What Is The Magic Life About?
The Magic Life is a metaphysical mystery. On one hand it's the story of a man who dreamt of becoming a magician, but instead became an accountant – a man who yearned for one particular woman, but never quite had the courage to tell her so. On the other, it's the story of an ordinary young man who learns far more about life, love, and death, than he ever dreamed possible.
The Story:
There is an ancient Buddhist proverb that states, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." James Carpenter plays by the rules. He attended a good college, worked hard and eventually became a successful accountant. Outwardly, he is a typical American success story. "Why?" he asks, "If I am doing so well ... am I unhappy with work, unfulfilled in love, and just bored with life?" His "teacher" is about to materialize. Without realizing it, James is living his life trapped in a strait jacket. After a disturbing nightmare in which he finds himself strapped in a "strait jacket", he coincidentally meets a mysterious street magician performing the "strait jacket" escape. This magician, Maximillion, pulls James out of the crowd and challenges him to a simple test. If he passes, his reward will be nothing less than the secrets to the magic life. Unbeknownst to James, this test will shake his very faith in reality as Max turns out to be no ordinary magician.
The plot (both mystery and love story) is full of insights into the meaning of happiness, the power of coincidence, and the wonders of synchronicity. It is about taking risks and following your dreams. In a simple, compelling way, THE MAGIC LIFE teaches the reader to respect the power of coincidence and acknowledge the importance of life's illusions, challenging us to live life to its fullest. Similar books may include Way of the Peacefull Warrior and The Alchemist. This novel philosophy is highly motivational. and recommended by Classbrain.com as one of the top motivational books for students. It borders on the metaphysical at times and its "novel" philosophy is rooted in Eastern religion, but not religious. If you believe there is a reason for life, you should read this book. It is about how "living life" is the answer to the question of life. It is about discovering not just who we are and what we are capable of, but most importantly, why we are?
Chapter 1 “Pay Attention To Fables And Dreams – They Are The Fabric That Weaves The Universe.”
I
t all started with the nightmares.
Is this a dream? Am I asleep? Is this really happening to me? Strapped in a strait jacket, I find myself stationed uncomfortably on a hard metal chair. Two uniformed police officers stand over me, staring down at me. One of them tugs forcefully on the jacket‘s straps to verify that they are secure. The other suddenly jerks my feet up off the floor almost pulling me from my chair in the process. Holding my shoes by the heels, he allows the first policeman to lock a pair of inversion boots tightly around my ankles. Next, I hear that distinct tearing sound as one of the officers rips off a couple yards of duct tape from a large gray roll with his teeth. Together, the two meticulously wrap the tape steadfastly around the boots and over the buckles, making absolutely certain the boots won‘t fly open once I‘m hanging upside down. Unable to move either my arms or feet, I attempt to see just how tight the strait jacket is by wriggling back and forth in my steel folding chair. There is no give, no slack at all. I am completely confined. ?Ha, ha, I guess I‘ve gained a few pounds,? I chuckle nervously to the officers, trying to relieve some of the tension in the air. However, their lack of response makes me even more uptight. The pressure from the heavily starched white canvas is constricting my ability to take a full breath. My breathing is forced to become short and quick. As a result, I begin to hyperventilate slightly. Soon my lungs are begging for more oxygen, causing my heart to pound strenuously against my chest. Desperate to calm my pounding heart, I whisper to myself, ?Don‘t panic. Concentrate on what you are doing. Focus on the escape.? It isn‘t working – just the opposite. Claustrophobia is taking hold of me. As my blood pressure increases, I begin to feel light-headed. The blood, pulsating against my eardrums, changes the dull thumping in my chest into a sharp throbbing in my head. Concentrate, Jim! Panic and you could die!
Gradually the driving bass notes of some dramatic theme music replace the thudding in my ears. Over the loudspeakers, I hear the deep-voiced master of ceremonies announcing to the crowd, ?Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, you are about to witness one of the most daring escapes of all time. Even the late, great Harry Houdini never attempted anything like this! After being strapped into a regulation straitjacket and shackled by the ankles to a piece of rope, our magician, the amazing James Carpenter, will be attached to this two-hundred-foot extension crane. Whereupon, the rope will be set on fire, the crane will be set into action, and our magician will go way beyond Houdini! ?He will be hoisted upside down, two-hundred feet into the air. Remember, the only thing holding him up there will be a four-foot length of burning rope. Check your watches, ladies and gentlemen. The rope will burn through in approximately three minutes. If this daring escape artist does not release himself before the rope burns through – he‘ll either have to learn to fly – or he‘ll plunge two-hundred feet TO HIS DEATH!? The crane starts up. The music builds toward a crescendo, quickly drowning out the dull roar of the crane‘s diesel engine. After repositioning my chair to face the crowd, the police officers attach one end of the rope to the inversion boots around my ankles and the other end to the hook of the crane. With a wave from one of them, my beautiful assistant, her golden hair blowing in the breeze, steps up onto the platform carrying a fiery torch. Strutting across the stage in fishnet stockings, her long silky legs draw all the attention away from me. She leans forward, extending the torch, which is now accompanied by a tremendous whooshing sound of the wind-blown flames. Almost in slow motion, I see the flame jump from the torch to the diesel-soaked rope, quickly igniting it. Within seconds the rope‘s roaring like a blast furnace. I unsuccessfully struggle to take a full breath, coughing slightly after inhaling some of the diesel smoke. “Concentrate. Try to relax,” I repeat to myself in silence. With a sudden jerk the crane kicks into high gear and the cable hoists me upside down, by the ankles. Looking downward, I see the ground pulling away rapidly, surprised at how quickly I‘m pulled higher and higher into the sky. Twenty feet – I see the people in the audience very clearly from this height. Some have their arms crossed firmly, some applaud and cheer; others simply stare, their mouths wide open. Beginning my struggle against the straitjacket wrapped so tightly around me, I attempt to force my arms away from my body – the attempt is in vain. The jacket doesn‘t give a millimeter. Sixty feet, and still rising – my body weight pulling down heavily on the hemp causes the rope to start untwisting slightly. Spinning slowly in a circle, I become aware of every motion, every slight twitch and pop of the burning fibers. “Get out of this,” I say to myself. “You?ve got to get out!” Wrenching sideways, I feel the rope make a sudden lurch down, frightening me. Time is ticking by as I make my way skyward.
Eighty feet – losing my sensation of the crowd, my concentration now turns to the wind. With each gust it sways me slightly back and forth, creating red-hot flames and billowing a continuous cloud of black smoke into the blue sky. My eyes follow a small rainstorm of flaming diesel whipped away from the rope by the blustering air. Falling toward the earth, each droplet disappears, consumed by the flame long before smashing into the pavement below, leaving only a tiny trail of smoke as proof of its existence. One-hundred feet – with all the blood rushing into my head, I feel a kind of euphoria. Losing the upside down sensation, I feel as though the world around me is inverted. For a brief moment my mind begins to wander, contemplating the vastness of the space around me and suddenly I feel very alone. “Concentrate, I?ve got to focus!” One-hundred-fifty feet – my struggle has now become a test of mental clarity as well as physical strength. My thinking is unclear. My arms are beginning to fatigue. Perspiration breaks out on my head and neck. Short of breath, I am starting to panic. My twisting back and forth becomes violent. I can‘t get out! One-hundred-eighty feet – my enraged twisting yields a positive result as at last the sleeves gain some slack. With the extra space comes the ability to take a full breath and the sense that I‘ll be okay. I just need to force my shoulder out of place for a moment. Pressing my right shoulder fiercely against the restraint, I feel a pop that goes along with a sharp, but temporary pain, ?Aaarrrgh!!? For a moment my shoulder is slightly separated; however, I now have the necessary room to get one arm out of its sleeve. A heavy sigh of relief – just a few more seconds and I‘ll be out. Two-hundred feet in the air – my arms are almost free; another distinct snap – not my shoulders this time. A burning ember brushes my cheek on its way down. I gaze up. Time stands still for a moment. In horror, I watch as the rope separates. The small end of the burning rope, still attached to the crane, makes a flip skyward as if waving good-bye. The top of the crane pulls rapidly away from me. “Oh my God! The rope is broken!” I feel the sudden rush of momentum – downward. A terrifying falling feeling envelops me. The pavement races up to meet me head on. The crowd is screaming. I scream, ?Aaaaaaggggghhhhhh!? Falling, falling … I close my eyes … falling. With the sudden lurch of the mattress beneath me, I practically felt myself hit the bed, waking up drenched in a cold sweat. Confused and lost for a moment, there in the darkness of my own bedroom, I could almost hear the faint echo of my own scream. But, as my eyes adjusted to the
moonlight filtering through the blinds, I slowly regained my bearings and composure, realizing that it was all simply a bad dream. Somehow, during my sleep, the bed linens had become entangled around me – evidently the cause of the nightmare. After turning my night table lamp on, untangling myself took only a moment. To my misfortune, I discovered that during my nightmare I‘d actually ripped a hole through one of the sheets. It must have happened while trying to free myself. “The unconscious mind is a powerful force,” I thought, perturbed that I‘d have to go out and buy another set of designer sheets. Taking a drink of water from the glass on my nightstand, I relaxed, trying to reassemble the details of the nightmare. However, they were not very clear. I found that by the time I was completely awake, I had forgotten much more of the dream than I remembered. It had been a long time since I‘d had a nightmare. I couldn‘t really remember the last one, and I was sort of glad that I didn‘t remember this one. They happened a lot, right after my father died, but that was when I was just a kid. That was a long time ago. Why was I having nightmares again? Why now?
Chapter 2 “Look For Meaning – In Any Amazing Coincidence”
T
he next day was one of those warm, humid, autumn days in Austin, the kind that makes
Texans wish for a change of season – boring, even monotonous weather, but nearly perfect for the Pecan Street Festival. Occurring twice a year, in both the spring and the fall, this outdoor festivity with all of its artsy-fartsy paintings and peculiar handicrafts was something I always welcomed. For the past six or seven years I had made a point of attending at least once each year. However, this fall, as I wandered through the street perusing the different vendors‘ booths, I couldn‘t help noticing that many of the arts and crafts were the same as the last time I attended. The festival, like most of my life, was beginning to look a lot like the year before. I, too, found myself wishing for a change of season. Then I heard a voice, like that of a Shakespearean actor, booming out into the wandering crowd of festival goers, "Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, step right up. The show is about to
begin. Come see the incredible, amazing, astounding Maximillion as he attempts miracles beyond the concepts of human imagination!" His words sent a chill up my spine, but not the kind that is a foretelling of something ominous, more the feeling you get when you're experiencing something extraordinary – like goose bumps. I was intrigued by this deep and thundering voice of possibilities. Led by my own curiosity, I weaved my way through the crowd until finally coming to a clearing at the street corner. There, standing on top of a rather large, dusty old theatrical trunk, projecting all the enthusiasm of a ringmaster on the opening night of the circus, was the magician. Waving a silver-tipped magic wand in the air while shouting his patter out to the crowd, this engaging street conjurer made quite a striking impression. He was attired in a classic black tuxedo with tails, including a red satin vest adorned with sequined lapels, which sparkled brightly in the afternoon sun. On top of his head, tilted just slightly to one side was the mandatory black top hat, the kind that pops open with the flick of the wrist. He also sported the standard, well-trimmed magician‘s beard and mustache. From the streaks of silver-white at his temples, or the salt and pepper coloring of his facial hair, I would have guessed him to be in his late forties or maybe even fifty. But perhaps because of his physical condition, or from his youthful manner as he played to the crowd, he seemed to be much younger than the smile-wrinkles around his eyes, or the years of wisdom hidden behind them. Indeed, he had all of the trappings of a truly magical man. Well, not really a man, more like a riddle, an enigma. Half of him seemed fairy-tale wizardry – the other half, performer-reality. He looked as if he could really do magic – not just tricks – I mean real magic. I think it was his eyes; he certainly had the eyes of a magician. At times they sparkled more than his lapels. There was something about his smile, too. When he smiled, it was with a rather mischievous grin hinting that, behind those mystical blue eyes and that sly smile, he might be up to something devious. One thing about his appearance, though, did strike me as peculiar – kind of out of place. I noticed a small silver chain dangling around his neck. Where there should have been a medallion, or perhaps a crystal of some sort, attached to it, instead, pinned to the chain with a simple safety pin was a small square of tattered white cloth. The material looked to be nothing more than a small piece of an old rag or the corner of an old handkerchief. However, I concluded from observing the magician‘s interactions with the strange necklace that it was possibly much more. At times, while he talked to his audience, the magician would rub this threadbare piece of cloth between his thumb and fingers, as if it were a good luck charm or magic amulet. Sometimes he would hold the piece of cloth and whisper to it. Perhaps this was just a nervous habit or (if I let my imagination get the better of me) perhaps the cloth contained his secret to some awesome powers over science and nature. Maybe this strange talisman contained his secret to the mysteries of life. Whatever it was, I knew that the cloth was important to him.
"Hurry, gather round, while the good seats are available," the magician proclaimed as he walked up to spectators who were intent on walking by and dragged them by the arm over to a predetermined spot. The magician was a true master at drawing himself a paying crowd. The unsuspecting onlookers would pause and sometimes laugh out loud, knowing that the fun was about to begin. Rarely did people seem unsure about joining in. But if they were, with a smile and a wink, the charming conjurer would always make them relax, kick back, and stay awhile. "So, did you two call ahead for a reservation?" he quipped as he grasped a middle-aged woman and her son, adding them to the circle. "Was that smoking or nonsmoking?" he asked, just for a laugh, of a little round-bellied boy who seemed more intent on eating his chocolate ice-cream cone than watching a magician. He took one of the attractive young girls by the arm, asking, "Would you like to stand next to somebody famous?" Then he said in a rhyme, "You are, sweetheart ... me! The amazing, incredible, astounding ... Maximillion Vi!" His resonant voice and cunning wit quickly attracted a sizable audience with two hundred or more people, young and old alike, now forming a circle around this unique street entertainer. I almost had to consider myself lucky; being one of the first to get there, I now stood at the front edge of his crowd. For his opening Maximillion Vi performed silent magic that truly was wonderful to watch. Like an elaborate dance, he pulled cards and silver coins out of thin air. Objects that he borrowed from the audience would vanish, only to reappear under his hat or in a spectator's pocket or purse. The younger children enjoyed the show most of all – the kids, who had pushed their way through the crowd to the front row and now knelt or sat on the asphalt, pointing and poking one another, their eyes wide open in amazement. Most were hypnotized by the bewildering magician, as if he were a Pied Piper ready to lead them off to a better world. I, too, more than enjoyed his clever deceptions, the wonder and mystery of not knowing all the answers. In those mystical moments I became a child again, lost deep in the wonders of magic, trying to take it all in: the magician, the crowd, the sunshine. I recalled when I was the little boy, watching my first magician, clinging tightly to my father's hand. Just like the children kneeling in the street, I would have also pushed my way up to the front of the circle; because, when I was a little boy, I wanted nothing more out of life than to become a famous magician. Of course, those were just the dreams of a little boy. Watching the magician perform, recalling those memories, I flashed back to my own childhood, in Springfield, Missouri, back to the time when I first decided to be, or perhaps discovered that I was going to be, a magician. My father had taken me with him to the smelly old junkyard, to help him dump a load of garbage. Dad loved to visit the junkyard; I never could understand why. The smell alone could
almost kill a small boy like me. But Dad was always on the lookout for something of value. "One man?s trash is another man?s treasure," he‘d say. That particular day, while we were unloading the trash from the pickup, my nose held with one hand, Dad spotted a potential treasure, a dilapidated old trunk lying in amongst the junk. With a little luck and a few hundred hours of sanding, he said that stinky old trunk could eventually become a coffee table, one with a new avocado-green imitation-antique finish. The trunk was padlocked shut so he couldn‘t open it, but Dad picked up one end and gave it at shake. We could hear something inside, but couldn't tell what from the sound. The mystery alone made the trunk irresistible to Dad, and even caused me to forget the junkyard stench for a while. Dad used to say, "Curiosity is a sap running deep in the Carpenter‘s family wood." After offering the junk dealer five dollars for it and the dealer countering with ten, eventually they settled at seven. The dealer didn't know it, but Dad would have paid a lot more than seven dollars just to find out what was hidden inside. Mom often said that that was the "sap" he was referring to. We endeavored to open the trunk right then and there, but the lock was rusted solid. Dad decided, after beating on it with a tire iron for a short while, that even though both of our imaginations were working overtime, we‘d simply have to wait until we got home. Upon returning home, my father immediately dug a hacksaw out of his trusty toolbox and hacked off the rusted semblance of a lock. Opening the trunk, we were greeted by a puff of musty air. What we found inside may have been a little disappointing to my father, but was certainly a treasure to a seven-year-old boy. There inside, in almost mint condition, were several old magic tricks, an old bouquet of feather flowers, and three books on magic. "Well, look at that. I guess destiny wants one of us to become a magician," Dad said as he tossed me one of the books. At that moment, I truly believed that fate had placed those objects into my hands, almost commanding me to learn the art of legerdemain. For some time after that, I remained enthralled with the art of magic, mastering the three tricks in the trunk: the linking rings, color-changing scarves, and vanishing billiard ball. I read those three books until the pages practically fell out and went on to read several more books from the library about famous magicians like Houdini, Thurston, and Blackstone. But I never really became much of a magician. Frozen in time for just a moment, I wondered, "When did I give up that childhood fantasy? If I hadn't become an accountant, could I – would I – have ever become that famous, astounding magician of my childhood dreams?" As soon as I began questioning myself, my positive energy dwindled away, my thoughts drifting elsewhere. I couldn‘t help thinking about my job, "Should I be wasting time playing games at the festival? Back at the office, I had unfinished work and I‘d feel guilty Monday if I didn‘t get it done over the weekend. Maybe I should just forget about spending the day…" The magician began examining the crowd saying, "I will need another sucker ... uh … volunteer … a gentleman, a strong man." He turned and looked squarely at me, almost as if he were reading my mind. "You will have to do," he said, and before I could disagree, he grasped my arm and briskly walked me into the center of his circle. Somehow I knew that I would end up being
the butt of the joke, making a fool of myself in front of the crowd, but I just couldn't find it within myself to say no. "Allow me to introduce myself, sir," Maximillion said as he reached out and graciously shook my hand. "I am the amazing, incredible, and astounding … Maximillion Vi … rhymes with "free" … which unfortunately is also what you work for as my assistant today. You may call me simply 'Amazing' for short. Your name is?" "James, James Carpenter, you can call me Jim for short," I said, giving him a firm handshake along with my feeble attempt at wit. Smiling a curious smile, he pulled his eyebrows down as if he were going to ask me a question. His expression gave me a strange feeling, as though he knew me from somewhere before, or as if he‘d wanted to meet me for some time. Then something magical really did happen. While we were shaking hands, the magician reached up to the chain dangling around his neck, took the small piece of ragged white cloth between his thumb and fingers and began to rub it briskly. "James, James Carpenter?" he said with a slight question. Suddenly, a tingling sensation came over me, "chills" just as I had when I first heard his voice. Only this was much stronger: a positive energy, a feeling of excitement, a zest for life. This fantastic insight that life was truly magical, exhilarated me. At that moment I became acutely aware of my surroundings: the sun, the smiles, the magician. My vision even seemed to sharpen. Faces became brighter and clearer as I surveyed the audience: majorities and minorities, young and old, fat and thin, all laughing and smiling, all enjoying this unique moment. The magic was universal and in that magical moment (regardless of age, race, or background) they all became children again – fun loving and carefree, freeing themselves from their pasts, and suspending their disbelief to enjoy the illusions. Why should I feel guilty about taking a day off? Everyone else was having fun. Why couldn‘t I? Somehow, I knew I was being given this opportunity to experience some of life's real magic. I deserved a little magic in my life, too. Right then I decided, for the next few moments at least, to just put away troublesome thoughts about my job, close the accounting books, and simply enjoy the magic. Amazingly, all of this went through my mind in that one short moment when the magician touched my hand and rubbed the small white piece of cloth. As abruptly as I had entered into this heightened state of awareness, I was pulled back into the present. Lost for just a second, I suddenly realized what Max was saying. "Would you please act as the official timer for this act, Jim?" Max asked. "Sure," I replied. "Does your watch have a sweeping second hand?" he inquired, pointing to his wrist. The question made me glance at my wrist only to discover that I was no longer wearing my watch. "I could have sworn that I was..."
"Here, I guess I could let you borrow mine," Max said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch – my watch! My chin almost dropped to the pavement. The crowd also realized that he was now holding my watch and they laughed aloud. I couldn‘t help chuckling too, awestruck that this man had taken off my watch without my having a clue. Deciding that maybe I should check for my wallet, I reached for my back pocket... "I was possibly going to pay you for helping me out, but all you have in here is a couple of bucks," Max said, grinning. Again the artful pickpocket had duped me. He stuck my own billfold into my hand, then asked politely if he could borrow a one-dollar bill. "Folks, let me demonstrate how easy it is to drop a dollar into the hat." Saying that, Max tilted his head forward. With a quick snap from his neck, his top hat, like a gymnast scoring a perfect ten, did one complete revolution and landed open end up on the street in front of him. He held the dollar two feet above the hat and released it, the bill slowly drifted down like a feather into the hat. "See how easy money goes into the hat," he said. "Well, it comes out a lot quicker." With a snap of his fingers and a wave of his wand, the money defied gravity, shooting out of the hat and back into my wallet! I did a double take. "You know Max, you could make a heck of a living doing that," I said, under my breath. "I do make a heck of a living doing this," he whispered as he stuck his foot into his hat. With a kick up, the hat made an aerial flip and landed perfectly back on top of his head. "Magic, I mean," he said, not missing a beat. "The trick," he whispered to me, "is not to make a living out of magic. The trick is to make magic out of living." He then winked and grinned, letting me know that I could trust him. It worked. For some reason, I did trust him, the same way a child might trust Peter Pan. "Well, Jim, have you ever seen one of these?" Max asked assuming an air of importance as he turned around dramatically pulling a white canvas straitjacket out of the trunk. "Yes, I have," I answered, not considering that I hadn‘t actually seen a real straitjacket – only pictures of them. "It makes me very nervous when volunteers answer yes," Max said as he looked all around the audience with this wide-eyed worried look. They laughed. "Of course, Jim, you mean that you have seen them in pictures – not up close – right? … Please agree, or I get really nervous." "Well, yes," I agreed, but somehow I had a strange feeling that I actually had seen one before.
"We are now going to test your strength," Max said. "I asked you when you volunteered so graciously if you were indeed a man of constitutional fortitude and resolute dedication, did I not? ... Oh, I didn't? Oh well, you'll just have to do since you are standing here in the middle of my circle." With that he placed his hands on my shoulders and whispered a few strange words to himself, which sounded Latin or ancient – that is, what I could hear of them. Placing one of his hands over my head, he gazed intently into my eyes. Next he pressed his index finger to the middle of my forehead, and began rubbing the small white piece of cloth with his other hand. Then Max spoke to me. "You are now hypnotized," he said. "Your arms," Max pulled my hands straight out in front of my body, "they are steel!" Again he rubbed the cloth pinned to the chain about his neck. "They are beams of solid steel and cannot be bent – steel, Jim!" As he said this, I indeed felt my arms become rigid and stiff. Could I actually be hypnotized? I attempted to discreetly move my arms. Not wanting to say anything out loud, so as to ruin his act, I just wanted to see if I really couldn‘t move them. I could not. I tried harder; still I couldn‘t move. Realizing that I was no longer in control, I started to panic. As if sensing my pending hysteria, Max again placed a hand on my shoulder, winked, and in a steady reassuring voice said, "Don't worry; you are always in control – always. Nothing will happen unless you make it happen." He had read my mind. Immediately, I was comforted and relaxed. After all, what choice did I have? I had just started to enjoy myself, when I discovered how I was to become the butt of the joke. "Your arms are frozen in front of you," he said, as Max proceeded to place the straitjacket – on me! The straitjacket was a coarse white canvas contraption covered with frayed leather straps and scratched steel buckles. The jacket showed years of wear and tear. Looking it over, I was sure it had been escaped from many times. I could also tell that it was highly improbable – no, make that totally impossible – that once strapped in, I would ever be able to escape. After he had my arms strapped around my back, he gave the straps a couple of tugs and asked, "Does that feel like a real straitjacket?" Once again, without thinking, I answered, "Yes." Max rolled his eyes, raised one eyebrow, and made a face at the crowd asking, "How do you know what one feels like?" Once again they laughed and I laughed along with them; however, I really didn‘t feel like laughing. For some reason unknown to me, I was overcome with a feeling of deja vu like I‘d been in this predicament before. The feeling wasn‘t pleasant at all; in fact, it was disturbing.
I know I must have looked somewhat ridiculous, but one little boy was laughing so hard that the crowd began to laugh at him. He kept pointing and laughing, almost falling over. The boy‘s laughter became infectious. Before long everyone in the crowd was enjoying the laugh-fest, everyone but me. Max had me totally strapped into the jacket – all except for one strap – the strap that buckles up underneath the crotch. Suddenly we all realized why the little boy had been laughing so hard. "There is one strap left, ladies and gentlemen, and we call that strap – everybody say 'Oooohhhhh,'" said Max. Everybody went, "Oooooooohhhhhhhh." "... the strap of death," Max said as he pulled the strap way up between my legs. There I was, standing with my arms crossed and strapped behind me, struggling to move an inch, probably looking like some deranged lunatic, getting a strap-of-death wedgie. The crowd went wild. Max walked over to an attractive woman in the crowd and asked if she would assist us. She was a little bit anxious about the whole thing, saying that she didn't want to end up looking like me. Who could blame her? Max reassured her that she wouldn‘t be put in the jacket, then snapped his fingers as if to unhypnotize me. Stepping behind me, he unbuckled the straps to free me from the jacket. As I was pulling off the jacket, Max walked the beautiful woman by the hand to the center of the circle and introduced her to the audience. "Kristin, this is everyone," he said. "Everyone, this is Kristin." Then handing the jacket over to Kristin, he stated, "Just for the fun, I think that you two should put the jacket on me." With that he pulled off his tuxedo coat and satin vest, tossing them into the trunk. He placed his hands and arms into the straitjacket, which Kristin held open for him, and instructed me to step behind him and strap him in as tight as was humanly possible. "With pleasure," I responded. Pulling the back straps taut, I could tell that Max was holding a deep breath, expanding his chest. All he had to do was release his breath and the jacket would be loose. "Come on James, you can make it tighter than that, can't you?" Max yelled to the crowd. "If you weren't holding your breath I could," I replied, trying not to sound too arrogant. With that comment Max let loose a puff of air that allowed me to tighten the jacket an extra two inches, as tight as his rib cage would allow. Then Max asked me to pull the arm straps around his body and also tighten them as far as they would go. Practically hearing the compression in his voice, as if it were now even difficult for him to take a breath, I wondered if he would, in fact, be able to escape. So, feeling a touch sympathetic, I pulled the arm straps secure, but not too tight.
"Is that all the strength that you have?" Max lectured. "Put some muscle into it, James. Besides, don't you think the show will be better if I don‘t get out?" "Okay, if that‘s the way you want it," I responded, now pulling with all the force I could muster. Then in a comedy falsetto voice, Max said, "Yes, by George, I think he‘s got it." The crowd laughed. Looking at him now, there was no way in the world he‘d ever get out of that straitjacket. He didn‘t even have room to sweat. Max walked to the center of the crowd and in a loud deep voice said, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, I am truly strapped in the confines of a regulation straitjacket. There is virtually no humanly possible way for me to escape." "Uh uh," came the voice of the little boy who had been laughing so heartily earlier in the performance. He was pointing at what Max had so eloquently referred to as "the strap of death," hanging precariously between the magician's legs, still unbuckled. "Son," Max quipped in his theatrical voice, "didn't anyone ever tell you that it‘s not polite to point – especially in that direction." The crowd roared. Max, smiling that devious smile of his, turned his head slowly in the direction of the young woman, Kristin. "Kristin?" Max asked with a sheepish grin. "You are probably wondering why I asked you to come here?" he said, swaying back and forth to make the strap swing. "Don't be shy. Just reach down between my legs and grab whatever you find dangling there." Again a chuckle from the crowd and Max continued, "This strap doesn't have to be as tight as the others." Tears formed in my eyes from holding back the laughs, at this farcical scene. Kristin, bending down behind him, reluctantly reached between his legs; Max would squirm just as she reached for the strap, swinging it out of her reach. After several failed attempts she grabbed it and began buckling the crotch strap together. "You sure are taking your sweet time, Kristin. You‘re enjoying this way too much!" Max teased. The crowd began yelling, "Tighter, make it tighter!" "Go ahead and pull it tight," Max said and then whooped, "Waaaaaaiiiit, not that tight!" Kristin ignored his antics and buckled the strap tightly. After which she stood straight up signifying that she had indeed strapped the escape artist in firmly. Max then acknowledged, "Let‘s give Kristin a big Texas round of applause. Thank you for being such a good sport, Kristin, and helping us make the world a little happier, and certainly a safer, place. I want you all to know that y‘all are enjoying this a lot more than I am." The crowd applauded for Kristin as she smiled and took her place back amongst them. Max moved back into the center of the circle, calling to the audience, "Ladies and gentlemen, does anyone happen to know the world record for the escape from a straitjacket? Houdini could
escape in less than one minute. The incredible Loren Micheals could escape in less than forty seconds, The Amazing Randi in less than thirty. However, the world record for the fastest escape from a regulation straitjacket happens to be ... eighteen seconds. And do you know who happens to hold that record? – I … don‘t know either. "Today, however … I – the incredible, amazing, astounding Maximillion Vi – will attempt, for the first time in Austin, Texas – for your sheer and utter enjoyment – NO SUCH THING!" Then Max remarked in exaggerated Jewish accent, "I can't get out of here in that short of time. This is really tight! What do you think ... I can do miracles?" Strange that he would ask such a thing. He could do them; miracles, yes, that was exactly what the audience expected – exactly what I expected. Only moments ago Max had seemed omniscient, capable of miracles. Now in the straitjacket, he appeared to be a mere mortal like the rest of us. However, I had the distinct feeling that his distressed-mortal look might be just that – for appearances. Max continued, losing the accent this time, "How about if I escape in a reasonable amount of time? Is there a reasonable person among us, who could suggest a reasonable amount of time for my liberation from these bonds – the likes of which, even the great Houdini never felt?" A few persons in the crowd started to shout out times. "Fifteen seconds." "Ten seconds." "I said reasonable," Max grumbled. "Thirty seconds," I said, thinking it was reasonable. With that he turned back to me and asked, "What time did you suggest?" "Thirty seconds," I repeated. "What's that again? Louder, for everyone's benefit, Jim," Max said, leaning closer to me as if I had stumbled upon the proper time. "Thirty seconds!" I shouted out. At the same time Max yelled, "TWO MINUTES!" overpowering my voice, ignoring my suggested time. "The man says I should attempt to escape in TWO MINUTES!" As the crowd laughed, I was beginning to understand the real magic that Max Vi held. People loved him – that was the magic.
Max continued, "Very well ... I will attempt to escape from this straitjacket within the constraints of a two-minute time limit – even though such a release may appear to be a virtual impossibility. "Ladies and gentleman, I have to ask you to trust my official timer, Jim. Jim, you are going to have to keep me posted. When one minute has passed I want you to yell out ... One minute! … Got that? At one minute and thirty seconds I want you to yell out..." He made a motion for me to fill in the blank. "One minute and thirty seconds!" I shouted. "And at one minute and forty-five seconds, James, I want you to yell out..." I took the bait and yelled out, "One minute forty-five seconds?" "Wrong!" Max said, making a loud obnoxious sound like a buzzer on a game show. "GZZZZZZ... No James, when I reach one minute and forty-five seconds, I want you to start counting down. Fifteen ... fourteen... thirteen... Got it?" "Got it." I replied. Max announced loudly to the crowd, "And everyone will start counting down with Jim, right?" A few of the more vocal ones shouted back the answer, "Right." But the response was not overwhelming and certainly not satisfactory to Max Vi. He repeated, "And everyone will start counting down, right?" almost reprimanding the crowd. "Right!" the crowd yelled. "And should I escape in those last few seconds counting down four, three, two, one, everyone will burst into a thunderous round of applause! Right?" "Right!" The crowd screamed back like a cheerleading squad. "Screaming and cheering – RIGHT?" Max yelled back even louder. "RIGHT!" was the crowd's overwhelming response. " … REACHING FOR YOUR WALLETS!" Max yelled, raised one eyebrow, paused for effect, breaking the rhythm. Some started to respond, but after they realized they‘d been led down this path, the crowd laughed. Max then became serious, almost solemn, stating, "If I do escape and indeed you do appreciate the show, please show your appreciation by placing your spare change, ones, fives, tens, twenties, municipal bonds, stock certificates, car titles, expensive jewelry, or deeds of property
inside of my hat." He paused. His eyes took on a steel gray concentration and he inhaled a deep breath. Turning to me, he stated that he was ready to start. "On your mark … Get set..." I paused to let the second hand sweep to the start position. Max stood poised. "GO!" The incredible Max Vi shrugged his shoulders, grimaced, clenching his teeth while twisting violently back and forth. I looked at my watch; time was passing quickly. Thirty seconds and the magician's struggle didn‘t reveal so much as an inch of slack. The straitjacket held firm. "The first order of the day is," Max announced already half out of breath, "the strap of death." With that announcement, Max, still secure in the jacket, sat down on the street and kicked off his shoes and socks. He quickly worked his way into a kneeling position and reached for the crotch strap between his legs with the back of his feet. Slowly, like a contortionist, he pulled the strap up with his toes and unbuckled it. To watch him stretch his body to the very limit, almost made me hurt. Amazing! Glancing again at my watch, I saw that one minute had already expired. "One minute!" I yelled out just as he had instructed earlier. "Not yet! Wouldn't you know I would have to find the one person with the Quartz Acutron watch," Max grumbled for a laugh. With that remark, the incredible Max Vi stood up in his bare feet, breathing deeply to regain his strength. His face remained tense and contorted, until with one long slow breath he suddenly relaxed. All of the jerking and struggling stopped. His face became poker-playing deadpan. Determined, painstakingly he lowered one of his shoulders. He stared straight ahead with intense concentration. I checked my watch. He was still a far cry from freedom. "One minute thirty seconds!" I yelled. His hand barely moved under the jacket. Sweat dripped from his forehead. The seconds ticked by. Max concentrated all of his efforts into moving just one hand. "Fifteen ... fourteen ... thirteen..." I shouted, and the crowd joined in. "Twelve... eleven ... ten..." I couldn't see any movement at all on the part of Max. My heart began to pound. He was not going to get out. "Nine ... eight ... seven..." I heard a popping from his shoulders that caused him to wince in pain and groan aloud.
