You’re wrestling in a ladder match—you’ve brought a Werner stepladder with fiberglass legs—and Bobby Body has set it up in the ring’s corner next to his own no-name wooden model with paint splatters like yellow and red confetti, and you know the sequence, the next catapult move, but you’re still not sure how you’ll navigate when Bobby sends you up, up, up. Will your foot be your rudder? Will your arms steer your neck clear of the house of ladders? But this is entertainment, and the actor is always okay, always safe unless he’s Brandon Lee under fire or Houdini punched in the gut then sunk heavy-lunged to wrestle water and chain. Unless he’s The Blue Blazer Hart screaming from the rafters, screaming for 78 feet at 50 mph (the longest shortest second) before impact. This is not so big as flying into the ring superhero style, it’s just for transition, a finger-twiddler for the crowd really, and you feel guarded, anxious for no reason, like when your wife threw you a surprise party. With all her whispery phone calls and darts into the bathroom when you came home, you thought she’d found out about you and that water girl backstage, and you almost told her just before the Surprise! And you’re not completely glad you didn’t, since now you have to carry it like a dumbbell inside your chest whenever she bends forward over the bed and tells you to take her (just like that water girl did). But this is stupid, this regret like late-night cramming, studying for death, and it’s Bobby Body, your buddy, who’s hovering over you now, locking his arms around your legs and falling with his back to the mat to slingshot you, an acorn, a pebble aimed at a whistling mockingbird, mimicking its dirge as you hit it between the eyes.