The Self-Working Trick (and other stories), page 3
However, if Harley merely wanted Josiah dead, he could have just shot him and then, if he was so inclined, he could have shot himself. But instead, he felt the need to kill Josiah’s reputation as well. But how?
I thought about all the methods I knew to get an object from one side of the stage to the other. All the ways I had learned to take something off a person without them knowing it. And the more useful art of putting something on them without tipping them off.
I thought about mirrors and stooges and dual realities and other forms of misdirection. I thought about my act from that afternoon. And then a glimmer of an idea began to take hold in the back of my head. But it was having trouble making itself heard above the din in the room.
“Could you two please knock it off?” I finally said, saying it much louder than I had intended. My volume and tone produced the desired effect and they both stopped in mid-argument. “I can’t hear myself think,” I added at a much lower level. I got up and saw that they were each looking at me like contrite children.
I moved to the center of the room. “So, this is where Harley was standing when he was shot?”
Deirdre nodded, double-checked it with Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, and then nodded again.
“Is it possible that someone could use a handgun like the one used in this case and shoot themselves in the chest? I mean, hold their arm out, point the gun at their own chest and shoot themselves?” I demonstrated what I meant, stretching out my arm and turning my hand back toward my chest.
Deirdre started to answer, but Homicide Detective Fred Hutton beat her to it. “Yes, but a bullet to the heart would produce nearly instant death,” he said. “There would be no time to get the gun downstairs. Not to mention the powder burns on the hand,” he added.
Deirdre held up a hand for him to stop talking. He didn’t look like he wanted to, but a sudden sneeze shifted his attention away from me and back to his handkerchief.
Deirdre jumped on this pause. “What are you thinking?” she said, stepping toward me.
“What if it happened this way,” I began, heading toward the door. “Oh, do either of you have a gun? I mean, an unloaded gun, about the same size that was used here?”
Still unable to speak, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton shook his head and then registered a look of surprise as Deirdre began to dig through her purse. A moment later, she produced a small handgun. “I checked it out of the armory this morning,” she said by way of explanation. “In case we needed to re-enact anything. Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”
“Great,” I said, taking the gun from her, surprised at its heft. It was a little heavy, but not too heavy for what I had in mind. “Also, do you have any gloves, like the ones you use when sifting through evidence?”
Deirdre nodded at Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, who glared back at her. There was a short, tense standoff, and then he acquiesced. He put his handkerchief in one pocket and then pulled a pair of thin, latex gloves out of the other. He handed them to me, and I pulled one onto my right hand as I sprinted out of the room and down the stairs. I ducked into the kitchen for a moment. The couple had made it to the base of the stairs by the time I returned.
“Okay,” I said, beginning my impromptu presentation. “Let’s try this scenario on for size. I am Harley Keller and I have invited Josiah Manning over to my townhouse. I’m not entirely sure how I got him here, maybe something about burying the hatchet, but anyway, I invite him and he comes over.”
I walked to the front door and mimed each action as I narrated. “Josiah comes in the front door. I welcome him and lock the door behind him and chain the door. Then, with his back to me, I knock him out with the butt of the gun.”
I went through these actions, pretending to strike and then lower an unconscious body into the recliner. “Now, this puts a pretty big wound on the back of Josiah’s head, but that will be obliterated when I put the gun in his mouth, wrap his finger around the trigger and then pull it. Blam!”
My impression of the sound of the gun was loud enough to make Deirdre jump. I patted her on the shoulder as I headed back to the stairs. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Anyway, now Josiah is dead, and he’s got powder marks on his right hand. The first half of my plan is completed. Now for phase two.”
I took the stairs two at a time, and then had to wait while the couple trudged back up the stairs. Once again, the cats did their best to trip their new friend up. I waited patiently for them to arrive and then waited a few more seconds for another quick round of sneezing.
“Okay, so now it’s Harley’s turn,” I said, stretching my right arm as far in front of me as I could and pointing the gun back toward my chest. “I shoot myself point blank in the heart, drop the gun and die a few seconds later.” I looked up and smiled at the couple in the doorway. “Just that simple,” I added.
Deirdre squinted at me and Homicide Detective Fred Hutton shook his head.
“Now,” I continued, “you’re probably wondering how Harley got the gun from the floor next to him, down the stairs and next to Josiah’s body?”