"Six ... five ... FOUR..." His arms flung free from his body and over his head. "THREE ... TWO..." A quick strong jerk and the straitjacket burst up high into the air. "ONE." Max Vi was free! The crowd exploded into an ovation. With a quick sigh of relief, I began to applaud and cheer with them. Max waved the straitjacket in the air with one hand, reached over and grabbed his hat with the other. Turning in a circle, he exclaimed, "If you appreciated the show, please show your appreciation!" The crowd responded in kind, with people digging out money from pockets, purses, and wallets. Parents entrusted their children with the change or dollars, instructing them to place it inside the magician‘s hat. I observed one grandpa, so pleased with the show that he presented his grandson a crisp ten-dollar bill to add to the pot. Having completely regained his breath and now showing no signs of his momentary struggle, Max said, "I would like to thank you – all of you – by leaving you with one last miracle." Then he turned to me, instructing, "Jim, if you would please, collect the rest of the money. When you are finished just place the hat and money inside this old trunk." He walked over to the trunk full of props and pulled out a large red satin sheet, closed the trunk and returned to the center. Holding the sheet behind him and above his head, turning around in a circle, he called to the audience, "Ladies and gentlemen, please take this one small bit of magic into your lives. Learn that life itself is the magic! Every second conceals within it a lifetime, every minute an eternity. Learn to live each moment of life as if it could suddenly disappear." Max then lifted the sheet above his head, covering his entire body. Pausing for a moment of silence, he then just simply vanished. There is no other way to explain it. He faded into nothingness, the satin sheet casually drifting to the street below as though he had slowly evaporated. The crowd was silent. We all gawked at each other, expecting that he would somehow appear in the next instant, but after an awkward minute he still did not. A few people started a rather weak round of applause, but the illusion had been too astounding, too real, too stunning, almost to the point of being surreal. He had been standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by a crowd of people! There was just no way his disappearance could have happened beyond black magic or witchcraft. An aging white-haired woman walked forward, and placing a dollar into the hat she broke the silence, saying, "You two fellows put on one heck of a show." Her gesture of good faith started a new round of applause and brought a new stream of money flowing into the hat. Somewhat
confused, I couldn‘t resist a quick bow to the crowd. Even though I knew it was wrong, I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I just took his props, money, and straitjacket and became the magician of my childhood dreams. Where was Max Vi anyhow? Maybe he had vanished for good. The crowd slowly disintegrated, just like the magician, soon transforming into a constant flow of people wandering through the busy festival thoroughfare. Only one other person remained standing in the same place after the crowd had dwindled. Standing alone at the back of the walkways was Kristin, the beautiful woman who had assisted in the show. She strolled up to me, smiling. "You are part of the act, aren't you?" she asked. "No, I really wasn't. I was just a volunteer, like you, that he pulled out of the crowd," I replied. "Well, where is he?" Knowing that I didn‘t have an answer, I just laughed, "I suppose he'll show up for his money sometime." "Why don't you and I just take off with it?" she joked, taking me by the arm. "Come on, buy a lonely girl a drink." Even though it was the best offer I‘d had in ages, I just couldn't leave before seeing that the magician had his money. "That is tempting, but I think that we can manage without taking away his hard-earned cash," remembering just then what I was supposed to do with the money, "Wait just a minute," I said. Then I walked over to the magician's old trunk, unlatching it to place both the money and hat inside as I‘d been instructed. Startled, I jumped back, as up out of the trunk popped Max, "Congratulations, you've found me! I was beginning to think that you‘d never open this darn thing." Right in front of me stood the amazing Max Vi – truly a magician's magician. "How on Earth did you get into the trunk?" I asked. "What makes you think it was on Earth, James?" Max asked rhetorically, "Sometimes the questions aren't as obvious as the answers. That‘s why I suggest that people don't dwell too much upon questions. You see, it‘s more often the questions themselves that keep you from seeing the answers. Just concentrate on the reality, not the illusion, and you will see that the answers are always right in front of you. Your life will give you the answers. That is, if you stop confusing yourself with too many questions." "I don't understand what you mean," I said. Max answered, "Well, isn't it amazing that I am here, in the trunk? Isn't it amazing that you were here today, and the only one who found me. There is a meaning in it, James there‘s meaning in
any amazing coincidence. The question itself is the answer. It‘s magic! And, Jim, it‘s only magic if you have a question." I just stared at him mouth open, perplexed and maybe even slightly flustered by his strange double-talk. Then I asked, "Is it real magic, or is there some sort of a trick to it?" "One man's trick is another man's treasure," he replied. "If you really have to know, I'll tell you. I always tell my good assistants. But, before I tell you, I must warn you that by telling you the secret, the magic itself will disappear. Once it does, then only real magic can bring it back." He paused, looking at me for some semblance of understanding. Although I didn't understand most of what he had said, I realized in my heart that I really didn't want to know the secret. He was right. Knowing would spoil the fun, so I shook my head nothanks. "Good choice, Jim," Max continued, "a lot of the time, people come up to me and demand to know how I do these amazing things. I wonder to myself, ?Why do they have to ask?‘ Isn't it enough to see it happen? If we enjoy the magic then what is the purpose of asking how? If we were all magicians, then where on earth would we find magic? When the sun rises, sometimes isn't it just enough to feel the warmth – to see the sunlight spilling over the countryside? Do we have to know that it is a fusion reactor, spewing photon particles across space? Sure it's nice to have a weather forecast. But sometimes an unexpected shower can be revitalizing – don‘t you think? Imagine just how boring life would be if you and I did know all of the answers. Too many of us spend too much time looking for the secret, ?the how,? when the answer is the magic itself, „the why.‘" Kristin approached, breaking Max's spell by saying, "Jim, I'm afraid you've gotten more than you bargained for. Two things that I have learned in this life are: one, that you never ask a magician how he does his tricks; and two, you never, never, ever ask why." With that she threw her arms around Max, and they embraced with a short, but affectionate, kiss and hug. "Jim, allow me to introduce my assistant and wife – the incredible, loving, tolerant, Kristin," Max said with a wink. Now, I truly felt like the fool. "I should have guessed when she offered to run away with me," I said. "She always does that. It‘s part of the test," Max said nonchalantly as he pulled on an old football jersey, the number "zero," over his tux shirt and began to pack up his tricks. "Test?" I asked with more than a touch of that Carpenter curiosity. Before he could answer, a couple of youngsters who had watched his act reappeared, asking Max for his autograph. The magician cordially responded by digging in his trunk for some of his black and white promotional photographs. After getting his signature on them, the kids ran down the street ecstatic with their new treasure. Max then lifted the hat full of money; weighing it in
his hands for a second, he announced, "One-hundred-seventeen dollars and forty-seven cents. Would you check that for me? You are an accountant aren't you?" Max asked. "You account and I'll tell you about the test." The sun was just setting; the festival was winding down and many of the booths were closing shop. At Max‘s request, I started doing what I was supposed to be good at, counting money. "James," Max began, "every year I perform the escape and vanish seven-hundred seventy-seven times. Sounds amazing doesn‘t it? Actually I use that number just to make the story interesting. Really, I have no idea how may times I do that particular act each year, probably somewhere around fifteen, I suppose. Well, anyway, I have been doing that act since I was about a year older than you are now. How old are you anyway?" "Twenty-eight," I replied. He laughed and pointed to my handful of bills, knowing I was in the middle of counting and that his questioning would prove to confuse me. It did; I lost count. But I just chuckled and started over. "Well, I will actually turn twenty-nine in a couple of days," I added. "Exactly," Max stated, "I started the escape act at thirty years of age. Anyway, I have been performing around the world, in twelve languages for about twenty years. Each and every time, I have a volunteer, like yourself, assist. In all of those shows, in all that time, I have met only three other people who demonstrated the same qualities you possess. But unfortunately all three failed the test. "Meeting you here today was no accident. Fate threw you into my circle for a reason." He then placed his hands on top of mine to make me stop counting the money and said, "You can feel it too, can‘t you? I‘ve been looking for you for a long time – James," he said, "you are the one." Pulling his eyebrows down into a serious look right at me, he stated, "I want you to take this money home with you and count it. Bring the money back to me next spring, if and when you decide to come to the festival. If you can't come, or don't wish to, then you keep the money for yourself. I know it isn't very much to a yuppie guy like you, but you might have some fun with it, just the same. Maybe you‘ll take a good-looking girl out for dinner." Why would he give me the money and ask me to return it the next year? What did he mean by the qualities that I had? I was curious to say the least. "I've got everything put away. Should we disappear?" Kristin asked. "Wait a minute," I said. "What do you mean? What do you want with me?" "One second, sweetheart … I think that James is truly the one," Max said, pushing both the money and hat back into my hand. "James, if you want to learn the true secrets of life‘s magic, then you must first accomplish a great feat." "What feat? What do you mean?" I asked.
"James, you must be patient and observant. If you are patient, in time, life will reveal its greatest secrets. If you are observant, you will learn to recognize them. James, always be on the lookout for the magical opportunities in your life. The magic life will be yours only if you explore them. This could be one of those magical opportunities. Every second conceals within it, a lifetime – every minute, an eternity." "Great for you," Kristin called to me, "I look forward to seeing you next year." She then walked over to me, reached out and took my hand in hers. Standing directly in front of me, smiling her nearly angelic smile, she gazed up at me and said, "Thank you, Jim, for participating in my life." With that she rose up on her toes and leaned her face forward to kiss me. Naturally, I closed my eyes as I felt her warm lips softly press against my own. The moment was very fleeting. Kissing her softly, I felt her warm touch slowly vanishing. Her hands seemed to vaporize in my grasp, leaving me holding nothing but air. Suddenly, I was aware of the cool wind and the empty streets as I opened my eyes to discover that I was standing at the curb, alone – not a trace of Kristin or Max. The sun was now below the horizon and the evening breeze whispered around me. I stood there for several minutes staring down at my watch in disbelief – it was late evening. I wouldn't have believed that any of it had ever happened, but, like an experience out of the Twilight Zone, there in my left hand was the magician's top hat filled with dollars and coins. As I made my way back across town, to the parking garage, I played the strange scene over in my mind. I could visualize Kristin and myself strapping Max into the jacket; I could see the agony on his face as he pulled himself free. I could see him vanish under the cloth. But I couldn't see how it was possible. It all seemed like a dream: the feelings, the small white piece of cloth, the test. What did he mean when he said I was "the one?"
Chapter 3 "Be On The Lookout – For Life’s Magical Opportunities."
T
he next morning I awoke to the blaring of some loud, unintelligible rock and roll mixed
with the annoying buzz of the alarm-clock radio. Dismayed to find that the weekend was already history, I sleepily rolled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. Wouldn‘t it be great if I‘d just dozed off after working too late once again on a Friday evening – that I might somehow wake up back in my office to find myself gawking up at the clock with the whole weekend still ahead of me? Eventually, I succumbed to the shower‘s warm water and the illusion vanished. Reality set in – Monday morning. Yuck.
Wrapping a towel around my dripping body, I climbed out of the shower and strolled into the kitchen to make my morning cup of Java. It was still there. After staying up half the night counting it over and over, it was now lying in proper little stacks on the kitchen table. The cold hard cash was confirmation that the weekend‘s strange event was not a dream, and certainly not an illusion. Yes, of course, the incredible and amazing Max Vi was right – precisely twenty-one dimes, onehundred and eighty-four nickels, five-hundred-seventeen pennies, one-hundred and ninety-two quarters, thirty-eight one dollar bills, one five spot and one ten. Exactly $117.47, just as the magician had predicted. "Some kind of trick," I thought. "Who does he think he is, Nostradamus?" Picking up the magician's top hat from off the table, I tossed it to the floor. Then balancing the hat with my foot, I tried to flip it up onto my head, the way that Max Vi had – close, but no cigar. The hat‘s brim ricocheted off my head into my spice rack. The oregano crashed to the counter, spilling everywhere. "Maybe I‘d be more coordinated after my coffee," I thought. As I began to wipe up the mess, I couldn't help but notice something odd. The spice jar had tumbled onto an open magazine, landing face down on a Coors beer ad. The ad that used to read "Coors is the one" now appeared to read "You're the one." Exhaling a quick breath, I chuckled sort of nervously as that icy chill rushed up my spine. Just a coincidence, my imagination was probably just getting the best of me. I looked at it again, more closely. The words didn‘t actually look like, "You‘re the one." They really looked more like "Coor‘re is the one." And I practically had to squint to make it say that – yeah, my overactive imagination again. That‘s all. Even though I had rationalized the incident away, still seeing the words written made me a little uneasy. I couldn‘t help thinking about what Max had said. Me? The one? Right. Oh my God, maybe the one who was going to be late for work! I hadn't noticed how much time I‘d spent messing around with all of the stuff. I was no more "the one" than Max was a CPA – whatever "the one" was supposed to be. And this "one" had to get to work pronto. I rushed though the morning traffic, still, I arrived to work five minutes late. It was the wrong Monday to show up late. Mr. Braeback, the office manager, had already moved everyone into the conference room for a surprise reprimand concerning the art of vanishing paper clips, disappearing pencils, and evaporating staplers. I considered just skipping the meeting altogether and stealthily making my way to my office cubicle. However, fear, as well as guilt, forced me to choose the more honorable course of action. I opted to slip into the meeting late, attempting to go unnoticed. I thought that I had it made, opening the back door just enough to squeeze through and into the meeting without catching old "Back-breaker's" attention. But before he finished his less than clever repartee, he looked straight at me and snarled, "James, I would appreciate a little more effort towards timeliness on your part."
So much for my sneaking in unnoticed. The entire group turned to give me the third degree, as if they were perfect angels plucking their harps and I was Satan himself, interrupting their concert with an off-key accordion. "Yes sir," I replied, plastering a plastic smile on my face. Outside, I played the good employee and accepted my reprimand with quiet dignity as I found a seat. Inside, I was once again disheartened with my job. The meeting dragged on and on – same old stories, same old windbag. It gave me acid indigestion. Would I ever get back to my desk and to some real work? When the meeting had finally died, my motivation had died with it. Consequently, the balance of the morning was spent alternating between wishing that I‘d just stayed home in bed and daydreaming about becoming a magician – actually, the greatest magician that the world had ever known. The numbers across the computer‘s ledger sheet blurred as I pictured myself sawing a beautiful lady in half and levitating a grand piano into the air. Maybe I would have lions and tigers in my act or catch a speeding bullet in my teeth. No, to be really great I‘d have to make the Statue of Liberty disappear, like David Copperfield. Wait, I've got it, something different – I would make a battleship disappear from the high seas and then make it reappear in someplace like Central Park! It was really quite the daydream till Braeback walked up to my desk, glared down at me over his bifocal glasses, tapping his watch. "Timeliness, James," he snapped. Reality set in. As if by some evil black magic I was right back where I had been before my mystical weekend – no one special, just good old James, the bean counter. Hell, I was no one important. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself. After all, I was good at my job – I had a brass recognition plaque to prove it. I wasn‘t exactly unhappy with work; I had received ample promotions, earned great money, and made plenty of friends. But I felt alive when I was in front of that festival crowd – as though I didn't belong within the audience. I belonged in front of the audience. When I pictured the old woman, who had believed that I was part of the magician's act, I knew we gave her something that no one could ever take away: a moment of true magic, the magic of enjoying life, forgetting the everyday drudgery. She felt the magic of living; I knew it. Perhaps I should have listened to my father. "Follow your heart," he would always say. He encouraged my magic when I was a little boy, especially the world famous "cut-the-rope-in-half trick." One trick that I would torture him with daily. He used to just sit and watch patiently, smiling, waiting for me to say, "ta da!" "That's great!" he would say. "Now put it back together and you'll really have something!" He would go on to say that he knew my destiny was to someday become a great magician. Of course the next day he‘d say it was my destiny to be a great surgeon, mechanic, or great banker. "Son," he‘d say, "as far as I‘m concerned, you can be anything you want to be … except unhappy."
Dad was always happy. He really knew how to enjoy life, such a joker. I certainly missed my old man. It‘s easy to miss someone who is always happy – funny how you can remember certain things. When I was very young he once told me, "James, it‘s better to die a happy pauper than a miserable rich man." Too young to understand the word, "pauper," I mistakenly thought that he had said "papa." So, I asked him if he was a "happy papa." After a laugh, he told me that he was indeed my "happy papa." That‘s when my childhood nickname for my dad became: "Happy Papa." He died, my happy papa, when I was just thirteen – I guess I never really got over his death. Funny how I remember that so clearly. My mother, brother and I were left miserably poor. When father died, being the oldest boy, I felt that I had somehow inherited the burden of responsibility to raise our family. At Dad‘s funeral, my Uncle Ray put his hand on my shoulder and said, "You have to be a good soldier and take care of your mother now." But Mom was the real soldier, in fact, the General; I never stood a chance against her. "Hard work puts food on the table – not daydreams," Mom used to say. I know she resented Dad for leaving us behind; hell, I resented him, too. She'd come home from work completely worn out, but never too tired to tell us how tired she was and to divulge her secrets to success. "If you don't work hard, nothing hardly works. The squirrel that doesn't save anything for winter will starve. Luck stands for labor under correct knowledge. An honest man works an honest day." It was a steady stream of platitudes. Bless her heart. She did work hard to see that Carl and I got through college. I finally got my CPA. My brother Carl – well, Carl chose to follow the old man's advice. Now he carried forward the family tradition: poverty – a family tradition that I could‘ve lived without. However, Carl always followed his dreams. He was an actor and swore that he‘d never leave the theater. Actually, I don't know if he‘d really been in the theater. He spent most of his time doing odd jobs to support his theater career. Still, he had occasionally impressed us with a television commercial and even though he didn‘t earn much, he was persistent. Someday, I believed, his persistence would be rewarded. Mom was right; hard work had paid off for me. I had over forty thousand dollars in investments, a lakeside condo practically paying for itself in tax deductions, a Volvo, and a top-of-the-line music video system. Yet, I had to keep asking myself, "Why am I so miserable?" Mom kept saying, "You'd be happy if you'd just find yourself a nice girl, settle down and make me a grandma." Sometimes she didn‘t hesitate to add a "Goddamnit!" Maybe she was right about making her a grandma, one problem – I couldn't do it alone. Sure, I‘d had relationships and I‘d been through the dating scene, however, with very limited success. Never seemed to find the right girl – or when I found the "right" girl, she thought I was the "wrong" guy. Definitely I was carrying a deficit in the relationship column. That went for friends, too. Most of my college buddies were now married with children. Once they were married, they moved on to their "married" friends, leaving me behind – almost friendless.
In the midst of my brooding about life, a wonderful memory from the past came walking in the door – Gina Lee. Gina was one of those women blessed with the total package: a great sense of humor, a golden heart, a good head on her shoulders, not to mention a heavenly body. I really was not going to mention that. Her looks were the kinds that make men sigh and women gag when she wasn't looking. Gina walked right up to my desk and stopped, flirtatiously saying, "Good morning, Jim. Did ya miss me?" Gina and I had some history, both of us growing up in the same part of Houston, attending the same high school and junior high. In fact, Gina was my very first date, the junior prom (what can I say, I was a slow starter). Memories like that stay with a person. I was so shy, I remember hanging up the phone a dozen times before I actually dialed all the numbers. When I finally did ask her out, I was so nervous that I had to read from a written script I‘d laid out on my bed in front of me. But in spite of my canned speech and shaky voice, she said yes. "Good morning, Gina," I replied, smiling too, yet trying not to reveal my enthusiasm about seeing her first thing in the morning. (And I certainly wasn‘t going to tell her that I might have missed her.) She began to fumble through her purse looking for something as she said, "I've got a little something in here for you." Not even realizing what she'd said, I found myself thinking back to that first date. Boy, I had such a big time crush on that beautiful little blond girl. Meeting her parents, I was absolutely terrified. I just knew that her father wouldn‘t like me. Gina had warned me that Mr. Lee had played football in college and was darn proud of it. Athlete I was not. Back then I was something of a ninety-eight-pound weakling. Of course her dad was the one that answered the door that night. Gina was being fashionably late (probably so that she could make that grand entrance walking down the stairs.) Good in theory, but it left her dad and me attempting to make small talk. Wouldn‘t you know it, right off the bat he asked me if I played on the football team. Like an idiot I told him that I preferred debate. Unfortunately, not the right answer – not even close. Not that he chastised me. Instead, he chose to just pretty much ignore me after that statement. "How was your weekend? Did you go to the Pecan Street Festival?" Gina asked, her manner suggesting that she might have seen me. "Yes, I did as a matter of fact," I said, slightly embarrassed by the thought that she might have seen me locked up in the straitjacket, but semi-wishing that she had. "I wish I‘d seen you there; we could‘ve had a lot of fun together," Gina said still in a search through the purse. Even though talking with her dad was strained, conversation always came easy with Gina. We really seemed compatible. And even though the prom date had ended with an unexpected and rather abrupt handshake, I still maintained a high school crush on her. For a while she even
shared my locker. I wanted to ask her to go steady, but I was just too darn shy. Privately though, I fantasized that maybe someday after college I‘d even marry her. Gina went to Europe the summer after the junior prom, and we lost touch before anything could really develop between us. My senior year, Gina was a cheerleader and started dating the captain of the football team. How could I compete with that? I didn‘t even try. So we just drifted apart. I hadn‘t seen her since high school, that was, until my first day of work at Lee, Fellers and Gadheart. Not having any idea that her family had moved to Austin, I was clue-less that her father was the "Lee" in the accounting firm that I had joined. When I saw her after all those years though, my heart still skipped a beat. Fate had thrown Gina and me together again. For a moment I thought that we might even start dating, possibly rekindle our high school romance. However, it was not to be. One of the other accountants, Mark, informed me on my first day at work, that Gina was completely hands off. Anyone making a pass at her would be terminated. He wasn‘t kidding. He showed me the actual memorandum. In plain English it meant that if I valued my career – which I did – then I would simply have to continue to fantasize about her in private. Since Mr. Lee, the boss, already had pegged me as a loser back in high school, I knew that I would never be able to ask her out now. To make my life even more wonderfully difficult, Gina was always stopping by my desk – just to say hello – whenever she was on the way in to see "Daddy." Four and a half years of dropping by my desk, saying hello, giving me cards, telling me jokes, and flirting had made me crazy about her all over again. Once again, I‘d just have to fight off those feelings. "There it is," she said with a smile as she pulled out a small red envelope and laid it down in front of me. Curiously, I picked up the envelope, semi-relieved that she hadn't seen me looking like an idiot at the festival. Looking over the envelope, I spied my name, carefully hand-scrolled in calligraphy on the front. "What‘s this?" I asked. "It's just a silly card. Don't read it until you go home," she said, stopping me from tearing it open. Then, quickly changing the subject, she asked, "Did you see the magician at the corner of Sixth and Lavaca Streets?" I nodded an immediate, "Yes, he was great!" She continued to describe the magician‘s act, "He did the most incredible things, didn't he? When he cut the girl in the audience in half, I thought that I would just die. Do you know how they do that?" "I didn't see him cut anyone in half. We did – I mean, he did a different act," I said, not knowing if I had just made a Freudian slip. (Perhaps I secretly wanted her to see me performing with the magician.)
"Was that you? You're the one, the one that I saw in the straitjacket thing," Gina said, "I thought that was you, but I didn't know for sure. There was such a big crowd and we were way in the back and couldn‘t really see. We didn't stop and watch because there were so many people. The girls I was with wanted to move on. Besides, we‘d seen him earlier. If I‘d only known that that was you," she slapped me gently on the shoulder, "I would‘ve stopped and taken a picture." Before I had the time to express my slight embarrassment about being in the straitjacket, Mr. Lee, her father, the boss, came marching around the corner. "Well, good morning, Gina darling. Did you remember to bring me the journal that I left on the desk? Good morning, James. How was your weekend?" Mr. Lee asked, acknowledging my presence, but not really waiting for an answer. "Yes, Daddy, I did," Gina replied to his question. "See you later, magic man." With that she turned the corner and walked with her father down the hall, into his office. As she looked back over her shoulder, I could have sworn that she winked at me. Then as her father closed the office door, I heard her say, "Daddy, guess what? It was him. James is the one..." With that the door to the office closed. I couldn‘t help thinking that it was strange to hear those words again. "The one?" I asked myself. Quite taken aback, I now gazed down at the ruby red envelope in my hand. The card was a totally unexpected flirtatious gesture. Oh sure, Gina and I had had our intense ten or fifteen minute conversations, and sometimes we even exchanged those "looks." One year at the company Christmas party we were alone and in an empty office, talking about what we found the most attractive in the opposite sex, and she told me that she liked a man who could dance. Well, I‘d had just enough to drink that I pulled her in close and began a slow seductive lambada – "the forbidden dance." Just as I did, I overheard her father walking toward the office, talking to someone. That ended the "forbidden" dance. The thought of losing my high-paying job actually had me shaking as he entered the room, but he didn‘t suspect anything. Turned out he just wanted to introduce a new client to his daughter. I was so relieved that we didn‘t get caught that, well, from that moment on, bound by my own fear, I became determined to honor Mr. Lee's orders: "Anyone so much as lays eyes on Gina – he is standing in the unemployment line!" Why did she keep flirting? Was she just naturally a flirt? Then it dawned on me – my birthday. I had completely forgotten. That was why she had given me the card. At five minutes past ten o'clock I would be twenty-nine years old. Unbelievable. What happened to my twenties? Not that twenty-nine was that bad, not like the dreaded thirtysomething. At least there was one more year to live. Looking down at the card, I smiled. Even though I was absolutely dying to open it, I placed it in my breast pocket next to my heart, deciding to wait until I got home as Gina had requested. Soon I was absorbed in my work and the hours flew by. Gina had since come and gone with a short, flirty hello, good-bye. When lunch time rolled around, a couple of the other CPA's came to
my desk, offering to take me to Bennigan‘s restaurant for a birthday lunch. I thought their company would be better than eating alone, so I agreed to go. However, by the time we had deciphered which car to take, just where we would all sit, and whether or not we needed separate checks, I was ready to re-think the disadvantages to dining alone. We were nearly all seated in the restaurant and I had just about resigned myself to having a boring time when Gina suddenly dashed in. "Do you mind if I join you?" she asked, waving at the group. "That would be great," I said, standing up and suddenly feeling a whole lot better about the luncheon. Mark Silverberg was about to sit down next to me, but Gina lowered her eyebrows giving him a look, accompanied with a pleasant, "Don‘t you think we should sit, girl, boy, girl?" Mark was agreeable to taking a different seat, allowing Gina to slip in next to me. This was perfectly all right with me, however, even though his actions were practically sanctioning it, Mark stared back at me with one of those cold looks of his own as if to remind me, "You‘d better be on the lookout for Daddy." The conversation started off kind of slow at first; all anyone wanted to talk about was work. Having promised myself to avoid that mundane subject as much as possible, I asked Mark, the wild one of the bunch, about his weekend. Mark had something of a reputation for getting crazy and I hoped his lurid tales would stir up some clever conversation. No such luck. Mark nonenthusiastically replied that over the weekend he had come into the office and worked a few extra hours. This was the only conversation. This was followed by a long silence from everyone. Were they really all just as bored and uncomfortable as I was, only being polite because it was my birthday? Determined to break the almost deadly silence, looking for some sort of icebreaker to start conversation rolling, I asked if anyone besides Gina had witnessed the incredible magician at the Pecan Street Festival. The answer sounded like a skipping record. "No ... no ... no … no." Then like a breath of fresh air into the stench of boredom, Mark suddenly spoke up saying, "Speaking of magicians, would you all like to see a magic trick?" I was aghast that such a sudden burst of creativity could evolve from this group. We?re not magicians. We're accountants for God's sake! Quickly I blurted out, "Yes, I‘m sure we'd all like to see the trick, Mark." Anything, I thought. Everyone else seemed equally enthused to get some semblance of conversation rolling. "Okay, it's not very good, but it‘s something you can do with matches," Mark mumbled nervously. He clumsily pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket and proceeded to tear out
seventeen of the matches, counting them out and crisscrossing them on top of one another as he did. "I will pick up six of these matches and leave nine," he said, then scooped up six of the matches. "There you have it." The remaining crisscrossed matches formed the word "nine". "How's that for an accounting miracle?" he asked. "That's great," I said, secretly hoping that the one trick was both his debut and finale. Yet, I applauded his effort to change the subject to something other than work. At least he was making an attempt. We both realized that his attempt had succeeded when Karen, a slightly chubby, quiet associate, slurping her bean soup, asked, "Don't you know a trick, James? I heard that you did magic when you were a kid." "How did that get out?" I asked, "That was a long time ago and I really don‘t do it anymore." Gina chimed in, "James and I went to junior high together, and he used to be quite the magician, if I recall. I seem to remember that you won the junior high talent show, didn‘t you, Jim?" "That junior high talent show? That was a long time ago. How did you remember that?" I asked of a memory I had long forgotten. "Oh, only because you beat me, and I was a wicked baton twirler," Gina stated, laughing at herself. "Too bad for all of you that I don‘t have a baton to twirl, but you can still do a trick for us, can‘t you, James?" "Well, it‘s true, I did a couple of tricks when I was just a boy, but it‘s been such a long time. I don‘t know if I could remember any," I said. All of a sudden, I realized why Mark had been shaking. The thought of actually doing something with the whole group watching my every move was somewhat alarming, even frightening. "The eighth grade talent show was an awful long time ago," I said, hoping to get out of it. "Oh, I thought I overheard something about you doing magic at the festival last weekend," said Karen. "You are the one, aren't you?" Again, there it was "the one." As she said it, I felt that strange tingle come over me. It was as if something was telling me that I should at least give it a try. Something the magician had said came back to me, "Always be on the lookout for the magical opportunities in your life. The magic life will be yours if you explore them." Deep inside I knew they all wanted, just as desperately as I did, for this lunch to be fun and exciting. Maybe this was one of those "magical opportunities" Max had been talking about. "Come on James, show us a trick! Pleeeease," Karen asked.
They were all trying so hard to make it enjoyable for me and I was "the one" letting them down; my reluctant attitude was making the event a miserable failure. That was about to change. "Well, I do know this one trick that I used to do at the dinner table when I was a boy," I said. "Does anyone have a quarter I can borrow?" Karen applauded, "Yea!" as Mark quickly fished in his pocket, pulling out a quarter. He handed it to me, joking that he expected interest at twelve percent compounded "quarter"ly. Everyone laughed, including me, as I took the quarter from his hand. "I will make this quarter vanish in the same way that it has been done for a thousand years," I proclaimed, placing the quarter on the tablecloth in front of me. And in spite of my stage fright, I was actually excited about the idea of having a good time. "I know how I make quarters disappear," Mark chimed in, "I spend them." Wonder of wonders, everyone laughed again. Setting the quarter in the center of the table, I then placed the salt shaker over the top of it, covering it completely. Next I unfolded my napkin and wrapped it around and over the salt shaker so that I could lift up the wrapped-up salt shaker and show the not-yet-vanished quarter. "Watch closely," I said, my voice beginning to crack a little. "Make sure I can't slip the quarter from under the shaker and napkin. If you‘ll all just say the magic word, it will vanish." "Abracadabra," said Karen. I lifted the napkin and salt shaker to reveal the still un-vanished quarter. "Everyone has to say the magic word or it won‘t work," I added. "Abracadabra!" the table responded, including the waiter who had stopped to watch and now found himself repeating the magic words. Then I pressed my hand down sharply upon the napkin, which had earlier retained the shape of the salt shaker underneath – but no more. "You all have more magic than you know – the salt shaker, not the quarter, has vanished." Indeed it had vanished into thin air, thanks to a little sleight of hand I‘d learned years ago – a sleight allowing me to drop the salt shaker into my lap while I misdirected their attention to the quarter. "I can't believe it!" said Mark. "That was incredible," Karen added. Sighing with relief that it had actually worked, I grinned all over. However, checking to my right, I discovered that Gina had caught me. Glancing down into my lap, from her vantage point she could see the salt shaker where no one else around the table could. The secret was exposed. Well, so much for trying to be magical. I was about to throw in the towel and say, "Well, you caught me." But, just when I thought that I had been foiled, Gina surprised me by not telling
anyone else. In fact, the opposite, she just smiled and very convincingly said, "James, you are amazing!" Then she did something that I really didn‘t expect at all. After suggesting a quick round of applause, without looking down, she reached into my lap secretly taking the salt shaker, and slyly placed it into her purse, saying, "Stand up and take a bow, James." So, I did. Saying in my best Elvis impression, "Thank you very muuuch." "Where is it?" they asked. "Tell us how you did it," came at me from everyone. I realized at that moment that I had done it; I had truly made them believe in the magic. Gina, in the meantime, had nonchalantly placed her purse, now containing the saltshaker, in the middle of the table saying, "James if you‘re really magic, you‘ll make it appear somewhere else." She was great; I couldn‘t have planned it any better. For once I picked up on my queue, saying, "Okay, how about if I make it appear in your purse." Gina opened her purse with a look of surprise that should have garnered an Oscar. "I can‘t believe it!" she said pulling the salt shaker from the purse. The rest were as astounded by the silly trick as I was by their reaction. Mark stood up saying tongue-in-cheek, "Come on people, let‘s give him the standing ?o‘!" At that given moment I enjoyed a gratifying sense of wonderment in my life, the same feeling that I had when I first publicly performed magic as a teenager. The experience brought back my lost memory of standing on the stage at Ludlum Junior High, the night I won the eighth-grade talent show. On stage that night I wasn‘t a bit nervous. I recalled looking down at the trophy in my hands, a moment in my life that I‘d completely forgotten. Even though the trophy was just six inches tall, gold-painted plastic, I remember it felt like ten feet of solid gold. And now, even though it was just a lunch at Bennigan‘s, it may as well have been Carnegie Hall. That‘s the positive feeling I got. Soon everyone was engaged in casual conversation, joking, laughing and enjoying lunch. Just before time to go, the waiters and waitresses appeared with a cake lit up like a miniature forest fire, singing some absurd happy birthday song, and making me wear a dorky paper dunce hat. No one even noticed Gina reaching over, squeezing my hand. I hadn't felt so silly in years. But it felt great, childlike – I was truly satisfied knowing that the real magic was the transformation of this lethargic group into an energetic party – not just by a simple trick, but by changing my attitude. As we left the restaurant, I really didn‘t get the opportunity to tell Gina thank-you and, unfortunately, when I got back to the office she was nowhere in sight.
The rest of the day passed rather quickly with five o'clock arriving before I knew it. Mr. Lee stopped by my desk on his way out to tell me to call it a day and go home. "By the way, Gina reminded me that it‘s your birthday today," he said. "How many years is it now?" "Only twenty-nine," I answered. "Well, you‘re not quite out of the running yet then," he said adding, "you know what they say – a man trades in his dreams for security at age thirty." After that depressing remark, he asked me if I had seen his daughter and I answered that I hadn't seen her since earlier in the day. Mr. Lee turned around and was off to catch the elevator, concluding an episode of casual conversation longer than any I‘d ever had with the boss. He never really spent much time talking with the underlings like myself, so I should have felt privileged, I suppose. Instead, I was slightly disappointed, because, for just a minute there I thought he might reach into his checkbook and pull out a birthday bonus. Maybe he felt that his words of wisdom were bonus enough. Though I didn't really believe that everyone "trades in their dreams for security at age thirty." After packing up some work to finish at home, I walked through the office toward the elevator. Almost all of the workstations were empty, all the office doors shut. I felt like a tumbleweed blowing through a ghost town. It always amazed me how quickly the office emptied at the stroke of five. Just waiting an extra few minutes, I always avoided the mass exodus, making a clear easy shot to the elevator. As I waited for the elevator I pulled the birthday card from Gina out of my pocket, gazing at it until the doors opened. Stepping in, I pushed the button for the garage floor. Just when the doors began to close, to my surprise, Gina rounded the corner calling, "Hold please." When she discovered it was me in the elevator, her face lit up with a smile. As I shuffled the card into my briefcase, I too, found myself smiling, wishing that I would somewhere find courage to punch the button, stop the elevator between the floors and passionately embrace this beautiful woman. Could I? That was exactly what I was going to do! My heart started pounding; because, just for a moment, I believed I really could. "James," she said, interrupting my fantasy, "we made a pretty good team, today. Don‘t you think?" "Yeah, we sure did," I said, "I wanted to say thank you, but I didn‘t get the chance. I had a good time. Did you?" "Yes, I did," she answered, "And you‘re welcome." She glanced up at me and our eyes collided like two shooting stars unwilling to change their course. This was the opportunity that I‘d been waiting for. The appropriate thing to do would be to continue gazing into her eyes, clutch her tightly, tell her I loved her and kiss her with all that passion I‘d held back over the years.
