Al Most, Discount Dare Devil

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Most people don’t like to almost die for a living. Albert Mostoski would be one of those people. 

But almost dying happens to be in the job description of the professional dare devil, which also happens to be Albert’s career. The problem is, he’s not particularly good at it. And that makes it a rather challenging occupation. It also makes the almost dying part a rather common occurrence.

Mind you, Albert’s ineptitude is hardly intentional. I mean, nobody plans to be rotten at their job. He’s just managed to experience every kind of misfortune, bad luck, carelessness and incompetency a guy could possibly experience. Yet throughout it all, he’s never stopped chasing that dream; never given up on the goal of being the greatest. So, he keeps getting back in that saddle. He keeps jumping wherever he can, and he keeps landing wherever he shouldn’t. 

But that’s the funny thing about success and failure. Sometimes, it’s hard to tell the difference between the two.

###

“Happy Memorial Day! We’re coming to you live from the Macon County Fairgrounds in Lafayette, Tennessee, where Dare Devil, Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, will be attempting to jump his motorcycle over eight school buses. It looks like his pre-jump preparations are just about finished, and the Flying Kielbasa is ready. He’s in his trademark red and white jumpsuit, the Polish eagle emblazoned on the back. Crimson metal flake helmet shimmering in the sun. He revs the engine. You can see the concentration on his face. Oh…wait…he’s getting off his bike. Is something wrong? No, it looks like someone is handing him something. What is that? Oh, it looks like a hot dog. He nearly forgot his pre-jump Polish sausage! Okay, he’s back on his bike now. Revving the engine. It’s deafening, folks! Even the Miss Fair Pageant contestants are covering their ears! He’s taking the last bites of his Kielbasa. And there he goes! We’ve got a lively crowd here, cheering him as he hits the ramp! He’s airborne and…”

The Macon County School Board spent the next several hours trying to find more buses to use for school the next day. Few could have imagined the absolute devastation one little motorcycle and a potbellied man could do to an entire fleet of full-size buses. It was impossible, yet, there sat the evidence: a smoldering pile of yellow wreckage. 

Some time later, they decided to tend to Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, who found himself skewered on the gear shifter of bus #7. Other than the fact that he could put the vehicle in reverse when his stomach rumbled, he was mostly unharmed and filled the time by licking mustard off his mustache. He would live to dare devil another day. He would live to almost die again.

But that’s what you got when hired a discount dare devil.

One can’t really fault Macon County for procuring his services. I mean, plenty of places across the country wanted in on the spectacle of stunting, along with the massive crowds that accompanied it. But few could afford the likes of a Knievel. So there was Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, filling the void, wrecking buses.

###

“Flying Kielbasa Entertainment.” Albert answered the phone with his left hand. His right arm was casted and immobilized from a crash in Oshkosh, Wisconsin two week prior. He had attempted to leap over the spinning propeller blades of a helicopter at an aviation festival called the EAA Fly-In. In addition to a broken arm, he sustained four broken ribs, a concussion and had three toes on his left foot severed clean off. The doctors were able to reattach two of them. The other one was never found. “You want me to jump what? A sinkhole? That doesn’t sound very…oh…yeah, that’s a big sinkhole…uhhh…sure. When? Next week?” Albert winced as he attempted to hold the phone between his ear and shoulder while writing down the details on an old Hershey’s candy bar wrapper. “Yeah, I’ll be healed enough. We’ll be there.” Albert hung up.

“Ronnie! We gotta get to Kentucky. Paducah. Pack up the trailer! Ronnie?! Where are you, Ronnie?!”

From the racket that ensued, one might have thought a locomotive was tumbling down the stairs. But it was simply the stomping of Albert’s heavy-footed assistant making his way down from the attic. The door flung open and out came Ronnie.

“Yeah?” To say Ronnie was squat would be to say that the ocean can sometimes be wet. He stood probably four and half feet tall, in work boots, but weighed as much as an NFL lineman. Most notable were his fists that gave him the appearance that he was perpetually wearing boxing gloves.

“I said Kentucky. We gotta go to Kentucky. How soon can we leave?” 

“Half hour,” Ronnie mumbled. What few words Ronnie did say were mostly mumbled. Or perhaps the sound simply dissipated when required to ascend to the height of most people’s ears.

Albert ran a finger back and forth under his nose, feeling his bristly black mustache against his knuckles. “I’ll fill the Thermos. You’ll have to drive though.”

