| "Nothing Will Happen – |
| Unless You Make It Happen." |
THE MAGIC LIFE - A Novel Philosophy
by Ace Starry
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Chapter 4
Looking over at the dining table at the $117.47, I realized that I’d better make a trip to the bank soon. Having all that cash just lying there wasn't doing any good for anyone. At least in the bank I’d gain a few months' interest before the Spring Festival.
All of the strange coincidences, strange comments, and even stranger dreams had me riled up, bound and determined to not just forget and go on with life. After all, it wasn't as if $117.47 was a lot of money to me. I really didn't quite get the point to his strange experiment, however, he certainly had gotten my attention with his mysterious methods. Enough so, that I vowed out loud, "Upon my father's grave, I will return to the festival in six months if nothing more than just to see the look on his face when I return the money, plus interest." Under pressure I always tended to get a little over-dramatic.
Curiosity being one of my strongest suits, rather than worry about it, I thought, "Why not take a little initiative and find him? Why wait?" Pulling out the phone book, I looked under magic and magicians. Maybe just a long shot, but I might find the old Max Vi master magician listed in Yellow Pages.
I riffled through the sections for both magicians and entertainers. No such luck. Only three magicians were listed in the local book: Fingers the Magnificent, Bimmy the Clown, and the Incredible Martini. Now I felt my creativity, driven by my insatiable curiosity, challenged. How does one find a magician when he really needs one?
I decided to try calling each of the magicians to see if they had heard of Maximillion Vi. Bimmy the Clown didn’t answer. Neither did Fingers the Magnificent, but I did leave a message after listening to some recorded foolish banter about fun for all and thrills of a lifetime.
The Incredible Martini, however, was there.
"Martini’s Magical Mystery Show," he answered.
"Hi, my name is James, perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for a magician," I stated.
"Well, I’m a magician and I work cheap," he chuckled.
"No, I'm afraid I misled you. I meant that I am trying to contact a magician by the name of Max Vi," I said. "Would you, by chance, know him or know how I might find him?"
"Well I don't know of anyone going by that name, but if it’s a show you want, I’m reasonably priced and really quite good, I might add. Humility, though, is not one of my best qualities. It’s so hard to be humble when you’re omniscient, you know. Anyway, I do this one trick in which I eat a lighted cigarette, swallow a fish, and then..."
He sounded so enthusiastic, I almost hated to interrupt. No use for him to work so hard. "I'm sorry but I’m not looking for a show; I just have something I’d like to return to him," I said, cutting off his sales pitch.
"Well, if you’re sure that that’s all you need, let me tell you. If you really want to get in touch with a magician just click your heels three times and ask, ‘What is the number for the Society of American Magicians?’ If he isn’t a member, then he’s probably not much of a magician anyway," he said.
"Do you have that number?" I asked, "I didn't even know there was such a thing as the Magician’s Society."
"Sure, just a minute," he said, and I could hear him put down the phone and search for it. Picking up again, he continued, "Hello, yes, I've got it right here. It’s area code 317 243-0774. If this magician you’re looking for is among the living, then chances are that he’s a member and they'll be able to help you find him."
"Thanks, I really appreciate your help."
"You’re welcome and have an absolutely magical day!" he articulated like a true performer. Hanging up, I found myself thinking that he was really a nice guy in a crazy sort of way. However, I knew that I wouldn't be able to get in touch with anyone from the Society of American Magicians at this late hour. It was already past eight o'clock. Anyway, did I really want to make a long distance call just to find out where this magician came from? I could write the society a letter from my office or wait until spring. Then the timer went off on my microwave, and putting the question far behind me, I settled in for a dinner of Salisbury steak, mashed potatoes, and evening news.
The days that followed passed more like years as the winter cold and flu season came and went. The extremely plodding pace I credited mostly to the monotony of my bleak existence, the same each day: work, television, sleep; work, television, sleep. Some days I would really mix it up: sleep, work, television. Once in a while, I did manage to create a little mental diversion by further searching for the elusive Max Vi.
However, all attempts to find the magician were futile. When he vanished from the street festival, he really vanished into thin air. I’d contacted practically every professional magician in the state as well as the Society of American Magicians, and the International Brotherhood of Magicians, but to no avail. This particular magician was at the very least an unknown, maybe a figment of my imagination, or perhaps he just plain didn't want to be found.
There was one bright spot in my searching: I may not have found Max Vi, but I uncovered an old friend. The search, reviving my interest in the art of magic, prompted me to take a weekend to visit my mother’s house with a distinct purpose – a scavenger hunt. My mission was to go though the attic looking for that old box of tricks I had collected as a boy.