Just once, I wished that I could listen to my heart, but instead I simply rode the elevator silently, watching my golden opportunity dwindle with the diminishing of each lighted number as we passed each floor descending to the garage. Upon reaching our final stop, the chance was gone; we said our standard "have a nice night" and then parted. Wishing that I was someone else, someone less timid, I trudged over to my car then paused briefly before opening the door to watch Gina pull away. Somehow I always felt better after I saw Gina safely on her way. Putting the key into the car‘s lock, turning it, and slowly pulling the door open, I had unsettling thoughts. If I kept thinking about Gina this way, I was going to get myself into big trouble. I?d better just stop it. With that thought, I tossed my briefcase onto the passenger seat and spied the ruby red card, still unopened, falling out onto the seat. I‘d completely forgotten about the card when she entered into the elevator. I tore open the envelope. The card read:
"You're the one who makes my day,
When I'm feeling kinda blue,
You're the one I want to know,
Much better than I do.
Happy Birthday" And it was signed, "Love, Gina." Why did she have to go and do that? I just stared at the card. I must have opened and shut it fifty times. She had written, "Love." It wasn‘t "love ya" or "with love." It was just "love." I felt like such a kid — silly, I guess. Then I recognized it. There it was again. "You're the one." As I realized that I was seeing the words I felt that familiar tingle streak up my spine. Suddenly I became uneasy. I had this strange feeling that I was being watched. Cautiously, I peeked up out of the corner of my eye into my rear-view mirror to check the back seat. Not really afraid, but somehow, for some unknown reason, I half expected that magician to materialize in the seat behind me. However, nothing
happened, nothing at all. On that account, by simply reminding myself that it was my 29th birthday, I relaxed with a sigh. The stress of growing old was probably just getting to me. Giving the card one last look before placing it back in my pocket, I nonchalantly turned the key and listened to the purr of the Volvo for a second before heading back to the condo. There, in my standard evening routine, I stopped and picked up my mail before entering, slapped the button on the answering machine, and made a beeline to the refrigerator. The electronic voice informed me that I had two messages. The first was a happy birthday from my brother, giving me a few jabs about getting old. The second was from my mother asking if I liked the tie that she'd sent. I couldn‘t really say since it hadn‘t arrived yet, but I could guess it would be nice and conservative. All in all a good birthday, so I popped a Budget Gourmet Dinner into the microwave, kicked off my loafers, and turned on the TV. After eating a little dinner, watching a little TV, and catching up on a little work, I hit the hay. So, this is twenty-nine? Before long I was fast asleep and found myself in that place between space and time – dreaming. In this dream I‘m only thirteen years old, standing on the gymnasium stage after the eighth-grade talent show. The show has already ended and they have presented the awards. Proudly I display the first place trophy, which I can‘t believe I‘ve won, as a reporter for the local paper snaps a picture. Most of the attendees have already made their way home, leaving the basketball court littered with empty metal folding chairs and scattered with discarded Xeroxed programs. Only a few straggling kids, ones who took part in the show, and the parents of the stragglers remain. Mom and Dad step up on the stage to congratulate me with Carl riding Dad piggyback style. I‘m holding the trophy proudly as my father gives me a bear hug. Mom readies us for a picture, telling me to turn the trophy so that she can read the inscription through the camera. As I turn the trophy, it slips in my hands and I accidentally drop it over the edge of the stage. We all watch as, in slow motion, the trophy smashes onto the hardwood floor below breaking into a thousand pieces. With the smashing of the trophy the dream suddenly changes, and now seems somehow familiar, a scene I‘ve dreamt before. Full grown, I am sitting on a hard metal chair, two uniformed police officers strap me into a straitjacket; one of the officers locks my ankles in. Now I remember – yes – this is the dream where I escape from the straitjacket while hanging in mid air. But something doesn‘t feel right. Something is wrong. The straitjacket fits very tight, and for a moment I struggle. The police officer looks up at me, and for the first time I see his face – Mr. Lee! He smiles a smile that chills me to the bone, saying, "Well, James, you‘re not quite out of the running yet – you know a man trades in his dreams for security at age thirty," My heart starts to pound; something is definitely wrong with this dream. A beautiful blond woman steps onto the platform carrying a burning torch. I can feel the heat coming from the torch and hear the sound of the wind-blown flame. Once the woman is close enough for me to see her face, I know her – it‘s Gina! "Good luck, magic-man," she says,
lighting the rope on fire. "We make a great team, don‘t we?" Then she smiles, blows me a kiss, turns and walks off the stage. The music starts and I can hear the master of ceremonies. Something is different here, too. "Either this man will have to escape, learn to fly, or drop two-hundred feet to his death." I know this voice, it‘s the magician; the MC is Maximillion Vi. "James, you?re the one," he laughs as he engages the lever which starts the crane in motion. "Wait, I know this dream; I don‘t get out. I don‘t escape! I fall!" I am frantically shouting, "No! No! Stop, stop!" But the music becomes too loud, overpowering my cry for help as the sound of the crane‘s engine kicks in. My ankles are jerked suddenly, and I am hoisted rapidly into the sky. In a panic, I twist back and forth upside down, trying to free myself from the restraint. Higher, higher. Too late, the rope snaps and I am falling, "Aaaagggghhh!!" Next thing I knew, I hit the bed again with a thud. My heart still racing – what a nightmare. The images faded fast before I could piece them together exactly. However, this time I did remember most of the dream – something to do with escaping from the straitjacket, falling, and the magician telling me, "You‘re the one."
Chapter 4 "Nothing Will Happen – Unless You Make It Happen."
L
ooking 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 onetime 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-andrestored 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.
Chapter 5 “You Can Only Find The Answers – When You Know The Right Questions.”
S
aturday morning I awoke early in order to get to the bank before driving downtown to the
festival. My dramatic side had taken control; I wanted to present the elusive magician a hat full of cash and not have to write him a check. I felt it was more the way that he, Max Vi, might have done it. Not really knowing what to expect, I was a little anxious. However, I was still very eager to see him. After all, I‘d built him up to be so much in my mind. Whatever this meeting brought, one thing for sure was that it would brighten my somewhat drab existence – my so-called life. Believe me, I needed a little excitement in my life. By the time I withdrew the cash, drove down to the festival, and wandered around town looking for a place to park, it was already two-thirty in the afternoon. Due to a practically perfect weather forecast, I was caught up in what became the largest turnout in festival history. Traffic was awful for Austin, so congested that traveling just five or six miles took me almost an hour. The real trick was finding a parking space once I was there. After a long search, driving up and down the streets, I finally gave in and paid five dollars in disgust. Then I headed out hastily toward the corner where I had last watched the magician performing six months before. On the way to his show my heart raced. I felt high-spirited, giddy, like a kid going to the circus for the first time. As I approached that same corner, sweaty palmed, nervous with anticipation, I couldn't see him, but I could hear the boisterous laughter of the audience. There must have been two or three hundred spectators gathered at the spot, maybe more. The crowds were always much larger in the spring, but today was packed unusually tight. Briefly, I saw him hop up on his old trunk, above the crowd, and I could once again hear his loud bass voice booming over them and listened as it muffled when he stepped down, disappearing into the huge circle of people. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Max Vi, all right. He was for real. Max seemed much more ordinary than I remembered, and I began to have second thoughts about the psychic nature of our first meeting. Deciding not to stress the supernatural experiences when I saw him, unless he brought them up, I resigned myself to just having an ordinary conversation with him. However, just in case we did get a chance to talk a little about magic, I had brought a couple of my new magic tricks with me. Perhaps he could show me a few tricks of his own or something. I really didn't know what to expect, but most important I was going find out what he had meant when he said, ?You are the one,? before he conveniently disappeared. Maybe I imagined the whole vanishing thing. I don‘t know.
It would have been impossible for me to get up close to the front to see him, so I decided to wait out of the sun, eat a corn dog, and maybe drink a cold one. Then after the crowd had dispersed a little, I could rush up and quickly intercept him before he started the next show. While I was sitting on a bus bench next to the food booths, waiting for the crowd to clear, a cute little blond-haired, blue-eyed boy wearing a blue tank top and red shorts, sat down beside me to eat his lunch. He hadn‘t a care in the world. How lucky he was to be just a kid, I thought. Totally absorbed by the moment he concentrated on, what to him was, the most important thing in the world – getting the right amount of mustard on his corn dog. Since I had already devoured my overpriced corn dog, I was left sitting there with nothing to do really. After practicing magic for several hours the night before, I felt up to an audience of one. Once I‘d started reading about the ?cut-and-restored rope,? it was like riding a bicycle. How to do it came right back to me. Since the opportunity was presenting itself, I decided to perform just this one trick for the little boy. Until this time I had been holding the magician's hat, but I decided to wear it to free up my hands, and besides, it helped me look the part of a magician. ?Hi, there young man. What‘s your name?? I asked the little boy. ?I'm not supposed to talk to strangers,? the little boy replied, looking over at the man next to him for approval. His remark kind of took me by surprise. How unfortunate it is that we live in a world so full of fear. ?Well, you don't have to talk to me since I am a stranger. But, I‘m going to do some magic, and you can watch. No one ever told you not to watch strangers, did they?? The boy shook his head ?no” without saying a word. With that, I dug the piece of rope out of my pocket, outstretched it and tugged it, demonstrating that the rope was real. Then I reached for my trusty scissors and cut the rope in two. ?Now, say the magic word,? I said, seeing that the boy had decided that I was no longer a stranger, but rather a magician. ?Please,? said the little boy. I had to laugh – after all, it was better than my routine. ?Please is a good magic word,? I said, ?but the magic word for magicians is 'abracadabra.' Can you say 'abracadabra?'? I asked. ?Abercadaber,? replied the little boy. ?That's right,? I said, ?abracadabra.? Then, with a little “presto-digitation,” also know as sleight of hand, I made the two halves of the rope appear to restore to one solid piece. ?Believe it or not, I learned to do that trick when I was about your age,? I said.
The young boy's eyes became as big as the light bulbs that just flickered on inside his head. ?How did you do that?? he asked, mouth wide open. A surprising round of applause came from behind me. I hadn't realized that several other people standing near the food stand were observing me. A couple of older women, their full cups of beer held by their teeth, were just clapping away, some of the beer splashing out as their heads bobbed in time with their flabby arms. I was slightly embarrassed by the attention; but I couldn't resist tipping my, I mean, the magician's hat to take a big bow. It felt wonderful to be the magic man. ?You‘re pretty good,? said one of the men standing there watching, ?Here, Jimmy, give the man a dollar.? With that he bent down, gave the young boy a dollar, then gently pushed him back over in front of me. ?Is your name Jimmy?? I asked, kneeling down to the young lad. ?Yes," he said shyly, looking up for approval from the man who just gave him the dollar. ?That‘s my name, too,? I said. ?I assume that you are Jimmy's father,? I said to the man and he nodded a ?yes? and rubbed the boy on the head. ?Thank you very much for the dollar, but I‘m not a professional. I was just practicing,? I said returning the dollar to the boy. ?You can keep it.? ?Well, I think you‘re as good as any of the others that I've seen here before,? he said. ?Tell the man 'thank you' for the show, Jimmy.? ?Thank you, magician man,? said the little boy. ?Come on, Jimmy, what do you say you and I go find your mother?? With that the father picked up some packages full of handmade crafts and artistic trinkets, and plodded off. The boy, holding his father‘s hand, skipped along. As he was walking away, the kid pulled on his dad's sleeve and I could hear him say, ?Dad, can I be a magician when I grow up?? ?Son, he replied, ?you can be anything you want to be.? With that he disappeared into the crowd. It was a beautiful moment for father and son, bringing back memories of my own father. ?You can be anything you want to be, except unhappy.” Then, I realized that the crowd had thinned substantially around the ?real? magician; he must have finished his show. Putting the rope and scissors back into my pockets, I headed back through the crowd to see the magician. As I approached Max Vi yelled out in that same booming voice that I remembered so well, ?Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, gather round..."
Darn it, I was too late to catch him in between acts. He had already started another performance. Since there were so many people, the crowd formed a circle before I arrived. Quickly though, I weaved my way through the crowd, walking right up to the front so that he‘d be sure to see me. I didn‘t know quite what to do, but I had great expectations. Whatever happened, it would be a surprise. Maybe he would make some clever remark, which would somehow convey that he knew that I would be back all along. Or he might bring me up on stage and introduce me to the crowd. Perhaps he would just wink at me or nod and smile, letting me know that he would see me after the show. I thought that he might possibly drag me into his show again as the assistant. I expected everything – anything – but I was not expecting what happened next — which was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just looked right past me, as if I were just one of the hundred spectators who had come to see him perform. I smiled and waved his hat to attract his attention, but he just kept on with his performance, ignoring me, as though I didn't exist. He looked square at me, but did nothing to signify that he remembered our deal. Nothing at all. I felt a little sick.. For the last six months I had anticipated something special, something exciting, and now he didn't even know that I existed. Dumbfounded, I stood there and watched him perform exactly the same act as six months before, practically mouthing all the jokes and one-liners. Obviously I had wasted way too much time thinking about this guy. He still rubbed his little white cloth to hypnotize a spectator. He selected some guy out of the crowd at random, as he had me, and strapped the straitjacket onto him. Although I enjoyed seeing the show this time as a spectator, I felt cheated; his assistant was stealing my act. Looking through the crowd, I even spied the magician‘s wife, Kristin, standing across the circle from me waiting to be called upon to help. I‘d never forget that kiss. I waved at her to get her to look in my direction, but it was futile. All their eyes, including hers, were glued upon ?the amazing Max Vi.? All too soon, the show was over. Max had escaped from the jacket and vanished from under the cloth, to the utter amazement of the crowd. Of course, he left his unsuspecting assistant to pass the hat, and of course the money filled it to the brim. However, this time the collection was going to be almost twice what the magician expected. Because when the assistant passed the hat my way, I sadly pulled the money out of my coat pocket. Despondently, placing the money into my magician‘s hat, I handed it, hat and all, to the now slightly puzzled, but still smiling, assistant. ?When you see Max again, which you will, give this to him and tell him that it‘s all here, plus interest. He'll figure out what I meant,? I said, turning to leave. I couldn‘t face him. Not wishing to publicly acknowledge the now painfully obvious fact, I was insignificant. Just ol‘ James, the bean counter. If I had been ?the one? before, it was now past history. He didn‘t even remember me. I didn't get it. Perhaps the magician had become so accustomed to people just spending the money that he took it for granted that I wouldn't show. Maybe he‘d forgotten about me the minute I walked out of sight. Anyway, I‘d suffered enough rejection for one day. Feeling like an abused dog, I just tucked-tail and headed home.
On the drive to my condo, I couldn't help brooding again. I was sick and tired of nothing happening in my life. I expected something magical. Somehow I had believed this magician would tell me that ?I was the one.? For some reason, I wanted to believe that I was the missing key to the secrets of the universe. That I, through some magic power, would somehow be able to solve all of mankind‘s problems or that I would lead the people out of their daily darkness. Maybe I would solve the pollution problem, or discover a cure for cancer or aids. At the very least, I thought that maybe I would unlock the secret of making myself happy. Why? Why was it that I had dreamed up this perfect scenario? Why did I have to have a let down when it didn't happen? Why did he lead me on some wild goose chase? Why did I imagine all of those things? The voices? Why didn't I just keep the money and take Gina to the festival? Why am I such a stupid jerk? I wanted to believe in fairy tales, so I guess that I deserved it. I know better. If it sounds too good to be true – it probably is. Hard work is the only magic that really works. As I pulled into my garage I was steaming mad. ?The nerve of that guy,? I thought. I don't know what kind of game he was playing, but I was going to write to the person in charge of the festival and make sure the same magician never worked there again. He must be some kind of a nut. What kind of guy gets his kicks from giving people false hopes? I was really mad, getting madder by the minute – I wanted to break something. I opened my door, walked inside, and slammed it shut behind me. Stomping through the living room to the kitchen, I checked for messages; of course, there weren't any. Then, boom, all of a sudden, like a nuclear shock wave, it hit me. I stumbled backward as I looked into the living room, almost falling to the kitchen floor, tripping over the dining chairs. My heart stuttered a beat. Out of the corner of my eye I had just caught him – Max Vi. There he was, sitting on my couch, his feet propped up on my coffee table as if he owned it, reading my Wall Street Journal. ?Jesus Christ!? I said, not knowing whether to be scared, joyful or angry. ?No, just me, Max,? came the response from the amazing Max Vi who didn't flinch a muscle. He just sat there, smiled and said, ?I hope I didn't startle you too much.? ?How did you find me? How did you get in here? Why are you here?? I questioned, stunned, practically gasping for breath. ?Come now, I‘m a magician,? Max replied. ?We never tell our secrets.? Just staring at him with my mouth open, I would‘ve assumed that I‘d be furious – I mean at the concept of a stranger sitting in my house uninvited. It was unnerving. However, he simply looked at me as he had the first time, smiled and winked. A tingling shock wave bolted through my body – the Pied Piper effect all over again. I trusted him, not even knowing why I did. ?But I thought that you didn't remember me. I gave the money to the ...? I began to stutter.
Before I could even start questioning, he started answering, ?His name was Burt, but Burt isn't like us. You see, you and I have a lot more in common than Burt and I. You and I have destiny to fulfill. ?I was certainly glad that you didn't take advantage of my offer to spend the money. I was slightly disappointed, however, that you left before I got a chance to talk to you – even though I absolutely understand your doubting me. Just don't let it happen again. Remember, I have a reputation to keep up. ?James,? he continued, ?it was just an act. I pretended to not see you. It‘s extremely important to the audience that I, as a magician, remain somewhat mysterious. It is absolutely necessary if there‘s going to be suspension of disbelief. You see – they must see me as someone very special, almost above a normal human being. This helps create the illusion. Probably the way that you felt, when you first saw me – right?? he asked with a smile and a pretense of arrogance. He knew he was right. He motioned for me to sit down by patting the seat next to him. As I sat down, confused, I could feel a thousand questions coming into my mind, but I was unable to utter a single phrase. ?Remember, I am going to teach you all of my secrets. Or that is, you‘ll learn all of my secrets if you choose. James my friend, you are the one,? he said as he leaned forward and touched my arm. As he did, I felt that tingling chill run through me from the point of his touch. ?What does it mean?? I asked. ?Are you for real? Why are you here?? ?James,? he replied, ?It means that you must learn to be the one, the one that you really are capable of being. James, you must learn that you are not just James Christian Carpenter, the accountant. You are not just good ol‘ James the Beancounter. You are a potential wonderkin, a muse, a changer of the world. We are going places, you and I. You‘ll be changing things, and things will change. As for your two other questions, I am for real, as real as you make me. I am here because you want to learn. Just like you are here because I want to teach. That‘s pretty much the way life works. Teaching and learning are two of the three most important things in life.? ?What is the third?? I asked, not even knowing why I had. He continued, ?The third element is the most crucial. It, however, is the one element of life that cannot be taught or learned. It is that which you must acquire naturally, somehow find, or create on your own.? I was a little confused because his statements weren‘t really answers, but more like walks around an answer, like a politician would do. It was, however, so unbelievable and fascinating that I clung to his every word, without interrupting.
He leaned back, reached up into the air and a tobacco pipe appeared at his fingertips. ?I don't smoke it,? he said. ?I just like to hold it when I tell a story.? He stuck the pipe into his mouth, bit down on it, and cocked his head up to one side as if he were going deep into thought. ?Let me tell you a fable, James," he said, removing the pipe and pointing it in a gesture. ?Fables have been known to change the course of history, you know. You should always pay close attention to fables and dreams, Jim, they are the fabric that weaves the universe. ?This fable starts off like every other really great fable: Once upon a time — there was a king who ruled a larger than average kingdom. On the scale of one to ten, his kingdom was a seven. But the king was not satisfied. He was ruler of all he surveyed, yet he knew that beyond his horizon there must be more, more realms to conquer, more kingdoms to overthrow. One day a stranger arrived from a distant empire and requested an audience with the king. The king, not familiar with the land the stranger called home, was exhilarated by the prospect of expanding his domain. ?He, therefore, decreed that the stranger be brought before him shackled in irons. His soldiers found the man, secured him in chains, and brought him to the king. The king proceeded to torture the stranger, demanding that he reveal which direction he had come from and how large an army protected his city. Even after great torture, the stranger refused to tell. Frustrated, the king had the stranger thrown to the lion's den where he was torn asunder and devoured. ?Several months later an army marched from the distant realm into the kingdom, and in the cover of night overthrew the ambitious king. The king was led to the chopping block for his treachery against the stranger whom he had sent to the lions. ?Just tell me one thing before you kill me,‘ begged the king as he was about to be beheaded. ?How did you know that I was here?‘ ?The conquering king answered, ?It is really very simple. I send out men bearing friendly greetings in all different directions. If and when our men don't return – we know that our enemies lie in that direction.‘? Max stopped and placed his pipe in his mouth. I tried to figure out what he was getting at and then gave up, ?I don't get it. I'm afraid that I‘m just kind of slow.? ?Don‘t feel bad. There's not really a lot to get. It‘s just that sometimes it‘s not what we don't know that gets us into trouble. It‘s rather what we don't know that we don't know. You see, the king knew that he didn't know the location of the stranger‘s kingdom, but what the king didn't know was that his actions were revealing his own location. If he had simply freed the man he would have been better off. The king couldn't have known this, because he didn't know that he didn't know. Sometimes there are no answers to the questions because we don't know any of the right questions,? Max said with a grin and then he asked, ?Does that mean anything to you?? ?I suppose that, since I don't even know what questions to ask, it‘s better to just consider you as the man bearing friendly greetings and know that I‘ll reach the other kingdom in good time,? I
laughed a little, because I had the feeling that I really did understand – another chill crept up my spine. ?Indeed, you are the one,? he said, as he covered the pipe with his hands, making it vanish. He then sat back in his chair and put his hands folded behind his head. ?Can I at least ask you a question of what I know that I don't know?? I asked. ?Sure, you can always ask questions. That doesn't mean that I‘m going to have the answers, because I don't know what I don't know either. But you go ahead and ask. If it‘s a good question, I'll try to give you a good answer.? He then sat up and leaned forward to look me right in the eyes. ?Okay, here goes. Who are you?? I asked. ?Not a bad question at all. In fact, a very good question. However, it is more important for you to answer it than it is for you to ask it," he said, pulling on his salt and pepper beard while rubbing the piece of white cloth which dangled from the chain about his neck. ?Who are you?? he asked. This seemed quite profound coming from this mysterious man sitting in my house uninvited. He was absolutely right. ?I don't really know – do I?? I replied, and again the tingling. The phone rang and broke my almost mystical thoughts. Knowing that the machine would answer it after two rings, instinctively, I leaped up. ?Just a minute let me get ...? I said as I turned for the kitchen. The instant I had my back toward him, I realized I was making a mistake. I had that feeling you get when you lock your keys in the car and realize it as you see yourself shutting the door. It was too late to stop and go back. Something inside me told me that he had finished his conversation with me. Sure enough, when I turned and looked back he was gone. He had vanished again and I had the depressing feeling that I probably wouldn't see him for another six months.
Chapter 6 "Access The Child Within You –– And Learn What You Already Know."
I
picked up the phone and blurted a rather abrupt, "Hello," as if I were almost mad at
whomever called. I couldn‘t help blaming the caller a little for my taking my eyes off the magician. Perhaps if I had just kept my eyes on him, watching him every minute, he wouldn‘t have vanished. However, my anger was quickly diffused when I discovered, much to my pleasure, that the caller was my ever-optimistic younger brother, Carl.
It had been a long time since we had last talked and I was anxious to hear from him. Carl was always the bearer of good news, whether or not there was even good news to bear, he was probably the one person that I would have to forgive for interrupting – something about that damn positive attitude of his. "Guess what?" he asked. "How in the heck should I know what?" I said. "Are you coming into Austin?" "No, but you will be able to see me," he replied, "You have to guess." "You bought a billboard on I-35? Okay, I give up. What are you up to now?" I asked. "Well, all right, if you give up. Remember a couple of years back when I told you that I was auditioning for the situation comedy about an accountant who meets an alien?" I kept on listening. He said, "Remember. You helped me research the part – of the alien, get it?" There had been thousands of auditions. He had informed me that he had been on hundreds, but almost never cast. The only reason that I recalled this particular audition was that he had asked me to help him with a little character research, using my background as an accountant to help him get into the part. Specifically he had said that, "For once my accounting career was going to be put to good use." "Yes, well, I sort of remember, but I thought the idea was canned by the networks, wasn't it?" I asked, trying to remember precisely what happened with the show. "Well," he continued, "it was dead, but they gave it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and it is going to be alive and breathing on the Fox network next spring! We start production of actual episodes next Wednesday and we will go on the air by mid June. I'm afraid that I‘ve finally done it. I‘m going to be a TV star!" "That‘s fantastic! It‘s unbelievable," I said. "I'm envious, I knew that someday if you kept slugging it out that eventually all of your hard work would pay off. I knew you would be a success. Have you called Mom and told her the news?" "I just found out this morning," he said. "I wanted to tell you first though, because you always believed in me – not that Mom won‘t be happy that I‘m substantially employed in any fashion. You and I know that Mom would have still been happier if I had become a dentist or something real." "Don't be too hard on her; Mom just wants what she thinks is best for you. Now you are getting the chance to prove to her that you knew what was best all along," I said, knowing his feelings were absolutely on target. Mom probably wouldn't even begin to express any pride in Carl or his
work. More likely she would even be a little bit sarcastic, saying something like, "Well, it took you long enough; now you can start earning a living." She wasn't actually mean, just a little bitter about life in general. Oh hell – who was I kidding? She was a lot bitter. Carl and I talked for at least an hour about his new show and how his character was stereotyped as a rather boring nerd accountant. If he only knew how exciting some of the real accountants down at my office were, he wouldn't have called it stereotyping. He would have called it extremely realistic. I could only imagine what life would be like for an accountant that really met an alien. "Sometimes I feel that I‘m the alien in our office," I said. When we finally hung up the phone, I realized that I had completely forgotten to tell him about my alien visit of sorts. With all of the excitement about his new part, I had neglected to tell him about the magician and his strange disappearing act. Looking at the door, I wondered if the magician could have made it out in the time I took to pick up the telephone. Sure, it was just a trick. Of course, the magician had vanished leaving yet another strange riddle for me to solve. Now I was supposed to figure out the question of the ages: "Who am I?" It was a very pertinent question – a coincidence – since I was currently having an identity crisis. Usually, I would have laughed off such a question as simply sophomoric, but the truth was that I was not very satisfied with the person I thought I was. Maybe I was just like my brother, I thought – an actor playing the part of a boring accountant. Bingo! Another tingle ran up my spine. This tingle-chill thing was getting to be far too commonplace. The phenomenon seemed to happen whenever I was thinking about something to do with the magician. Again the chill, like a response to my very thoughts, enveloped me. Strange, maybe I was losing my mind. Should I pay attention to this sensation? Or was my imagination getting the best of me? Maybe, just maybe, there was something going on here that was beyond the bounds of ordinary everyday occurrences. Maybe I should explore the possibility of a psychic phenomenon. Then the answer came to me, why? Just as Max had said, sometimes we look for the answers and the answer is to be found in the question. If it were psychic or not, did it really make any difference? It was as real as I wanted it to be. I was convinced that he was really here, sitting in my home. He really talked to me. I really saw him perform, and I really got goose bumps practically every time I thought about something he had said. Go with the flow, Jim, just go with the flow. Maybe I just needed to relax, sit back and wait. He did say to have patience. Well, I was willing to give patience a try, at least for the night. I curled up with a good magazine and lay down in bed to read. When my eyes finally got too tired to read another word, I clicked off the light and drifted off, fast asleep. I was dreaming that I was at the spring festival again, watching the magician perform. Only this time, I am just a little boy and can‘t see over the people standing in front of me. They are all laughing out loud, but I can‘t see what they are laughing about. I try to slip in between the people, pushing my way to the front, but they just won‘t let me squeeze by. They are too big and
overpowering. I feel helpless. Turning to look for help from the older man next to me, I find my father, exactly as I remember him. "Son," he says with a smile, "would you like to see a great magician?" "Of course I would, Happy Papa," I reply. He then hoists me to his shoulders and I look over all of the people. The magician who is standing in front of the crowd performing is not Max Vi. The magician is me! I am the one performing for the crowd. I wave at myself and smile. Then the dream changes direction like only dreams can; I am no longer at the festival, but crouched down in the corner of the elevator at work. Everything is running in slow motion. The elevator stops and the doors open. In a macabre scene like in an old episode of The Outer Limits, Max Vi walks on wearing a white tuxedo, holding a black rabbit in his hands. The doors close and we start rising very rapidly. I can hear the whir of the motors kick in. "Well, James, do you know the answer to the riddle yet?" he asks, almost shouting against the background noise of the whirring elevator motor. "Who am I?" I ask, as the elevator races higher and higher. "Yes, do you know who I am?" "I thought I was supposed to answer who I am, not who you are." "It‘s one and the same, answer or question. You and I have more than a lot in common. I am you," he states. Suddenly, I realize that I am strapped tightly in a straitjacket, seated on the hard metal floor of the elevator. "You aren't me, I am James C. Carpenter. I am the son of my father and mother. I am my brother's brother. I am just a man, not a magician!" "Then who am I?" he questions. Confused and angry, I can feel the gravitational force pressing down hard on my body and face. The elevator grinds loudly, about to reach the limit of its ascent. It does reach that limit – suddenly my stomach enters my throat, for a second I am weightless as the elevator turns silent and begins falling downward. Now there is no elevator at all; I see Max suspended in space and I am falling away from him. I am still trapped in the straitjacket, falling. "YOU ARE...!" I shout at him. The action woke me from the deep sleep and the dream instantly vanished. The shouting was unnerving, so real that I thought I might have actually shouted out loud, but I wasn't about to let it get to me. I?m a big boy now and nightmares are only frightening when you are sleeping. Still,
I wasn‘t that anxious to get back to la-la land, so I sat up and drank a sip of water from the glass on my nightstand. Not wanting to forget what happened in this dream, I sat there with my eyes open and relived it for a few minutes, almost getting up to get a pen and paper. But I decided my bed was too comfortable and I was really too sleepy. Besides, I really didn‘t want to wake up completely. Who am I? I wondered. I‘m a lot of different things. I‘m an accountant; but really that is what I do; that‘s not who I am. If you take away what someone does, then what‘s really left? I was born who I am without any action of my own. I guess that who I am is as simple as being. I am just my father and mother's creation, just a product of their genes and one passionate night. Is that who I am? Is the rest just a by-product of my surroundings and the changes caused by living day to day? Is who you are limited to what you are given in the way of mind and body at the moment of conception? Are those the limitations that define who? Does that mean that I have no control over who I am? I thought about it for a few minutes. It all seemed pretty fatalistic, pretty negative, I mean not having control over who I am. But, to think of it in the terms of being born male with two arms and legs, with brown hair, and a moderate amount of intelligence, I really didn't have much to say about it. No one really gets to say much about it. A depressing thought, but I guess I was fortunate to have been born whole with as much going for me as I have. So, thankful for what I had, I rolled over to get back to sleep. The next morning I awoke somewhat refreshed, not remembering any more dreams after the one nightmare about the strange elevator ride. Feeling almost invigorated by my midnight‘s conclusions, I was ready for a great new day armed with at least a few answers for old Max. I did know who I was: just an ordinary guy with a few dreams. I had wanted to be a magician when I was a kid. So what, I wanted to marry the boss‘ daughter, too. I wanted to be like my father or like my brother and follow my dreams. But, I was also something like my mother, hard working, dedicated, and I wanted some of the good things that my hard work would allow. I was intelligent and not ashamed of it. I had achieved a reasonable amount of security and I was damn glad to have it. Sure I had a few regrets, but I knew one thing for sure. I knew who I wasn't. I was not Max Vi, not a piece of fiction or some kind of illusion. I was, at least, a real person living in a real world. My morning shower, electric shave and the drive to the office were pretty much uneventful. I decided to write down my thoughts on who I was as soon as I got into the office. If I had to wait for another six months to see this disappearing magician, and then answer his questions – I figured I better have the answers written down. Otherwise, I might just forget who I was. That kind of sounded silly, I might forget who I was. Traffic was light, so I arrived early at the office. When I got to my desk, I pulled out the pencil drawer to get out a pen and pad. A surprise was waiting for me. In my pencil drawer I found a single, freshly cut, red rose. I picked it up and inhaled its wonderful fragrance. I looked for a note, a card … but nothing. The flower had to be from Gina. Who else? However, I‘d probably never find out. The rule of thumb is that a man can never ask a girl if she anonymously gave him
flowers. Because if she did, she probably won't admit it and if she didn‘t, then she'll never forget it. It‘s a no-win situation all around. I figured to get even. One good rose deserves a dozen I always say (as if I had ever sent a dozen roses to anyone other than my mother). I picked up the phone and called a florist. Asking him to deliver a dozen red roses to her at the office and feeling quite brazen, I had them sign the card, "from your secret admirer." After all, who could it hurt? No one. If she never found out that they were from me, there was no harm to anyone. At lunchtime I saw the florist making the delivery, and even though I wanted to see Gina‘s reaction, I decided to slip out for lunch before she got them. That way, if she decided to confront me, she couldn‘t. I was such a sucker for her that I would probably give it all away with just one look. If I weren‘t there, she might not suspect that I was the one. Picking up my briefcase, I headed into the elevator, my mind a million miles away thinking about Gina. Not even remotely thinking about my strange elevator dream – deja vu – it happened. After descending a couple of floors, the elevator stopped. When the door opened, Max was standing there – just like in the dream, complete with a white tuxedo and tails. Thank God, he wasn't holding a black rabbit. I would have freaked out entirely. He stepped into the elevator and smiled saying, "Fancy meeting you here." "I didn't expect to see you for about six more months," I said, trying to pretend that I was not totally startled by this stranger-than-life specter with the amazing ability to enter into my dreams. "Well, I was just performing in the neighborhood and I thought I would come up to your office and see if you would join me for lunch," he said. Attempting to act almost cool, not awestruck as I really felt, I replied, "I think that would be great." "Terrific, I know where we can go. It will be just the place to celebrate, James," Max said, patting me on the shoulder, "Congratulations are in order." I couldn't help feeling inadequate whenever he was around. He had a way of transforming me into the little boy of my dreams. I don't know why I put up with all the clandestine mystery. In that instant, I decided that I wouldn't. "Is it really necessary?" I asked, almost thinking aloud, still feeling that he knew what I was going to say before I said it anyway. "Absolutely, James. If I know you, as well as I think I do, then you have spent the entire night figuring out who you are," he said. "Stop me if I‘m wrong. The way I figure it, anyone who is so curious as to wait six months, give up a hundred dollars and a date with a cute girl – just to be asked a question – is going to figure out the answer to the question, or spend the entire night awake trying. By the looks of you, you got a good night‘s sleep. So I must conclude that you have answered your first question."
"Well, do you want to know the answer to the question?" I asked. Then my intuition stopped me. "Wait, don't tell me. You don't have to; I already know the answer to my own question. It really isn't important that you know the answer, after all it was my question wasn't it?" I said, intuitively understanding the logic to my thought process and unable to believe that it came out of my mouth. "You really are catching on, James," Max said with a chuckle and a wink. "Well, where are we going to have lunch?" I asked. "Now that is a really good down-to earth question, and I have a good one for you. Do you like pizza?" Max asked. "You mean there is something that you don't know?" "Of course you like pizza," he said, "I was just being polite. Even a mind reader, like myself, must maintain a certain decorum in a social setting." I couldn't help thinking to myself, "I‘ve been bested again." He was simply playing the odds. Hell, everyone likes pizza. It was always as if he knew me. Full of questions, which I would feel a fool to ask, I knew that if I asked questions I wouldn't get answers. And I also knew that I would get more answers without asking any questions. But I wanted to know some things. Where did he come from? Was he real at all? Why was he really on the elevator? Was he some kind of a guardian angel – something mystical? Or were he and I both nuts? He looked real enough. If he was a hallucination, he was one hell of a hallucination. I wasn't about to broadcast my possible psychosis by insinuating that he was some kind of psychic spectacle, but I was really beginning to wonder about the possibility. We exchanged very little conversation on the way to the restaurant. He suggested that we take my car, of course. He probably didn‘t own a car; he probably never used a car, just de-materialized from one place and re-materialized in another. How else could I explain his sudden appearances and disappearances? When we walked into the pizza parlor and proceeded up to the counter, he suggested that I order first and that he would pay for both. Ha! I knew it. He didn‘t know what kind of pizza I liked. But, I wasn‘t about to ask or he would have told me. So I ordered a couple of slices of pepperoni and an orange drink. All the time, I had this eerie feeling that the person taking my order couldn‘t see the magician, because the pizza guy looked only at me when we walked up. Maybe Max was only visible to me. My suspicion was almost confirmed when the he asked, "Can I have your name please?" not even acknowledging Max‘s presence. "Carpenter, James Carpenter," I said reaching for my wallet, not sure if I were standing next to a ghost.