“Yes, we are,” Deirdre said, sounding annoyed. “That’s the whole point.”
“Well, I think he did it the same way I got the cards from Joan’s hands to his hands during my act today,” I said, gesturing toward Homicide Detective Fred Hutton.
“Melissa,” he said and then blew his nose.
“What?”
“The volunteer’s name was Melissa.”
“Whatever.”
“So,” Deirdre said, clearly frustrated, ‘How did you get the cards from her hands to his hands?”
I smiled. “With an invisible assistant,” I said. Before she could pursue this further, I checked that I was standing in the right spot and pointed the gun at my chest.
“Blam!” I shouted, again making her jump. I clutched my chest with one hand, while dropping the gun to the floor with the other. And then I prayed.
A moment later my prayers were rewarded as we heard the patter of paws on carpet. We turned to see that Gypsy had jumped out of his dog bed and was scampering across the room. He happily picked up the gun between his teeth—it was a mouthful, but he was able to grasp it tightly—and then he trotted out of the room and down the stairs. We followed, heading halfway down the stairs, just in time to see him drop the gun right next to the recliner. He started back toward us, forcing me to run back up the stairs to Harley’s office.
“A dog that smart, you could teach him that trick in just a few days,” I said over my shoulder.
“Well, that covers the gun,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton said between sneezes. “But what about the powder burns?”
I returned to my position in the center of the office and peeled off the glove. “In the few moments I have left after shooting myself,” I explained, “I peel off the glove and drop it to the floor.” I did just that.
“But we would have found it by the body,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton began. But he was interrupted by Gypsy, who ran back into the room and up to the glove. He sniffed it for a brief second, then picked it up and carried it back to his dog bed, where he began to chew on it happily. In just a few seconds it was virtually shredded.
“I ducked into the kitchen and put a dog treat into that glove,” I said. “But I suspect that Harley probably used a linen glove and soaked it in chicken or beef broth the day before. I think a thorough examination of Gypsy’s dog bed might even produce a few remaining tatters of that glove, which would undoubtedly still have powder burns on it.”
Homicide Detective Fred Hutton made a move toward the bed and the glove Gypsy was currently enjoying, but the dog growled and bared his teeth. The detective wisely stepped back from the dog bed.
“We’ll look into that,” he said dryly.
“What I’m really hoping, Detective, is that you can see it in your heart to not arrest that dog as an accessory to murder.” This produced a smile and a chuckle. But not from Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. He turned and spoke sharply to Deirdre.
“That’s not funny.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s a little funny. You just have no sense of humor.”
This remark triggered a new phase of their ongoing argument. I listened for a few, painful seconds, and then held up my hands in protest.
“Here’s the thing,” I said as I backed toward the door. “I am happy to help you out from time to time, but if it means having to endure an episode of “The Bickersons” every time I see you two, count me out.” Deirdre gave me a puzzled look. “In case you’re keeping track, that reference is probably well over sixty years old.” This did little to abate her confusion.
“Thanks again, Gypsy, for being the best invisible assistant I’ve never seen,” I continued, tossing a remaining dog treat across the room. The little dog jumped up and caught it in the air.
As I headed down the stairs, I could hear the crunching of that dog treat, followed by the sound of an argument beginning anew. This was cut short by another flurry of sneezing, which was the last sound I heard before I shut the door behind me.
The Trick That Cannot Be Explained
I know a trick.
That statement may seem self-evident, since I make my living—such as it is—as a magician.
What I meant to say is, I know a trick that helps me do my job. Particularly when I need to walk up to a group of strangers in a social situation and ask them if they’d like to see some magic. Experience has taught me this sort of sudden intrusion is occasionally unwelcome or, at the very least, unexpected.
When I need to accomplish this interruption at a corporate event—a walk-around gig at a company function of some kind—I find dropping a key name is the quickest entry point to granting me instant access to virtually any small group.
The name I say changes from company to company, but generally all I need to do is mention the name of the CEO—or the highest-ranking person at the event—and I am welcomed in with open arms.
“Excuse me,” I might say to a small cluster of workers. “Gretchen asked me to show you a little magic tonight. Mind if I do?”
Or it might be, “Pardon me, but Dave wanted me to demonstrate something for you. Do you have a second?”
