way and tries to hold back a chortle from her lips from his lack of response to her dreadful actions. “Yeah, yeah, I know the guy, he held his breathe under water for…for whatever amount of time, yeah he’s cool, married Claudia…you know that supermodel from the 90s…I think they’re divorced now. Anyway, what about him, my sexy little love rabbit?” Nicknames for him were of course always acceptable.
“Did you hear about his latest act?” She shakes her head, no. He grabs a copy of the days’ New York Post sitting next to the cigarette box and ruffles through the pages until he finds the caption of David Blaine himself hanging upside down, arms across his chest and shows it to her. People are walking by in the picture, going about their daily, everyday lives. Probably rushing off to work. Work, work, work. “I have to go!” One passerby probably projects to another bystander. “This is great! I can’t believe he’s just hanging upside down like that! But listen, (presumably he or she looks down at their cell phone which has in the past few years replaced wrist watches in any form, fashion or function) and exclaims again, this time the voice-a little bit more intensified, “Oh-my-Gad!”
“You’re late for work,” the other person reassures by finishing the sentence and waves them off and goes back to staring (again) at the famous magician hanging upside down somewhere in New York City. The words in the caption explain to the reader, he (David, the magician) wants to break some record and hang upside down like that for an estimated two nights and three days. Three days! They are both thinking about this at the same time.
She continues to study the picture. He continues to study the picture. They study the picture more closely together and shake their heads in amazement. She gives him back his cigarette, he finishes it in one drag and he goes for another one right away, this time from her pack.
He is all out. All out of his pack of smokes. The ten dollar pack of cigarettes he bought in NYC where he works, as a firefighter, no less. And every once in awhile a tourist will want to take a picture of him by himself or with them smiling next to them whenever they spot him in action or waiting for action in his firefighter gear/uniform. He imagines them telling their friends about meeting him and the foreigners looking back at him or his image rather. Sometimes tourists stop and ask him sincerely and sympathetically about 911. He was not a firefighter back then he tells them. They nod solemnly, thank him for the picture, and walk away. They continue toward adventures of famous toy stores, chocolate/candy stores, a quick dinner and perhaps a play, it being Times Square and all. When and if by chance they may come across the “naked cowboy” they must then decide if they will take his picture also, the “Naked Cowboy” tells them there is a charge and it will cost them five ‘American dollars,’ the Euro being no good to him here, in the Big Apple.
She does not object to him grubbing a smoke from her. She just smoked his last cigarette and decides to be nice. She also decides not to revert back to the topic and goes along with the new topic of his current tangent, David Blaine the upside-down magician in Manhattan; she knows what he is doing. He is being in the present. They both know later he will feel guilty for his actions, she will not. She will feel a little cheap, maybe. But never any guilt. She leaves that emotion up to him to deal with. She nuzzles her check against the crook of his neck and he rubs her back gently. They’ll take a brief nap in this exact position. They won’t sleep like this. They would be all pins and needles if they did but for the moment it’s fine, to close their eyes in such a way for a minute or two. Like living in the moment. She kisses him to tell him she understands and not to worry. She will never know how painful it will all be for him, when he opens the door to the apartment. There he will hear the voice of his girlfriend asking, “That you? Where you been?”
“Hey sweetie, working late…did you miss me?” He is hesitant in asking. His girlfriend will shower him with x’s and o’s and never suspect. Not even a tiny-tiny bit. Not one little itty-bitty thing. And, like magic, everything is alright, back to the way it was before…and he will suddenly feel like David Blaine hanging upside down, blood literally rushing to his head and he can’t decide if it’s a disquieting hangover or his vivid imagination filling his head with feelings he doesn’t need or want at this very/exact moment he will inevitably experience in his very near future, creeping closer and closer and when he hears the sound of the alarm clock…he will bounce up like a Jack-in-the Box until she assures him she will wake him when it’s time, he has another hour to sleep she informs him and his head collapses back to his pillow and thoughts of his future endeavors..
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