Mr. Ballyhoo banks half of every dollar I earn.
Though he never climbs in the cockpit, Champ is my
personal capitalist. My promoter owns the plane, owns
one hundred sixty pounds of aerobatic me,
and after a dozen exhibitions, Champ sells me
to Universal Studios—trick flyer, five ten, green eyes,
Clark Gable look-alike in a leather jacket.
More money for us, son, he says, but I can’t act,
my film is stunts, crashes, kisses.
Fans line up to watch me move, they wonder
how I stand tall in the wash from the propeller,
how I climb a rope ladder from a speeding car
to a moving plane, how I leap from one plane
to another. (I never wear a parachute.)
For fun, I fly Buster Keaton right side up and upside down,
I scare Charlie Chaplin with a death dive,
I spin to tease Louise Lovely and Leatrice Joy.
After I wing Viola Dana (adorable girl!)
down to the beach for a moonlight swim,
studio execs suspect I could be trouble.