Better and Better
I couldn’t believe it. I held in my hands, feeling the smooth metal surface. I certainly saw it plainly enough in the bright lit room. Yet, as I turned it this way and that, examining it from every angle, my mind boggled; simply couldn’t believe what I was seeing.
“It” was a rather large kitchen spoon of solid metal. When I had first seen it, a half hour or so earlier, the spoon had the normal curves and contours of a typical implement. Now it was bent downward at about a 45-degree angle.
The bend was in the area of the thin part, and was smooth and gradual–as if the spoon had been made that way, perhaps formed over a rounded die. I grasped it with both hands and applied a little pressure. Immediately I realized it would take a good deal of effort even on my part to bend such a sturdy utensil.
Its owner stood before me, the top of his head about level with my belt buckle. I looked at the boy’s slender hands, and I knew without a doubt that they were not the agents of that bend. I finally had to admit there was other alternative than that this nine-year-old youngster had just bent that spoon with his own mind alone.
“Is that okay, Mr. Burt?” the boy asked the man at my side. “That’s fine, Sal, just fine.”
“Hey, Burt!” called a towheaded boy in the middle of the room. “Look!” He held up a teaspoon completely doubled over. I felt my hair starting to stand on end.
Burt Goldman caught my eye and shook his head slightly. “Are you sure you didn’t help a little?” he asked the boy.
“No-o-o-o,” came the unconvincing reply.
“There’s at least one smart aleck in every class,” he murmured to me.
Burt went over to a girl who had been holding her hand up. She was twelve. He beckoned me to follow.
She held up her spoon. And, further, it almost looked normal. “That’s terrific!” said Burt.
“But it went the wrong way,” She said, distressed.
“That happens, Sheri,” soothed Burt. “The important thing is that it bent, isn’t it?” “I guess so,” she said. She didn’t sound wholly convinced.
A few minutes later we were outside in the hall; I was taking my leave. Burt apologized: “This has to be the least spectacular class I’ve had so far. I had hoped for something a little more dramatic for you.”
“Oh, in just about every class someone does something phenomenal. Some months ago, one kid had the spoon wrapped completely around his finger.”
“What I witnessed today, thank you, will keep me adequately in goose bumps for some time to come!”
“If you want to come back when I have my next children’s class, I can almost guarantee it’ll be better.”
“Better and better,” I muttered–echoing the Silva Mind Control slogan.
“I’ll see you later.” I said, and made my way down the steps to the parking lot.
Before I put the key in the ignition, I sat numbly in my car for a few moments, still trying to put the “unspectacular” things I just observed into some sort of comprehensible perspective. I was even somewhat surprised at my own reaction, for certainly I had been well prepared: I’d been through Burt’s class; I had chatted with him privately innumerable times; I had been through the
advance class given by the grand old man Jose Silva himself–with whom I’d had the rare privilege of talking. And yet . . . when I actually saw with my own two perfectly good eyes spoons being bent by mental force alone, I simply couldn’t believe. And on top of it all, Burt had told me about this many times already.
If, on the Day of Reckoning, through some impossible circumstance I should find being borne aloft on the shoulders of angels, would I disbelieve that too? Am I doomed to go through life doubting everything that’s a bit one way or the other from strictly “normal”? Or was it simply a case of still a little too much blue Volkswagen for me?
To explain that, perhaps I’d better start at the beginning. It was just about six months ago . . .
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