"No, let me get it," said Max, "I insist," making a twenty dollar bill appear out of nowhere in his hand. The man behind the counter completely missed the trick, but then he turned to Max and referring to the tux asked, "Hey, what's the occasion? Are you getting married?" At least I knew that Max was real, not just a figment of my imagination. Or if he was, at least the illusion was now shared between the pizza guy and myself. After Max finished ordering a couple of slices of combination pizza and a cola, he paid for both and we sat down. He talked. I listened. "I'm sure that you are very curious about me," he said. "Curiosity is one of man's greatest gifts, but it‘s just better I teach you a bit at a time – walk before you run, crawl before you walk. I would just like to add that you should learn to swim before you can crawl. Life is full of mysteries, James. But people need to solve their own small individual mysteries before they can move on to solve the major mysteries of the universe. "James, I have been looking for you for a long time. You first intrigued me with your keen sense of observation; you can see things which others fail to see, feel things that many others fail to feel. When you first approached me at the festival, I observed the way you analyzed the reactions of others. Thinking constantly of the current surroundings, you know where you are at any current moment, unlike most people – you live in the present, not the past or future. You noticed when I first rubbed this cloth swatch," he said pulling the cloth attached to a chain from under his collar. Then Max continued, "You noticed my beautiful wife, too – but who didn't? You realized that your billfold was gone before I told you, James. But most important and amazingly, you grasped how other people perceive life around them and what they sensed about you. You embody the capacity to cherish life‘s mystery, not having yet lost all of your innocence. "However, don't feel too special, James, you are not alone in this ability. All men and women share this ability to live in the now, at one time or another in their lives. You see, children all have it – a natural God-given ability, much like, say, swimming before you can walk. Did you know that a child is able to swim soon after he is born? Swimming is almost as natural as breathing. But if the child learns to crawl first, swimming becomes more difficult – as though there are too many distractions after the baby has discovered his newfound freedom. Learning to swim before you learn to crawl is almost effortless, easy, because there are no distractions. "If, however, you go even farther and you progress from crawling to walking without yet learning to swim – swimming becomes much more difficult, even somewhat frightening to learn. You learn many of the fears about your limitations as a human being when you learn to walk. You learn, for example, that you can‘t walk on water. "Swimming becomes extremely difficult to learn after you have learned to run, as though you‘ve completely forgotten your God-given gift and must totally relearn swimming. If you learn too many other things, then this natural birthright will become almost impossible to remember and relearn.
"But remember, nothing is impossible if you have the proper knowledge, beliefs, training and attitude. This is important James; remember it. Nothing is impossible if you have the correct knowledge, beliefs, training and attitude. It isn‘t too late for you to learn it all because of who and what you are. "You are one of the lucky few who, at your age, hasn't yet lost the ability to see life without sticking yourself into the picture. Reality becomes very clouded and foggy when a person lets his or her individual life affect their perception. Your perception is still uncluttered. When most people become who and what they are, they leave the magic behind, carrying too much emotional baggage and including too many of life‘s little prejudices. James, inside you‘re still like a child who hasn‘t yet picked up all of the misinformation we adults have to cart around. Access that child within you, and learn what you already know – to swim again, James. "I asked you to find out who you really are. You probably have a pretty clear picture. Discovering who you are is like learning to crawl, leaving behind the security blanket of an infant. No longer is suckling at your mother‘s breast enough. Now you must learn and explore possibilities. You are, in essence, defining yourself, discovering where you can go, as well as where you can‘t. This newfound mobility defines for the rest of your life, your limitations. Your very exploration creates your belief system, teaches you boundaries you cannot see beyond. That is who you are. You are a man. You are your parents' son, and you have their form, shape and color emblazoned upon you. Your choice or not – where you stand, as you stand, is who you are. "Next I ask you to discover what you are; that is: learn to walk, not as easy as learning to crawl. But, we all seem to get it after a few tumbles. Just remember, when you learn to walk, a lot of the things that you could do easily as a child may become frightening. In walking we first recognize the limitations of time and space. Deciding what you are can impose many restrictions, limits and constraints." He paused, took a drink of his soda, and wiped his lip with his napkin. "I want you to learn to crawl, walk, and soon run, never forgetting your God-given ability – to learn without constraints." Then over the loudspeaker, "Pizza for Carpenter. James Carpenter, your pizza is ready." I raised up out of my seat and turned to him. "When I get up to get the pizza are you going to disappear?" I asked, not knowing if he could answer a question straightforwardly. "James, I think that you have more to digest than just pizza, and for me to be here would only make you concentrate on more questions. Now you know the question, spend this time searching for the answer," Max replied. "Just think about what I have said for a while, discover what you are, and I'll be back soon to teach you to run." "Well, if you‘re gone when I get back, it has been a pleasure listening," I said. "You really have given me some food for thought." Even though I knew that he would be gone when I returned, I felt perfectly satisfied with our conversation. I turned back around to see if I could glimpse him walking out the door, but he was gone in an instant without any sign. He was teaching me something at last. As I picked up the
pizza I realized what his lesson was. I stopped and smelled the aroma: pepperoni, the spices, and tomatoes. It was great. I recalled what it smelled like the first time, when I was a young boy and my mother made a Chef-Boyardee Pizza for us kids. I could feel the heat radiating off the ovens, and I sensed the ambition of the fellow behind the counter. He was really hustling and overtly friendly, no doubt because he aspired to be more than a pizza pusher for the rest of his life. Almost as if I could read his mind, I sensed that he wanted to be the manager. I saw a girl, not happy with her job, taking an order next to him. Obviously, she wanted to be somewhere else doing something else. Then my awareness of the sounds, smells, and subtle sights all intensified, and I smiled because I really could feel them. Max had reached me. A chill tingled up my spine. One more bizarre thing – I was given only my pizza. The pizza guy never even called Max‘s order ready.
Chapter 7 "You Make The Choice – To Be What You Are."
A
fter quickly consuming a couple of slices of pizza and slugging down my orange soda, I
wiped the tomato sauce off my chin and headed back to work. My mind was still swimming from the intensity of Max's discussion. "What am I?" I thought that I had already answered that. I would really need to examine this question carefully since I had thought it was exactly the same as, "Who am I?" That afternoon, I pulled into the parking garage feeling very full and almost drowsy, as though I were in a fog. Somewhere in the misty corners of my mind was the answer to this riddle, but presently the solution eluded me. After I parked the car, I sat for a moment just thinking, "If who I am is that which I was given – so to speak – then what am I must include everything that I became." I didn‘t feel comfortable with the obvious answer. What I was, was more than just ol‘ James, the accountant. The answer, I knew, would take a lot of inner searching. Upon entering the elevator, I hit the button for the 25th floor and breathed a heavy sigh of submission. Maybe I‘ll figure it out later. I walked out of the elevator, past the receptionist and headed to my desk. The receptionist, glancing up, stopped me before I had traveled all the way down the hall. "James," she said, "Mr. Lee asked to have you drop by his office as soon as you returned." "Are you sure he wanted to see me?" "Oh, yes, I took the message myself," she replied.
Suddenly weak in the knees, I felt the butterflies congregate in my stomach. What did he want to see me for? I had rarely ever been called into his office, except when I messed something up. He was usually pretty reasonable, but I hated feeling like an idiot – pretty much the case whenever I screwed up. After dropping my briefcase and jacket off at my desk, I picked up a pen and yellow note pad and headed back down the hall to his office. When I reached his door I paused, took a deep breath, then addressing Mr. Lee‘s personal secretary, Molly, I said, "Tell Mr. Lee that James is here to see him." "Go right in, James," she said, "He is expecting you." Cautiously, I opened the door, ready for a royal butt-chewing session. Mr. Lee sat behind his big oak desk with his glasses pulled down low on the bridge of his nose, reading some computer spread sheet. He reminded me of Ben Franklin only with much shorter hair. Not even glancing up for a second to affirm my presence, he said, "Come on in, James, pull up a chair." He finished what he was doing, and then peered at me over his glasses. After a long pause he turned his eyes toward the window and in a commanding voice, clearing his throat he started, "Hrrmph, I have a problem and I need your help. I think that we have something we need to talk about." Then, on the credenza by the window, I spied a dozen red roses, my roses – oh my god, Gina's roses! They may have looked beautiful, but I smelled trouble. I felt unsteady, almost faint. I had done it now; he was going to fire me for sure. Then my brain kicked into high gear, "Maybe he doesn't know that I sent them." Not wanting to play out my hand just yet, I zipped my mouth shut as I reviewed my phone call to the florist very slowly, over in my mind. I‘m sure that I had sent them anonymously. Yes, I positively said to sign the card, "From a secret admirer." There was no way her father could have known that I was the culprit who sent them. Perhaps she had just placed them in her father‘s office. Maybe my visit to his office had nothing to do with the flowers. "James, do you see those flowers that are sitting behind me?" So much for that theory. Oh well, I was history. "Yes, sir. They‘re very beautiful," I said, not knowing how to respond and not yet ready to admit my defeat and beg for mercy. "Well, they weren't sent to me," he said. "That‘s why I need your help. I caught someone delivering these to Gina, my daughter. Well, I know that she is sort of a friend of yours, and I think that she kind of likes you. Isn't that right?" "Yes, we get along fine, uh, very well," I said, feeling like the mouse sitting on the trap nibbling at the cheese, any moment the spring would snap and whaaack! "Well, I haven't given them to Gina yet, because I wanted to talk to you first. You see, I don't know who sent these yet, because the chicken S.O.B., pardon my French, didn't have the guts to
sign his name. That's why I called you in here – to help me out before this thing gets out of hand. I would really appreciate it if you would find out who in the heck this "secret admirer" is. "You just don't know Gina's past history with men. The last guy that sent her flowers was a motorcycle gang member, a real bad egg. You know, sex, drugs, rock and roll. Well, not this time. I want to you to find out this creep‘s name before he gets his grimy paws on my daughter. No sir, I don't want to see her wrapped up with another useless no account bum. If you only knew what it‘s like being a father to a beautiful girl. I don't know why, but she never seems to want to get involved with anyone with a sense of responsibility. You know, someone with his head in the real world, like you and me." Dazed, I couldn‘t believe what I was hearing. Like a bad situation comedy: here was the overprotective father putting his foot in his mouth up to his knee. Luckily, I hadn‘t spilled my guts when I walked into the room; even though I would?ve loved to see the look on his face if he discovered I was the scoundrel who sent the flowers. The absurdity of it all almost made me laugh, until I realized what a truly horrible situation I was in. Somehow it lost its humor. "James," he said, "you know how much that girl means to me. I know that it isn't necessarily in your job description, but I would appreciate it if you could just ask her if she knows who sent them. Once you uncover his name I will take over and check him out from there. If he is some Colombian drug dealer or ex-convict, damn it, I want to find out!" Not knowing exactly what to do, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, thinking to myself, "Should I tell him that I was the secret admirer?" I wasn‘t a motorcycle gang member, I wasn‘t a drug dealer, ex-con or no account bum. Considering the situation, I tried to take myself out of the picture. I really didn't know much about Mr. Lee‘s relationship with Gina. I‘d just taken for granted that they were close because they saw each other so often. I really felt sorry for him now; he was so overprotective that he was making himself miserable. And what about Gina? How in the world did she ever put up with him controlling her life that way? Maybe she didn't. Possibly she dated the wrong kind of men because her father was too protective. Thinking back, however, I couldn't even remember her ever dating a motorcycle hoodlum. That did it! I was going to lay my job on the line. He was going to have to let me date his daughter or he could fire me! "Well, James?" he asked. My knee-jerk self-preservation reaction took over. "Yes, of course you can count on me," I hated myself, but I had never handled this type of situation before, and I was, well, sort of winging it. "Jim, why don't you talk to her tonight? It‘s almost two o'clock now; if you asked her to go out for a drink tonight after work she might spill her guts to you." I couldn't believe my ears. He was asking me to take Gina out.
"Well, I don't even know if she would go out with me," I said, still in minor shock and absolutely not believing this latest development. He wanted me to date her! Ha! "Oh, I'll bet that she would meet you for a drink or something like that. After all it's not like it was a date or something." "Okay, I'll give it a shot," I said. "Good," he said, standing up extending his hand to me. "Thanks a lot for helping me out, James. I'll make it worth your while." "Don't worry about it." I certainly wasn‘t worried about it being worth my while. Here I was getting him to actually sanction a date with Gina, without even asking his permission – a trick worthy of the incredible Max Vi. We shook hands, after which, I practically danced a jig back to my office cubicle. Work seemed to be extra tedious after that, with my mind repeatedly wandering to events of the previous twenty-four hours – more excitement than in the last few years combined. It was almost too much to handle. What was I going to do about Gina? And what about Max's question? What about my life? I closed my eyes attempting to concentrate. Feeling a tension headache coming on, I began to rub my forehead. My hand was joined by a much softer pair of hands slowly rubbing my temples. I opened my eyes and there stood Gina. "Do you have a headache?" she asked in a soothing and sympathetic voice. "Yes, and that feels great," I said, before it dawned on me what was happening and how it must have looked to everyone else in the office. "I'll be okay," I said , "as soon as the aspirin kicks in." Sitting up straight in my chair, taking her hands in mine, I reluctantly pulled them away from my temples. Inside I was dying. How was I going to forget about the girl I loved, knowing in my heart that she would love me too if we could just leave the rest of the world out of the picture? "Daddy said that you had something that you wanted to ask me," she said. "Oh yes, there is something that he wanted me to talk to you about," I said fumbling for words, "I need to talk to you about something personal." "What do you mean?" she asked, giving me a rather puzzled look Stumbling and groping for words, "I don't know what I mean," I said, my heart pounding. I took a deep breath and asked, "I just wondered if you would like to maybe meet me for a drink tonight after work." "Is that all? Yes, I would love to," Gina replied. "Any place special?"
"Well, I thought maybe," I said, as my mind raced searching for a place to have a drink with a beautiful girl that you want to impress, "we could meet at the ..." Before I finished, she interjected, "How about the Lake Austin Palace? Do you know it?" "Oh yes, it‘s a beautiful place," I said, knowing of its reputation as a fine restaurant, but never having actually been there. "What time do you want to pick me up for dinner?" she asked. She was so forward. I was just asking to meet for a drink and now she had me picking her up for dinner. But, it sounded okay to me! "I guess I could be ready around seven thirty, is that all right?" "That's just fine. I guess it‘s a date," she said with a smile. Guiding my career right down the drain would almost be worth planting one big wet kiss on her lips. I really wasn't that happy with my job anyway. With what was probably a very stupid grin on my face I just gulped, saying, "Okay, I guess it's a date." After a couple of "see-ya-laters" she waltzed off down the hallway and was gone. Somewhere in my state of confusion, I was lost without a road map. Things were really getting complicated. To get me out of this would take a guardian angel – although I really didn't want to get out of this one. That was the tough part. Maybe it had something to do with what Max had said at lunch. Max had a way of providing answers before I knew the questions. But what did what he said have to do with my situation? The question that he had asked was "What was I?" and I knew that he didn't mean the same thing as "Who was I?" but I was still confused. They were the same and had nothing to do with my question at hand. Mark walked up to my desk and handed me a piece of paper. "I think that you better take a look at this, James." Looking down at the paper; I turned it over front to back only to see that it was blank on both sides. "What is it?" I asked, totally confused as to why he handed me a blank sheet of paper. "It‘s your job description after Mr. Lee finds out that you and Gina are messing around," he chuckled. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Mark, but Gina and I aren't fooling around," I said. "In fact we are going out tonight as a favor to Mr. Lee." "That‘s not what it looks like to me and the gang. You may say you‘re doing the boss a favor, but it looks more like the "bossanova" to me," he said. "You know what I mean? Not that we blame you – that baby do got back!"
"That‘s pretty funny, Mark – really good toilet humor. Did you ever think about becoming a comodian? Well, I have a lot to do. You'll have to excuse me while I get back to work, or we‘ll both end up with this for a job description," I said, handing back his blank sheet of paper. "Hey, sorry if I upset you. I was only kidding around," Mark replied. "I think it‘s fine for you two to go out; you‘re perfect for each other. You‘ve been flirting with each other for the last – what – three years? I would just consider my job if I were you. But, then again, she might just be worth my job." "Yeah, thanks Mark. I‘m not upset, but I really have to get to work," I said, ending the conversation. He left and I went back to work. But, because of Mark‘s joke, I couldn't help thinking about Max Vi‘s new question: "What was I?" If you ask a person who somebody is, they will tell you the name of the person, nine times out of ten. If you ask them what they are, they will tell you what they do. In that case I guess I‘m an accountant. That's it! What you learn is what you are! I am an accountant because I know accounting principles. I learned accounting. What you are is what you learn to be. If I were a dentist, I would have learned dentistry, if I were a teacher I would have learned how to teach. That‘s what he meant. What you are is that which you choose to learn. You have the choice to be what you are. The thought made a chill shock my spine and I knew that I was on the right track. Max had said to remember that anything was possible with the correct knowledge, training, beliefs and attitudes. I had no control over who I was, but I was in control over what I was. To learn and believe whatever I wished was my choice. Just like the little boy who asked his father. I could be whatever I wanted to be. Again a chill through me, stronger this time. Unlike who I was, over which I had no choice, I could choose to learn to crawl, walk, run or swim. Well then, what was I? Was I just an accountant? I shuddered. Surely I was more than an accountant; I had learned more in my life than just GAP accounting. Really, I, like Max, was a magician, too. At least I could perform some tricks. At that moment I realized, "what" I was, was just a label. To the kid who was told not to talk with strangers, I was a stranger. He had changed the way he reacted to me, because the label he had assigned to me said that I was a stranger. We all assign labels to everyone, creating what they are. Learning what you are is only part of what you are. I knew who and what I was somehow was not so important. It is more important that I am, just the existence of me is me. I am a storage of experiences and knowledge. I am a person, a real person. There is more to me than just who and what I am. Was an accountant all that I was? No, definitely not, I had dreams, ambitions, aspirations, emotions, fears, and regrets … I had love to give … Yeah – I had regrets, all right.
The rest of the day passed rather quickly. At five o'clock I straightened my desk and was about to head out to the elevator. I had opened up my desk drawer at least a dozen times to look at the rose, which was now starting to wilt and about to lose its petals soon if it didn't get some water. Deciding to take it home with me, I was just putting it into my vest pocket when Gina walked around the corner. "Hi, James, I‘m looking forward to our date tonight," she said. "So am I," I said, feeling very good about seeing her again, "Wait a second and I'll walk you to your car." We got into the elevator and again I found myself fighting back those feelings. She stood there just a few feet from me. I could smell her perfume, Elizabeth Taylor‘s Passion. I found myself breathing too heavily, feeling a little light-headed. I wanted so much to embrace her and kiss her. Taking a step toward her, I looked into her blue eyes and said, "Gina." This was it. She looked up at me, and we both knew what was going to happen. However, nothing was going to happen. Just then the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Several people entered, talking about their jobs. The mood changed; my heart quit pounding. And though I was a little disappointed, I was almost relieved. If the elevator hadn't stopped, would I have kissed her? I quickly recovered from my light-headedness when the elevator doors opened into the garage. As I headed for my car, Gina reached out and grasped my hand, squeezing it with a giggle. "James," she smiled a sincere smile and said, "thank you for the flowers." I didn't say a word. I just stood there grinning, watching her practically skipping over to her car. As she drove past smiling like the cat that just ate the canary, she waved and honked her horn. "I really do love her," I said to myself
Chapter 8 "Life Is Full Of Happiness And Sadness Whenever Life Is Full."
A
fter a quick shower and shave, I put on my best silk blazer with a new pair of pleated slacks
and Polo shirt, better than wearing the old standby, my navy blazer and khaki slacks. Reaching for some cologne, I wondered what would be right to induce the proper mood. Then it dawned
on me. What mood? What was going to happen? I wasn‘t going to be seducing anyone! I was supposed to find out who Gina thought sent her the roses. But I already knew who she thought did – me! And I already knew who did – me! What would I say to her on this date that wasn‘t a date? Mr. Lee had already determined that it was just a get together for a drink after work. Yes, I wanted her, but I also knew that I just couldn't throw away my career. Her dad may not have me thrown out on the streets, but I was up for partnership review this year. Although I really cared about her, I knew that it was in my best interests to not see her again; we would have to just be friends. I‘d just have to tell her we were only friends. That was that. I reiterated this plan over and over to myself, all the way out the door, into the car, and driving to her house. However, when she opened her door my mental train derailed and suddenly I forgot all about my terrific non-involvement plan. She was lovelier than I had ever imagined possible. Wearing a back-less black satin dress, her golden hair was pulled up revealing her soft neckline wrapped by a single strand of pearls. She looked and smelled of sweet seduction. I had never seen her wearing anything like this and I liked it. I liked it a lot. She smiled, turned a circle holding the dress out to her side like a dancer, saying, "Hi there, sailor, new in town?" My eyes must have been popping out of my head and my mouth gaping open. It was obvious that I‘d never seen her looking like this before. All that I could muster was a long pause and a, "Hi." She took hold of my hand and stepped out of the doorway, pulling the door shut behind her. "You look and smell marvelous, James. I don't know if I want to go eat dinner or you," she said with a chuckle. Then she laughed and added, "Oh, I didn't mean for that to come out the way it sounded. I just mean that you look great." Obviously I had picked the right cologne. "You look absolutely stunning," I said, at last able to complete a full thought without rambling. "Thank you, James. And I want you to know that I think that you are the most handsome man that I have ever met," she said. "Of course, I've never met Mel Gibson, Tom Cruise, or even Mel Brooks, for that matter." I was glad to see that she still maintained a sense of humor even while she looked ravishing. We both laughed and I opened the car door for her. I was kind of quiet, even for me. At a loss for words on the drive to the restaurant, I felt kind of awkward. I kept thinking things like: I should have washed the car, and did I remember to brush my teeth? I found myself even wondering if my socks matched. "James, you sure are quiet. Don't be so shy. I‘m still just me, Gina. I‘m the same person who wears blue jeans and a T-shirt that you always tease at work," she said.
"I'm sorry, I do seem a little nervous, I guess. I don't know why," I evaded, more than just a little nervous. Usually I didn‘t get this nervous on dates, but I knew that Gina and I really had potential and I didn‘t want to blow it. "Well, don't be nervous. I won't bite you – yet," she said, as she pushed up the armrest and scooted across the seat. Then reaching over, she lifted up my arm around her shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. That helped relax me a bit – a lot. With a surge of confidence from her actions, I said, "Thanks, I needed that." I squeezed her shoulders in close to me. She smiled. Fantastic. Maybe I need to relax, keep my thoughts in the present, not concentrating so much upon the past or future. My thoughts were graced with a tingle up my spine and I knew it was the right thing to do. We pulled up to the Palace, probably the most chic and ostentatious place in Austin. Just the drive up into the long circular driveway, around the flowing fountains, past the Rolls and Lamborginis to get to valet parking, was an experience for most. If you weren't a state legislator or senator, you normally would have to wait a week to get a reservation. Luck must have been on my side or I wouldn't have succeeded with such little notice. We approached the uniformed doorman and exchanged good evenings. He opened the doors as if he were presenting royalty. When we entered, I understood why. The restaurant was extremely elegant. Huge windows overlooked the lake; grand crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling; each table sported a complete service of fine china and crystal glasses in place. All were covered with starched white linen tablecloths, adorned with a different colorful floral centerpiece, and came complete with a smiling waiter in a tuxedo, attached. A large flowing fountain centered it all, and beyond, the rear windows overlooked the valley with a grandiose view of the lake and the city in the distance. A string quartet was softly playing chamber music in the corner. The scent of the flowers filled the whole restaurant. Our arrangement, coincidentally, was a bouquet of four dozen red roses. "Oh, James, isn't this just beautiful?" Gina said as the maitre d' showed us to our table. We did, indeed, have one of the best tables with a beautiful view of the city. "I had heard so many good things about this place, but it‘s more elegant than I ever imagined. Thank you again for bringing me," Gina said. We then exchanged some more small talk concerning the ambiance of the restaurant. I was almost afraid that we'd run out of conversation, but the waiter was soon there and I took the privilege of ordering the wine. Gina was somewhat impressed by my expertise. Fortunately, I had prepared myself for just such an occasion, years ago, by attending an adult education class on fine wine tasting. But I had almost never used the knowledge that I had gained from it and up until that moment thought that it was a waste of sixty bucks. The nearest to ordering a fine wine for me was a trip to the Ale House to pick from the ninety-eight different varieties of beer. At the time I took the class I hoped to meet someone like Gina. Who would have thought that it would have taken this long to have the opportunity to order a decent bottle of wine?
I completed all the proper moves, viewing the label, sniffing the cork, trilling the wine, and finally the ubiquitous approval. With all of the formalities that go with such a high class culinary excursion out of the way, Gina spoke up, "James, I want to know more about you. Tell me about yourself." "Well," I said, wondering if my life would ever be the same after tonight, "I don't really know where to start, or what to say." "You can start by telling me about your past, I guess. You know that I don't really know much about it, after our one date in high school." "Well, after high school I went to school at the University of Texas, where I studied accounting..." "I am not asking for a resume, James; I want to know about you," she said. "Tell me about your family. Let's talk about your dreams and aspirations. Tell me about where you want to be in ten years. Tell me who you really are. What do you want to be when you grow up?" "And to think that for a few moments I thought we weren't going to have anything to talk about," I said laughing, practically overwhelmed by all of the questions. At the same time I couldn't help being pleasantly awed by the coincidental nature of being asked, who I was and what I wanted to be. It was great to see that Gina truly did have an interest in me, the real me. But something inside of me still held back. I wanted to talk to her about the inner me, about my recent experiences with Max, and how it had reawakened my dreams of being a magician. I wanted to tell her about my feelings, that I was missing something in my life, and how I wasn‘t really fulfilled at work. But, I didn‘t want to freak her out with the stuff about Max. And I‘m sure it wouldn‘t have been the greatest career move to tell the boss‘ daughter that I couldn‘t stand my job. So, I took a more conservative approach. "I‘m just a normal guy: I like sports; I drink beer. But I guess that I‘m not stereotypical because I like to go to the theater and the symphony too. I really like a lot of different things," I said, knowing that it probably sounded wimpy and boring. I apologized, "I‘m sorry, it just seems so hard to start off talking about myself." "Well then, tell me about your family, I don‘t remember if you have any brothers and sisters," she said. "I want to know what I‘m getting into here." "Well, for starters, I guess I can tell you that I have a younger brother, Carl. He hates when I call him my little brother. He is a twenty-five-year-old struggling actor out in Hollywood who actually believes he‘s the good-looking one. Carl has never really made the big time, but he‘s done a couple of commercials. He‘s always doing some kind of play or something, waiting tables on the side to keep afloat. However, he recently landed a part in a TV series, which he says should make him a household name. Who knows? Maybe I‘ll have a famous brother some day. You would like him; he‘s a real nut at times. He‘s a ham, just like my father..." I paused, trying to recall if I had ever told her that my father was deceased.
"What‘s your father like?" she asked. "My father died when I was in my early teens, of cardiac arrest. It was rather unexpected." "I'm very sorry. I forgot," she said, but rather than dwell on a possible faux pas she pushed forward. "I don't know what I would do if it weren't for my father. He‘s the greatest. What about your mother?" "Oh yes, Mom is still very much alive. She lives in Houston, so I visit her about once or twice a month. Every time I do she says the same thing, too. ?Are you married yet?‘" I said and laughed, hoping that I wasn't making any improper insinuations. "Tell me, why isn't a catch like you married?" Gina asked. So much for my insinuations. "I guess that no one will have me," I answered. "At least that‘s what I tell my mother." Gina leaned forward and asked, "What is the real reason? You aren‘t one of these guys that is afraid of commitment, are you?" "Oh, no, I am looking to be committed. Ha, ha. That really sounded stupid. Well, what I meant to say is that sometimes I think that maybe I‘m not really happy with myself. I‘ve had a couple of relationships, but they just didn‘t seem to work out. How can you be happy with someone else if you haven't got it together for yourself?" Gina answered, "You could let the other person help you get yourself together; I think marriage is all about sharing the good and bad. Too many people wait for life to be perfect before they start to enjoy it. At least that‘s what I believe," she said. "Besides, you really seem to have it all together. You have a great job. You have great looks. You have a great sense of humor." "Funny, I tell myself the same thing," I said. "But, somehow I feel that I‘m missing something." "What?" she asked, leaning forward. About to answer her, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a person approaching the table wearing a white tuxedo. Before I could look up, he spoke and I immediately recognized his voice. Once again I was slipping into the Twilight Zone. Every time he showed up, my world became more unreal. "Good evening, madam and sir. Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am the amazing, astounding, and incredible Maximillion Vi. However, you can call me Amazing for short or Max for shorter. I am the house magician this evening. Perhaps you would like to see a little bit of legerdemain, or a paltry amount of prestidigitation, or a conundrum of conjuring. If not, then how about a few magic tricks while you wait for your dinner to arrive?" Max turned his head just enough in my direction to give me a wink without Gina seeing, to remind me that while he was performing I was not to reveal that I knew who he was.
I thought to myself, "Who he was indeed!" This was not just a mere coincidence. I might as well just sit back and enjoy. I was just along for the ride now. "Well, Gina, would you like to see some magic?" I asked. "You know I love magic. Of course I would," Gina replied. For the next few minutes he did some of the most incredible illusions and had us laughing all the while he performed. "Do you like card tricks?" Max asked. "I love them," Gina replied. "Well, I wish that I knew one," Max replied. "Then we would both be happy. I suppose I could make up a card trick if I had a deck of cards." "If you‘re really a magician, just make them appear," Gina challenged. I had to agree. But I knew he was too good for that. Max would not have brought cards up at all if he were not prepared in the first place. "Don't you have any cards I could borrow?" Max asked, directing his question to Gina. "No," Gina replied. "Look in your purse just to make sure," he said. Pulling her purse into her lap, she opened it up. Lo and behold! Inside was a deck of cards with a sticky, yellow, Post-it note stuck to it. The note read: "If I were really a magician, I would make them appear in your purse." Both Gina and I were astounded. Max proceeded to do some card tricks, each more astounding than the last. After the cards had vanished, he made some little red sponges appear and disappear in Gina's hand. He made coins appear and vanish right in front of our eyes and eventually they passed one at a time through the table and into a goblet which he held under the tablecloth. He ended by pulling a small black and white rabbit out of his top hat. I was still glad it wasn‘t the solid black rabbit from my dream. Somehow this bunny seemed more physical and less metaphysical. A good thing since I was trying to get a grip somewhere on the reality of the evening. Not an easy task, the way things were shaping up. "Magic is like life. It‘s simply what you make of it. Some people choose to see distasteful deception while others see awe-inspiring illusion. Still there are those, like James, who see magic and life for what they really are," Max stated directly to me. "What are they really?" Gina asked of Max.
She wouldn't get a straight answer. But I was as anxious as she was to hear what he would say. Even though she was the one asking the questions, I knew that he was really talking to me. "What are they, you ask?" said Max. "Amazing!" "That's not much of an answer," Gina said. "I guess that depends on how really amazing magic and life are, don't you think?" Max asked with a smile and a wink in my general direction. I could read volumes into what he had said, but now I wondered if I was reading too much into everything. Maybe I was giving more credit to what was happening with him than I should. After all, his tricks were just that, tricks that I had seen other magicians perform in other restaurants. I even knew how he did some of them. A few were very similar to those I‘d seen in my handbook and I could probably perform them myself with a little bit of practice and training. Yet, I didn't know how Max got the deck of cards into Gina's purse without my seeing. That was impossible – that one had me stumped. He then placed his hands out in front of us, cupping his empty palms together. "Allow me to look into the future for this evening." When he opened his hands he revealed a small crystal ball that now filled them. "Look at that, James," Gina said. "Okay, magician, tell us our future." If anyone could foresee the future, it was Max, and I was not about to interrupt. I just sat quietly and watched, trying not to put myself into the picture, rather, thinking how marvelous this evening was. Without prejudicing my view (by including all of my own doubts and questions), the events surrounding me did appear really astounding – a significant moment of my life. Gina, Max, the flowers, the fountain, the lake, everything – life had created a beautiful illusion for me. "Oh crystal ball, I wish to see into the future of James and Gina," Max said as he gazed into the crystal. "Reveal unto me – the future that you see ... I see both of your futures are becoming very intertwined. Fate will play its hand tonight, changing both of your lives, forever." "Will we live happily ever after?" Gina asked. "The path to true happiness is a trail blazed by your own heart. Happiness is up to you," he replied. "What about sadness, will there be any sadness?" Gina asked. "I know it sounds trite, but without sadness how would you know how to appreciate your own happiness?" Max Vi replied. "How can you even begin to feel alive if you‘ve never felt real sadness? Life is full of happiness and sadness – whenever life is full."
"Sounds like pretty standard stuff to me," I said. "You know, I expected some better, more welldefined predictions, from one such as the Amazing Max Vi." After saying it, I realized I must have sounded cocky without really meaning to. "No one can really predict another person‘s future," he said, giving me a rather harsh look and tone of voice. "But, you can influence it. You can change it. Sometimes you can create it. If you don?t create your own future, someone else, or something else, will create it for you. Remember, Jim and Gina, the difference is not in the path that one takes, but the trail that one makes." Gina – like my protector – chimed in, feeling that the conversation was getting tense. "Amazing? That is what you said to call you, isn't it?" she asked. Max smiled and said, "You can call me anything you like, any time you want." "How do you do such magical things?" she asked. "A magician never tells his secrets, right?" I responded before Max had to. Then Max continued, "Just if you ask him how; the trick to getting the secret is to ask why?" "Well then why?" Gina asked. "Let Jim tell you why," Max replied. "He knows." "I've just barely figured out what," I said and we all laughed. Only Max and I really understood, but it still sounded kind of funny. "I‘m glad to hear that," Max replied, "It means it‘s time for you to work on why." Then the waiter appeared at his side with the table tray. "I'm sorry, but the time has come for dinner to be served and for me to vanish. Thank you both very much, you have been a perfect audience. And I might add that you make a perfect couple." With that he winked, turned, and walked out of view. As the waiter set the entrées on the table, Gina looked at me questioning, "Is that the magician from the Festival? The one that you know? I know it is. Aren't you going to give the man a tip?" "Oh yes, thank you, I nearly forgot didn't I?" I reached quickly into my wallet and pulled out a ten-spot as I called over a waiter. "Would you please give this to the magician?" "Excuse me?" responded the waiter. I repeated, "I would like to give this tip to your house magician." "Do you mean the quartet?" the waiter replied.