###

“If this isn’t proof that Paducah knows how to make lemonade out of lemons, I don’t know what is. We’re here on Main Street, the site of a 100-foot sinkhole that opened up in this quaint little town after last week’s torrential rains. Today, dare devil Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, will attempt to jump the length of this hole on his motorcycle. Now, if I’m not mistaken, the spirit of all Kentucky will be on the saddle of that bike with him, symbolizing that here, in places like Paducah, we don’t run from the sinkholes of life. We jump over them. For Channel 8 News, I’m Mike Robards.” 

The camera turned its attention to one of the rickety ramps that had been constructed on either side of the sinkhole. Ronnie, in a washed-out Blue Öyster Cult concert shirt, was giving it a final stress test, shaking and rattling it to determine its integrity. Occasionally, he would pound a loose board back into place, opting for his fist as opposed to a hammer. When satisfied, he flashed the thumbs up to Albert who was lined up two blocks away. 

Kids sat curbside waving souvenir Flying Kielbasa mini flags. Onlookers, standing four- or five-deep in spots, craned their necks to get a glimpse of the two-wheeled flying machine that would leap half the block. With each rev of the Albert’s engine, the din of the captivated crowd grew.

Albert adjusted his goggles and helmet. He went through his mental checklist. Engine – check. Suspension – check. Brakes – check. Wind – check. Pre-flight Polish sausage – check. Everything was a go for takeoff. He twisted the throttle and felt the wind in his face as he barreled toward glory.

###

It wasn’t Ronnie’s fault, really. It’s just that no one thought to look up and check for random power lines that might be strung across the street. At least that’s the conclusion Ronnie came to.

Albert would come to a different conclusion, but that would be many days later when his neurons were no longer under assault by the jolts of high voltage electricity that were still coursing through his body. The town of Paducah, however, would be without that power for the rest of the weekend.

###

Despite near decapitation, business remained brisk for Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa. That fall, he was hired to jump a corn maze in Manalapan, New Jersey. Unfortunately, he managed to veer too far to the left and missed his targeted landing spot by nearly 40 feet. To make matters worse, he remained lost within the confines of the maze for nearly three days. 

Even in winter, a traditional downtime in the stunting business, Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, found work. He was in Walker, Minnesota at the renowned International Eelpout Festival. As the kickoff to a thrilling weekend of ice fishing, Albert was slated to jump over an enormous hole cut out of the ice. Following that event, his schedule curtailed a bit due to the fact that divers couldn’t retrieve his motorcycle from the bottom of Leech Lake until after the spring thaw.

And yet, Albert’s phone never stopped ringing. In fact, it was ringing more than ever. Upon booking a West Coast gig at the Gilroy Garlic Festival in California, Albert found his summer calendar completely full. And after that show, where the entire front wheel assembly flew off, handlebar and all, resulting in Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, crashing face-first into a 30-foot garlic clove, he inexplicably got the call for which he had been waiting his whole life. 

“Hi, Albert. This is Cecil Rosenstein from Night after Night with Lou O’Leary.”

“Lou O’Leary? THE Lou O’Leary? The late-night TV host guy? You’re kidding me?”

“No. Not at all.“

“Wow! I think I’ve watched him every night for the last 15 years! In fact, my night goes: pot pie dinner, Lou O’Leary and then off to bed!”

“Very good! I’m glad you’re a regular viewer. Anyway, we’d love to have you perform on our show. Would you be interested in a slot?”

Albert nearly painted the walls with coffee when he sprung out of his chair, mug and all. “Would I? Wow, that would be something! Just say the word, and I’ll be there!” 

Albert hung up the phone. At that moment, he felt like he was 50-feet tall. It’s the feeling, he imagined, a man gets when he turns the key to his new Cadillac, the one he’s admired ever since he saw that guy in a three-piece suit get into one and drive off to his perfect life. It’s the feeling a man gets when that brand-new recliner gets delivered and that smelly, ripped, cigarette-burned, bolted-together, thrift-store Frankenstein gets taken to that giant living room in the sky. It’s the feeling a man gets when he finds a New York Strip Steak mismarked as liver at the grocery store. Yes, Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, was going to be on Night after Night with Lou O’Leary. Oh, he had officially arrived. All he had to do now, was land.