There’s a lot of power in a person’s first name, particularly when that person is in charge. They hear that name and, bingo, I’m in.
This ploy works equally well at wedding receptions, as I move from table to table during dinner. “Excuse me, but Susan and Mark wanted me to show you something. Do you mind if I interrupt?”
Or, “Pardon me, but Mitch and Brian asked me to stop by and entertain you folks for just a few moments…”
And I’m off and running.
I was reviewing the high success rate of my approach as I stood in the basement of this unfamiliar church. Workers were setting out food on the buffet counters and other volunteers were making the final adjustments to the small centerpieces on each of the tables that filled the low-ceilinged room.
The question which was bugging me was this: My approach certainly worked for corporate events. And it worked for weddings.
Would it also work at a funeral?
I was about to find out.
The call had, at first, seemed like any other gig request: Could I perform walk-around magic at an upcoming reception?
It was only while gathering further information (the time, the place, the type of gathering) that I realized I was stepping into uncharted territory.
My agent, who has raised cluelessness to a high art, seemed unfazed as she rattled off the particulars.
“So, it’s this Saturday, at Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception church in St. Paul. The funeral is at 11:00 and the lunch and reception will start about noon,” Elaine said, clearly reading from what were probably hastily scribbled notes.
“Whoa, whoa, back up a second.” I was holding the tip of my pen inches above my own notes, not sure I had heard the details clearly. “Did you say the funeral starts at 11:00?”
I could hear her through the phone, flipping through notes. “That’s what I’ve got,” she finally said. “Why, is that a weird time for a funeral to start? I’m not Catholic.”
“Neither am I,” I said. “But it’s not the time that’s grabbed my attention. Did you say I’m doing walk-around magic at a funeral?”
“Well, no, not at the funeral. At the reception after. Doing it at a funeral might be, I don’t know, weird.”
“Oh, you think so?”
I was forming the words to tell her I wasn’t interested in the gig, when I glanced down at the calendar page in front of me. I had a corporate walk-around event penciled in for two weeks from now, but the client had suggested I “use a light pencil.” I wasn’t holding out hope for that one. Other than this possibly disappearing gig, the month was looking pretty sparse, workwise.
“Are you available?” Elaine said, sounding more distracted than usual. I could tell her mind was moving onto other clients and other matters.
“Sure, sure,” I said. “I’ll need a phone call with the client ahead of time, though. To work out the details.”
“No problem,” Elaine said. “I’ll lock it down and text you the deets.”
True to her word, my phone buzzed about ten minutes later with the details of the gig and the name and phone number of the client.
“How are you all doing? Sorry to interrupt, but Sue asked me to stop by and show you one of Neville’s favorite card tricks.”
I ran that sentence over in my mind a couple of times, then tried saying it aloud—quietly—to determine if there might be any clunky consonant clusters I could trip over. It seemed fine, in principle. Although it really wasn’t my introduction I was concerned with.
As it turns out, it was the trick itself which was giving me heart palpitations.
I had called the client after I spoke to my agent. She was a pleasant, if preoccupied, older woman named Sue. Her distraction seemed perfectly reasonable, as she was planning the details of her husband, Neville’s, funeral.
And I was one of those details.
The conversation was short and direct: In order to help bring out her husband’s personality at the event, she wanted me to walk around and perform Neville’s favorite card trick.
It wasn’t until she named the trick that I recognized the problem.
“He called it The Trick You Can’t Explain,” she said. Her tone suggested she wasn’t one hundred percent certain she’d gotten the name right. She hadn’t, but she was close. “Do you know it?”
I said that I did, which was the truth. Had she gone one step further and asked if I knew how to perform it, I would have been hard pressed to provide a fully honest response.
Describing the trick would have been equally difficult.
It had come by its title for a reason. It really could not be explained.
“Oh, my goodness,” my uncle Harry said with a chuckle. “The Trick That Cannot Be Explained, you say? Well, you certainly have put your foot in it, haven’t you?” This was followed by another unhelpful chortle.
“You can either spend the afternoon laughing at me or instead offer some helpful advice,” I said, snapping a bit more than intended.
“There’s nothing saying I can’t do both,” Harry replied, then held up a hand to silence any response on my part. “Calm yourself, Eli. Not to worry. I can talk you through it. That is, up to a point.”