"No, not musician, I meant the magician," I explained. "You know, the man performing magic tricks at the tables, wearing the white tuxedo." "Sir, I beg your pardon, but we do not employ any magicians. If there was a magician at your table, well, he was not employed by the restaurant," he said. Gina remarked, "That is so strange, isn‘t it?" "It‘s more strange than you can imagine," I said. "What do you mean?" "I believe that it was no coincidence he was here tonight," I said, looking at Gina, wondering if I should tell her the whole story and just how she would take it. "Something really strange is going on here," I added. "Well, I don't know how, but you're on to me," she said almost boasting. "I admit it; I did it. I knew you liked magic, so when I saw this magician performing last week at another restaurant, I thought that it would be nice for our first date if he came here and performed for us. I offered to pay him fifty dollars, but when I mentioned your name, he said that he would do it for free. That‘s why I thought you should tip him." "You? You did? Wait a minute! You said that you saw him last week. I didn't ask you out until today," I said. "Oh my gosh, that‘s right. Well, I guess that I have a huge confession to make," she said, looking up into the air as if to ask for divine guidance. "This date was not really your idea; it was mine. I made it all happen. Just as the magician said, I created it." "What do you mean?" I asked, suspecting that I wasn‘t the one in control from the very start. After all, all that I had intended to do was just ask her out for a drink. Look what it had turned into. Gina answered, "I have been waiting for a long time for you to ask me out. At first I thought that you had someone else, then I thought maybe you went gay. But, I know you‘re not, and I know you like me. I‘ve even tried asking you to ask me out, but you never do. Like when I asked you if you were going to the festival. Finally, I decided that I would just have to get up the nerve and ask you instead," she said. "So this morning, I gave you that one red rose, and I was going to ask you if you got anything special. Then I was going to say that we could celebrate your having a secret admirer by going out. We would come here for dinner and sit at this table with the red roses. When you made the reservations, you didn‘t know that I‘d already made them under your name. "Anyway, my plan changed a little, when, while you were out to lunch, I received a dozen roses – I sure hope that they were from you. It was Daddy that actually came up with the real plan. After I told him that you sent me a dozen roses, he suggested that he should call you into the
office for a little chat. He said that he would pretend that he was mad and that you should help him find out who sent the flowers. And of course the best way would be to take me out for a drink. Now you know why Daddy and I get along so well. He‘s devious, just like me." "You mean that your father knew about this all along?" I said laughing out loud. "I thought that I was being so cool in his office. He was great. He was really great! I have to hand it to him. I especially liked the part about the Colombian drug dealer." She gave me a questioning look. "Never mind," I said. "But I thought he really wouldn't let anyone who works for him date you. Mark even showed me the memo." "Oh, no, you heard that? Serves me right, I guess … I was the one who made up that rule," Gina said. "That was just so I wouldn't be hit on by every Tom, Dick and Harry with an accounting degree and lead in his pencil. But you‘re different from the rest; you're the exception. I kept wanting you to ask me out, but you wouldn't," she said, her lips pouting. "I think that you‘re about the most cunning, calculating individual I‘ve ever met," I said, shaking my head in disbelief. "Let me restate that. You are the most beautiful, calculating individual that I have ever met. This will have to go down as the strangest date of all time. Maybe even the best date of all time." "Well, maybe the second best?" she said reaching into her purse. "Here I brought something to show you." Out of her purse, she shyly pulled a small silver-framed photograph, which she glanced at briefly and smiled. When she turned the frame for me to see, I couldn‘t help chuckling just a little at the two awkward teenagers, frozen for posterity on the Kodak paper. There we were: Gina in her frilly, white, southern-belle gown complete with hoop skirt and parasol, me in my rented gray tuxedo with tails and ruffled shirt, both surrounded by an imitation starlit night – a hundred cardboard stars, covered with tin foil, hanging on strings. "Wow, this is amazing, I‘ve never seen this before." "You probably don‘t remember, but when we ordered them we had them both sent to me. Well, I promised back then that I‘d give one to you on our next date. Since you never called me, I just held on to it. Eventually it went into my keepsake box. Yesterday, my Mom and I were talking and she remembered it, so I went rummaging through my memorabilia, and well, here it is. That‘s for you to keep, James. It has taken awhile, but I guess I kept my promise." "Thank you, Gina," I said, "This is really terrific! I don‘t really know what to say." "Well, you could tell me why on earth you never called me," she said punching me softly on the shoulder in jest. "I am beginning to wonder that myself," I said, cradling the photo carefully for one last look before placing it into my jacket pocket.
Gina paused, waiting for more of an answer, "Well?" "I don‘t know, maybe I was shy … maybe I was just afraid that you didn‘t really like me," I said. "Why?" Gina asked, "I was nuts about you." "Well, the one thing that I can remember is that when we said goodbye I was going to kiss you goodnight and instead you stuck out your hand for the old handshake." "Oh, that," Gina lamented, "I can explain that. It wasn‘t anything to do with you. It was because of my father. When you and I were on the front porch saying goodnight, I could see Daddy peeking out the living room window," she laughed. "He always told me that good girls don‘t kiss on the first date. I was afraid that he would embarrass me something awful and I didn‘t want you to see him either, James. I had the biggest crush on you. I didn‘t know what to do, so I shook your hand. When you didn‘t ever call me after that night, I must admit that I was pretty devastated." "That was a long time ago, wasn‘t it? I can‘t believe I didn‘t call you either, I‘m sorry," I said, "but, we‘re here tonight." "Well, I‘ll tell you one thing," Gina said taking my hand across the table, "I did make Daddy promise that he wouldn‘t be peeking out the window tonight." "You‘re too much," I said and we both laughed. The rest of dinner was fantastic. We had waiters making a fuss over us as we made a fuss over each other. The conversation covered everything from high school days, both of our ambitions and dreams, to Daddy's golf game. Gina was everything that I had ever imagined, exciting, loving, smart, caring and fun. She was amazing. Why did I wait so long? After all the flirting, kidding, and joking back and forth – after years of denial – it was self-evident, I loved her then and I loved her now. When the time came to call it a night, I knew where I wanted this evening to go. That kiss, the one I had planned on the elevator for a year, was going to finally materialize and I was going to reveal my true feelings. As we walked out of the restaurant, wrapped arm in arm, looking up to a genuinely beautiful starlit night, listening to the sounds of the gushing fountains, it all came to a crashing halt. The next few seconds passed in slow motion. Walking over to the valet, handing him my ticket, I heard the screech of braking tires. Turning quickly to the sound, I saw a car jump the curb and the doorman leaping out of harm's way. The skidding Mercedes glanced off the key booth, sideswiping the concrete columns at the entry making a loud, grinding clash. It missed my torso, but my arm slammed into the side mirror as the car passed, ripping my coat from my shoulder and flinging the framed photo out into the street where it shattered on impact. Gina, however, was standing directly in front of the car. It‘s
bumper smashed into Gina's legs which buckled from under her. Gina‘s body flew across the hood of the car. Her head and body came to a crushing stop, smashing against the car's windshield. I grabbed my right arm, soaked with blood where the mirror had torn my jacket, and sprinted to the car where Gina lay motionless on the hood. Her legs were twisted under her body, obviously broken. She bled from the back of her head, which now made a circular indentation into the shattered safety glass. Searching desperately for something to stop the bleeding, I yanked at my coat to take it off only to find my sleeve impaled into the gash in my arm. When I tugged the material, I felt a tremendous pain. I yelled in pain, "Agghh," as I ripped off the sleeve caught in my own muscle tissue. The pain was immense, but taking a deep breath I proceeded to pull the jacket free, screaming at the doorman through my clenched teeth, "Call an ambulance!" The driver, a woman, cut across the chest and face, stumbled out of the car, toward me. Crying hysterically she sobbed, "Oh, my God. Oh my God!" I felt faint, knowing I was about to black out. I tried to pull the glass away from Gina's head without moving her body, pressing my jacket up against the wound in the back of her neck. It was then that I realized that she was not breathing. Everything seemed to be caving in. My vision narrowed as if I were viewing the situation through a closing tunnel. I blacked out.
Chapter 9 "If You Don’t Create Your Own Future – Someone Or Something Else Will Create It For You."
T
he awful smell of ammonia slapped me in the face. I opened my eyes, shaking my head
from the pungency, and tried to focus. Almost a lost cause, but then my thinking cleared a little. An Emergency Medical Team member was waving something in front of my eyes and nose, something to wake me up and clear my head. "I'm awake. What happened? Where am I?" I asked, still in a daze, but slowly realizing what was going on. My eyes began to focus as my head cleared. Apparently, I had been out cold for more than a few minutes. The EMT‘s had already bandaged my arm and now worked, bent over the hood of the car where Gina's body lay in a pool of her own blood. "We‘re ready to lift this one, Mike," said one of men who was bending over the hood of the car, yelling to the man standing above me.
"Okay, you just sit tight here for a second," he said to me, giving me a pat on the shoulder. He then, in one continuous motion, stood and hurried over to the front of the car. They lifted Gina's rag-doll body from the hood on to a stretcher making sure not to move her spine. One of them came back over to me. Tears automatically filled my eyes, "Is she alive?" "She's still alive," assured the EMS man, named Mike. "We'll do everything that we can. Right now we need to transport all three of you to trauma at St. David‘s. Can you walk?" "Yeah, I think so," I said, wincing from the pain as I tried to use my arm to help me stand. "Careful, here let me give you a hand," Mike said as he pulled me up by the uninjured arm. "Is the lady … is she your wife?" "No, she‘s not," I said, trying to hold back my tears. Escorting me to the front seat of the ambulance, he said, "Why don't you ride over in the front. I'm sorry, but we need all the room to work in the back. Come on." Painfully slow, I walked over to the cab of the ambulance, stepping over what was left of my torn and bloody silk jacket and the smashed photo that lay in the street. Sitting down inside the ambulance, I stared through the small window into the back where Gina lay motionless. Why? I began to cry as I feared that I might lose her forever. She was slipping away from me before I had a chance to say I love you. "Why did it have to happen? Just when I thought that I was going to be happy, they take it all away." The driver jumped in and turned on the siren, pulling out into the traffic. I turned in the seat so that I could see through the window without turning my head. The EMT‘s worked frantically on Gina. By now she had tubes stuck into her veins, an oxygen mask on her face, and her beautiful dress was cut off of her shoulders. But Gina was still motionless except for the violent jerks of her head and body as they performed CPR. One of the men shook his head then took out a syringe plunging it into her left arm. By the looks of things, I could tell that she was near death. We pulled up to the Emergency Trauma Ward entrance where two doctors, several nurses, and orderlies were waiting. Like a well-placed guard, one of the nurses stepped in front of me cutting me off from reaching the stretcher, which held Gina as they whisked her away. Finally inside, I was approached rapidly by a nurse with a pen and a clipboard in her hands. "Are you the next of kin?" asked the nurse. "No, I am just her boyfriend," I said. "Do you know how we can reach the next of kin?" she asked, writing as she spoke.
"Yes, I work for her father. I can give you his number," I said relating all of the information that I could, after which she asked me to sit in the waiting room and said she would have a doctor see me shortly. I remarked that I was fine and that I just needed to know that Gina was all right. "You're not as fine as you think," she replied. "We need to get someone to set your arm." That was the first time I noticed my broken arm. "No wonder it hurts so much," I said to myself as I limped my way toward a nearby sofa occupied on one end by a Hispanic woman crossing herself and praying. Leaning back, I rested my feet up on the coffee table, trying to get comfortable. It wasn‘t working; my head and arm, both throbbing torturously, hurt way too much. What was actually only ten minutes passed by like an eternity. A nurse finally approached me; I was half sleeping, half trying not to pass out, with my eyes half-closed. Evidently assuming I was asleep, the nurse touched my shoulder and spoke very softly to me. "Mr. Carpenter, the doctor will see you now," she said. "What about Gina?" I asked, grimacing slightly from the pain, letting out a guttural groan as I did. My heart sank. My bottom lip began to quiver, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear what they were going to tell me. My fear – that they would tell me she was dead. "Maybe the doctor can tell you about her condition when you talk with him," she replied. I really didn't expect her to know what was happening anyway. But I would be damn glad to finally get in to see a doctor. The nurse led me into a sterile room and had me sit on one of those cold steel examination tables covered with paper. She then took my blood pressure and pulse, asked me a few questions about dizziness and nausea, wrote a few notes into my file and then trotted out the door, completely emotionless the entire time. I was expecting a long wait, but the doctor appeared almost as soon as the nurse had shut the door. "Hello, James, I‘m Dr. Zenner. I‘m going to have to pull that bandage off and take a look at your arm. First let me..." "What about Gina? Is she going to be all right?" I asked in a state of panic, biting down on my lip (a bad habit which surfaced whenever I was under stress). If he didn't give me an answer, I just knew it was because Gina had died and since I wasn't a relative, I was not notified. "Which one was Gina?" he asked. "The girl brought in with me … in the black dress," I said, nearly panicked. Realizing too late that, by the time the doctor examined her, the dress was probably removed and, anyway, what she looked like was far from his mind. "I'm not sure, just calm down, both women are alive. Was she the one driving the car or the pedestrian?"
"She was the one hit," I said and tears rushed down my cheeks. I was not crying; I just couldn't stand it any more. "Just tell me, is she going to be all right?" "James, she is receiving our best possible care. She is listed critical right now. That means that she has suffered life-threatening injuries. She has had a severe head trauma and has not yet regained consciousness. Both of her legs are broken, she has severe lacerations about her neck, and she has lost a large amount of blood. The best advice I can give you is to pray and wait." I hadn't realized that during our conversation the doctor had removed part of the bandage and was giving me a localized anesthetic. After re-bandaging he walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a couple bottles of pills. "I‘ll assume that you are going to be staying in the waiting room for a while. These pills will help with the pain, but no driving while you‘re taking them. Take two every couple of hours," he said as he gave me a paper cup full of water and two pills. I didn't know if they were pain pills, or tranquilizers, or what, but at that point I hurt too much to care. "The nurse will wheel you down to X-ray now and we'll get a picture of the break in your arm, so that we can set and cast it. And try not to worry, I'll keep you posted on the Lee girl's condition, just as soon as I return." With that he scratched a few more notes in my file and left. In the quiet I sat there, the only sound was the rustling of the paper that covered the cold metal table I was sitting on. It‘s just an illusion, I thought. It‘s got to be just an illusion. The nurse entered a few minutes after that. Beginning to feel light-headed and nauseated again after I had taken the pills, I guessed that they were starting to have an effect. Calmly, the nurse asked me to accompany her to X-ray. However, when I proceeded to get down off of the table and stand, my legs collapsed under me. My vision went spinning and then dark. I was out again, like a light. Next thing I remembered, I could feel the cool soft sheets against my skin and the pillow under my head. The air had that very recognizable hospital smell. I felt a little dizzy and drowsy, like the feeling that you get when you fall asleep on a late night road trip trying to stay awake to keep the driver company. I felt the need to be awake and I attempted to sit up – disoriented. But still, somehow I figured out that I was lying in a hospital bed in the dark. When I tried to move, I realized that my right arm was very heavy. I couldn't bend it. Then it all started to come back to me; I had broken my arm and it was in a cast. The room was void of light. I had no idea what time it was, what day it was; I could barely remember who I was...what I was. There in the dark silence I remembered. "Gina," I said aloud and sat up in the bed. What about Gina? I reached around groggily to find a light or the nurse‘s call button. Then a voice out of the darkness, I recognized. Soothing to my ears, commanding and calming, it was the voice of Max Vi. "James, she's going to be all right," he said. Peering into the black void, I squinted my eyes. I could almost see him standing in front of me in the darkness. Then the lights flashed on, the brightness hurting my eyes. Not Max, but rather, a
nurse was there to take my blood pressure. "Yes, we could use a little light," she said. Then she took my vital signs silently and recorded them on the chart. "You just get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning," she said, clicking the lights back out. Too tired to comment further, I shut my eyes once again. My head spinning in a fog, I drifted slowly off to sleep. Dreaming again, Christmas Day 1968, and we are just finishing opening the presents. I see my father sitting in his Lazy Boy recliner, his feet propped up on the simulatedmarble coffee table, Kodak Instamatic in hand. Everyone is so happy, the best Christmas morning I remember. The music on the reel-to-reel is playing Elvis Presley‘s "Blue Christmas" – the joyful scent of the Christmas ham baking fills my every breath. Carl has already made quick work of his gift wrapping, the remains of which now blanket the room like remnants of an early morning snowball fight. Carl cheers, "Look Daddy!" getting exactly what he wanted, a "Robotron," a remote-controlled robot that goes forward and backward with hands that change to missiles firing ten feet at the touch of a button. Why he wanted that, I hadn‘t a clue. Still, he is pleased as punch to run it back and forth over the tiled kitchen floor. Still wrapped in its red foil wrapping, my big present is sitting on the coffee table. The label says: "To Jimmy, From Happy Papa." I tear at the paper with a vengeance to reveal that my dream had come true also. Inside I find the Blackstone Jr. Magic Set, my first real new magic kit. Having seen a commercial on TV, I begged my father to get one for me – seventeen tricks guaranteed to amaze your family and friends. "You are going to have to give us a show after dinner," says my father, peeling one of the oversized navel oranges which Santa always left in our stockings. "Say thank you to Happy Papa," says Mother. "Thanks, Papa," I reply and I run over to him, giving him a hug – so real I can feel the rough tickling of the wool on his sweater. Then just as dreams always change, without any foreshadowing at all, we‘re suddenly sitting at the dining table. Mom brings out the main course, making a big production number just as she always had before Dad died. "Presenting the star of the dinner, ta dah! You think I‘m a ham, this is a ham!" she exclaims. She was so much happier, so full of life when father was alive. Dad stands up; he picks up my plate to serve me a slice of ham. Fear and pain come over his face, a look that I‘d never seen from him before. Dropping the plate back down to the table with a clank, he bends over grabbing his abdomen in pain. Carl and I both look quickly over to Mom for some kind of reassurance. "Are you all right, dear?" asks my mother, almost nonchalantly. "Sure, it‘s just some extra acid, nothing a few Rolaids won't fix. Don't worry yourself," says Father.
Now the dream shifts time and place again. Now I am sitting in the hospital waiting room again. In my lap is my talent show trophy. My mother is seated across the hall from me. Carl, still just a little boy, is on her lap, eyes closed, mouth open, sitting upright but asleep. "Mrs. Carpenter," says the doctor as he enters into the waiting room. "Yes," replies my mother, as she stands up, carefully laying my brother back down onto the couch. Mom and the doctor walk across the cold gray room to the other side. I don't take my eyes off the doctor‘s mouth. Not actually hearing him, I can read his lips and make out the words he is saying perfectly, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carpenter." "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carpenter," he says. "What about the show?" I shout, jumping out of my seat, the words echoing over and over. The trophy falls from my hand slamming against the hardwood floor, breaking into pieces. "She is dead," my mother says crying, my dream confusing the two realities. "No, she can't die. I love her. We have to do a show for Papa," I explain. "We have to do a magic show for Happy Papa!" "There aren't going to be any more magic shows," she says. "There is no more magic." With that I opened my eyes. There, wearing his white tuxedo, sitting calmly at the foot of my bed, was Max. Not yet noticing that I was awake, in his hand he was holding the chain he generally wore around his neck, rubbing the small white cloth nonchalantly between his thumb and forefinger. Having turned on the small lamp on the table next to him, he was quietly reading a magazine. When he heard me stirring he stood up, turned, and set the magazine down. "Are you awake?" he asked. "What are you doing here?" "I figured that you could use a guardian angel about now?" "I knew it. And am I glad to see you," I said. "Tell me, will Gina, will she be all right?" "Jim, no one can predict the future," Max said. "You can. I know you can," I said, knowing that he could, but refused to tell me.
"I can tell you that whatever happens has a purpose," Max said, "The purpose is to help you to discover your why. Whenever an individual is ready to discover the why to his existence, he suddenly is given an opportunity. Usually that opportunity is in the shape of a tragedy or challenge. If she needs to die in your world for you to discover why, then she will die." "But, I don't get it," I said. "I just don't understand, why?" "Jim?" he asked. "Why are you alive? What is your reason for being? You can't go through your life just existing. You have to have a passion. You have to know what drives your vitality. This is how you will learn to run. Jim, you need to discover your reason to live – why you are, who and what you are." "Don't you understand? It‘s Gina," I said. "She‘s my reason to live. With her I can have meaning in my life." Maybe because I was so tired or had been through so much, whatever reason, tears flowed down my cheeks. "James, we all have a reason for being, it‘s similar to a contract which we make with ourselves before we enter this life. Life is the struggle to meet the terms and conditions of that contract with yourself. There are two ways to complete this contract. The first way is when we have completely fulfilled our obligations to ourselves the contract simply ends. The second is when, because of circumstances beyond our control, occasionally we are unable to fulfill our obligation. Then life steps in and lets you start over. The forces in charge of life always take the necessary steps to meet their end of the bargain. Understand that this includes creating any necessary tests, trials and tribulations. "If your reason to live dies, you will die, too," Max said, now standing at my side. "But, if you go on living, then whoever or whatever died was not really your reason for living after all." I was tired; I felt so sleepy; I wanted to sleep. Max then reaches over and takes hold of my left hand, which is not in a cast. "Here Jim, I want you to have this." He places the silver chain with the pinned piece of white cloth into my hand, closing my hand tightly around it. "This piece of cloth is all the magic you will ever need to bring Gina back. If you believe in its magic, you can know how. But you must first find your why for being. Without understanding your why you will never know how. There is no how to life‘s magic if you don‘t understand who you are, what you are, and most importantly why you are." The room is becoming foggy. Somewhere in the fog, Max fades into nothingness. Clenching my fist over the necklace, I realize I‘m asleep. The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to a sun-filled room. The brightness of the sun shown through the sheers, the drapes now pulled back by a nurse who had awakened me. Feeling
something in my hand, I looked to see if it was there; but I was not holding the necklace – only the corner of the sheet. It must‘ve been a dream. "Good morning, Mr. Carpenter," said the nurse. "How are we doing this morning?" This nurse was someone that I didn‘t recognize. I felt a little bit groggy, but not so much that I didn‘t remember the night‘s events. "How‘s Gina? Is she going to be all right?" I asked. "What was her full name?" asked the nurse. "Gina Lee," I replied, hoping for a square answer. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to ask the doctor." I knew the answer before I even asked the question. Then I had another question. "How did I get in here? What‘s wrong with me?" "Well, let me see if I can tell," she said as she picked up the chart, "It says here that you were admitted the day before yesterday for a broken arm, bleeding ulcer and a related reaction to a drug. Did you faint or something?" "I guess I did – you mean that I have been out for two days?" I replied in confusion, but not expecting an answer. "I don't remember." "Well, you‘ve been sleeping awhile. Of course you were admitted after four in the morning, so it‘s only been a day really. The reaction probably wasn't too bad, because the doctor seems to have treated it with simple medication," she said. "He will be making another round at four thirty; you can ask him all of your questions then. Meantime, several people came to see you and left you cards and flowers. You seem to be a pretty popular guy at work." I looked over at the credenza where there were two bouquets of flowers and several cards propped up against them. "Could you please hand me the cards?" I asked. "Certainly," she said as she picked up the cards and handed them to me one at a time. Opening them was a little difficult. However, once I got used to the fact that my right hand didn't work very well in the cast, I was able to rip them out of their envelopes ungracefully. The first card had a magical motif and was signed from the gang at work. "Wishing you a magical recovery," it said. The second card, a more plain vanilla "get well soon" variety, was signed simply: Mr. Lee. I wondered if he were still here; I wondered if Gina were still here. I had been out for almost two days. The doctor walked in, quickly picking up my chart and asking, "How are you doing?"
"I'm all right, but I need to know how Gina Lee is doing," I said. Not even looking up from the chart, he asked, "Is she a relative or friend of yours?" "She was with me, uh, ... on a date, when she was hit by the car. We were both in the accident. Please, I‘ve got to know. I've been out for two days and the last I knew she was in intensive care, and they didn't know if she would live." "Jim, let me be straight with you. Gina is alive, but she is hanging on by a thread. I really didn't give her as much credit as she was due. With an injury to her head that severe, she should not even be alive." "Thank God she is alive," I said. "Can I see her?" "Jim, she hasn't regained consciousness, and I am very sorry, but to be absolutely truthful with you, it is highly unlikely that she ever will," he said. My heart stopped. I experienced that same indescribable emptiness that I had felt when my father died. It suddenly became painfully obvious why all that her father had written on his card was "Mr. Lee." That he could have written anything at all was a wonder. She is dead, I said to myself, and my eyes filled with tears. I started to say something, but my mouth became dry, quivering, and I found that I couldn't speak. "I'm sorry, Jim, in your condition, I really didn't want to tell you. But you do have the right to know," he said. "As for you, the medication we are giving you seems to have done the trick. You should be able to leave here within a couple of days. We just want to keep an eye on you for a while and monitor your progress." "That's what they told my father, too," I said, and I guess that the doctor said a few more things to me, but in my almost catatonic state I really didn‘t care and didn‘t know what. I couldn't hear him anymore, completely unaware of anything going on outside of my own thoughts. Oh, I was aware that the room was now empty; I was empty.
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The Magic Life is a metaphysical mystery. On one hand it's the story of a man who dreamt of becoming a magician, but instead became an accountant – a man who yearned for one particular woman, but never quite had the courage to tell her so. On the other, it's the story of an ordinary young man who learns far more about life, love, and death, than he ever dreamed possible.
The Story:
There is an ancient Buddhist proverb that states, "When the student is ready, the teacher will appear." James Carpenter plays by the rules. He attended a good college, worked hard and eventually became a successful accountant. Outwardly, he is a typical American success story. "Why?" he asks, "If I am doing so well ... am I unhappy with work, unfulfilled in love, and just bored with life?" His "teacher" is about to materialize. Without realizing it, James is living his life trapped in a strait jacket. After a disturbing nightmare in which he finds himself strapped in a "strait jacket", he coincidentally meets a mysterious street magician performing the "strait jacket" escape. This magician, Maximillion, pulls James out of the crowd and challenges him to a simple test. If he passes, his reward will be nothing less than the secrets to the magic life. Unbeknownst to James, this test will shake his very faith in reality as Max turns out to be no ordinary magician.
The plot (both mystery and love story) is full of insights into the meaning of happiness, the power of coincidence, and the wonders of synchronicity. It is about taking risks and following your dreams. In a simple, compelling way, THE MAGIC LIFE teaches the reader to respect the power of coincidence and acknowledge the importance of life's illusions, challenging us to live life to its fullest. Similar books may include Way of the Peacefull Warrior and The Alchemist. This novel philosophy is highly motivational. and recommended by Classbrain.com as one of the top motivational books for students. It borders on the metaphysical at times and its "novel" philosophy is rooted in Eastern religion, but not religious. If you believe there is a reason for life, you should read this book. It is about how "living life" is the answer to the question of life. It is about discovering not just who we are and what we are capable of, but most importantly, why we are?
Chapter 1 “Pay Attention To Fables And Dreams – They Are The Fabric That Weaves The Universe.”
I
t all started with the nightmares.
Is this a dream? Am I asleep? Is this really happening to me? Strapped in a strait jacket, I find myself stationed uncomfortably on a hard metal chair. Two uniformed police officers stand over me, staring down at me. One of them tugs forcefully on the jacket‘s straps to verify that they are secure. The other suddenly jerks my feet up off the floor almost pulling me from my chair in the process. Holding my shoes by the heels, he allows the first policeman to lock a pair of inversion boots tightly around my ankles. Next, I hear that distinct tearing sound as one of the officers rips off a couple yards of duct tape from a large gray roll with his teeth. Together, the two meticulously wrap the tape steadfastly around the boots and over the buckles, making absolutely certain the boots won‘t fly open once I‘m hanging upside down. Unable to move either my arms or feet, I attempt to see just how tight the strait jacket is by wriggling back and forth in my steel folding chair. There is no give, no slack at all. I am completely confined. ?Ha, ha, I guess I‘ve gained a few pounds,? I chuckle nervously to the officers, trying to relieve some of the tension in the air. However, their lack of response makes me even more uptight. The pressure from the heavily starched white canvas is constricting my ability to take a full breath. My breathing is forced to become short and quick. As a result, I begin to hyperventilate slightly. Soon my lungs are begging for more oxygen, causing my heart to pound strenuously against my chest. Desperate to calm my pounding heart, I whisper to myself, ?Don‘t panic. Concentrate on what you are doing. Focus on the escape.? It isn‘t working – just the opposite. Claustrophobia is taking hold of me. As my blood pressure increases, I begin to feel light-headed. The blood, pulsating against my eardrums, changes the dull thumping in my chest into a sharp throbbing in my head. Concentrate, Jim! Panic and you could die!
Gradually the driving bass notes of some dramatic theme music replace the thudding in my ears. Over the loudspeakers, I hear the deep-voiced master of ceremonies announcing to the crowd, ?Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, you are about to witness one of the most daring escapes of all time. Even the late, great Harry Houdini never attempted anything like this! After being strapped into a regulation straitjacket and shackled by the ankles to a piece of rope, our magician, the amazing James Carpenter, will be attached to this two-hundred-foot extension crane. Whereupon, the rope will be set on fire, the crane will be set into action, and our magician will go way beyond Houdini! ?He will be hoisted upside down, two-hundred feet into the air. Remember, the only thing holding him up there will be a four-foot length of burning rope. Check your watches, ladies and gentlemen. The rope will burn through in approximately three minutes. If this daring escape artist does not release himself before the rope burns through – he‘ll either have to learn to fly – or he‘ll plunge two-hundred feet TO HIS DEATH!? The crane starts up. The music builds toward a crescendo, quickly drowning out the dull roar of the crane‘s diesel engine. After repositioning my chair to face the crowd, the police officers attach one end of the rope to the inversion boots around my ankles and the other end to the hook of the crane. With a wave from one of them, my beautiful assistant, her golden hair blowing in the breeze, steps up onto the platform carrying a fiery torch. Strutting across the stage in fishnet stockings, her long silky legs draw all the attention away from me. She leans forward, extending the torch, which is now accompanied by a tremendous whooshing sound of the wind-blown flames. Almost in slow motion, I see the flame jump from the torch to the diesel-soaked rope, quickly igniting it. Within seconds the rope‘s roaring like a blast furnace. I unsuccessfully struggle to take a full breath, coughing slightly after inhaling some of the diesel smoke. “Concentrate. Try to relax,” I repeat to myself in silence. With a sudden jerk the crane kicks into high gear and the cable hoists me upside down, by the ankles. Looking downward, I see the ground pulling away rapidly, surprised at how quickly I‘m pulled higher and higher into the sky. Twenty feet – I see the people in the audience very clearly from this height. Some have their arms crossed firmly, some applaud and cheer; others simply stare, their mouths wide open. Beginning my struggle against the straitjacket wrapped so tightly around me, I attempt to force my arms away from my body – the attempt is in vain. The jacket doesn‘t give a millimeter. Sixty feet, and still rising – my body weight pulling down heavily on the hemp causes the rope to start untwisting slightly. Spinning slowly in a circle, I become aware of every motion, every slight twitch and pop of the burning fibers. “Get out of this,” I say to myself. “You?ve got to get out!” Wrenching sideways, I feel the rope make a sudden lurch down, frightening me. Time is ticking by as I make my way skyward.
Eighty feet – losing my sensation of the crowd, my concentration now turns to the wind. With each gust it sways me slightly back and forth, creating red-hot flames and billowing a continuous cloud of black smoke into the blue sky. My eyes follow a small rainstorm of flaming diesel whipped away from the rope by the blustering air. Falling toward the earth, each droplet disappears, consumed by the flame long before smashing into the pavement below, leaving only a tiny trail of smoke as proof of its existence. One-hundred feet – with all the blood rushing into my head, I feel a kind of euphoria. Losing the upside down sensation, I feel as though the world around me is inverted. For a brief moment my mind begins to wander, contemplating the vastness of the space around me and suddenly I feel very alone. “Concentrate, I?ve got to focus!” One-hundred-fifty feet – my struggle has now become a test of mental clarity as well as physical strength. My thinking is unclear. My arms are beginning to fatigue. Perspiration breaks out on my head and neck. Short of breath, I am starting to panic. My twisting back and forth becomes violent. I can‘t get out! One-hundred-eighty feet – my enraged twisting yields a positive result as at last the sleeves gain some slack. With the extra space comes the ability to take a full breath and the sense that I‘ll be okay. I just need to force my shoulder out of place for a moment. Pressing my right shoulder fiercely against the restraint, I feel a pop that goes along with a sharp, but temporary pain, ?Aaarrrgh!!? For a moment my shoulder is slightly separated; however, I now have the necessary room to get one arm out of its sleeve. A heavy sigh of relief – just a few more seconds and I‘ll be out. Two-hundred feet in the air – my arms are almost free; another distinct snap – not my shoulders this time. A burning ember brushes my cheek on its way down. I gaze up. Time stands still for a moment. In horror, I watch as the rope separates. The small end of the burning rope, still attached to the crane, makes a flip skyward as if waving good-bye. The top of the crane pulls rapidly away from me. “Oh my God! The rope is broken!” I feel the sudden rush of momentum – downward. A terrifying falling feeling envelops me. The pavement races up to meet me head on. The crowd is screaming. I scream, ?Aaaaaaggggghhhhhh!? Falling, falling … I close my eyes … falling. With the sudden lurch of the mattress beneath me, I practically felt myself hit the bed, waking up drenched in a cold sweat. Confused and lost for a moment, there in the darkness of my own bedroom, I could almost hear the faint echo of my own scream. But, as my eyes adjusted to the
moonlight filtering through the blinds, I slowly regained my bearings and composure, realizing that it was all simply a bad dream. Somehow, during my sleep, the bed linens had become entangled around me – evidently the cause of the nightmare. After turning my night table lamp on, untangling myself took only a moment. To my misfortune, I discovered that during my nightmare I‘d actually ripped a hole through one of the sheets. It must have happened while trying to free myself. “The unconscious mind is a powerful force,” I thought, perturbed that I‘d have to go out and buy another set of designer sheets. Taking a drink of water from the glass on my nightstand, I relaxed, trying to reassemble the details of the nightmare. However, they were not very clear. I found that by the time I was completely awake, I had forgotten much more of the dream than I remembered. It had been a long time since I‘d had a nightmare. I couldn‘t really remember the last one, and I was sort of glad that I didn‘t remember this one. They happened a lot, right after my father died, but that was when I was just a kid. That was a long time ago. Why was I having nightmares again? Why now?
Chapter 2 “Look For Meaning – In Any Amazing Coincidence”
T
he next day was one of those warm, humid, autumn days in Austin, the kind that makes
Texans wish for a change of season – boring, even monotonous weather, but nearly perfect for the Pecan Street Festival. Occurring twice a year, in both the spring and the fall, this outdoor festivity with all of its artsy-fartsy paintings and peculiar handicrafts was something I always welcomed. For the past six or seven years I had made a point of attending at least once each year. However, this fall, as I wandered through the street perusing the different vendors‘ booths, I couldn‘t help noticing that many of the arts and crafts were the same as the last time I attended. The festival, like most of my life, was beginning to look a lot like the year before. I, too, found myself wishing for a change of season. Then I heard a voice, like that of a Shakespearean actor, booming out into the wandering crowd of festival goers, "Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, step right up. The show is about to
begin. Come see the incredible, amazing, astounding Maximillion as he attempts miracles beyond the concepts of human imagination!" His words sent a chill up my spine, but not the kind that is a foretelling of something ominous, more the feeling you get when you're experiencing something extraordinary – like goose bumps. I was intrigued by this deep and thundering voice of possibilities. Led by my own curiosity, I weaved my way through the crowd until finally coming to a clearing at the street corner. There, standing on top of a rather large, dusty old theatrical trunk, projecting all the enthusiasm of a ringmaster on the opening night of the circus, was the magician. Waving a silver-tipped magic wand in the air while shouting his patter out to the crowd, this engaging street conjurer made quite a striking impression. He was attired in a classic black tuxedo with tails, including a red satin vest adorned with sequined lapels, which sparkled brightly in the afternoon sun. On top of his head, tilted just slightly to one side was the mandatory black top hat, the kind that pops open with the flick of the wrist. He also sported the standard, well-trimmed magician‘s beard and mustache. From the streaks of silver-white at his temples, or the salt and pepper coloring of his facial hair, I would have guessed him to be in his late forties or maybe even fifty. But perhaps because of his physical condition, or from his youthful manner as he played to the crowd, he seemed to be much younger than the smile-wrinkles around his eyes, or the years of wisdom hidden behind them. Indeed, he had all of the trappings of a truly magical man. Well, not really a man, more like a riddle, an enigma. Half of him seemed fairy-tale wizardry – the other half, performer-reality. He looked as if he could really do magic – not just tricks – I mean real magic. I think it was his eyes; he certainly had the eyes of a magician. At times they sparkled more than his lapels. There was something about his smile, too. When he smiled, it was with a rather mischievous grin hinting that, behind those mystical blue eyes and that sly smile, he might be up to something devious. One thing about his appearance, though, did strike me as peculiar – kind of out of place. I noticed a small silver chain dangling around his neck. Where there should have been a medallion, or perhaps a crystal of some sort, attached to it, instead, pinned to the chain with a simple safety pin was a small square of tattered white cloth. The material looked to be nothing more than a small piece of an old rag or the corner of an old handkerchief. However, I concluded from observing the magician‘s interactions with the strange necklace that it was possibly much more. At times, while he talked to his audience, the magician would rub this threadbare piece of cloth between his thumb and fingers, as if it were a good luck charm or magic amulet. Sometimes he would hold the piece of cloth and whisper to it. Perhaps this was just a nervous habit or (if I let my imagination get the better of me) perhaps the cloth contained his secret to some awesome powers over science and nature. Maybe this strange talisman contained his secret to the mysteries of life. Whatever it was, I knew that the cloth was important to him.