###

That night, Albert Mostoski enjoyed the most satisfying sleep of his adult life. Of course, it took some time to drift off. Excitement kept him awake, along with an effervescence in his chest that made him want to fire up that motorcycle and jump that very moment. It was an unusual sensation for Albert. He mostly found himself fading each night due to pain and exhaustion. But he allowed himself this emotional late-night treat, lying with his arms behind his head as he looked up at the ceiling. He could swear he saw the stars up there through the aged, cracked plaster. And he could swear they were beckoning to him, to come join them. 

The following morning, Albert cooked breakfast for a change. A couple fried eggs and, what the heck, some ham, too. With luck, many more breakfasts would be like this, and many less would include Tang and Hostess Fruit Pies.   

Shortly after, Ronnie wandered down, lured from his attic room by the unusual scent of cooking meat. He snatched a slice of ham, still snapping in the pan, clenched it between his teeth and plopped down on a worn kitchen chair.

“Ronnie, I got good news,” Albert beamed. Ronnie cocked his head, more in the fashion of a beagle than a human. “I got a call last night. We’re jumping on Night after Night with Lou O’Leary.” 

Ronnie crumpled up his face, walked over to the counter and examined the bottle of vodka, holding it up to measure how much Albert had consumed. 

“I’m serious, Ronnie. We’re booked! This is our chance!”

“Uh huh.” 

“Yeah…well…okay. I’m gonna clear the schedule for the next two weeks. We’re gonna practice like we’ve never practiced before.”

Like Albert, Ronnie sported a thinning dome. But where Albert sported shorter sides, Ronnie had long frizzy locks that flowed down to his shoulders. He pulled it back, as if to put it in a ponytail, but then let it fall. He leaned in toward Albert.

“Why?” Ronnie asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Why practice?”

Albert shook his head. “Why practice?! Are you getting enough air in the attic?” 

Ronnie just peered back at Albert.

Albert huffed. “Fine. I’m practicing, so I land it perfectly in front of all of America.”

Ronnie nodded a single time. “But they want you to crash.” 

“What are you talking about, Ronnie?”

“They come to see you crash.”

“No, they don’t.” Albert shot back. “They come to see me try to do the impossible. And one of these days, I’m gonna do just that!” 

“Okay.” Ronnie grabbed a Hostess Fruit Pie from the cabinet and retreated to the attic. 

Albert took a long sip of his coffee. It was thinner than he liked. And that meant he could see the grounds that had eluded the filter and hijacked their way into his cup. He didn’t like the grounds. And he really didn’t like what Ronnie said. That was really shitty, Albert thought. Couldn’t he sit in the sun for just one minute? After everything, couldn’t he just have HIS moment? How many years had he worked for this? And all he ever wanted was to be was admired – admired for his courage and his ability to accomplish the impossible. He always fashioned himself an internal combustion-powered Superman, attracting awe from those who witnessed him soaring through the air on something that wasn’t meant to soar through the air. And now, his very own assistant, the one who was supposed to believe in him, insinuated he was nothing more than a cartoon character. A human crash test dummy. Well, Albert Mostoski wasn’t a crash test dummy. And he wasn’t going to be anyone’s circus show freak – a bearded woman or twelve-fingered man they came to laugh at. No, he was a bona fide, cape-wearing, airborne, American Dare Devil. And this was his chance to prove it. To everyone.

With that, Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa, gulped down the rest of his coffee and defiantly spat out the grounds.

###

“Good evening, everybody. My name is Lou O’Leary and I’m with you Night after Night.” A slender man wearing a slender suit strolled onto a cavernous stage. He was by no means ugly, but he had the kind of face that was not classically handsome. Something about his head was just slightly off – the proportion, the elongated oval shape, the low placement of the ears or the crooked smile. The horn-rimmed glasses that accentuated it all. But that’s what made him likeable…like a neighborhood bartender or a movie sidekick. 

Despite that, he moved like milk pours, silky and luscious. He flowed. And as he swam into the applause of the crowd, he offered slight hand gestures and welcoming eye contact that gave the impression he was personally thanking each individual member of the audience for their attendance. After his fourth “thank you,” the crowd hushed. Lou O’Leary clapped his hands and launched into the night’s monologue. 

