I hadn’t performed magic show in years but when a friend, who had recently heard of my past dabblings in magic, asked me to bring along a few tricks for a Halloween party several years ago, I agreed. No sooner had I zapped off an e-mail reply saying I’d be glad to, than I began worrying and wondering how to work up a show that wouldn’t embarrass my host-or me. Just in case, though, I added a caveat to the reply that “you get what you pay for,” thus preemptively absolving myself of all responsibility and guilt should the show prove less than awe inspiring. How could I amaze and entertain a 21st century crowd of bright, internet-savvy adults with a few low-tech trifles? No wireless instant text and photo messaging, no holograms, certainly no David Copperfield, million-dollar-high-tech-wizardry. Just some rusty moves with playing cards, sponges, five feet of clothesline rope… and a banana.
Magic had been a hobby taken up in high school when crystal radio and chemistry sets still topped many a Christmas list. Well before the marvels of the Internet and palm-sized computers, of the Hubble telescope revealing the awesome wonders of the universe and of genetics unraveling the tangled, exquisite mysteries of DNA. Magic was a way to impress and entertain family and friends, especially during holiday gatherings. On the practical side, a few magical feats might also prove helpful in attracting the attention of my female classmates and maybe landing a date.
But now, I was worrying that in an age of instant, almost daily digital magic, a few card tricks just wouldn’t cut it. I thought our expectations and perceptions of the impossible were forever changed and long overtaken by the endless production of fantastic technological toys. I worried that my muscle memory would fail me.
My first few tricks materialized from dusty, hardbound books as mysterious as Harry Potter’s, but discovered in the back stacks of the local library. They were simple feats quickly learned. Later came thick catalogs from far-off exotic places—New York City and Colon, Michigan—full of tricks and apparatus for creating miraculous entertainment. There were no imperatives spared in describing page after page of amazing tricks with coins, cards, birds and rabbits. I dog-eared those catalogs, ordering a few items I thought would baffle all. Later, I ventured to Boston and visited all of the old time magic shops. They were enchanted places of smoky mystery, crowded with fellow wizards. Old-timers chomping cigars stood behind glass cabinets full of bright secrets. They demonstrated the latest tricks and techniques, swapped the latest news and recalled tales of past glory.
It was at Jack’s Joke Shop (for some reason, all the old magic shops also carried the latest in whoopee cushions) that I bought a two dollar card trick and the clerk patiently took the time to teach me the proper handling.
As I collected more effects I began to perform at family gatherings and at high school and community variety shows. My brother and I performed a sub-trunk routine. I visited magic stores in New York, joined a magic club, subscribed to Tops and Genii and attended the 1973 Abbott’s Get-Together. I even had business cards printed and did paid shows for a while.
Along the way there were a few calamities. The untrained, borrowed rabbit that hissed and snapped at me as I tried to pull him out of a square circle all the while trying desperately to avoid the dual embarrassments of being mauled by the one pound pile of fluff and laughed offstage by the audience. There were the lively children at a birthday party who stormed the stage and heckled me as their parents looked on and smiled, saying things like, “isn’t that cute!” There was the Hampton Beach, NH police raid of our cottage in the middle of a late night show I was doing for friends when we were younger, and a bit more rowdy.
But now, Halloween and my latest gig fast approached and I needed to augment the few tricks I had not given away over the years. I dug through the magic books I’d kept and again ventured to Boston, this time to a new shop. Sadly Jack’s Joke Shop was long gone along with the squirting flowers–this was now serious business. Some things hadn’t changed though. The clerk, just like the one some 39 years ago, patiently helped me with the tricks I’d bought.
Finally, after frantically practicing five tricks for what I hoped would be an amusing if not altogether dazzling routine, Hallow’s Eve arrived.
I worked off of a TV table in my host’s living room, the audience in a semi-circle before me. I smiled. They sipped their wine and glared (or so I imagined). I began to sweat. Just like the first time I had asked my brother to “pick a card, any card.”
The show lasted maybe 15 minutes. Despite my nervousness and fears, I didn’t drop the secret prop, forget the sequence of tricks or fail to escape after being bound up with rope. I didn’t, thankfully, embarrass myself. Whether it was the work of the wine spirits, the spirits of hallows eve, or the generous spirit of my audience, they shrieked and laughed and clapped and seemed to genuinely and wondrously enjoy my simple offerings.
It occurred to me that I had been wrong and that these technologically sophisticated adults retained still a lively sense of childlike wonder that allowed them to suspend reality and to share in a few moments of enchantment. And I realized that simple things could still delight.