He gestured toward an empty chair at his table. He was seated in a back corner of the bar next to our magic store, Chicago Magic. The store, like the bar, was empty on this cloudy, almost rainy Wednesday afternoon. I was three days away from the funeral reception and really beginning to regret I had agreed to the gig.
“Dai Vernon gave the trick that name because it’s never really the same trick twice,” Harry began. He was shifting into lecture mode, so I settled myself back in my chair. “It’s sort of the magical equivalent of jazz, really.”
“Okay, so what’s the structure?” I was feeling I might need to take some notes and did a quick search of my pockets. No paper, which was fine, because I also had no pen.
“Well, I’d say there’s a beginning, middle and an end, but that isn’t always the case. It could be the reverse. The middle can be the end. It might never get past the beginning. Or, when the end appears, it isn’t where you thought you were headed. That’s the beauty of the trick.”
“And what is the trick?”
“In its simplest form, the trick is what happens and what you make of what’s happened. You need to be totally in the moment, while simultaneously looking back. And forward.”
“Looking back at what?”
“At what’s happened so far,” he said with a sly grin. “And also at everything you’ve ever learned about magic. Specifically, but not always, card magic.”
“You’re beginning to sound like a crazed Zen master. Or a drunken Yoda.”
“Again, that’s why Vernon named it the way he did. It’s less about moves and sleights—although those are vital to your success—and more about being in the moment and open to all possibilities. The trick, in its purest form, will be different every time.”
“So, the guy whose funeral this is, Neville, he must have been a pretty good magician if this was his favorite trick?”
Harry nodded slowly. “It’s certainly not for the beginner, but it’s also not for the faint of heart. I know plenty of top-notch magicians who wouldn’t perform it on a bet.”
“Why?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it depends on luck, because I’ve always believed that, with the right mindset, you can make your own luck. But the simple fact is, it doesn’t work all the time. That is to say, a good magician can always produce a result, but it won’t necessarily be a miracle. But when it works, whoa Nellie, stand back. Because it can be spectacular. Let me demonstrate. Do you have a deck of cards? Better yet, two decks?”
While I may not consistently have paper or pen on my person, I always carry a couple standard decks with me.
I thought about all the methods I knew to get an object from one side of the stage to the other. All the ways I had learned to take something off a person without them knowing it. And the more useful art of putting something on them without tipping them off.
I thought about mirrors and stooges and dual realities and other forms of misdirection. I thought about my act from that afternoon. And then a glimmer of an idea began to take hold in the back of my head. But it was having trouble making itself heard above the din in the room.
“Could you two please knock it off?” I finally said, saying it much louder than I had intended. My volume and tone produced the desired effect and they both stopped in mid-argument. “I can’t hear myself think,” I added at a much lower level. I got up and saw that they were each looking at me like contrite children.
I moved to the center of the room. “So, this is where Harley was standing when he was shot?”
Deirdre nodded, double-checked it with Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, and then nodded again.
“Is it possible that someone could use a handgun like the one used in this case and shoot themselves in the chest? I mean, hold their arm out, point the gun at their own chest and shoot themselves?” I demonstrated what I meant, stretching out my arm and turning my hand back toward my chest.
Deirdre started to answer, but Homicide Detective Fred Hutton beat her to it. “Yes, but a bullet to the heart would produce nearly instant death,” he said. “There would be no time to get the gun downstairs. Not to mention the powder burns on the hand,” he added.
Deirdre held up a hand for him to stop talking. He didn’t look like he wanted to, but a sudden sneeze shifted his attention away from me and back to his handkerchief.
Deirdre jumped on this pause. “What are you thinking?” she said, stepping toward me.
“What if it happened this way,” I began, heading toward the door. “Oh, do either of you have a gun? I mean, an unloaded gun, about the same size that was used here?”
Still unable to speak, Homicide Detective Fred Hutton shook his head and then registered a look of surprise as Deirdre began to dig through her purse. A moment later, she produced a small handgun. “I checked it out of the armory this morning,” she said by way of explanation. “In case we needed to re-enact anything. Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”
“Great,” I said, taking the gun from her, surprised at its heft. It was a little heavy, but not too heavy for what I had in mind. “Also, do you have any gloves, like the ones you use when sifting through evidence?”