As the break approached, Lou O’Leary introduced the night’s guests. “I’m elated to have some very special people joining me this evening. Our first guest is the star of the new big-screen thriller, Double Danger Man. It’s Bradley Martin, ladies and gentlemen!” The auditorium erupted with a thunderous cheer. “We also have a very lovely singer in studio with us. Perhaps you’ve heard her hit song, “Trial by Water.” Yes, it’s Tamara Green!” There was another healthy dose of applause, along with a catcall or two. “And lastly, we have an interesting fellow joining us. He’s going to get on a motorcycle and jump over a pool of hungry alligators, right here in our very own parking lot. Yes, his name is Al Most, Discount Dare Devil!”

The name change had been the idea of one of the show’s writers. It gained traction with the producers, who proposed it to Lou O’Leary. Lou, of course, was enamored with it. Albert protested, saying he was a serious stunt man who had spent the last twenty years building up Flying Kielbasa Entertainment, and he wasn’t about to switch it at the whim of some scraggly faced jokester with a typewriter. Lou O’Leary laughed as if Albert had just told him the best joke of his life, then followed it up by inquiring how many paramedics he wished to have on set to tend to him after the crash. By the time Albert returned to his dressing room, the name plate had already been changed to Al Most. That’s when Albert grabbed his jacket and headed toward the exit. Cecil Rosenstein caught wind of the developments and gave chase. 

“Albert, stop and think for a moment,” he pleaded.

“I didn’t sign up to be your moto monkey,” Albert shot back.

“Albert. Stop. And. Think.” Cecil emphasized each word by making a chopping motion with his hand. “This is bigger than one appearance and one jump. If this goes the way we want, this does not have to be a one-time appearance. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Albert didn’t move or blink. He was an Albert statue.

“Maybe you’ve sustained one too many concussions, so I’ll spell it out for you. Al Most has the ability to be big. To become a regular. A household name! That’s what we think this could be. And when you’re a regular on Night after Night with Lou O’Leary, that means you are no longer Albert Mostoski, the light beer version of Evel Knievel. That means bigger crowds. Bigger payouts…for you. Because people are no longer coming to see some slingshoting salami. They’re getting the Night after Night stunt man…a connection to Lou O’Leary. And you’d have our complete backing. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I do. And that’s why I’m leaving.”

“Suit yourself. But remember, my call only comes once.” Cecil Rosenstein turned and walked down the hallway. He shouted something to an assistant about prepping the alternate. He did not look back.

Albert, who had one hand on the door handle and the other pinching the bridge of his bulbous nose, heard Cecil walk away; the producer’s fancy shoes clacking on the tile floor as he vanished behind a curtain. Albert looked up and noticed all the framed pictures on the wall, smiling guests side-by-side with Lou O’Leary. Albert wondered what it would be like to know your picture was on these walls. How cool would that be? And what if there was a possibility that he, too, could end up here, framed for all to see? It was unlikely. But if he walked out the door, the chances went down to zero. He loosened his grip on the door handle and sulked back to the dressing room. 

Albert dropped onto the chair in front of the mirror. He looked at himself, studying the wrinkles and white hairs creeping into his mustache. He found himself wondering, were those there yesterday? He leaned in to get a closer look, trying to peer deeper, past the scars, into that place where he could see the man and not the person. That’s when he finally noticed Ronnie, reflected in the mirror, sitting on the guest couch behind him. His feet dangled off the edge. 

“Oh. Sorry, Ronnie. I didn’t notice you there.”

“Yeah.”

“Ronnie, you were right. I think we oughta pack up the trailer. I don’t think I can go through with this.”

“I figured.”

“You did?”

“I know you.”

Albert lowered his head. 

Ronnie sat up and leaned in. “I don’t think you know yourself though.” 

As if a shot gun were fired in the room, Albert straightened up. He’d never known Ronnie to say more than six words at a time. Or in a week, for that matter.

“Let me ask you this, Albert. What do you think you’re good at?”

Albert paused, as if he were trying to get his eyes to focus correctly on the alien creature in front of him. He finally responded, “I think I’m good at jumping a motorcycle.”

“You are, indeed. In fact, you might be one of the few men in the world who can do what you do. The problem is, you’re not good at landing motorcycles.”

“Well…no…I mean…in practice, I land them…all the time.”

“In practice, yeah. But in front of an audience, you have never stuck the landing. Not even once. When the spotlights are on, for some reason, you cannot do it. And I don’t know why that is.” Ronnie paused to examine the tip of his pinkie finger which was just mining something out of his ear. “Regardless, knowing that landing is a crucial part of jumping, and you are decidedly not good at landing motorcycles, what would you say you are really good at?”

“Ummm…surviving?”