"Hurry, gather round, while the good seats are available," the magician proclaimed as he walked up to spectators who were intent on walking by and dragged them by the arm over to a predetermined spot. The magician was a true master at drawing himself a paying crowd. The unsuspecting onlookers would pause and sometimes laugh out loud, knowing that the fun was about to begin. Rarely did people seem unsure about joining in. But if they were, with a smile and a wink, the charming conjurer would always make them relax, kick back, and stay awhile. "So, did you two call ahead for a reservation?" he quipped as he grasped a middle-aged woman and her son, adding them to the circle. "Was that smoking or nonsmoking?" he asked, just for a laugh, of a little round-bellied boy who seemed more intent on eating his chocolate ice-cream cone than watching a magician. He took one of the attractive young girls by the arm, asking, "Would you like to stand next to somebody famous?" Then he said in a rhyme, "You are, sweetheart ... me! The amazing, incredible, astounding ... Maximillion Vi!" His resonant voice and cunning wit quickly attracted a sizable audience with two hundred or more people, young and old alike, now forming a circle around this unique street entertainer. I almost had to consider myself lucky; being one of the first to get there, I now stood at the front edge of his crowd. For his opening Maximillion Vi performed silent magic that truly was wonderful to watch. Like an elaborate dance, he pulled cards and silver coins out of thin air. Objects that he borrowed from the audience would vanish, only to reappear under his hat or in a spectator's pocket or purse. The younger children enjoyed the show most of all – the kids, who had pushed their way through the crowd to the front row and now knelt or sat on the asphalt, pointing and poking one another, their eyes wide open in amazement. Most were hypnotized by the bewildering magician, as if he were a Pied Piper ready to lead them off to a better world. I, too, more than enjoyed his clever deceptions, the wonder and mystery of not knowing all the answers. In those mystical moments I became a child again, lost deep in the wonders of magic, trying to take it all in: the magician, the crowd, the sunshine. I recalled when I was the little boy, watching my first magician, clinging tightly to my father's hand. Just like the children kneeling in the street, I would have also pushed my way up to the front of the circle; because, when I was a little boy, I wanted nothing more out of life than to become a famous magician. Of course, those were just the dreams of a little boy. Watching the magician perform, recalling those memories, I flashed back to my own childhood, in Springfield, Missouri, back to the time when I first decided to be, or perhaps discovered that I was going to be, a magician. My father had taken me with him to the smelly old junkyard, to help him dump a load of garbage. Dad loved to visit the junkyard; I never could understand why. The smell alone could
almost kill a small boy like me. But Dad was always on the lookout for something of value. "One man?s trash is another man?s treasure," he‘d say. That particular day, while we were unloading the trash from the pickup, my nose held with one hand, Dad spotted a potential treasure, a dilapidated old trunk lying in amongst the junk. With a little luck and a few hundred hours of sanding, he said that stinky old trunk could eventually become a coffee table, one with a new avocado-green imitation-antique finish. The trunk was padlocked shut so he couldn‘t open it, but Dad picked up one end and gave it at shake. We could hear something inside, but couldn't tell what from the sound. The mystery alone made the trunk irresistible to Dad, and even caused me to forget the junkyard stench for a while. Dad used to say, "Curiosity is a sap running deep in the Carpenter‘s family wood." After offering the junk dealer five dollars for it and the dealer countering with ten, eventually they settled at seven. The dealer didn't know it, but Dad would have paid a lot more than seven dollars just to find out what was hidden inside. Mom often said that that was the "sap" he was referring to. We endeavored to open the trunk right then and there, but the lock was rusted solid. Dad decided, after beating on it with a tire iron for a short while, that even though both of our imaginations were working overtime, we‘d simply have to wait until we got home. Upon returning home, my father immediately dug a hacksaw out of his trusty toolbox and hacked off the rusted semblance of a lock. Opening the trunk, we were greeted by a puff of musty air. What we found inside may have been a little disappointing to my father, but was certainly a treasure to a seven-year-old boy. There inside, in almost mint condition, were several old magic tricks, an old bouquet of feather flowers, and three books on magic. "Well, look at that. I guess destiny wants one of us to become a magician," Dad said as he tossed me one of the books. At that moment, I truly believed that fate had placed those objects into my hands, almost commanding me to learn the art of legerdemain. For some time after that, I remained enthralled with the art of magic, mastering the three tricks in the trunk: the linking rings, color-changing scarves, and vanishing billiard ball. I read those three books until the pages practically fell out and went on to read several more books from the library about famous magicians like Houdini, Thurston, and Blackstone. But I never really became much of a magician. Frozen in time for just a moment, I wondered, "When did I give up that childhood fantasy? If I hadn't become an accountant, could I – would I – have ever become that famous, astounding magician of my childhood dreams?" As soon as I began questioning myself, my positive energy dwindled away, my thoughts drifting elsewhere. I couldn‘t help thinking about my job, "Should I be wasting time playing games at the festival? Back at the office, I had unfinished work and I‘d feel guilty Monday if I didn‘t get it done over the weekend. Maybe I should just forget about spending the day…" The magician began examining the crowd saying, "I will need another sucker ... uh … volunteer … a gentleman, a strong man." He turned and looked squarely at me, almost as if he were reading my mind. "You will have to do," he said, and before I could disagree, he grasped my arm and briskly walked me into the center of his circle. Somehow I knew that I would end up being
the butt of the joke, making a fool of myself in front of the crowd, but I just couldn't find it within myself to say no. "Allow me to introduce myself, sir," Maximillion said as he reached out and graciously shook my hand. "I am the amazing, incredible, and astounding … Maximillion Vi … rhymes with "free" … which unfortunately is also what you work for as my assistant today. You may call me simply 'Amazing' for short. Your name is?" "James, James Carpenter, you can call me Jim for short," I said, giving him a firm handshake along with my feeble attempt at wit. Smiling a curious smile, he pulled his eyebrows down as if he were going to ask me a question. His expression gave me a strange feeling, as though he knew me from somewhere before, or as if he‘d wanted to meet me for some time. Then something magical really did happen. While we were shaking hands, the magician reached up to the chain dangling around his neck, took the small piece of ragged white cloth between his thumb and fingers and began to rub it briskly. "James, James Carpenter?" he said with a slight question. Suddenly, a tingling sensation came over me, "chills" just as I had when I first heard his voice. Only this was much stronger: a positive energy, a feeling of excitement, a zest for life. This fantastic insight that life was truly magical, exhilarated me. At that moment I became acutely aware of my surroundings: the sun, the smiles, the magician. My vision even seemed to sharpen. Faces became brighter and clearer as I surveyed the audience: majorities and minorities, young and old, fat and thin, all laughing and smiling, all enjoying this unique moment. The magic was universal and in that magical moment (regardless of age, race, or background) they all became children again – fun loving and carefree, freeing themselves from their pasts, and suspending their disbelief to enjoy the illusions. Why should I feel guilty about taking a day off? Everyone else was having fun. Why couldn‘t I? Somehow, I knew I was being given this opportunity to experience some of life's real magic. I deserved a little magic in my life, too. Right then I decided, for the next few moments at least, to just put away troublesome thoughts about my job, close the accounting books, and simply enjoy the magic. Amazingly, all of this went through my mind in that one short moment when the magician touched my hand and rubbed the small white piece of cloth. As abruptly as I had entered into this heightened state of awareness, I was pulled back into the present. Lost for just a second, I suddenly realized what Max was saying. "Would you please act as the official timer for this act, Jim?" Max asked. "Sure," I replied. "Does your watch have a sweeping second hand?" he inquired, pointing to his wrist. The question made me glance at my wrist only to discover that I was no longer wearing my watch. "I could have sworn that I was..."
"Here, I guess I could let you borrow mine," Max said as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a watch – my watch! My chin almost dropped to the pavement. The crowd also realized that he was now holding my watch and they laughed aloud. I couldn‘t help chuckling too, awestruck that this man had taken off my watch without my having a clue. Deciding that maybe I should check for my wallet, I reached for my back pocket... "I was possibly going to pay you for helping me out, but all you have in here is a couple of bucks," Max said, grinning. Again the artful pickpocket had duped me. He stuck my own billfold into my hand, then asked politely if he could borrow a one-dollar bill. "Folks, let me demonstrate how easy it is to drop a dollar into the hat." Saying that, Max tilted his head forward. With a quick snap from his neck, his top hat, like a gymnast scoring a perfect ten, did one complete revolution and landed open end up on the street in front of him. He held the dollar two feet above the hat and released it, the bill slowly drifted down like a feather into the hat. "See how easy money goes into the hat," he said. "Well, it comes out a lot quicker." With a snap of his fingers and a wave of his wand, the money defied gravity, shooting out of the hat and back into my wallet! I did a double take. "You know Max, you could make a heck of a living doing that," I said, under my breath. "I do make a heck of a living doing this," he whispered as he stuck his foot into his hat. With a kick up, the hat made an aerial flip and landed perfectly back on top of his head. "Magic, I mean," he said, not missing a beat. "The trick," he whispered to me, "is not to make a living out of magic. The trick is to make magic out of living." He then winked and grinned, letting me know that I could trust him. It worked. For some reason, I did trust him, the same way a child might trust Peter Pan. "Well, Jim, have you ever seen one of these?" Max asked assuming an air of importance as he turned around dramatically pulling a white canvas straitjacket out of the trunk. "Yes, I have," I answered, not considering that I hadn‘t actually seen a real straitjacket – only pictures of them. "It makes me very nervous when volunteers answer yes," Max said as he looked all around the audience with this wide-eyed worried look. They laughed. "Of course, Jim, you mean that you have seen them in pictures – not up close – right? … Please agree, or I get really nervous." "Well, yes," I agreed, but somehow I had a strange feeling that I actually had seen one before.
"We are now going to test your strength," Max said. "I asked you when you volunteered so graciously if you were indeed a man of constitutional fortitude and resolute dedication, did I not? ... Oh, I didn't? Oh well, you'll just have to do since you are standing here in the middle of my circle." With that he placed his hands on my shoulders and whispered a few strange words to himself, which sounded Latin or ancient – that is, what I could hear of them. Placing one of his hands over my head, he gazed intently into my eyes. Next he pressed his index finger to the middle of my forehead, and began rubbing the small white piece of cloth with his other hand. Then Max spoke to me. "You are now hypnotized," he said. "Your arms," Max pulled my hands straight out in front of my body, "they are steel!" Again he rubbed the cloth pinned to the chain about his neck. "They are beams of solid steel and cannot be bent – steel, Jim!" As he said this, I indeed felt my arms become rigid and stiff. Could I actually be hypnotized? I attempted to discreetly move my arms. Not wanting to say anything out loud, so as to ruin his act, I just wanted to see if I really couldn‘t move them. I could not. I tried harder; still I couldn‘t move. Realizing that I was no longer in control, I started to panic. As if sensing my pending hysteria, Max again placed a hand on my shoulder, winked, and in a steady reassuring voice said, "Don't worry; you are always in control – always. Nothing will happen unless you make it happen." He had read my mind. Immediately, I was comforted and relaxed. After all, what choice did I have? I had just started to enjoy myself, when I discovered how I was to become the butt of the joke. "Your arms are frozen in front of you," he said, as Max proceeded to place the straitjacket – on me! The straitjacket was a coarse white canvas contraption covered with frayed leather straps and scratched steel buckles. The jacket showed years of wear and tear. Looking it over, I was sure it had been escaped from many times. I could also tell that it was highly improbable – no, make that totally impossible – that once strapped in, I would ever be able to escape. After he had my arms strapped around my back, he gave the straps a couple of tugs and asked, "Does that feel like a real straitjacket?" Once again, without thinking, I answered, "Yes." Max rolled his eyes, raised one eyebrow, and made a face at the crowd asking, "How do you know what one feels like?" Once again they laughed and I laughed along with them; however, I really didn‘t feel like laughing. For some reason unknown to me, I was overcome with a feeling of deja vu like I‘d been in this predicament before. The feeling wasn‘t pleasant at all; in fact, it was disturbing.
I know I must have looked somewhat ridiculous, but one little boy was laughing so hard that the crowd began to laugh at him. He kept pointing and laughing, almost falling over. The boy‘s laughter became infectious. Before long everyone in the crowd was enjoying the laugh-fest, everyone but me. Max had me totally strapped into the jacket – all except for one strap – the strap that buckles up underneath the crotch. Suddenly we all realized why the little boy had been laughing so hard. "There is one strap left, ladies and gentlemen, and we call that strap – everybody say 'Oooohhhhh,'" said Max. Everybody went, "Oooooooohhhhhhhh." "... the strap of death," Max said as he pulled the strap way up between my legs. There I was, standing with my arms crossed and strapped behind me, struggling to move an inch, probably looking like some deranged lunatic, getting a strap-of-death wedgie. The crowd went wild. Max walked over to an attractive woman in the crowd and asked if she would assist us. She was a little bit anxious about the whole thing, saying that she didn't want to end up looking like me. Who could blame her? Max reassured her that she wouldn‘t be put in the jacket, then snapped his fingers as if to unhypnotize me. Stepping behind me, he unbuckled the straps to free me from the jacket. As I was pulling off the jacket, Max walked the beautiful woman by the hand to the center of the circle and introduced her to the audience. "Kristin, this is everyone," he said. "Everyone, this is Kristin." Then handing the jacket over to Kristin, he stated, "Just for the fun, I think that you two should put the jacket on me." With that he pulled off his tuxedo coat and satin vest, tossing them into the trunk. He placed his hands and arms into the straitjacket, which Kristin held open for him, and instructed me to step behind him and strap him in as tight as was humanly possible. "With pleasure," I responded. Pulling the back straps taut, I could tell that Max was holding a deep breath, expanding his chest. All he had to do was release his breath and the jacket would be loose. "Come on James, you can make it tighter than that, can't you?" Max yelled to the crowd. "If you weren't holding your breath I could," I replied, trying not to sound too arrogant. With that comment Max let loose a puff of air that allowed me to tighten the jacket an extra two inches, as tight as his rib cage would allow. Then Max asked me to pull the arm straps around his body and also tighten them as far as they would go. Practically hearing the compression in his voice, as if it were now even difficult for him to take a breath, I wondered if he would, in fact, be able to escape. So, feeling a touch sympathetic, I pulled the arm straps secure, but not too tight.
"Is that all the strength that you have?" Max lectured. "Put some muscle into it, James. Besides, don't you think the show will be better if I don‘t get out?" "Okay, if that‘s the way you want it," I responded, now pulling with all the force I could muster. Then in a comedy falsetto voice, Max said, "Yes, by George, I think he‘s got it." The crowd laughed. Looking at him now, there was no way in the world he‘d ever get out of that straitjacket. He didn‘t even have room to sweat. Max walked to the center of the crowd and in a loud deep voice said, "Now, ladies and gentlemen, as you can see, I am truly strapped in the confines of a regulation straitjacket. There is virtually no humanly possible way for me to escape." "Uh uh," came the voice of the little boy who had been laughing so heartily earlier in the performance. He was pointing at what Max had so eloquently referred to as "the strap of death," hanging precariously between the magician's legs, still unbuckled. "Son," Max quipped in his theatrical voice, "didn't anyone ever tell you that it‘s not polite to point – especially in that direction." The crowd roared. Max, smiling that devious smile of his, turned his head slowly in the direction of the young woman, Kristin. "Kristin?" Max asked with a sheepish grin. "You are probably wondering why I asked you to come here?" he said, swaying back and forth to make the strap swing. "Don't be shy. Just reach down between my legs and grab whatever you find dangling there." Again a chuckle from the crowd and Max continued, "This strap doesn't have to be as tight as the others." Tears formed in my eyes from holding back the laughs, at this farcical scene. Kristin, bending down behind him, reluctantly reached between his legs; Max would squirm just as she reached for the strap, swinging it out of her reach. After several failed attempts she grabbed it and began buckling the crotch strap together. "You sure are taking your sweet time, Kristin. You‘re enjoying this way too much!" Max teased. The crowd began yelling, "Tighter, make it tighter!" "Go ahead and pull it tight," Max said and then whooped, "Waaaaaaiiiit, not that tight!" Kristin ignored his antics and buckled the strap tightly. After which she stood straight up signifying that she had indeed strapped the escape artist in firmly. Max then acknowledged, "Let‘s give Kristin a big Texas round of applause. Thank you for being such a good sport, Kristin, and helping us make the world a little happier, and certainly a safer, place. I want you all to know that y‘all are enjoying this a lot more than I am." The crowd applauded for Kristin as she smiled and took her place back amongst them. Max moved back into the center of the circle, calling to the audience, "Ladies and gentlemen, does anyone happen to know the world record for the escape from a straitjacket? Houdini could
escape in less than one minute. The incredible Loren Micheals could escape in less than forty seconds, The Amazing Randi in less than thirty. However, the world record for the fastest escape from a regulation straitjacket happens to be ... eighteen seconds. And do you know who happens to hold that record? – I … don‘t know either. "Today, however … I – the incredible, amazing, astounding Maximillion Vi – will attempt, for the first time in Austin, Texas – for your sheer and utter enjoyment – NO SUCH THING!" Then Max remarked in exaggerated Jewish accent, "I can't get out of here in that short of time. This is really tight! What do you think ... I can do miracles?" Strange that he would ask such a thing. He could do them; miracles, yes, that was exactly what the audience expected – exactly what I expected. Only moments ago Max had seemed omniscient, capable of miracles. Now in the straitjacket, he appeared to be a mere mortal like the rest of us. However, I had the distinct feeling that his distressed-mortal look might be just that – for appearances. Max continued, losing the accent this time, "How about if I escape in a reasonable amount of time? Is there a reasonable person among us, who could suggest a reasonable amount of time for my liberation from these bonds – the likes of which, even the great Houdini never felt?" A few persons in the crowd started to shout out times. "Fifteen seconds." "Ten seconds." "I said reasonable," Max grumbled. "Thirty seconds," I said, thinking it was reasonable. With that he turned back to me and asked, "What time did you suggest?" "Thirty seconds," I repeated. "What's that again? Louder, for everyone's benefit, Jim," Max said, leaning closer to me as if I had stumbled upon the proper time. "Thirty seconds!" I shouted out. At the same time Max yelled, "TWO MINUTES!" overpowering my voice, ignoring my suggested time. "The man says I should attempt to escape in TWO MINUTES!" As the crowd laughed, I was beginning to understand the real magic that Max Vi held. People loved him – that was the magic.
Max continued, "Very well ... I will attempt to escape from this straitjacket within the constraints of a two-minute time limit – even though such a release may appear to be a virtual impossibility. "Ladies and gentleman, I have to ask you to trust my official timer, Jim. Jim, you are going to have to keep me posted. When one minute has passed I want you to yell out ... One minute! … Got that? At one minute and thirty seconds I want you to yell out..." He made a motion for me to fill in the blank. "One minute and thirty seconds!" I shouted. "And at one minute and forty-five seconds, James, I want you to yell out..." I took the bait and yelled out, "One minute forty-five seconds?" "Wrong!" Max said, making a loud obnoxious sound like a buzzer on a game show. "GZZZZZZ... No James, when I reach one minute and forty-five seconds, I want you to start counting down. Fifteen ... fourteen... thirteen... Got it?" "Got it." I replied. Max announced loudly to the crowd, "And everyone will start counting down with Jim, right?" A few of the more vocal ones shouted back the answer, "Right." But the response was not overwhelming and certainly not satisfactory to Max Vi. He repeated, "And everyone will start counting down, right?" almost reprimanding the crowd. "Right!" the crowd yelled. "And should I escape in those last few seconds counting down four, three, two, one, everyone will burst into a thunderous round of applause! Right?" "Right!" The crowd screamed back like a cheerleading squad. "Screaming and cheering – RIGHT?" Max yelled back even louder. "RIGHT!" was the crowd's overwhelming response. " … REACHING FOR YOUR WALLETS!" Max yelled, raised one eyebrow, paused for effect, breaking the rhythm. Some started to respond, but after they realized they‘d been led down this path, the crowd laughed. Max then became serious, almost solemn, stating, "If I do escape and indeed you do appreciate the show, please show your appreciation by placing your spare change, ones, fives, tens, twenties, municipal bonds, stock certificates, car titles, expensive jewelry, or deeds of property
inside of my hat." He paused. His eyes took on a steel gray concentration and he inhaled a deep breath. Turning to me, he stated that he was ready to start. "On your mark … Get set..." I paused to let the second hand sweep to the start position. Max stood poised. "GO!" The incredible Max Vi shrugged his shoulders, grimaced, clenching his teeth while twisting violently back and forth. I looked at my watch; time was passing quickly. Thirty seconds and the magician's struggle didn‘t reveal so much as an inch of slack. The straitjacket held firm. "The first order of the day is," Max announced already half out of breath, "the strap of death." With that announcement, Max, still secure in the jacket, sat down on the street and kicked off his shoes and socks. He quickly worked his way into a kneeling position and reached for the crotch strap between his legs with the back of his feet. Slowly, like a contortionist, he pulled the strap up with his toes and unbuckled it. To watch him stretch his body to the very limit, almost made me hurt. Amazing! Glancing again at my watch, I saw that one minute had already expired. "One minute!" I yelled out just as he had instructed earlier. "Not yet! Wouldn't you know I would have to find the one person with the Quartz Acutron watch," Max grumbled for a laugh. With that remark, the incredible Max Vi stood up in his bare feet, breathing deeply to regain his strength. His face remained tense and contorted, until with one long slow breath he suddenly relaxed. All of the jerking and struggling stopped. His face became poker-playing deadpan. Determined, painstakingly he lowered one of his shoulders. He stared straight ahead with intense concentration. I checked my watch. He was still a far cry from freedom. "One minute thirty seconds!" I yelled. His hand barely moved under the jacket. Sweat dripped from his forehead. The seconds ticked by. Max concentrated all of his efforts into moving just one hand. "Fifteen ... fourteen ... thirteen..." I shouted, and the crowd joined in. "Twelve... eleven ... ten..." I couldn't see any movement at all on the part of Max. My heart began to pound. He was not going to get out. "Nine ... eight ... seven..." I heard a popping from his shoulders that caused him to wince in pain and groan aloud.
"Six ... five ... FOUR..." His arms flung free from his body and over his head. "THREE ... TWO..." A quick strong jerk and the straitjacket burst up high into the air. "ONE." Max Vi was free! The crowd exploded into an ovation. With a quick sigh of relief, I began to applaud and cheer with them. Max waved the straitjacket in the air with one hand, reached over and grabbed his hat with the other. Turning in a circle, he exclaimed, "If you appreciated the show, please show your appreciation!" The crowd responded in kind, with people digging out money from pockets, purses, and wallets. Parents entrusted their children with the change or dollars, instructing them to place it inside the magician‘s hat. I observed one grandpa, so pleased with the show that he presented his grandson a crisp ten-dollar bill to add to the pot. Having completely regained his breath and now showing no signs of his momentary struggle, Max said, "I would like to thank you – all of you – by leaving you with one last miracle." Then he turned to me, instructing, "Jim, if you would please, collect the rest of the money. When you are finished just place the hat and money inside this old trunk." He walked over to the trunk full of props and pulled out a large red satin sheet, closed the trunk and returned to the center. Holding the sheet behind him and above his head, turning around in a circle, he called to the audience, "Ladies and gentlemen, please take this one small bit of magic into your lives. Learn that life itself is the magic! Every second conceals within it a lifetime, every minute an eternity. Learn to live each moment of life as if it could suddenly disappear." Max then lifted the sheet above his head, covering his entire body. Pausing for a moment of silence, he then just simply vanished. There is no other way to explain it. He faded into nothingness, the satin sheet casually drifting to the street below as though he had slowly evaporated. The crowd was silent. We all gawked at each other, expecting that he would somehow appear in the next instant, but after an awkward minute he still did not. A few people started a rather weak round of applause, but the illusion had been too astounding, too real, too stunning, almost to the point of being surreal. He had been standing in the middle of the street, surrounded by a crowd of people! There was just no way his disappearance could have happened beyond black magic or witchcraft. An aging white-haired woman walked forward, and placing a dollar into the hat she broke the silence, saying, "You two fellows put on one heck of a show." Her gesture of good faith started a new round of applause and brought a new stream of money flowing into the hat. Somewhat
confused, I couldn‘t resist a quick bow to the crowd. Even though I knew it was wrong, I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I just took his props, money, and straitjacket and became the magician of my childhood dreams. Where was Max Vi anyhow? Maybe he had vanished for good. The crowd slowly disintegrated, just like the magician, soon transforming into a constant flow of people wandering through the busy festival thoroughfare. Only one other person remained standing in the same place after the crowd had dwindled. Standing alone at the back of the walkways was Kristin, the beautiful woman who had assisted in the show. She strolled up to me, smiling. "You are part of the act, aren't you?" she asked. "No, I really wasn't. I was just a volunteer, like you, that he pulled out of the crowd," I replied. "Well, where is he?" Knowing that I didn‘t have an answer, I just laughed, "I suppose he'll show up for his money sometime." "Why don't you and I just take off with it?" she joked, taking me by the arm. "Come on, buy a lonely girl a drink." Even though it was the best offer I‘d had in ages, I just couldn't leave before seeing that the magician had his money. "That is tempting, but I think that we can manage without taking away his hard-earned cash," remembering just then what I was supposed to do with the money, "Wait just a minute," I said. Then I walked over to the magician's old trunk, unlatching it to place both the money and hat inside as I‘d been instructed. Startled, I jumped back, as up out of the trunk popped Max, "Congratulations, you've found me! I was beginning to think that you‘d never open this darn thing." Right in front of me stood the amazing Max Vi – truly a magician's magician. "How on Earth did you get into the trunk?" I asked. "What makes you think it was on Earth, James?" Max asked rhetorically, "Sometimes the questions aren't as obvious as the answers. That‘s why I suggest that people don't dwell too much upon questions. You see, it‘s more often the questions themselves that keep you from seeing the answers. Just concentrate on the reality, not the illusion, and you will see that the answers are always right in front of you. Your life will give you the answers. That is, if you stop confusing yourself with too many questions." "I don't understand what you mean," I said. Max answered, "Well, isn't it amazing that I am here, in the trunk? Isn't it amazing that you were here today, and the only one who found me. There is a meaning in it, James there‘s meaning in
any amazing coincidence. The question itself is the answer. It‘s magic! And, Jim, it‘s only magic if you have a question." I just stared at him mouth open, perplexed and maybe even slightly flustered by his strange double-talk. Then I asked, "Is it real magic, or is there some sort of a trick to it?" "One man's trick is another man's treasure," he replied. "If you really have to know, I'll tell you. I always tell my good assistants. But, before I tell you, I must warn you that by telling you the secret, the magic itself will disappear. Once it does, then only real magic can bring it back." He paused, looking at me for some semblance of understanding. Although I didn't understand most of what he had said, I realized in my heart that I really didn't want to know the secret. He was right. Knowing would spoil the fun, so I shook my head nothanks. "Good choice, Jim," Max continued, "a lot of the time, people come up to me and demand to know how I do these amazing things. I wonder to myself, ?Why do they have to ask?‘ Isn't it enough to see it happen? If we enjoy the magic then what is the purpose of asking how? If we were all magicians, then where on earth would we find magic? When the sun rises, sometimes isn't it just enough to feel the warmth – to see the sunlight spilling over the countryside? Do we have to know that it is a fusion reactor, spewing photon particles across space? Sure it's nice to have a weather forecast. But sometimes an unexpected shower can be revitalizing – don‘t you think? Imagine just how boring life would be if you and I did know all of the answers. Too many of us spend too much time looking for the secret, ?the how,? when the answer is the magic itself, „the why.‘" Kristin approached, breaking Max's spell by saying, "Jim, I'm afraid you've gotten more than you bargained for. Two things that I have learned in this life are: one, that you never ask a magician how he does his tricks; and two, you never, never, ever ask why." With that she threw her arms around Max, and they embraced with a short, but affectionate, kiss and hug. "Jim, allow me to introduce my assistant and wife – the incredible, loving, tolerant, Kristin," Max said with a wink. Now, I truly felt like the fool. "I should have guessed when she offered to run away with me," I said. "She always does that. It‘s part of the test," Max said nonchalantly as he pulled on an old football jersey, the number "zero," over his tux shirt and began to pack up his tricks. "Test?" I asked with more than a touch of that Carpenter curiosity. Before he could answer, a couple of youngsters who had watched his act reappeared, asking Max for his autograph. The magician cordially responded by digging in his trunk for some of his black and white promotional photographs. After getting his signature on them, the kids ran down the street ecstatic with their new treasure. Max then lifted the hat full of money; weighing it in
his hands for a second, he announced, "One-hundred-seventeen dollars and forty-seven cents. Would you check that for me? You are an accountant aren't you?" Max asked. "You account and I'll tell you about the test." The sun was just setting; the festival was winding down and many of the booths were closing shop. At Max‘s request, I started doing what I was supposed to be good at, counting money. "James," Max began, "every year I perform the escape and vanish seven-hundred seventy-seven times. Sounds amazing doesn‘t it? Actually I use that number just to make the story interesting. Really, I have no idea how may times I do that particular act each year, probably somewhere around fifteen, I suppose. Well, anyway, I have been doing that act since I was about a year older than you are now. How old are you anyway?" "Twenty-eight," I replied. He laughed and pointed to my handful of bills, knowing I was in the middle of counting and that his questioning would prove to confuse me. It did; I lost count. But I just chuckled and started over. "Well, I will actually turn twenty-nine in a couple of days," I added. "Exactly," Max stated, "I started the escape act at thirty years of age. Anyway, I have been performing around the world, in twelve languages for about twenty years. Each and every time, I have a volunteer, like yourself, assist. In all of those shows, in all that time, I have met only three other people who demonstrated the same qualities you possess. But unfortunately all three failed the test. "Meeting you here today was no accident. Fate threw you into my circle for a reason." He then placed his hands on top of mine to make me stop counting the money and said, "You can feel it too, can‘t you? I‘ve been looking for you for a long time – James," he said, "you are the one." Pulling his eyebrows down into a serious look right at me, he stated, "I want you to take this money home with you and count it. Bring the money back to me next spring, if and when you decide to come to the festival. If you can't come, or don't wish to, then you keep the money for yourself. I know it isn't very much to a yuppie guy like you, but you might have some fun with it, just the same. Maybe you‘ll take a good-looking girl out for dinner." Why would he give me the money and ask me to return it the next year? What did he mean by the qualities that I had? I was curious to say the least. "I've got everything put away. Should we disappear?" Kristin asked. "Wait a minute," I said. "What do you mean? What do you want with me?" "One second, sweetheart … I think that James is truly the one," Max said, pushing both the money and hat back into my hand. "James, if you want to learn the true secrets of life‘s magic, then you must first accomplish a great feat." "What feat? What do you mean?" I asked.
"James, you must be patient and observant. If you are patient, in time, life will reveal its greatest secrets. If you are observant, you will learn to recognize them. James, always be on the lookout for the magical opportunities in your life. The magic life will be yours only if you explore them. This could be one of those magical opportunities. Every second conceals within it, a lifetime – every minute, an eternity." "Great for you," Kristin called to me, "I look forward to seeing you next year." She then walked over to me, reached out and took my hand in hers. Standing directly in front of me, smiling her nearly angelic smile, she gazed up at me and said, "Thank you, Jim, for participating in my life." With that she rose up on her toes and leaned her face forward to kiss me. Naturally, I closed my eyes as I felt her warm lips softly press against my own. The moment was very fleeting. Kissing her softly, I felt her warm touch slowly vanishing. Her hands seemed to vaporize in my grasp, leaving me holding nothing but air. Suddenly, I was aware of the cool wind and the empty streets as I opened my eyes to discover that I was standing at the curb, alone – not a trace of Kristin or Max. The sun was now below the horizon and the evening breeze whispered around me. I stood there for several minutes staring down at my watch in disbelief – it was late evening. I wouldn't have believed that any of it had ever happened, but, like an experience out of the Twilight Zone, there in my left hand was the magician's top hat filled with dollars and coins. As I made my way back across town, to the parking garage, I played the strange scene over in my mind. I could visualize Kristin and myself strapping Max into the jacket; I could see the agony on his face as he pulled himself free. I could see him vanish under the cloth. But I couldn't see how it was possible. It all seemed like a dream: the feelings, the small white piece of cloth, the test. What did he mean when he said I was "the one?"
Chapter 3 "Be On The Lookout – For Life’s Magical Opportunities."
T
he next morning I awoke to the blaring of some loud, unintelligible rock and roll mixed
with the annoying buzz of the alarm-clock radio. Dismayed to find that the weekend was already history, I sleepily rolled out of bed and stumbled into the shower. Wouldn‘t it be great if I‘d just dozed off after working too late once again on a Friday evening – that I might somehow wake up back in my office to find myself gawking up at the clock with the whole weekend still ahead of me? Eventually, I succumbed to the shower‘s warm water and the illusion vanished. Reality set in – Monday morning. Yuck.
Wrapping a towel around my dripping body, I climbed out of the shower and strolled into the kitchen to make my morning cup of Java. It was still there. After staying up half the night counting it over and over, it was now lying in proper little stacks on the kitchen table. The cold hard cash was confirmation that the weekend‘s strange event was not a dream, and certainly not an illusion. Yes, of course, the incredible and amazing Max Vi was right – precisely twenty-one dimes, onehundred and eighty-four nickels, five-hundred-seventeen pennies, one-hundred and ninety-two quarters, thirty-eight one dollar bills, one five spot and one ten. Exactly $117.47, just as the magician had predicted. "Some kind of trick," I thought. "Who does he think he is, Nostradamus?" Picking up the magician's top hat from off the table, I tossed it to the floor. Then balancing the hat with my foot, I tried to flip it up onto my head, the way that Max Vi had – close, but no cigar. The hat‘s brim ricocheted off my head into my spice rack. The oregano crashed to the counter, spilling everywhere. "Maybe I‘d be more coordinated after my coffee," I thought. As I began to wipe up the mess, I couldn't help but notice something odd. The spice jar had tumbled onto an open magazine, landing face down on a Coors beer ad. The ad that used to read "Coors is the one" now appeared to read "You're the one." Exhaling a quick breath, I chuckled sort of nervously as that icy chill rushed up my spine. Just a coincidence, my imagination was probably just getting the best of me. I looked at it again, more closely. The words didn‘t actually look like, "You‘re the one." They really looked more like "Coor‘re is the one." And I practically had to squint to make it say that – yeah, my overactive imagination again. That‘s all. Even though I had rationalized the incident away, still seeing the words written made me a little uneasy. I couldn‘t help thinking about what Max had said. Me? The one? Right. Oh my God, maybe the one who was going to be late for work! I hadn't noticed how much time I‘d spent messing around with all of the stuff. I was no more "the one" than Max was a CPA – whatever "the one" was supposed to be. And this "one" had to get to work pronto. I rushed though the morning traffic, still, I arrived to work five minutes late. It was the wrong Monday to show up late. Mr. Braeback, the office manager, had already moved everyone into the conference room for a surprise reprimand concerning the art of vanishing paper clips, disappearing pencils, and evaporating staplers. I considered just skipping the meeting altogether and stealthily making my way to my office cubicle. However, fear, as well as guilt, forced me to choose the more honorable course of action. I opted to slip into the meeting late, attempting to go unnoticed. I thought that I had it made, opening the back door just enough to squeeze through and into the meeting without catching old "Back-breaker's" attention. But before he finished his less than clever repartee, he looked straight at me and snarled, "James, I would appreciate a little more effort towards timeliness on your part."