Deirdre nodded at Homicide Detective Fred Hutton, who glared back at her. There was a short, tense standoff, and then he acquiesced. He put his handkerchief in one pocket and then pulled a pair of thin, latex gloves out of the other. He handed them to me, and I pulled one onto my right hand as I sprinted out of the room and down the stairs. I ducked into the kitchen for a moment. The couple had made it to the base of the stairs by the time I returned.
“Okay,” I said, beginning my impromptu presentation. “Let’s try this scenario on for size. I am Harley Keller and I have invited Josiah Manning over to my townhouse. I’m not entirely sure how I got him here, maybe something about burying the hatchet, but anyway, I invite him and he comes over.”
I walked to the front door and mimed each action as I narrated. “Josiah comes in the front door. I welcome him and lock the door behind him and chain the door. Then, with his back to me, I knock him out with the butt of the gun.”
I went through these actions, pretending to strike and then lower an unconscious body into the recliner. “Now, this puts a pretty big wound on the back of Josiah’s head, but that will be obliterated when I put the gun in his mouth, wrap his finger around the trigger and then pull it. Blam!”
My impression of the sound of the gun was loud enough to make Deirdre jump. I patted her on the shoulder as I headed back to the stairs. “Sorry about that,” I said. “Anyway, now Josiah is dead, and he’s got powder marks on his right hand. The first half of my plan is completed. Now for phase two.”
I took the stairs two at a time, and then had to wait while the couple trudged back up the stairs. Once again, the cats did their best to trip their new friend up. I waited patiently for them to arrive and then waited a few more seconds for another quick round of sneezing.
“Okay, so now it’s Harley’s turn,” I said, stretching my right arm as far in front of me as I could and pointing the gun back toward my chest. “I shoot myself point blank in the heart, drop the gun and die a few seconds later.” I looked up and smiled at the couple in the doorway. “Just that simple,” I added.
Deirdre squinted at me and Homicide Detective Fred Hutton shook his head.
“Now,” I continued, “you’re probably wondering how Harley got the gun from the floor next to him, down the stairs and next to Josiah’s body?”
“Yes, we are,” Deirdre said, sounding annoyed. “That’s the whole point.”
“Well, I think he did it the same way I got the cards from Joan’s hands to his hands during my act today,” I said, gesturing toward Homicide Detective Fred Hutton.
“Melissa,” he said and then blew his nose.
“What?”
“The volunteer’s name was Melissa.”
“Whatever.”
“So,” Deirdre said, clearly frustrated, ‘How did you get the cards from her hands to his hands?”
I smiled. “With an invisible assistant,” I said. Before she could pursue this further, I checked that I was standing in the right spot and pointed the gun at my chest.
“Blam!” I shouted, again making her jump. I clutched my chest with one hand, while dropping the gun to the floor with the other. And then I prayed.
A moment later my prayers were rewarded as we heard the patter of paws on carpet. We turned to see that Gypsy had jumped out of his dog bed and was scampering across the room. He happily picked up the gun between his teeth—it was a mouthful, but he was able to grasp it tightly—and then he trotted out of the room and down the stairs. We followed, heading halfway down the stairs, just in time to see him drop the gun right next to the recliner. He started back toward us, forcing me to run back up the stairs to Harley’s office.
“A dog that smart, you could teach him that trick in just a few days,” I said over my shoulder.
“Well, that covers the gun,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton said between sneezes. “But what about the powder burns?”
I returned to my position in the center of the office and peeled off the glove. “In the few moments I have left after shooting myself,” I explained, “I peel off the glove and drop it to the floor.” I did just that.
“But we would have found it by the body,” Homicide Detective Fred Hutton began. But he was interrupted by Gypsy, who ran back into the room and up to the glove. He sniffed it for a brief second, then picked it up and carried it back to his dog bed, where he began to chew on it happily. In just a few seconds it was virtually shredded.
“I ducked into the kitchen and put a dog treat into that glove,” I said. “But I suspect that Harley probably used a linen glove and soaked it in chicken or beef broth the day before. I think a thorough examination of Gypsy’s dog bed might even produce a few remaining tatters of that glove, which would undoubtedly still have powder burns on it.”
Homicide Detective Fred Hutton made a move toward the bed and the glove Gypsy was currently enjoying, but the dog growled and bared his teeth. The detective wisely stepped back from the dog bed.