“Ha! That’s for sure. But more than that, you are good at entertaining people, Albert. And you are good at giving people what they want. When people attend a Flying Kielbasa show, they want to see something they’ve never seen before. And you have always delivered. Time and time again. Spectacular crashes. Things set ablaze with flames roaring fifty feet high. Entire towns stripped of electricity. You’re a miracle!” 

Albert didn’t know if that was a compliment. 

“Therefore, Albert, it all boils down to this: can you give the audience something they’ve never seen before? Can you give them what they want? If you can do that, it doesn’t matter what they call you.”

Ronnie went silent. Like a symphony conductor, he paused just the right amount of time and built just the right amount of tension. Then he leaped off the couch and yanked up his slouching jeans. “I’ll pack the trailer,” he said.

“Hold on, Ronnie.” The man formerly known as Albert Mostoski, the Flying Kielbasa looked up. But it was Al Most, Discount Dare Devil, who responded. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”

“Fuck yeah,” Ronnie said. But it was a mumbled “fuck yeah.”

###

A “highlight” reel featuring failed jumps, cockeyed landings and a human repeatedly bouncing on concrete played to introduce the segment. Crash after crash after crash. Bruise after broken bone after bulging disc. By the time the lights in the studio came up, everyone in the audience and TV land had gasped enough to consume most of the country’s oxygen.

Al Most, helmet in his lap, was seated in a guest chair next to Lou O’Leary, who was sitting behind an imposing desk speaking to an imposing crowd that was seated behind an imposing camera that was broadcasting to an imposing world. “So, Al Most, I heard a rumor you have never landed a jump in your professional career. Is that true?” 

“Yessir, that is true.”

“Doesn’t that make you a little concerned about jumping over a pool of alligators?”

“It sure does. Most of the time, I’m not jumping over stuff that can eat me. Just stuff that can maim me.” The crowd’s laughter put Albert at ease. 

“How do you do this, time and time again, knowing the crash that’s awaiting you?

“Good health insurance plan, I guess.”

“Haha! Yes, well, before you jump, anything else you’d like to say?”

“No. Oh…wait…yeah…kids, don’t try this at home, and adults, memorize the number to 9-1-1.”

“Al Most, ladies and gentlemen…THE Discount Dare Devil! Good luck, my friend!”

The producers and Lou O’Leary could not have been more pleased. Al Most was funny, likable, and most of all, willing to fail fantastically for the sake of better TV ratings. He waved to the appreciative crowd, and, serenaded by their applause, Al Most, Discount Dare Devil, threw a leg over his motorcycle. The world, with anticipation, awaited the crash and hoped for horrors. 

###

“You didn’t mean to land it, did you?” Ronnie was in the passenger seat of the pickup truck. The two were exiting the lot of the Night after Night studio.

“No, I sure didn’t,” Albert Mostoski , the Flying Kielbasa, replied.

Ronnie was fidgeting with the lap harness, trying to widen it to accommodate his thick trunk. “What happened?”

Albert ran his hand over his bald head. “I don’t know…I had it all planned out. I was gonna try to flip that bike in the air and go nose first, right into that pit of gators. I figured the bike would scare them, giving me the time to crawl out. And if the bike didn’t scare them, the handler told me most of them were old and not very aggressive. A lot of them were blind or missing teeth. The worst I woulda got is a snap or two, and that wouldn’t have been as bad as crashing into that plate glass truck like I did back in Akron.”

“Right.” 

“But something weird happened. It was the first time I ever tried to screw up. And somehow, that made me do everything right. Even the flip. Next thing I know, I’m rolling down the ramp on the other side. Couldn’t have hit it smoother. Cleanest landing of my life.”

Ronnie stared at Albert. He didn’t have to say anything. His gaze asked the question.

“No, we’re not going to be invited back.” Albert sighed. “I cocked it up.”

Ronnie nodded, then peered out over the hood of the truck at the road ahead. “Well, you didn’t give them what they wanted. But technically, you did give them something they’ve never seen before.” Ronnie smirked. “You landed a motorcycle.”

Albert did not reply. In truth, he wanted to strangle Ronnie, even though Ronnie was right. Instead, he grabbed his coffee from the cup holder. He raised it to his lips and took a robust swig. And with a hard swallow, he gulped downed a mouthful of grounds.  

AL MOST, DISCOUNT DARE DEVIL

A Short Story by Tom Witkowski

9 Circles Fiction

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