Mom wasn’t too enthusiastic about me rummaging through her attic, but eventually she consented and said she’d even accompany me (whether I wanted her to or not). Reaching the pull rope, I pulled down the access cover. A mixture of dirt and bits of insulation pelted our faces as I did. Taking care to properly unfold the collapsible wooden ladder attached to the back of the attic access, Mom determined she’d go up first. We both agreed that the ladder might fall apart if we both got on at the same time. Her real concern, of course, was that if she fell, hopefully I would be there to catch her. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that if she fell on me, it would probably kill both of us. However, she didn’t fall, and we both made it into the attic without incident.
Inside, the attic was piled high with cardboard boxes full of old dishes Carl and I used in college, clothes long gone out of style, and books which we’d always planned to take to the Church rummage sale. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust. Mom moved a couple of boxes and an old lamp, declaring, "We’re going to have to do some house cleaning I see. Well, Jimmy, if what you’re looking for is anywhere, it’ll be inside of here." Pulling off a dust cover she revealed the old trunk that Happy Papa had bought from the junkman for seven dollars. The imitation-antique finish that Dad had so meticulously applied years ago had now become authentic. "Remember this old trunk your Dad painted?" Mom asked, "I put your kid’s stuff in it after I made Carl’s room my sewing room."
"Yeah, I remember this old thing, all right," I said.
Opening it and looking in, between the Snoopy piggy bank, Mad magazine collection, and miscellaneous junk, I spied something else I hadn’t seen for a long time – my old junior high scrap book.
"I thought I’d lost this," I said, removing it, clearing a place to set it down.
"What’s that?" asked Mom, pulling up a stool next to me, adjusting her glasses.
"It’s my old scrapbook, from junior high," I said, opening the front page and reacting with a smile at some pictures of Carl and me. In particular I laughed at one showing us attending a Scout meeting with Dad the night we’d entered our hand-carved, wooden race-car into the derby. We lost, but our car, "the original silver-bullet," sure looked good. The photo showed Carl holding up the wheel that fell off as it came out of the starting gate. There were a lot of great pictures with Dad and me: where he taught me how to shave, even though I didn’t need to; the time he decided to be Dracula on Halloween; and when he’d taught me how to drive a tractor.
Turning the pages, I discovered photos of my friends from junior high school along with some bad poetry I had written and even a blue ribbon I’d won for a drawing I’d entered into the county fair. All of these were memories I had often recalled and cherished as time went on. However, when I opened a page near the center, it was like opening a floodgate. A river of untapped memories rushed in. As if by opening up the center of the scrapbook, I’d opened up a section of my subconscious which I hadn’t accessed in many years.
These pages were filled with my tribute to magicians of the day. Here were cut outs, pictures and articles from magazines or newspapers – anything that had to do with magic. I’d forgotten how into magic I really was. There was a picture of Blackstone when he had been performing in Houston; pictures from Doug Henning’s, The Magic Show, on Broadway, cut from a Time magazine article. There were even pictures of me performing magic shows for my parents and their friends.
There was one article that stood out from all the rest – one that almost jumped off the page. It was an article about a relatively unknown magician performing a death-defying stunt. The picture showed the magician hanging from a crane, attached to a burning rope, while bound in a straitjacket. The headline below it read: Magician Tim Glancey Goes Beyond Houdini. The origin of my nightmare was suddenly as black and white as the words that described his act. I recalled how as a teenager I had dreamt about repeating that very stunt. Only three people in the world had ever done it. I remember telling Happy Papa that I wanted to be number four.
Anxious to see what other memories I’d long forgotten, I enthusiastically turned the pages forward. Jumping ahead in the book, I noticed the pages became blank. I’d stopped putting things in the book long before it was full. There were as many pages left empty, as were filled. Making my way backward through the blank pages, I came upon the last two additions to my scrapbook. On my left hand side was an old newspaper article, the paper brown with age: "Young Magician Brings Magical Talent To Ludlum Jr. High."
The picture below the headline showed me holding my trophy, next to some other kid I didn’t recognize holding second place and a little blond girl wearing a sequined leotard holding third. "Winners of the annual talent show from left to right, James Carpenter 1st Place, Elsworth Cecile 2nd Place, Gina Lee 3rd Place." Gina was so cute. I didn’t even remember this picture. On the opposite page was my last entry. It was the photograph that Mom had taken of Dad and me on the stage that night just as I recalled in my dream, Dad standing next to me, Carl on his shoulders, the trophy in my hands.
"That was a night I’ll never forget," said Mom, standing up, "Come on, Jimmy, I’m going down to the kitchen. I’ll fix you some lunch."
"I’ll be right with you," I said, but then I realized that she wanted me to go down first to catch her if she fell. So, I helped her down and then returned to scavenge some more. I never found the tricks that I was looking for, but there in amongst my high school memorabilia and dust-covered year books I found the neglected copy of the book that I’d once practically worn out as a child, The Amateur Magician’s Handbook. Reopening that book also reawakened many magical memories of my youth.