“We’ll look into that,” he said dryly.
“What I’m really hoping, Detective, is that you can see it in your heart to not arrest that dog as an accessory to murder.” This produced a smile and a chuckle. But not from Homicide Detective Fred Hutton. He turned and spoke sharply to Deirdre.
“That’s not funny.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “It’s a little funny. You just have no sense of humor.”
This remark triggered a new phase of their ongoing argument. I listened for a few, painful seconds, and then held up my hands in protest.
“Here’s the thing,” I said as I backed toward the door. “I am happy to help you out from time to time, but if it means having to endure an episode of “The Bickersons” every time I see you two, count me out.” Deirdre gave me a puzzled look. “In case you’re keeping track, that reference is probably well over sixty years old.” This did little to abate her confusion.
“Thanks again, Gypsy, for being the best invisible assistant I’ve never seen,” I continued, tossing a remaining dog treat across the room. The little dog jumped up and caught it in the air.
As I headed down the stairs, I could hear the crunching of that dog treat, followed by the sound of an argument beginning anew. This was cut short by another flurry of sneezing, which was the last sound I heard before I shut the door behind me.
The Trick That Cannot Be Explained
I know a trick.
That statement may seem self-evident, since I make my living—such as it is—as a magician.
What I meant to say is, I know a trick that helps me do my job. Particularly when I need to walk up to a group of strangers in a social situation and ask them if they’d like to see some magic. Experience has taught me this sort of sudden intrusion is occasionally unwelcome or, at the very least, unexpected.
When I need to accomplish this interruption at a corporate event—a walk-around gig at a company function of some kind—I find dropping a key name is the quickest entry point to granting me instant access to virtually any small group.
The name I say changes from company to company, but generally all I need to do is mention the name of the CEO—or the highest-ranking person at the event—and I am welcomed in with open arms.
“Excuse me,” I might say to a small cluster of workers. “Gretchen asked me to show you a little magic tonight. Mind if I do?”
Or it might be, “Pardon me, but Dave wanted me to demonstrate something for you. Do you have a second?”
There’s a lot of power in a person’s first name, particularly when that person is in charge. They hear that name and, bingo, I’m in.
This ploy works equally well at wedding receptions, as I move from table to table during dinner. “Excuse me, but Susan and Mark wanted me to show you something. Do you mind if I interrupt?”
Or, “Pardon me, but Mitch and Brian asked me to stop by and entertain you folks for just a few moments…”
And I’m off and running.
I was reviewing the high success rate of my approach as I stood in the basement of this unfamiliar church. Workers were setting out food on the buffet counters and other volunteers were making the final adjustments to the small centerpieces on each of the tables that filled the low-ceilinged room.
The question which was bugging me was this: My approach certainly worked for corporate events. And it worked for weddings.
Would it also work at a funeral?
I was about to find out.
The call had, at first, seemed like any other gig request: Could I perform walk-around magic at an upcoming reception?
It was only while gathering further information (the time, the place, the type of gathering) that I realized I was stepping into uncharted territory.
My agent, who has raised cluelessness to a high art, seemed unfazed as she rattled off the particulars.
“So, it’s this Saturday, at Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception church in St. Paul. The funeral is at 11:00 and the lunch and reception will start about noon,” Elaine said, clearly reading from what were probably hastily scribbled notes.
“Whoa, whoa, back up a second.” I was holding the tip of my pen inches above my own notes, not sure I had heard the details clearly. “Did you say the funeral starts at 11:00?”
I could hear her through the phone, flipping through notes. “That’s what I’ve got,” she finally said. “Why, is that a weird time for a funeral to start? I’m not Catholic.”
“Neither am I,” I said. “But it’s not the time that’s grabbed my attention. Did you say I’m doing walk-around magic at a funeral?”
“Well, no, not at the funeral. At the reception after. Doing it at a funeral might be, I don’t know, weird.”
“Oh, you think so?”
I was forming the words to tell her I wasn’t interested in the gig, when I glanced down at the calendar page in front of me. I had a corporate walk-around event penciled in for two weeks from now, but the client had suggested I “use a light pencil.” I wasn’t holding out hope for that one. Other than this possibly disappearing gig, the month was looking pretty sparse, workwise.
