Mr. Escape had come very close to buying the farm. : What’s So Great About It

Iam not one of those who lives on the edge. I do not sky-dive, scuba dive, wrestle grizzly bears, frequent cowboy bars or reach for anything in my back pocket when a cop is around.

Probably the most courageous thing I have ever done is shout “sex” in a room full of religious fundamentalists, an act which has since been ruled unconstitutional by Ronald Reagan’s Supreme Court.

I am content for the most part to sit at my little brown word processor and, as a critic once said, fire gob-sized salvos of spit at whatever innocent passers-by happen to be in range.

While that may require a certain degree of evil commitment, it does not necessitate risking one’s life to satisfy the peculiar tastes of a thrill-seeking audience.

Which brings me to the self-proclaimed World’s Greatest Escape Artist.

Steve Baker has lived on the edge for 27 of his 47 years.

He has been dropped from airplanes, buried alive, submerged in water, shot from cannons, dangled from tall buildings, set on fire and sealed in steel.

This has cost him a broken neck, dislocated shoulders, fractured ankles, a cracked kneecap and enough pulled muscles, bruises and contusions to satisfy the needs of the most dedicated masochist.

And a fortnight ago, he did it again.

I saw it first on television news. Mr. Escape, which is what Baker calls himself, was about to perform his coffin of death trick to publicize a convention of the International Brotherhood of Magicians.

I have known Steve for a long time. He lives with his wife, Julie, in Tarzana, and we meet occasionally to drink beer and to brag, which is the nature of both our businesses. The World’s Greatest Escape Artist versus the Bard of Chatsworth.

The coffin of death trick involves Baker chained in a pine box with 40 pounds of explosives atop the box.

At a given signal, a truck races toward the coffin at 60 miles an hour and smashes into it 10 seconds later. The explosives go off almost simultaneously.

A split-second before that happens, Steve is supposed to leap chain-free from the destruction, arms outstretched and goatee quivering in conquest and satisfaction.

But that didn’t happen this time.

It was only after the truck hit the coffin and the explosives went off that Baker came staggering out of the smoke, holding up his blackened hands and then collapsing.

When I saw it, I wasn’t sure at first whether he had contrived the near miss as part of the death-defying nature of his act or whether he had actually been injured. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.

But later, there was no question that Mr. Escape had come very close, as they say, to buying the farm.

“I was a half-second too late,” Baker said from a bed at Sherman Oaks Burn Center, where he lay in pain and frustration. Both hands were bandaged.

“You? Late? I find that hard to believe,” I said.

“Believe it,” Steve said. “When I tried to spring free, I couldn’t. Then, whammo.”

What happened, he explained, was that the temperature at the site was 109 degrees. The coffin had sat in the sun for more than two hours.

By the time Steve crawled in, wearing a double fire suit, the coffin interior was boiling. This apparently caused leg cramps and left him springless.

“I got out of the chains all right and cleared the coffin before the truck hit,” he said. “But my timing was off and the blast caught me. I put my hands up to protect myself and got second- and third-degree burns.”

I clucked in sympathy. Well, actually, I shook my head in sympathy. I never cluck.

“Maybe it’s time,” I said, “that you give the whole thing up. You’re no spring chicken anymore.”

“Quit?” he said, sitting up in surprise. “Are you kidding? This is a boon to my career!”

“But the pain. . . .”

“Screw the pain. This was on worldwide television. We’re already working on a 30-minute special about what went wrong. Mr. Escape and the Anatomy of Death, or something like that.”

“But you said this was one of the most agonizing injuries you ever received.”

“That’s what’s so great about it. This could be the little push I need.”

“Then you intend to go right on being blown up, burned, dropped from airplanes. . .”

“I am not even thinking about quitting. In fact,” he leaned close, “I’m working on a new trick that incorporates everything!”

“Which means what?”

He smiled. “You’ll see.”

I don’t know what Mr. Escape has in mind. I can picture him being encased in concrete that explodes in midair over the Pacific and knocks him unconscious for 10 seconds as he hits the water at 215 m.p.h.

Six bones are broken, he is burned bald, his behind is pushed up into his esophagus and both ears are blown off.

He will emerge smiling. That’s what’s so great about it.