Kirby the Magician Tried to Kill My Career

It's 1984. I'm alone on the road, booked at a 15,000-square-foot neon monolith in rural Pennsylvania — home of painter Andrew Wyeth and, apparently, bad decisions. The headliner makes tigers disappear. I make audiences laugh. The reviews come out: mine say "incredible." His say "meh." That's when things get dangerous.