So much for my sneaking in unnoticed. The entire group turned to give me the third degree, as if they were perfect angels plucking their harps and I was Satan himself, interrupting their concert with an off-key accordion. "Yes sir," I replied, plastering a plastic smile on my face. Outside, I played the good employee and accepted my reprimand with quiet dignity as I found a seat. Inside, I was once again disheartened with my job. The meeting dragged on and on – same old stories, same old windbag. It gave me acid indigestion. Would I ever get back to my desk and to some real work? When the meeting had finally died, my motivation had died with it. Consequently, the balance of the morning was spent alternating between wishing that I‘d just stayed home in bed and daydreaming about becoming a magician – actually, the greatest magician that the world had ever known. The numbers across the computer‘s ledger sheet blurred as I pictured myself sawing a beautiful lady in half and levitating a grand piano into the air. Maybe I would have lions and tigers in my act or catch a speeding bullet in my teeth. No, to be really great I‘d have to make the Statue of Liberty disappear, like David Copperfield. Wait, I've got it, something different – I would make a battleship disappear from the high seas and then make it reappear in someplace like Central Park! It was really quite the daydream till Braeback walked up to my desk, glared down at me over his bifocal glasses, tapping his watch. "Timeliness, James," he snapped. Reality set in. As if by some evil black magic I was right back where I had been before my mystical weekend – no one special, just good old James, the bean counter. Hell, I was no one important. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be so hard on myself. After all, I was good at my job – I had a brass recognition plaque to prove it. I wasn‘t exactly unhappy with work; I had received ample promotions, earned great money, and made plenty of friends. But I felt alive when I was in front of that festival crowd – as though I didn't belong within the audience. I belonged in front of the audience. When I pictured the old woman, who had believed that I was part of the magician's act, I knew we gave her something that no one could ever take away: a moment of true magic, the magic of enjoying life, forgetting the everyday drudgery. She felt the magic of living; I knew it. Perhaps I should have listened to my father. "Follow your heart," he would always say. He encouraged my magic when I was a little boy, especially the world famous "cut-the-rope-in-half trick." One trick that I would torture him with daily. He used to just sit and watch patiently, smiling, waiting for me to say, "ta da!" "That's great!" he would say. "Now put it back together and you'll really have something!" He would go on to say that he knew my destiny was to someday become a great magician. Of course the next day he‘d say it was my destiny to be a great surgeon, mechanic, or great banker. "Son," he‘d say, "as far as I‘m concerned, you can be anything you want to be … except unhappy."
Dad was always happy. He really knew how to enjoy life, such a joker. I certainly missed my old man. It‘s easy to miss someone who is always happy – funny how you can remember certain things. When I was very young he once told me, "James, it‘s better to die a happy pauper than a miserable rich man." Too young to understand the word, "pauper," I mistakenly thought that he had said "papa." So, I asked him if he was a "happy papa." After a laugh, he told me that he was indeed my "happy papa." That‘s when my childhood nickname for my dad became: "Happy Papa." He died, my happy papa, when I was just thirteen – I guess I never really got over his death. Funny how I remember that so clearly. My mother, brother and I were left miserably poor. When father died, being the oldest boy, I felt that I had somehow inherited the burden of responsibility to raise our family. At Dad‘s funeral, my Uncle Ray put his hand on my shoulder and said, "You have to be a good soldier and take care of your mother now." But Mom was the real soldier, in fact, the General; I never stood a chance against her. "Hard work puts food on the table – not daydreams," Mom used to say. I know she resented Dad for leaving us behind; hell, I resented him, too. She'd come home from work completely worn out, but never too tired to tell us how tired she was and to divulge her secrets to success. "If you don't work hard, nothing hardly works. The squirrel that doesn't save anything for winter will starve. Luck stands for labor under correct knowledge. An honest man works an honest day." It was a steady stream of platitudes. Bless her heart. She did work hard to see that Carl and I got through college. I finally got my CPA. My brother Carl – well, Carl chose to follow the old man's advice. Now he carried forward the family tradition: poverty – a family tradition that I could‘ve lived without. However, Carl always followed his dreams. He was an actor and swore that he‘d never leave the theater. Actually, I don't know if he‘d really been in the theater. He spent most of his time doing odd jobs to support his theater career. Still, he had occasionally impressed us with a television commercial and even though he didn‘t earn much, he was persistent. Someday, I believed, his persistence would be rewarded. Mom was right; hard work had paid off for me. I had over forty thousand dollars in investments, a lakeside condo practically paying for itself in tax deductions, a Volvo, and a top-of-the-line music video system. Yet, I had to keep asking myself, "Why am I so miserable?" Mom kept saying, "You'd be happy if you'd just find yourself a nice girl, settle down and make me a grandma." Sometimes she didn‘t hesitate to add a "Goddamnit!" Maybe she was right about making her a grandma, one problem – I couldn't do it alone. Sure, I‘d had relationships and I‘d been through the dating scene, however, with very limited success. Never seemed to find the right girl – or when I found the "right" girl, she thought I was the "wrong" guy. Definitely I was carrying a deficit in the relationship column. That went for friends, too. Most of my college buddies were now married with children. Once they were married, they moved on to their "married" friends, leaving me behind – almost friendless.
In the midst of my brooding about life, a wonderful memory from the past came walking in the door – Gina Lee. Gina was one of those women blessed with the total package: a great sense of humor, a golden heart, a good head on her shoulders, not to mention a heavenly body. I really was not going to mention that. Her looks were the kinds that make men sigh and women gag when she wasn't looking. Gina walked right up to my desk and stopped, flirtatiously saying, "Good morning, Jim. Did ya miss me?" Gina and I had some history, both of us growing up in the same part of Houston, attending the same high school and junior high. In fact, Gina was my very first date, the junior prom (what can I say, I was a slow starter). Memories like that stay with a person. I was so shy, I remember hanging up the phone a dozen times before I actually dialed all the numbers. When I finally did ask her out, I was so nervous that I had to read from a written script I‘d laid out on my bed in front of me. But in spite of my canned speech and shaky voice, she said yes. "Good morning, Gina," I replied, smiling too, yet trying not to reveal my enthusiasm about seeing her first thing in the morning. (And I certainly wasn‘t going to tell her that I might have missed her.) She began to fumble through her purse looking for something as she said, "I've got a little something in here for you." Not even realizing what she'd said, I found myself thinking back to that first date. Boy, I had such a big time crush on that beautiful little blond girl. Meeting her parents, I was absolutely terrified. I just knew that her father wouldn‘t like me. Gina had warned me that Mr. Lee had played football in college and was darn proud of it. Athlete I was not. Back then I was something of a ninety-eight-pound weakling. Of course her dad was the one that answered the door that night. Gina was being fashionably late (probably so that she could make that grand entrance walking down the stairs.) Good in theory, but it left her dad and me attempting to make small talk. Wouldn‘t you know it, right off the bat he asked me if I played on the football team. Like an idiot I told him that I preferred debate. Unfortunately, not the right answer – not even close. Not that he chastised me. Instead, he chose to just pretty much ignore me after that statement. "How was your weekend? Did you go to the Pecan Street Festival?" Gina asked, her manner suggesting that she might have seen me. "Yes, I did as a matter of fact," I said, slightly embarrassed by the thought that she might have seen me locked up in the straitjacket, but semi-wishing that she had. "I wish I‘d seen you there; we could‘ve had a lot of fun together," Gina said still in a search through the purse. Even though talking with her dad was strained, conversation always came easy with Gina. We really seemed compatible. And even though the prom date had ended with an unexpected and rather abrupt handshake, I still maintained a high school crush on her. For a while she even
shared my locker. I wanted to ask her to go steady, but I was just too darn shy. Privately though, I fantasized that maybe someday after college I‘d even marry her. Gina went to Europe the summer after the junior prom, and we lost touch before anything could really develop between us. My senior year, Gina was a cheerleader and started dating the captain of the football team. How could I compete with that? I didn‘t even try. So we just drifted apart. I hadn‘t seen her since high school, that was, until my first day of work at Lee, Fellers and Gadheart. Not having any idea that her family had moved to Austin, I was clue-less that her father was the "Lee" in the accounting firm that I had joined. When I saw her after all those years though, my heart still skipped a beat. Fate had thrown Gina and me together again. For a moment I thought that we might even start dating, possibly rekindle our high school romance. However, it was not to be. One of the other accountants, Mark, informed me on my first day at work, that Gina was completely hands off. Anyone making a pass at her would be terminated. He wasn‘t kidding. He showed me the actual memorandum. In plain English it meant that if I valued my career – which I did – then I would simply have to continue to fantasize about her in private. Since Mr. Lee, the boss, already had pegged me as a loser back in high school, I knew that I would never be able to ask her out now. To make my life even more wonderfully difficult, Gina was always stopping by my desk – just to say hello – whenever she was on the way in to see "Daddy." Four and a half years of dropping by my desk, saying hello, giving me cards, telling me jokes, and flirting had made me crazy about her all over again. Once again, I‘d just have to fight off those feelings. "There it is," she said with a smile as she pulled out a small red envelope and laid it down in front of me. Curiously, I picked up the envelope, semi-relieved that she hadn't seen me looking like an idiot at the festival. Looking over the envelope, I spied my name, carefully hand-scrolled in calligraphy on the front. "What‘s this?" I asked. "It's just a silly card. Don't read it until you go home," she said, stopping me from tearing it open. Then, quickly changing the subject, she asked, "Did you see the magician at the corner of Sixth and Lavaca Streets?" I nodded an immediate, "Yes, he was great!" She continued to describe the magician‘s act, "He did the most incredible things, didn't he? When he cut the girl in the audience in half, I thought that I would just die. Do you know how they do that?" "I didn't see him cut anyone in half. We did – I mean, he did a different act," I said, not knowing if I had just made a Freudian slip. (Perhaps I secretly wanted her to see me performing with the magician.)
"Was that you? You're the one, the one that I saw in the straitjacket thing," Gina said, "I thought that was you, but I didn't know for sure. There was such a big crowd and we were way in the back and couldn‘t really see. We didn't stop and watch because there were so many people. The girls I was with wanted to move on. Besides, we‘d seen him earlier. If I‘d only known that that was you," she slapped me gently on the shoulder, "I would‘ve stopped and taken a picture." Before I had the time to express my slight embarrassment about being in the straitjacket, Mr. Lee, her father, the boss, came marching around the corner. "Well, good morning, Gina darling. Did you remember to bring me the journal that I left on the desk? Good morning, James. How was your weekend?" Mr. Lee asked, acknowledging my presence, but not really waiting for an answer. "Yes, Daddy, I did," Gina replied to his question. "See you later, magic man." With that she turned the corner and walked with her father down the hall, into his office. As she looked back over her shoulder, I could have sworn that she winked at me. Then as her father closed the office door, I heard her say, "Daddy, guess what? It was him. James is the one..." With that the door to the office closed. I couldn‘t help thinking that it was strange to hear those words again. "The one?" I asked myself. Quite taken aback, I now gazed down at the ruby red envelope in my hand. The card was a totally unexpected flirtatious gesture. Oh sure, Gina and I had had our intense ten or fifteen minute conversations, and sometimes we even exchanged those "looks." One year at the company Christmas party we were alone and in an empty office, talking about what we found the most attractive in the opposite sex, and she told me that she liked a man who could dance. Well, I‘d had just enough to drink that I pulled her in close and began a slow seductive lambada – "the forbidden dance." Just as I did, I overheard her father walking toward the office, talking to someone. That ended the "forbidden" dance. The thought of losing my high-paying job actually had me shaking as he entered the room, but he didn‘t suspect anything. Turned out he just wanted to introduce a new client to his daughter. I was so relieved that we didn‘t get caught that, well, from that moment on, bound by my own fear, I became determined to honor Mr. Lee's orders: "Anyone so much as lays eyes on Gina – he is standing in the unemployment line!" Why did she keep flirting? Was she just naturally a flirt? Then it dawned on me – my birthday. I had completely forgotten. That was why she had given me the card. At five minutes past ten o'clock I would be twenty-nine years old. Unbelievable. What happened to my twenties? Not that twenty-nine was that bad, not like the dreaded thirtysomething. At least there was one more year to live. Looking down at the card, I smiled. Even though I was absolutely dying to open it, I placed it in my breast pocket next to my heart, deciding to wait until I got home as Gina had requested. Soon I was absorbed in my work and the hours flew by. Gina had since come and gone with a short, flirty hello, good-bye. When lunch time rolled around, a couple of the other CPA's came to
my desk, offering to take me to Bennigan‘s restaurant for a birthday lunch. I thought their company would be better than eating alone, so I agreed to go. However, by the time we had deciphered which car to take, just where we would all sit, and whether or not we needed separate checks, I was ready to re-think the disadvantages to dining alone. We were nearly all seated in the restaurant and I had just about resigned myself to having a boring time when Gina suddenly dashed in. "Do you mind if I join you?" she asked, waving at the group. "That would be great," I said, standing up and suddenly feeling a whole lot better about the luncheon. Mark Silverberg was about to sit down next to me, but Gina lowered her eyebrows giving him a look, accompanied with a pleasant, "Don‘t you think we should sit, girl, boy, girl?" Mark was agreeable to taking a different seat, allowing Gina to slip in next to me. This was perfectly all right with me, however, even though his actions were practically sanctioning it, Mark stared back at me with one of those cold looks of his own as if to remind me, "You‘d better be on the lookout for Daddy." The conversation started off kind of slow at first; all anyone wanted to talk about was work. Having promised myself to avoid that mundane subject as much as possible, I asked Mark, the wild one of the bunch, about his weekend. Mark had something of a reputation for getting crazy and I hoped his lurid tales would stir up some clever conversation. No such luck. Mark nonenthusiastically replied that over the weekend he had come into the office and worked a few extra hours. This was the only conversation. This was followed by a long silence from everyone. Were they really all just as bored and uncomfortable as I was, only being polite because it was my birthday? Determined to break the almost deadly silence, looking for some sort of icebreaker to start conversation rolling, I asked if anyone besides Gina had witnessed the incredible magician at the Pecan Street Festival. The answer sounded like a skipping record. "No ... no ... no … no." Then like a breath of fresh air into the stench of boredom, Mark suddenly spoke up saying, "Speaking of magicians, would you all like to see a magic trick?" I was aghast that such a sudden burst of creativity could evolve from this group. We?re not magicians. We're accountants for God's sake! Quickly I blurted out, "Yes, I‘m sure we'd all like to see the trick, Mark." Anything, I thought. Everyone else seemed equally enthused to get some semblance of conversation rolling. "Okay, it's not very good, but it‘s something you can do with matches," Mark mumbled nervously. He clumsily pulled a pack of matches out of his pocket and proceeded to tear out
seventeen of the matches, counting them out and crisscrossing them on top of one another as he did. "I will pick up six of these matches and leave nine," he said, then scooped up six of the matches. "There you have it." The remaining crisscrossed matches formed the word "nine". "How's that for an accounting miracle?" he asked. "That's great," I said, secretly hoping that the one trick was both his debut and finale. Yet, I applauded his effort to change the subject to something other than work. At least he was making an attempt. We both realized that his attempt had succeeded when Karen, a slightly chubby, quiet associate, slurping her bean soup, asked, "Don't you know a trick, James? I heard that you did magic when you were a kid." "How did that get out?" I asked, "That was a long time ago and I really don‘t do it anymore." Gina chimed in, "James and I went to junior high together, and he used to be quite the magician, if I recall. I seem to remember that you won the junior high talent show, didn‘t you, Jim?" "That junior high talent show? That was a long time ago. How did you remember that?" I asked of a memory I had long forgotten. "Oh, only because you beat me, and I was a wicked baton twirler," Gina stated, laughing at herself. "Too bad for all of you that I don‘t have a baton to twirl, but you can still do a trick for us, can‘t you, James?" "Well, it‘s true, I did a couple of tricks when I was just a boy, but it‘s been such a long time. I don‘t know if I could remember any," I said. All of a sudden, I realized why Mark had been shaking. The thought of actually doing something with the whole group watching my every move was somewhat alarming, even frightening. "The eighth grade talent show was an awful long time ago," I said, hoping to get out of it. "Oh, I thought I overheard something about you doing magic at the festival last weekend," said Karen. "You are the one, aren't you?" Again, there it was "the one." As she said it, I felt that strange tingle come over me. It was as if something was telling me that I should at least give it a try. Something the magician had said came back to me, "Always be on the lookout for the magical opportunities in your life. The magic life will be yours if you explore them." Deep inside I knew they all wanted, just as desperately as I did, for this lunch to be fun and exciting. Maybe this was one of those "magical opportunities" Max had been talking about. "Come on James, show us a trick! Pleeeease," Karen asked.
They were all trying so hard to make it enjoyable for me and I was "the one" letting them down; my reluctant attitude was making the event a miserable failure. That was about to change. "Well, I do know this one trick that I used to do at the dinner table when I was a boy," I said. "Does anyone have a quarter I can borrow?" Karen applauded, "Yea!" as Mark quickly fished in his pocket, pulling out a quarter. He handed it to me, joking that he expected interest at twelve percent compounded "quarter"ly. Everyone laughed, including me, as I took the quarter from his hand. "I will make this quarter vanish in the same way that it has been done for a thousand years," I proclaimed, placing the quarter on the tablecloth in front of me. And in spite of my stage fright, I was actually excited about the idea of having a good time. "I know how I make quarters disappear," Mark chimed in, "I spend them." Wonder of wonders, everyone laughed again. Setting the quarter in the center of the table, I then placed the salt shaker over the top of it, covering it completely. Next I unfolded my napkin and wrapped it around and over the salt shaker so that I could lift up the wrapped-up salt shaker and show the not-yet-vanished quarter. "Watch closely," I said, my voice beginning to crack a little. "Make sure I can't slip the quarter from under the shaker and napkin. If you‘ll all just say the magic word, it will vanish." "Abracadabra," said Karen. I lifted the napkin and salt shaker to reveal the still un-vanished quarter. "Everyone has to say the magic word or it won‘t work," I added. "Abracadabra!" the table responded, including the waiter who had stopped to watch and now found himself repeating the magic words. Then I pressed my hand down sharply upon the napkin, which had earlier retained the shape of the salt shaker underneath – but no more. "You all have more magic than you know – the salt shaker, not the quarter, has vanished." Indeed it had vanished into thin air, thanks to a little sleight of hand I‘d learned years ago – a sleight allowing me to drop the salt shaker into my lap while I misdirected their attention to the quarter. "I can't believe it!" said Mark. "That was incredible," Karen added. Sighing with relief that it had actually worked, I grinned all over. However, checking to my right, I discovered that Gina had caught me. Glancing down into my lap, from her vantage point she could see the salt shaker where no one else around the table could. The secret was exposed. Well, so much for trying to be magical. I was about to throw in the towel and say, "Well, you caught me." But, just when I thought that I had been foiled, Gina surprised me by not telling
anyone else. In fact, the opposite, she just smiled and very convincingly said, "James, you are amazing!" Then she did something that I really didn‘t expect at all. After suggesting a quick round of applause, without looking down, she reached into my lap secretly taking the salt shaker, and slyly placed it into her purse, saying, "Stand up and take a bow, James." So, I did. Saying in my best Elvis impression, "Thank you very muuuch." "Where is it?" they asked. "Tell us how you did it," came at me from everyone. I realized at that moment that I had done it; I had truly made them believe in the magic. Gina, in the meantime, had nonchalantly placed her purse, now containing the saltshaker, in the middle of the table saying, "James if you‘re really magic, you‘ll make it appear somewhere else." She was great; I couldn‘t have planned it any better. For once I picked up on my queue, saying, "Okay, how about if I make it appear in your purse." Gina opened her purse with a look of surprise that should have garnered an Oscar. "I can‘t believe it!" she said pulling the salt shaker from the purse. The rest were as astounded by the silly trick as I was by their reaction. Mark stood up saying tongue-in-cheek, "Come on people, let‘s give him the standing ?o‘!" At that given moment I enjoyed a gratifying sense of wonderment in my life, the same feeling that I had when I first publicly performed magic as a teenager. The experience brought back my lost memory of standing on the stage at Ludlum Junior High, the night I won the eighth-grade talent show. On stage that night I wasn‘t a bit nervous. I recalled looking down at the trophy in my hands, a moment in my life that I‘d completely forgotten. Even though the trophy was just six inches tall, gold-painted plastic, I remember it felt like ten feet of solid gold. And now, even though it was just a lunch at Bennigan‘s, it may as well have been Carnegie Hall. That‘s the positive feeling I got. Soon everyone was engaged in casual conversation, joking, laughing and enjoying lunch. Just before time to go, the waiters and waitresses appeared with a cake lit up like a miniature forest fire, singing some absurd happy birthday song, and making me wear a dorky paper dunce hat. No one even noticed Gina reaching over, squeezing my hand. I hadn't felt so silly in years. But it felt great, childlike – I was truly satisfied knowing that the real magic was the transformation of this lethargic group into an energetic party – not just by a simple trick, but by changing my attitude. As we left the restaurant, I really didn‘t get the opportunity to tell Gina thank-you and, unfortunately, when I got back to the office she was nowhere in sight.
The rest of the day passed rather quickly with five o'clock arriving before I knew it. Mr. Lee stopped by my desk on his way out to tell me to call it a day and go home. "By the way, Gina reminded me that it‘s your birthday today," he said. "How many years is it now?" "Only twenty-nine," I answered. "Well, you‘re not quite out of the running yet then," he said adding, "you know what they say – a man trades in his dreams for security at age thirty." After that depressing remark, he asked me if I had seen his daughter and I answered that I hadn't seen her since earlier in the day. Mr. Lee turned around and was off to catch the elevator, concluding an episode of casual conversation longer than any I‘d ever had with the boss. He never really spent much time talking with the underlings like myself, so I should have felt privileged, I suppose. Instead, I was slightly disappointed, because, for just a minute there I thought he might reach into his checkbook and pull out a birthday bonus. Maybe he felt that his words of wisdom were bonus enough. Though I didn't really believe that everyone "trades in their dreams for security at age thirty." After packing up some work to finish at home, I walked through the office toward the elevator. Almost all of the workstations were empty, all the office doors shut. I felt like a tumbleweed blowing through a ghost town. It always amazed me how quickly the office emptied at the stroke of five. Just waiting an extra few minutes, I always avoided the mass exodus, making a clear easy shot to the elevator. As I waited for the elevator I pulled the birthday card from Gina out of my pocket, gazing at it until the doors opened. Stepping in, I pushed the button for the garage floor. Just when the doors began to close, to my surprise, Gina rounded the corner calling, "Hold please." When she discovered it was me in the elevator, her face lit up with a smile. As I shuffled the card into my briefcase, I too, found myself smiling, wishing that I would somewhere find courage to punch the button, stop the elevator between the floors and passionately embrace this beautiful woman. Could I? That was exactly what I was going to do! My heart started pounding; because, just for a moment, I believed I really could. "James," she said, interrupting my fantasy, "we made a pretty good team, today. Don‘t you think?" "Yeah, we sure did," I said, "I wanted to say thank you, but I didn‘t get the chance. I had a good time. Did you?" "Yes, I did," she answered, "And you‘re welcome." She glanced up at me and our eyes collided like two shooting stars unwilling to change their course. This was the opportunity that I‘d been waiting for. The appropriate thing to do would be to continue gazing into her eyes, clutch her tightly, tell her I loved her and kiss her with all that passion I‘d held back over the years.
Just once, I wished that I could listen to my heart, but instead I simply rode the elevator silently, watching my golden opportunity dwindle with the diminishing of each lighted number as we passed each floor descending to the garage. Upon reaching our final stop, the chance was gone; we said our standard "have a nice night" and then parted. Wishing that I was someone else, someone less timid, I trudged over to my car then paused briefly before opening the door to watch Gina pull away. Somehow I always felt better after I saw Gina safely on her way. Putting the key into the car‘s lock, turning it, and slowly pulling the door open, I had unsettling thoughts. If I kept thinking about Gina this way, I was going to get myself into big trouble. I?d better just stop it. With that thought, I tossed my briefcase onto the passenger seat and spied the ruby red card, still unopened, falling out onto the seat. I‘d completely forgotten about the card when she entered into the elevator. I tore open the envelope. The card read:
"You're the one who makes my day,
When I'm feeling kinda blue,
You're the one I want to know,
Much better than I do.
Happy Birthday" And it was signed, "Love, Gina." Why did she have to go and do that? I just stared at the card. I must have opened and shut it fifty times. She had written, "Love." It wasn‘t "love ya" or "with love." It was just "love." I felt like such a kid — silly, I guess. Then I recognized it. There it was again. "You're the one." As I realized that I was seeing the words I felt that familiar tingle streak up my spine. Suddenly I became uneasy. I had this strange feeling that I was being watched. Cautiously, I peeked up out of the corner of my eye into my rear-view mirror to check the back seat. Not really afraid, but somehow, for some unknown reason, I half expected that magician to materialize in the seat behind me. However, nothing
happened, nothing at all. On that account, by simply reminding myself that it was my 29th birthday, I relaxed with a sigh. The stress of growing old was probably just getting to me. Giving the card one last look before placing it back in my pocket, I nonchalantly turned the key and listened to the purr of the Volvo for a second before heading back to the condo. There, in my standard evening routine, I stopped and picked up my mail before entering, slapped the button on the answering machine, and made a beeline to the refrigerator. The electronic voice informed me that I had two messages. The first was a happy birthday from my brother, giving me a few jabs about getting old. The second was from my mother asking if I liked the tie that she'd sent. I couldn‘t really say since it hadn‘t arrived yet, but I could guess it would be nice and conservative. All in all a good birthday, so I popped a Budget Gourmet Dinner into the microwave, kicked off my loafers, and turned on the TV. After eating a little dinner, watching a little TV, and catching up on a little work, I hit the hay. So, this is twenty-nine? Before long I was fast asleep and found myself in that place between space and time – dreaming. In this dream I‘m only thirteen years old, standing on the gymnasium stage after the eighth-grade talent show. The show has already ended and they have presented the awards. Proudly I display the first place trophy, which I can‘t believe I‘ve won, as a reporter for the local paper snaps a picture. Most of the attendees have already made their way home, leaving the basketball court littered with empty metal folding chairs and scattered with discarded Xeroxed programs. Only a few straggling kids, ones who took part in the show, and the parents of the stragglers remain. Mom and Dad step up on the stage to congratulate me with Carl riding Dad piggyback style. I‘m holding the trophy proudly as my father gives me a bear hug. Mom readies us for a picture, telling me to turn the trophy so that she can read the inscription through the camera. As I turn the trophy, it slips in my hands and I accidentally drop it over the edge of the stage. We all watch as, in slow motion, the trophy smashes onto the hardwood floor below breaking into a thousand pieces. With the smashing of the trophy the dream suddenly changes, and now seems somehow familiar, a scene I‘ve dreamt before. Full grown, I am sitting on a hard metal chair, two uniformed police officers strap me into a straitjacket; one of the officers locks my ankles in. Now I remember – yes – this is the dream where I escape from the straitjacket while hanging in mid air. But something doesn‘t feel right. Something is wrong. The straitjacket fits very tight, and for a moment I struggle. The police officer looks up at me, and for the first time I see his face – Mr. Lee! He smiles a smile that chills me to the bone, saying, "Well, James, you‘re not quite out of the running yet – you know a man trades in his dreams for security at age thirty," My heart starts to pound; something is definitely wrong with this dream. A beautiful blond woman steps onto the platform carrying a burning torch. I can feel the heat coming from the torch and hear the sound of the wind-blown flame. Once the woman is close enough for me to see her face, I know her – it‘s Gina! "Good luck, magic-man," she says,
lighting the rope on fire. "We make a great team, don‘t we?" Then she smiles, blows me a kiss, turns and walks off the stage. The music starts and I can hear the master of ceremonies. Something is different here, too. "Either this man will have to escape, learn to fly, or drop two-hundred feet to his death." I know this voice, it‘s the magician; the MC is Maximillion Vi. "James, you?re the one," he laughs as he engages the lever which starts the crane in motion. "Wait, I know this dream; I don‘t get out. I don‘t escape! I fall!" I am frantically shouting, "No! No! Stop, stop!" But the music becomes too loud, overpowering my cry for help as the sound of the crane‘s engine kicks in. My ankles are jerked suddenly, and I am hoisted rapidly into the sky. In a panic, I twist back and forth upside down, trying to free myself from the restraint. Higher, higher. Too late, the rope snaps and I am falling, "Aaaagggghhh!!" Next thing I knew, I hit the bed again with a thud. My heart still racing – what a nightmare. The images faded fast before I could piece them together exactly. However, this time I did remember most of the dream – something to do with escaping from the straitjacket, falling, and the magician telling me, "You‘re the one."
Chapter 4 "Nothing Will Happen – Unless You Make It Happen."
L
ooking 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 onetime 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-andrestored 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.
Chapter 5 “You Can Only Find The Answers – When You Know The Right Questions.”
S
aturday morning I awoke early in order to get to the bank before driving downtown to the
festival. My dramatic side had taken control; I wanted to present the elusive magician a hat full of cash and not have to write him a check. I felt it was more the way that he, Max Vi, might have done it. Not really knowing what to expect, I was a little anxious. However, I was still very eager to see him. After all, I‘d built him up to be so much in my mind. Whatever this meeting brought, one thing for sure was that it would brighten my somewhat drab existence – my so-called life. Believe me, I needed a little excitement in my life. By the time I withdrew the cash, drove down to the festival, and wandered around town looking for a place to park, it was already two-thirty in the afternoon. Due to a practically perfect weather forecast, I was caught up in what became the largest turnout in festival history. Traffic was awful for Austin, so congested that traveling just five or six miles took me almost an hour. The real trick was finding a parking space once I was there. After a long search, driving up and down the streets, I finally gave in and paid five dollars in disgust. Then I headed out hastily toward the corner where I had last watched the magician performing six months before. On the way to his show my heart raced. I felt high-spirited, giddy, like a kid going to the circus for the first time. As I approached that same corner, sweaty palmed, nervous with anticipation, I couldn't see him, but I could hear the boisterous laughter of the audience. There must have been two or three hundred spectators gathered at the spot, maybe more. The crowds were always much larger in the spring, but today was packed unusually tight. Briefly, I saw him hop up on his old trunk, above the crowd, and I could once again hear his loud bass voice booming over them and listened as it muffled when he stepped down, disappearing into the huge circle of people. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was Max Vi, all right. He was for real. Max seemed much more ordinary than I remembered, and I began to have second thoughts about the psychic nature of our first meeting. Deciding not to stress the supernatural experiences when I saw him, unless he brought them up, I resigned myself to just having an ordinary conversation with him. However, just in case we did get a chance to talk a little about magic, I had brought a couple of my new magic tricks with me. Perhaps he could show me a few tricks of his own or something. I really didn't know what to expect, but most important I was going find out what he had meant when he said, ?You are the one,? before he conveniently disappeared. Maybe I imagined the whole vanishing thing. I don‘t know.
It would have been impossible for me to get up close to the front to see him, so I decided to wait out of the sun, eat a corn dog, and maybe drink a cold one. Then after the crowd had dispersed a little, I could rush up and quickly intercept him before he started the next show. While I was sitting on a bus bench next to the food booths, waiting for the crowd to clear, a cute little blond-haired, blue-eyed boy wearing a blue tank top and red shorts, sat down beside me to eat his lunch. He hadn‘t a care in the world. How lucky he was to be just a kid, I thought. Totally absorbed by the moment he concentrated on, what to him was, the most important thing in the world – getting the right amount of mustard on his corn dog. Since I had already devoured my overpriced corn dog, I was left sitting there with nothing to do really. After practicing magic for several hours the night before, I felt up to an audience of one. Once I‘d started reading about the ?cut-and-restored rope,? it was like riding a bicycle. How to do it came right back to me. Since the opportunity was presenting itself, I decided to perform just this one trick for the little boy. Until this time I had been holding the magician's hat, but I decided to wear it to free up my hands, and besides, it helped me look the part of a magician. ?Hi, there young man. What‘s your name?? I asked the little boy. ?I'm not supposed to talk to strangers,? the little boy replied, looking over at the man next to him for approval. His remark kind of took me by surprise. How unfortunate it is that we live in a world so full of fear. ?Well, you don't have to talk to me since I am a stranger. But, I‘m going to do some magic, and you can watch. No one ever told you not to watch strangers, did they?? The boy shook his head ?no” without saying a word. With that, I dug the piece of rope out of my pocket, outstretched it and tugged it, demonstrating that the rope was real. Then I reached for my trusty scissors and cut the rope in two. ?Now, say the magic word,? I said, seeing that the boy had decided that I was no longer a stranger, but rather a magician. ?Please,? said the little boy. I had to laugh – after all, it was better than my routine. ?Please is a good magic word,? I said, ?but the magic word for magicians is 'abracadabra.' Can you say 'abracadabra?'? I asked. ?Abercadaber,? replied the little boy. ?That's right,? I said, ?abracadabra.? Then, with a little “presto-digitation,” also know as sleight of hand, I made the two halves of the rope appear to restore to one solid piece. ?Believe it or not, I learned to do that trick when I was about your age,? I said.
The young boy's eyes became as big as the light bulbs that just flickered on inside his head. ?How did you do that?? he asked, mouth wide open. A surprising round of applause came from behind me. I hadn't realized that several other people standing near the food stand were observing me. A couple of older women, their full cups of beer held by their teeth, were just clapping away, some of the beer splashing out as their heads bobbed in time with their flabby arms. I was slightly embarrassed by the attention; but I couldn't resist tipping my, I mean, the magician's hat to take a big bow. It felt wonderful to be the magic man. ?You‘re pretty good,? said one of the men standing there watching, ?Here, Jimmy, give the man a dollar.? With that he bent down, gave the young boy a dollar, then gently pushed him back over in front of me. ?Is your name Jimmy?? I asked, kneeling down to the young lad. ?Yes," he said shyly, looking up for approval from the man who just gave him the dollar. ?That‘s my name, too,? I said. ?I assume that you are Jimmy's father,? I said to the man and he nodded a ?yes? and rubbed the boy on the head. ?Thank you very much for the dollar, but I‘m not a professional. I was just practicing,? I said returning the dollar to the boy. ?You can keep it.? ?Well, I think you‘re as good as any of the others that I've seen here before,? he said. ?Tell the man 'thank you' for the show, Jimmy.? ?Thank you, magician man,? said the little boy. ?Come on, Jimmy, what do you say you and I go find your mother?? With that the father picked up some packages full of handmade crafts and artistic trinkets, and plodded off. The boy, holding his father‘s hand, skipped along. As he was walking away, the kid pulled on his dad's sleeve and I could hear him say, ?Dad, can I be a magician when I grow up?? ?Son, he replied, ?you can be anything you want to be.? With that he disappeared into the crowd. It was a beautiful moment for father and son, bringing back memories of my own father. ?You can be anything you want to be, except unhappy.” Then, I realized that the crowd had thinned substantially around the ?real? magician; he must have finished his show. Putting the rope and scissors back into my pockets, I headed back through the crowd to see the magician. As I approached Max Vi yelled out in that same booming voice that I remembered so well, ?Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, gather round..."