After my lunch with Mom, I packed most of the things I’d found back into the trunk. Before taking the long drive back to Austin, I tossed only the magic book in the seat of my car, thinking I’d let Mom be the curator of the memories since she’d done such a great job of it over the years.
Other than that one episode at Mom's house, my continual search for Max over the winter months was mostly wasted energy. Maybe I should have listened when he said, "too many of us spend too much time looking for the secret, when the answer is the magic itself."
Persistence was on my side, however. The day of reckoning was close at hand. Tomorrow, I would at last solve the mystery of the vanishing magician, and answer the riddle of, "You are the one." For tomorrow was the Pecan Street Festival.
I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that Max was just a part-timer who only did magic at the fall and spring festivals. But regardless of his stature among magicians, I knew that I would finally solve the $117.47 mystery. Somehow I would manage to get $117.47 out of the bank and delivered to him, complete with 7.5% interest compounded annually, and in return I would find out what he meant by "you’re the one." I admit I was a little curious as to the possible reward such a commitment on my part might bring – I really didn't expect any reward of the monetary kind. The answer to the questions who, what, and why would be enough to make me happy.
Sitting there in my office cubicle that Friday, I was totally useless – stupid with anticipation the entire day – eagerly awaiting the festival weekend ahead. I felt like a kid waiting for Santa Claus. Sure, I knew that Santa would arrive eventually, but if I weren’t sleeping with at least one eye open, I could miss him.
At last it was almost quitting time. The clock hanging above the door just wouldn't cooperate either. It seemed to move slower than ever before. Staring at that frozen clock for five minutes, I had long since put my work away. The minute hand moved in painstakingly slow motion up to the twelve position, finally striking five o'clock. The weekend was here! I almost shouted out loud. Of course I didn't really yell out loud, but just for once I would have liked to yell out like Fred Flintstone does as the Friday five o'clock horn goes off, "Yaaa ba Daaa Ba Dooooooo!" That sure would wake ‘em up. I didn't yell it, but I did manage a stifled "Yesss!" Just as I did, Gina walked around the corner.
"Hi, sexy," she said teasingly as she kissed her two fingers, touched my arm and made a sizzling sound, "sssssss." I hated when she did that, only because I genuinely loved it. She had begun to tease me excessively lately. And I recently came to the conclusion that she did it because she sensed that I was trying to play shy and act not interested in her. You know, the hard-to-get guy. I did have a real struggle though, keeping back a heartfelt smile whenever she called me sexy. Who wouldn't?
Even though I had had a couple of those "close encounters" with Gina over the few winter months, I knew that my best interests were still served by just admiring from afar. Occasionally, I weighed my crazy thoughts, thoughts telling me that I would give up everything just to be with her, foolish and outlandish thoughts that I could only dream. Many times I had wished that I had the guts to run away with her. The idea sounded like something that my father, Happy Papa, would have done.
"Hello, Gina," I said, trying to hold back a radiant smile but not really accomplishing it.
"You're sure in a hurry to get out of here. Have you got any big plans for the weekend?" She asked.
"As a matter of fact I do," I replied. "I am going to the Pecan Street Spring Festival. What about you?"
"Oh, I haven't got any plans yet, really," she said, hinting for an invitation from me. Never any good at that sort of thing, I didn't pick up my cue. Tired of waiting on me to make my move, she just flat out asked, "Why don't you take me with you? ... Unless you have a date or something."
I was, of course, stunned. Light-headed, bumbling, semi-paralyzed, breathless, my worst nightmare had come true; she was offering, and I had to turn her down. I couldn't believe my rotten luck, I wanted to go, but I certainly couldn't go. I had to think about my job, my livelihood. I wasn’t allowed to date the boss’ daughter. It was as simple as that. I told myself over and over, time and time again; some things in life one has to give up for security.
"Well, I, uh…" I groped for something to say, "I'm sorry but I can't. I mean, uh, I have to meet someone."
Disappointment fell on her face. At that moment I realized that she had taken a sincere risk in asking me. She was vulnerable, going out on a limb to make the move because she knew that I probably wouldn't. I felt awful. I’d let her down and I hated the feeling that it gave me.
Unfortunately, I just didn't hate it enough to lose my job over it.
"Oh, I didn't know that you were dating someone," she said apologetically.
"No, you don't understand. I'm not dating anyone," I said, worrying that she might give up the chase if she thought that I was taken. "I would love to go with you some other time, but this weekend I am going to meet with the magician, uh – friend of mine. He … well, it’s a long story. But, I am going specifically to see this guy. I have been waiting six months just to talk with him."
"Is it that same magician from last year?" Gina asked, showing some relief on her face.
