The first time we experienced
real desert heat was somewhere
in Arizona. We’d stopped to gas
up our Datsun station wagon,
stuffed with needles for Teller to
eat, knives for me to juggle and
chairs we could use to float a
woman from the audience in the
air. In other words, our show.
We got out of the car and the
kiln outside hit us like a Three
Stooges cream pie. It was
slapstick. It was impossible.