“Are you available?” Elaine said, sounding more distracted than usual. I could tell her mind was moving onto other clients and other matters.
“Sure, sure,” I said. “I’ll need a phone call with the client ahead of time, though. To work out the details.”
“No problem,” Elaine said. “I’ll lock it down and text you the deets.”
True to her word, my phone buzzed about ten minutes later with the details of the gig and the name and phone number of the client.
“How are you all doing? Sorry to interrupt, but Sue asked me to stop by and show you one of Neville’s favorite card tricks.”
I ran that sentence over in my mind a couple of times, then tried saying it aloud—quietly—to determine if there might be any clunky consonant clusters I could trip over. It seemed fine, in principle. Although it really wasn’t my introduction I was concerned with.
As it turns out, it was the trick itself which was giving me heart palpitations.
I had called the client after I spoke to my agent. She was a pleasant, if preoccupied, older woman named Sue. Her distraction seemed perfectly reasonable, as she was planning the details of her husband, Neville’s, funeral.
And I was one of those details.
The conversation was short and direct: In order to help bring out her husband’s personality at the event, she wanted me to walk around and perform Neville’s favorite card trick.
It wasn’t until she named the trick that I recognized the problem.
“He called it The Trick You Can’t Explain,” she said. Her tone suggested she wasn’t one hundred percent certain she’d gotten the name right. She hadn’t, but she was close. “Do you know it?”
I said that I did, which was the truth. Had she gone one step further and asked if I knew how to perform it, I would have been hard pressed to provide a fully honest response.
Describing the trick would have been equally difficult.
It had come by its title for a reason. It really could not be explained.
“Oh, my goodness,” my uncle Harry said with a chuckle. “The Trick That Cannot Be Explained, you say? Well, you certainly have put your foot in it, haven’t you?” This was followed by another unhelpful chortle.
“You can either spend the afternoon laughing at me or instead offer some helpful advice,” I said, snapping a bit more than intended.
“There’s nothing saying I can’t do both,” Harry replied, then held up a hand to silence any response on my part. “Calm yourself, Eli. Not to worry. I can talk you through it. That is, up to a point.”
He gestured toward an empty chair at his table. He was seated in a back corner of the bar next to our magic store, Chicago Magic. The store, like the bar, was empty on this cloudy, almost rainy Wednesday afternoon. I was three days away from the funeral reception and really beginning to regret I had agreed to the gig.
“Dai Vernon gave the trick that name because it’s never really the same trick twice,” Harry began. He was shifting into lecture mode, so I settled myself back in my chair. “It’s sort of the magical equivalent of jazz, really.”
“Okay, so what’s the structure?” I was feeling I might need to take some notes and did a quick search of my pockets. No paper, which was fine, because I also had no pen.
“Well, I’d say there’s a beginning, middle and an end, but that isn’t always the case. It could be the reverse. The middle can be the end. It might never get past the beginning. Or, when the end appears, it isn’t where you thought you were headed. That’s the beauty of the trick.”
“And what is the trick?”
“In its simplest form, the trick is what happens and what you make of what’s happened. You need to be totally in the moment, while simultaneously looking back. And forward.”
“Looking back at what?”
“At what’s happened so far,” he said with a sly grin. “And also at everything you’ve ever learned about magic. Specifically, but not always, card magic.”
“You’re beginning to sound like a crazed Zen master. Or a drunken Yoda.”
“Again, that’s why Vernon named it the way he did. It’s less about moves and sleights—although those are vital to your success—and more about being in the moment and open to all possibilities. The trick, in its purest form, will be different every time.”
“So, the guy whose funeral this is, Neville, he must have been a pretty good magician if this was his favorite trick?”
Harry nodded slowly. “It’s certainly not for the beginner, but it’s also not for the faint of heart. I know plenty of top-notch magicians who wouldn’t perform it on a bet.”
“Why?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say it depends on luck, because I’ve always believed that, with the right mindset, you can make your own luck. But the simple fact is, it doesn’t work all the time. That is to say, a good magician can always produce a result, but it won’t necessarily be a miracle. But when it works, whoa Nellie, stand back. Because it can be spectacular. Let me demonstrate. Do you have a deck of cards? Better yet, two decks?”
While I may not consistently have paper or pen on my person, I always carry a couple standard decks with me.