"Yes, one and the same."
"Okay, well, maybe then we can do something some other time, like next weekend," she said. "I forgive you. I know how you magicians are about sharing secrets."
"Yeah, maybe next weekend we could do something," I replied, not even realizing then that I had made a date. Picking up my briefcase, I headed to the elevator, leaving her waving a fingered good-bye.
"Have fun, I'll see you Monday," she called out, standing there wearing her cute little Mona Lisa smile. "Don’t miss me too much."
As the elevator closed, after checking to see that the elevator was empty, I clobbered myself in the head with my briefcase. "I’m such an idiot," I said out loud to myself. "I’ve been waiting for years to date Gina again and look at me now; I am a true idiot," I thought. Why not date the boss’ daughter? She asked me, I didn't ask her. Why shouldn't I be happy? Why not just quit? I hated my job anyway.
Then, without any warning, the elevator lights flickered and went dark. In the blackness with a sudden jerk and a loud grinding sound the elevator halted. My heart stopped, too. "Oh shit," I whispered. For a few long seconds I stood frozen, knowing at any second the elevator would go crashing nine stories down. My knees were suddenly weak. I wouldn't know what hit me because I was scared completely senseless there in the dark.
"God help me!" I thought. Then the familiar chill rushed up my spine and a warm feeling of calm came over me. Just like when I was a child and used to run to my father because I was afraid of the dark. He would hug me and the fear would vanish. When I got this tingle, the fear vanished and was replaced by a calming feeling, a feeling that everything would be all right.
Then a strange thing happened. There in the darkness, I could feel a presence, someone standing there. And this strange presence talked to me just as plain as day, not even in a whisper. It was just as substantial as a real person's voice, one who was standing right in front of me, saying to me, "Don't worry, it's just you and me in here."
"What the...!" I shouted, jumping back, crouching into the corner of the dark elevator, and pulling my briefcase up in front of me to protect myself from any possible attack.
"And nothing is going to happen to you unless you make it happen. Remember, nothing ever happens unless you make it," said the voice.
I wasn't really scared. Oh, maybe just a little, more just a sort of a natural panicking from the sudden appearance of something unknown in the dark. It was pitch black in there now, but I knew that when I had entered I had walked into an empty elevator alone. The elevator had made no stops and I knew that I was absolutely the only person on it.
"Who’s there?" I demanded, now trembling, cold with fear. Then abruptly, the elevator surged making a deep whir; the interior lights blinked on and it continued down to the garage. With the interior lights now on, I found myself still quite heart-poundingly alive. Still squatting, crouched down in the corner of the stark elevator, I was positively alone. Looking up, I scrutinized the ceiling to see if the ceiling hatch was open or if there were evidence that someone had entered and quickly exited. To my relief, but further confusion, there was no hatch in this elevator. Nobody could have gotten in or out.
The elevator descended slowly and normally. Thereafter the doors opened at the garage floor. Noticeably shaken by the episode, I crept out of the elevator and slowly peeked around the corners, half expecting someone to leap out at me. At the same time, I also prayed that nobody would be there to observe my embarrassing state of quasi-panic. All clear – whew. Straightening my tie, I took a deep breath and walked briskly to my car. Everything appeared normal. Several people were nonchalantly getting in and out of their cars, totally oblivious to me and my quandary. And the elevator – the elevator seemed to be working perfectly again.
Maybe I just imagined the whole thing; I’d heard that the mind was capable of creating lifelike hallucinations when one is hysterical with fear. Maybe I had suffered an auditory hallucination when I thought that the elevator was going to fall. Maybe something was triggered when I clobbered myself in the head with my briefcase, who knows. Yeah, that must have been it … I was certainly not one to believe that I was hearing voices for no evident reason, and I wasn’t going to listen to some kind of ghost – no matter how authentic he sounded.
"Nothing is going to happen," I heard it plain as day, "unless you make it happen." Just a one-time panic attack. That was a sufficient enough explanation for me.
I drove home, checked for messages, popped in the old frozen dinner and opened up the Amateur Magician’s Handbook.
Tonight I was determined to teach myself a trick that I had long wanted to relearn, "the cut-and-restored rope" trick. This was one of the tricks that I had done in the talent show so many years ago, but couldn’t begin to remember how. Maybe I would get a chance to show it to Max Vi tomorrow. As thoughts about the magician entered my mind, I couldn't help thinking about the eerie elevator incident.
"Nothing will happen unless you make it happen." Thinking that the voice sounded somehow familiar to me, I tried to place it. Was it the magician? It was Maximillion Vi – I knew it.
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Copyright © 1999 Rare Bird Press All Rights Reserved
(ISBN# 0-0996281-6-6) $19.95 Hard cover, 250 pages, Rare Bird Press.
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