Darn it, I was too late to catch him in between acts. He had already started another performance. Since there were so many people, the crowd formed a circle before I arrived. Quickly though, I weaved my way through the crowd, walking right up to the front so that he‘d be sure to see me. I didn‘t know quite what to do, but I had great expectations. Whatever happened, it would be a surprise. Maybe he would make some clever remark, which would somehow convey that he knew that I would be back all along. Or he might bring me up on stage and introduce me to the crowd. Perhaps he would just wink at me or nod and smile, letting me know that he would see me after the show. I thought that he might possibly drag me into his show again as the assistant. I expected everything – anything – but I was not expecting what happened next — which was nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just looked right past me, as if I were just one of the hundred spectators who had come to see him perform. I smiled and waved his hat to attract his attention, but he just kept on with his performance, ignoring me, as though I didn't exist. He looked square at me, but did nothing to signify that he remembered our deal. Nothing at all. I felt a little sick.. For the last six months I had anticipated something special, something exciting, and now he didn't even know that I existed. Dumbfounded, I stood there and watched him perform exactly the same act as six months before, practically mouthing all the jokes and one-liners. Obviously I had wasted way too much time thinking about this guy. He still rubbed his little white cloth to hypnotize a spectator. He selected some guy out of the crowd at random, as he had me, and strapped the straitjacket onto him. Although I enjoyed seeing the show this time as a spectator, I felt cheated; his assistant was stealing my act. Looking through the crowd, I even spied the magician‘s wife, Kristin, standing across the circle from me waiting to be called upon to help. I‘d never forget that kiss. I waved at her to get her to look in my direction, but it was futile. All their eyes, including hers, were glued upon ?the amazing Max Vi.? All too soon, the show was over. Max had escaped from the jacket and vanished from under the cloth, to the utter amazement of the crowd. Of course, he left his unsuspecting assistant to pass the hat, and of course the money filled it to the brim. However, this time the collection was going to be almost twice what the magician expected. Because when the assistant passed the hat my way, I sadly pulled the money out of my coat pocket. Despondently, placing the money into my magician‘s hat, I handed it, hat and all, to the now slightly puzzled, but still smiling, assistant. ?When you see Max again, which you will, give this to him and tell him that it‘s all here, plus interest. He'll figure out what I meant,? I said, turning to leave. I couldn‘t face him. Not wishing to publicly acknowledge the now painfully obvious fact, I was insignificant. Just ol‘ James, the bean counter. If I had been ?the one? before, it was now past history. He didn‘t even remember me. I didn't get it. Perhaps the magician had become so accustomed to people just spending the money that he took it for granted that I wouldn't show. Maybe he‘d forgotten about me the minute I walked out of sight. Anyway, I‘d suffered enough rejection for one day. Feeling like an abused dog, I just tucked-tail and headed home.
On the drive to my condo, I couldn't help brooding again. I was sick and tired of nothing happening in my life. I expected something magical. Somehow I had believed this magician would tell me that ?I was the one.? For some reason, I wanted to believe that I was the missing key to the secrets of the universe. That I, through some magic power, would somehow be able to solve all of mankind‘s problems or that I would lead the people out of their daily darkness. Maybe I would solve the pollution problem, or discover a cure for cancer or aids. At the very least, I thought that maybe I would unlock the secret of making myself happy. Why? Why was it that I had dreamed up this perfect scenario? Why did I have to have a let down when it didn't happen? Why did he lead me on some wild goose chase? Why did I imagine all of those things? The voices? Why didn't I just keep the money and take Gina to the festival? Why am I such a stupid jerk? I wanted to believe in fairy tales, so I guess that I deserved it. I know better. If it sounds too good to be true – it probably is. Hard work is the only magic that really works. As I pulled into my garage I was steaming mad. ?The nerve of that guy,? I thought. I don't know what kind of game he was playing, but I was going to write to the person in charge of the festival and make sure the same magician never worked there again. He must be some kind of a nut. What kind of guy gets his kicks from giving people false hopes? I was really mad, getting madder by the minute – I wanted to break something. I opened my door, walked inside, and slammed it shut behind me. Stomping through the living room to the kitchen, I checked for messages; of course, there weren't any. Then, boom, all of a sudden, like a nuclear shock wave, it hit me. I stumbled backward as I looked into the living room, almost falling to the kitchen floor, tripping over the dining chairs. My heart stuttered a beat. Out of the corner of my eye I had just caught him – Max Vi. There he was, sitting on my couch, his feet propped up on my coffee table as if he owned it, reading my Wall Street Journal. ?Jesus Christ!? I said, not knowing whether to be scared, joyful or angry. ?No, just me, Max,? came the response from the amazing Max Vi who didn't flinch a muscle. He just sat there, smiled and said, ?I hope I didn't startle you too much.? ?How did you find me? How did you get in here? Why are you here?? I questioned, stunned, practically gasping for breath. ?Come now, I‘m a magician,? Max replied. ?We never tell our secrets.? Just staring at him with my mouth open, I would‘ve assumed that I‘d be furious – I mean at the concept of a stranger sitting in my house uninvited. It was unnerving. However, he simply looked at me as he had the first time, smiled and winked. A tingling shock wave bolted through my body – the Pied Piper effect all over again. I trusted him, not even knowing why I did. ?But I thought that you didn't remember me. I gave the money to the ...? I began to stutter.
Before I could even start questioning, he started answering, ?His name was Burt, but Burt isn't like us. You see, you and I have a lot more in common than Burt and I. You and I have destiny to fulfill. ?I was certainly glad that you didn't take advantage of my offer to spend the money. I was slightly disappointed, however, that you left before I got a chance to talk to you – even though I absolutely understand your doubting me. Just don't let it happen again. Remember, I have a reputation to keep up. ?James,? he continued, ?it was just an act. I pretended to not see you. It‘s extremely important to the audience that I, as a magician, remain somewhat mysterious. It is absolutely necessary if there‘s going to be suspension of disbelief. You see – they must see me as someone very special, almost above a normal human being. This helps create the illusion. Probably the way that you felt, when you first saw me – right?? he asked with a smile and a pretense of arrogance. He knew he was right. He motioned for me to sit down by patting the seat next to him. As I sat down, confused, I could feel a thousand questions coming into my mind, but I was unable to utter a single phrase. ?Remember, I am going to teach you all of my secrets. Or that is, you‘ll learn all of my secrets if you choose. James my friend, you are the one,? he said as he leaned forward and touched my arm. As he did, I felt that tingling chill run through me from the point of his touch. ?What does it mean?? I asked. ?Are you for real? Why are you here?? ?James,? he replied, ?It means that you must learn to be the one, the one that you really are capable of being. James, you must learn that you are not just James Christian Carpenter, the accountant. You are not just good ol‘ James the Beancounter. You are a potential wonderkin, a muse, a changer of the world. We are going places, you and I. You‘ll be changing things, and things will change. As for your two other questions, I am for real, as real as you make me. I am here because you want to learn. Just like you are here because I want to teach. That‘s pretty much the way life works. Teaching and learning are two of the three most important things in life.? ?What is the third?? I asked, not even knowing why I had. He continued, ?The third element is the most crucial. It, however, is the one element of life that cannot be taught or learned. It is that which you must acquire naturally, somehow find, or create on your own.? I was a little confused because his statements weren‘t really answers, but more like walks around an answer, like a politician would do. It was, however, so unbelievable and fascinating that I clung to his every word, without interrupting.
He leaned back, reached up into the air and a tobacco pipe appeared at his fingertips. ?I don't smoke it,? he said. ?I just like to hold it when I tell a story.? He stuck the pipe into his mouth, bit down on it, and cocked his head up to one side as if he were going deep into thought. ?Let me tell you a fable, James," he said, removing the pipe and pointing it in a gesture. ?Fables have been known to change the course of history, you know. You should always pay close attention to fables and dreams, Jim, they are the fabric that weaves the universe. ?This fable starts off like every other really great fable: Once upon a time — there was a king who ruled a larger than average kingdom. On the scale of one to ten, his kingdom was a seven. But the king was not satisfied. He was ruler of all he surveyed, yet he knew that beyond his horizon there must be more, more realms to conquer, more kingdoms to overthrow. One day a stranger arrived from a distant empire and requested an audience with the king. The king, not familiar with the land the stranger called home, was exhilarated by the prospect of expanding his domain. ?He, therefore, decreed that the stranger be brought before him shackled in irons. His soldiers found the man, secured him in chains, and brought him to the king. The king proceeded to torture the stranger, demanding that he reveal which direction he had come from and how large an army protected his city. Even after great torture, the stranger refused to tell. Frustrated, the king had the stranger thrown to the lion's den where he was torn asunder and devoured. ?Several months later an army marched from the distant realm into the kingdom, and in the cover of night overthrew the ambitious king. The king was led to the chopping block for his treachery against the stranger whom he had sent to the lions. ?Just tell me one thing before you kill me,‘ begged the king as he was about to be beheaded. ?How did you know that I was here?‘ ?The conquering king answered, ?It is really very simple. I send out men bearing friendly greetings in all different directions. If and when our men don't return – we know that our enemies lie in that direction.‘? Max stopped and placed his pipe in his mouth. I tried to figure out what he was getting at and then gave up, ?I don't get it. I'm afraid that I‘m just kind of slow.? ?Don‘t feel bad. There's not really a lot to get. It‘s just that sometimes it‘s not what we don't know that gets us into trouble. It‘s rather what we don't know that we don't know. You see, the king knew that he didn't know the location of the stranger‘s kingdom, but what the king didn't know was that his actions were revealing his own location. If he had simply freed the man he would have been better off. The king couldn't have known this, because he didn't know that he didn't know. Sometimes there are no answers to the questions because we don't know any of the right questions,? Max said with a grin and then he asked, ?Does that mean anything to you?? ?I suppose that, since I don't even know what questions to ask, it‘s better to just consider you as the man bearing friendly greetings and know that I‘ll reach the other kingdom in good time,? I
laughed a little, because I had the feeling that I really did understand – another chill crept up my spine. ?Indeed, you are the one,? he said, as he covered the pipe with his hands, making it vanish. He then sat back in his chair and put his hands folded behind his head. ?Can I at least ask you a question of what I know that I don't know?? I asked. ?Sure, you can always ask questions. That doesn't mean that I‘m going to have the answers, because I don't know what I don't know either. But you go ahead and ask. If it‘s a good question, I'll try to give you a good answer.? He then sat up and leaned forward to look me right in the eyes. ?Okay, here goes. Who are you?? I asked. ?Not a bad question at all. In fact, a very good question. However, it is more important for you to answer it than it is for you to ask it," he said, pulling on his salt and pepper beard while rubbing the piece of white cloth which dangled from the chain about his neck. ?Who are you?? he asked. This seemed quite profound coming from this mysterious man sitting in my house uninvited. He was absolutely right. ?I don't really know – do I?? I replied, and again the tingling. The phone rang and broke my almost mystical thoughts. Knowing that the machine would answer it after two rings, instinctively, I leaped up. ?Just a minute let me get ...? I said as I turned for the kitchen. The instant I had my back toward him, I realized I was making a mistake. I had that feeling you get when you lock your keys in the car and realize it as you see yourself shutting the door. It was too late to stop and go back. Something inside me told me that he had finished his conversation with me. Sure enough, when I turned and looked back he was gone. He had vanished again and I had the depressing feeling that I probably wouldn't see him for another six months.
Chapter 6 "Access The Child Within You –– And Learn What You Already Know."
I
picked up the phone and blurted a rather abrupt, "Hello," as if I were almost mad at
whomever called. I couldn‘t help blaming the caller a little for my taking my eyes off the magician. Perhaps if I had just kept my eyes on him, watching him every minute, he wouldn‘t have vanished. However, my anger was quickly diffused when I discovered, much to my pleasure, that the caller was my ever-optimistic younger brother, Carl.
It had been a long time since we had last talked and I was anxious to hear from him. Carl was always the bearer of good news, whether or not there was even good news to bear, he was probably the one person that I would have to forgive for interrupting – something about that damn positive attitude of his. "Guess what?" he asked. "How in the heck should I know what?" I said. "Are you coming into Austin?" "No, but you will be able to see me," he replied, "You have to guess." "You bought a billboard on I-35? Okay, I give up. What are you up to now?" I asked. "Well, all right, if you give up. Remember a couple of years back when I told you that I was auditioning for the situation comedy about an accountant who meets an alien?" I kept on listening. He said, "Remember. You helped me research the part – of the alien, get it?" There had been thousands of auditions. He had informed me that he had been on hundreds, but almost never cast. The only reason that I recalled this particular audition was that he had asked me to help him with a little character research, using my background as an accountant to help him get into the part. Specifically he had said that, "For once my accounting career was going to be put to good use." "Yes, well, I sort of remember, but I thought the idea was canned by the networks, wasn't it?" I asked, trying to remember precisely what happened with the show. "Well," he continued, "it was dead, but they gave it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and it is going to be alive and breathing on the Fox network next spring! We start production of actual episodes next Wednesday and we will go on the air by mid June. I'm afraid that I‘ve finally done it. I‘m going to be a TV star!" "That‘s fantastic! It‘s unbelievable," I said. "I'm envious, I knew that someday if you kept slugging it out that eventually all of your hard work would pay off. I knew you would be a success. Have you called Mom and told her the news?" "I just found out this morning," he said. "I wanted to tell you first though, because you always believed in me – not that Mom won‘t be happy that I‘m substantially employed in any fashion. You and I know that Mom would have still been happier if I had become a dentist or something real." "Don't be too hard on her; Mom just wants what she thinks is best for you. Now you are getting the chance to prove to her that you knew what was best all along," I said, knowing his feelings were absolutely on target. Mom probably wouldn't even begin to express any pride in Carl or his
work. More likely she would even be a little bit sarcastic, saying something like, "Well, it took you long enough; now you can start earning a living." She wasn't actually mean, just a little bitter about life in general. Oh hell – who was I kidding? She was a lot bitter. Carl and I talked for at least an hour about his new show and how his character was stereotyped as a rather boring nerd accountant. If he only knew how exciting some of the real accountants down at my office were, he wouldn't have called it stereotyping. He would have called it extremely realistic. I could only imagine what life would be like for an accountant that really met an alien. "Sometimes I feel that I‘m the alien in our office," I said. When we finally hung up the phone, I realized that I had completely forgotten to tell him about my alien visit of sorts. With all of the excitement about his new part, I had neglected to tell him about the magician and his strange disappearing act. Looking at the door, I wondered if the magician could have made it out in the time I took to pick up the telephone. Sure, it was just a trick. Of course, the magician had vanished leaving yet another strange riddle for me to solve. Now I was supposed to figure out the question of the ages: "Who am I?" It was a very pertinent question – a coincidence – since I was currently having an identity crisis. Usually, I would have laughed off such a question as simply sophomoric, but the truth was that I was not very satisfied with the person I thought I was. Maybe I was just like my brother, I thought – an actor playing the part of a boring accountant. Bingo! Another tingle ran up my spine. This tingle-chill thing was getting to be far too commonplace. The phenomenon seemed to happen whenever I was thinking about something to do with the magician. Again the chill, like a response to my very thoughts, enveloped me. Strange, maybe I was losing my mind. Should I pay attention to this sensation? Or was my imagination getting the best of me? Maybe, just maybe, there was something going on here that was beyond the bounds of ordinary everyday occurrences. Maybe I should explore the possibility of a psychic phenomenon. Then the answer came to me, why? Just as Max had said, sometimes we look for the answers and the answer is to be found in the question. If it were psychic or not, did it really make any difference? It was as real as I wanted it to be. I was convinced that he was really here, sitting in my home. He really talked to me. I really saw him perform, and I really got goose bumps practically every time I thought about something he had said. Go with the flow, Jim, just go with the flow. Maybe I just needed to relax, sit back and wait. He did say to have patience. Well, I was willing to give patience a try, at least for the night. I curled up with a good magazine and lay down in bed to read. When my eyes finally got too tired to read another word, I clicked off the light and drifted off, fast asleep. I was dreaming that I was at the spring festival again, watching the magician perform. Only this time, I am just a little boy and can‘t see over the people standing in front of me. They are all laughing out loud, but I can‘t see what they are laughing about. I try to slip in between the people, pushing my way to the front, but they just won‘t let me squeeze by. They are too big and
overpowering. I feel helpless. Turning to look for help from the older man next to me, I find my father, exactly as I remember him. "Son," he says with a smile, "would you like to see a great magician?" "Of course I would, Happy Papa," I reply. He then hoists me to his shoulders and I look over all of the people. The magician who is standing in front of the crowd performing is not Max Vi. The magician is me! I am the one performing for the crowd. I wave at myself and smile. Then the dream changes direction like only dreams can; I am no longer at the festival, but crouched down in the corner of the elevator at work. Everything is running in slow motion. The elevator stops and the doors open. In a macabre scene like in an old episode of The Outer Limits, Max Vi walks on wearing a white tuxedo, holding a black rabbit in his hands. The doors close and we start rising very rapidly. I can hear the whir of the motors kick in. "Well, James, do you know the answer to the riddle yet?" he asks, almost shouting against the background noise of the whirring elevator motor. "Who am I?" I ask, as the elevator races higher and higher. "Yes, do you know who I am?" "I thought I was supposed to answer who I am, not who you are." "It‘s one and the same, answer or question. You and I have more than a lot in common. I am you," he states. Suddenly, I realize that I am strapped tightly in a straitjacket, seated on the hard metal floor of the elevator. "You aren't me, I am James C. Carpenter. I am the son of my father and mother. I am my brother's brother. I am just a man, not a magician!" "Then who am I?" he questions. Confused and angry, I can feel the gravitational force pressing down hard on my body and face. The elevator grinds loudly, about to reach the limit of its ascent. It does reach that limit – suddenly my stomach enters my throat, for a second I am weightless as the elevator turns silent and begins falling downward. Now there is no elevator at all; I see Max suspended in space and I am falling away from him. I am still trapped in the straitjacket, falling. "YOU ARE...!" I shout at him. The action woke me from the deep sleep and the dream instantly vanished. The shouting was unnerving, so real that I thought I might have actually shouted out loud, but I wasn't about to let it get to me. I?m a big boy now and nightmares are only frightening when you are sleeping. Still,
I wasn‘t that anxious to get back to la-la land, so I sat up and drank a sip of water from the glass on my nightstand. Not wanting to forget what happened in this dream, I sat there with my eyes open and relived it for a few minutes, almost getting up to get a pen and paper. But I decided my bed was too comfortable and I was really too sleepy. Besides, I really didn‘t want to wake up completely. Who am I? I wondered. I‘m a lot of different things. I‘m an accountant; but really that is what I do; that‘s not who I am. If you take away what someone does, then what‘s really left? I was born who I am without any action of my own. I guess that who I am is as simple as being. I am just my father and mother's creation, just a product of their genes and one passionate night. Is that who I am? Is the rest just a by-product of my surroundings and the changes caused by living day to day? Is who you are limited to what you are given in the way of mind and body at the moment of conception? Are those the limitations that define who? Does that mean that I have no control over who I am? I thought about it for a few minutes. It all seemed pretty fatalistic, pretty negative, I mean not having control over who I am. But, to think of it in the terms of being born male with two arms and legs, with brown hair, and a moderate amount of intelligence, I really didn't have much to say about it. No one really gets to say much about it. A depressing thought, but I guess I was fortunate to have been born whole with as much going for me as I have. So, thankful for what I had, I rolled over to get back to sleep. The next morning I awoke somewhat refreshed, not remembering any more dreams after the one nightmare about the strange elevator ride. Feeling almost invigorated by my midnight‘s conclusions, I was ready for a great new day armed with at least a few answers for old Max. I did know who I was: just an ordinary guy with a few dreams. I had wanted to be a magician when I was a kid. So what, I wanted to marry the boss‘ daughter, too. I wanted to be like my father or like my brother and follow my dreams. But, I was also something like my mother, hard working, dedicated, and I wanted some of the good things that my hard work would allow. I was intelligent and not ashamed of it. I had achieved a reasonable amount of security and I was damn glad to have it. Sure I had a few regrets, but I knew one thing for sure. I knew who I wasn't. I was not Max Vi, not a piece of fiction or some kind of illusion. I was, at least, a real person living in a real world. My morning shower, electric shave and the drive to the office were pretty much uneventful. I decided to write down my thoughts on who I was as soon as I got into the office. If I had to wait for another six months to see this disappearing magician, and then answer his questions – I figured I better have the answers written down. Otherwise, I might just forget who I was. That kind of sounded silly, I might forget who I was. Traffic was light, so I arrived early at the office. When I got to my desk, I pulled out the pencil drawer to get out a pen and pad. A surprise was waiting for me. In my pencil drawer I found a single, freshly cut, red rose. I picked it up and inhaled its wonderful fragrance. I looked for a note, a card … but nothing. The flower had to be from Gina. Who else? However, I‘d probably never find out. The rule of thumb is that a man can never ask a girl if she anonymously gave him
flowers. Because if she did, she probably won't admit it and if she didn‘t, then she'll never forget it. It‘s a no-win situation all around. I figured to get even. One good rose deserves a dozen I always say (as if I had ever sent a dozen roses to anyone other than my mother). I picked up the phone and called a florist. Asking him to deliver a dozen red roses to her at the office and feeling quite brazen, I had them sign the card, "from your secret admirer." After all, who could it hurt? No one. If she never found out that they were from me, there was no harm to anyone. At lunchtime I saw the florist making the delivery, and even though I wanted to see Gina‘s reaction, I decided to slip out for lunch before she got them. That way, if she decided to confront me, she couldn‘t. I was such a sucker for her that I would probably give it all away with just one look. If I weren‘t there, she might not suspect that I was the one. Picking up my briefcase, I headed into the elevator, my mind a million miles away thinking about Gina. Not even remotely thinking about my strange elevator dream – deja vu – it happened. After descending a couple of floors, the elevator stopped. When the door opened, Max was standing there – just like in the dream, complete with a white tuxedo and tails. Thank God, he wasn't holding a black rabbit. I would have freaked out entirely. He stepped into the elevator and smiled saying, "Fancy meeting you here." "I didn't expect to see you for about six more months," I said, trying to pretend that I was not totally startled by this stranger-than-life specter with the amazing ability to enter into my dreams. "Well, I was just performing in the neighborhood and I thought I would come up to your office and see if you would join me for lunch," he said. Attempting to act almost cool, not awestruck as I really felt, I replied, "I think that would be great." "Terrific, I know where we can go. It will be just the place to celebrate, James," Max said, patting me on the shoulder, "Congratulations are in order." I couldn't help feeling inadequate whenever he was around. He had a way of transforming me into the little boy of my dreams. I don't know why I put up with all the clandestine mystery. In that instant, I decided that I wouldn't. "Is it really necessary?" I asked, almost thinking aloud, still feeling that he knew what I was going to say before I said it anyway. "Absolutely, James. If I know you, as well as I think I do, then you have spent the entire night figuring out who you are," he said. "Stop me if I‘m wrong. The way I figure it, anyone who is so curious as to wait six months, give up a hundred dollars and a date with a cute girl – just to be asked a question – is going to figure out the answer to the question, or spend the entire night awake trying. By the looks of you, you got a good night‘s sleep. So I must conclude that you have answered your first question."
"Well, do you want to know the answer to the question?" I asked. Then my intuition stopped me. "Wait, don't tell me. You don't have to; I already know the answer to my own question. It really isn't important that you know the answer, after all it was my question wasn't it?" I said, intuitively understanding the logic to my thought process and unable to believe that it came out of my mouth. "You really are catching on, James," Max said with a chuckle and a wink. "Well, where are we going to have lunch?" I asked. "Now that is a really good down-to earth question, and I have a good one for you. Do you like pizza?" Max asked. "You mean there is something that you don't know?" "Of course you like pizza," he said, "I was just being polite. Even a mind reader, like myself, must maintain a certain decorum in a social setting." I couldn't help thinking to myself, "I‘ve been bested again." He was simply playing the odds. Hell, everyone likes pizza. It was always as if he knew me. Full of questions, which I would feel a fool to ask, I knew that if I asked questions I wouldn't get answers. And I also knew that I would get more answers without asking any questions. But I wanted to know some things. Where did he come from? Was he real at all? Why was he really on the elevator? Was he some kind of a guardian angel – something mystical? Or were he and I both nuts? He looked real enough. If he was a hallucination, he was one hell of a hallucination. I wasn't about to broadcast my possible psychosis by insinuating that he was some kind of psychic spectacle, but I was really beginning to wonder about the possibility. We exchanged very little conversation on the way to the restaurant. He suggested that we take my car, of course. He probably didn‘t own a car; he probably never used a car, just de-materialized from one place and re-materialized in another. How else could I explain his sudden appearances and disappearances? When we walked into the pizza parlor and proceeded up to the counter, he suggested that I order first and that he would pay for both. Ha! I knew it. He didn‘t know what kind of pizza I liked. But, I wasn‘t about to ask or he would have told me. So I ordered a couple of slices of pepperoni and an orange drink. All the time, I had this eerie feeling that the person taking my order couldn‘t see the magician, because the pizza guy looked only at me when we walked up. Maybe Max was only visible to me. My suspicion was almost confirmed when the he asked, "Can I have your name please?" not even acknowledging Max‘s presence. "Carpenter, James Carpenter," I said reaching for my wallet, not sure if I were standing next to a ghost.
"No, let me get it," said Max, "I insist," making a twenty dollar bill appear out of nowhere in his hand. The man behind the counter completely missed the trick, but then he turned to Max and referring to the tux asked, "Hey, what's the occasion? Are you getting married?" At least I knew that Max was real, not just a figment of my imagination. Or if he was, at least the illusion was now shared between the pizza guy and myself. After Max finished ordering a couple of slices of combination pizza and a cola, he paid for both and we sat down. He talked. I listened. "I'm sure that you are very curious about me," he said. "Curiosity is one of man's greatest gifts, but it‘s just better I teach you a bit at a time – walk before you run, crawl before you walk. I would just like to add that you should learn to swim before you can crawl. Life is full of mysteries, James. But people need to solve their own small individual mysteries before they can move on to solve the major mysteries of the universe. "James, I have been looking for you for a long time. You first intrigued me with your keen sense of observation; you can see things which others fail to see, feel things that many others fail to feel. When you first approached me at the festival, I observed the way you analyzed the reactions of others. Thinking constantly of the current surroundings, you know where you are at any current moment, unlike most people – you live in the present, not the past or future. You noticed when I first rubbed this cloth swatch," he said pulling the cloth attached to a chain from under his collar. Then Max continued, "You noticed my beautiful wife, too – but who didn't? You realized that your billfold was gone before I told you, James. But most important and amazingly, you grasped how other people perceive life around them and what they sensed about you. You embody the capacity to cherish life‘s mystery, not having yet lost all of your innocence. "However, don't feel too special, James, you are not alone in this ability. All men and women share this ability to live in the now, at one time or another in their lives. You see, children all have it – a natural God-given ability, much like, say, swimming before you can walk. Did you know that a child is able to swim soon after he is born? Swimming is almost as natural as breathing. But if the child learns to crawl first, swimming becomes more difficult – as though there are too many distractions after the baby has discovered his newfound freedom. Learning to swim before you learn to crawl is almost effortless, easy, because there are no distractions. "If, however, you go even farther and you progress from crawling to walking without yet learning to swim – swimming becomes much more difficult, even somewhat frightening to learn. You learn many of the fears about your limitations as a human being when you learn to walk. You learn, for example, that you can‘t walk on water. "Swimming becomes extremely difficult to learn after you have learned to run, as though you‘ve completely forgotten your God-given gift and must totally relearn swimming. If you learn too many other things, then this natural birthright will become almost impossible to remember and relearn.
"But remember, nothing is impossible if you have the proper knowledge, beliefs, training and attitude. This is important James; remember it. Nothing is impossible if you have the correct knowledge, beliefs, training and attitude. It isn‘t too late for you to learn it all because of who and what you are. "You are one of the lucky few who, at your age, hasn't yet lost the ability to see life without sticking yourself into the picture. Reality becomes very clouded and foggy when a person lets his or her individual life affect their perception. Your perception is still uncluttered. When most people become who and what they are, they leave the magic behind, carrying too much emotional baggage and including too many of life‘s little prejudices. James, inside you‘re still like a child who hasn‘t yet picked up all of the misinformation we adults have to cart around. Access that child within you, and learn what you already know – to swim again, James. "I asked you to find out who you really are. You probably have a pretty clear picture. Discovering who you are is like learning to crawl, leaving behind the security blanket of an infant. No longer is suckling at your mother‘s breast enough. Now you must learn and explore possibilities. You are, in essence, defining yourself, discovering where you can go, as well as where you can‘t. This newfound mobility defines for the rest of your life, your limitations. Your very exploration creates your belief system, teaches you boundaries you cannot see beyond. That is who you are. You are a man. You are your parents' son, and you have their form, shape and color emblazoned upon you. Your choice or not – where you stand, as you stand, is who you are. "Next I ask you to discover what you are; that is: learn to walk, not as easy as learning to crawl. But, we all seem to get it after a few tumbles. Just remember, when you learn to walk, a lot of the things that you could do easily as a child may become frightening. In walking we first recognize the limitations of time and space. Deciding what you are can impose many restrictions, limits and constraints." He paused, took a drink of his soda, and wiped his lip with his napkin. "I want you to learn to crawl, walk, and soon run, never forgetting your God-given ability – to learn without constraints." Then over the loudspeaker, "Pizza for Carpenter. James Carpenter, your pizza is ready." I raised up out of my seat and turned to him. "When I get up to get the pizza are you going to disappear?" I asked, not knowing if he could answer a question straightforwardly. "James, I think that you have more to digest than just pizza, and for me to be here would only make you concentrate on more questions. Now you know the question, spend this time searching for the answer," Max replied. "Just think about what I have said for a while, discover what you are, and I'll be back soon to teach you to run." "Well, if you‘re gone when I get back, it has been a pleasure listening," I said. "You really have given me some food for thought." Even though I knew that he would be gone when I returned, I felt perfectly satisfied with our conversation. I turned back around to see if I could glimpse him walking out the door, but he was gone in an instant without any sign. He was teaching me something at last. As I picked up the
pizza I realized what his lesson was. I stopped and smelled the aroma: pepperoni, the spices, and tomatoes. It was great. I recalled what it smelled like the first time, when I was a young boy and my mother made a Chef-Boyardee Pizza for us kids. I could feel the heat radiating off the ovens, and I sensed the ambition of the fellow behind the counter. He was really hustling and overtly friendly, no doubt because he aspired to be more than a pizza pusher for the rest of his life. Almost as if I could read his mind, I sensed that he wanted to be the manager. I saw a girl, not happy with her job, taking an order next to him. Obviously, she wanted to be somewhere else doing something else. Then my awareness of the sounds, smells, and subtle sights all intensified, and I smiled because I really could feel them. Max had reached me. A chill tingled up my spine. One more bizarre thing – I was given only my pizza. The pizza guy never even called Max‘s order ready.
Chapter 7 "You Make The Choice – To Be What You Are."
A
fter quickly consuming a couple of slices of pizza and slugging down my orange soda, I
wiped the tomato sauce off my chin and headed back to work. My mind was still swimming from the intensity of Max's discussion. "What am I?" I thought that I had already answered that. I would really need to examine this question carefully since I had thought it was exactly the same as, "Who am I?" That afternoon, I pulled into the parking garage feeling very full and almost drowsy, as though I were in a fog. Somewhere in the misty corners of my mind was the answer to this riddle, but presently the solution eluded me. After I parked the car, I sat for a moment just thinking, "If who I am is that which I was given – so to speak – then what am I must include everything that I became." I didn‘t feel comfortable with the obvious answer. What I was, was more than just ol‘ James, the accountant. The answer, I knew, would take a lot of inner searching. Upon entering the elevator, I hit the button for the 25th floor and breathed a heavy sigh of submission. Maybe I‘ll figure it out later. I walked out of the elevator, past the receptionist and headed to my desk. The receptionist, glancing up, stopped me before I had traveled all the way down the hall. "James," she said, "Mr. Lee asked to have you drop by his office as soon as you returned." "Are you sure he wanted to see me?" "Oh, yes, I took the message myself," she replied.
Suddenly weak in the knees, I felt the butterflies congregate in my stomach. What did he want to see me for? I had rarely ever been called into his office, except when I messed something up. He was usually pretty reasonable, but I hated feeling like an idiot – pretty much the case whenever I screwed up. After dropping my briefcase and jacket off at my desk, I picked up a pen and yellow note pad and headed back down the hall to his office. When I reached his door I paused, took a deep breath, then addressing Mr. Lee‘s personal secretary, Molly, I said, "Tell Mr. Lee that James is here to see him." "Go right in, James," she said, "He is expecting you." Cautiously, I opened the door, ready for a royal butt-chewing session. Mr. Lee sat behind his big oak desk with his glasses pulled down low on the bridge of his nose, reading some computer spread sheet. He reminded me of Ben Franklin only with much shorter hair. Not even glancing up for a second to affirm my presence, he said, "Come on in, James, pull up a chair." He finished what he was doing, and then peered at me over his glasses. After a long pause he turned his eyes toward the window and in a commanding voice, clearing his throat he started, "Hrrmph, I have a problem and I need your help. I think that we have something we need to talk about." Then, on the credenza by the window, I spied a dozen red roses, my roses – oh my god, Gina's roses! They may have looked beautiful, but I smelled trouble. I felt unsteady, almost faint. I had done it now; he was going to fire me for sure. Then my brain kicked into high gear, "Maybe he doesn't know that I sent them." Not wanting to play out my hand just yet, I zipped my mouth shut as I reviewed my phone call to the florist very slowly, over in my mind. I‘m sure that I had sent them anonymously. Yes, I positively said to sign the card, "From a secret admirer." There was no way her father could have known that I was the culprit who sent them. Perhaps she had just placed them in her father‘s office. Maybe my visit to his office had nothing to do with the flowers. "James, do you see those flowers that are sitting behind me?" So much for that theory. Oh well, I was history. "Yes, sir. They‘re very beautiful," I said, not knowing how to respond and not yet ready to admit my defeat and beg for mercy. "Well, they weren't sent to me," he said. "That‘s why I need your help. I caught someone delivering these to Gina, my daughter. Well, I know that she is sort of a friend of yours, and I think that she kind of likes you. Isn't that right?" "Yes, we get along fine, uh, very well," I said, feeling like the mouse sitting on the trap nibbling at the cheese, any moment the spring would snap and whaaack! "Well, I haven't given them to Gina yet, because I wanted to talk to you first. You see, I don't know who sent these yet, because the chicken S.O.B., pardon my French, didn't have the guts to
sign his name. That's why I called you in here – to help me out before this thing gets out of hand. I would really appreciate it if you would find out who in the heck this "secret admirer" is. "You just don't know Gina's past history with men. The last guy that sent her flowers was a motorcycle gang member, a real bad egg. You know, sex, drugs, rock and roll. Well, not this time. I want to you to find out this creep‘s name before he gets his grimy paws on my daughter. No sir, I don't want to see her wrapped up with another useless no account bum. If you only knew what it‘s like being a father to a beautiful girl. I don't know why, but she never seems to want to get involved with anyone with a sense of responsibility. You know, someone with his head in the real world, like you and me." Dazed, I couldn‘t believe what I was hearing. Like a bad situation comedy: here was the overprotective father putting his foot in his mouth up to his knee. Luckily, I hadn‘t spilled my guts when I walked into the room; even though I would?ve loved to see the look on his face if he discovered I was the scoundrel who sent the flowers. The absurdity of it all almost made me laugh, until I realized what a truly horrible situation I was in. Somehow it lost its humor. "James," he said, "you know how much that girl means to me. I know that it isn't necessarily in your job description, but I would appreciate it if you could just ask her if she knows who sent them. Once you uncover his name I will take over and check him out from there. If he is some Colombian drug dealer or ex-convict, damn it, I want to find out!" Not knowing exactly what to do, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, thinking to myself, "Should I tell him that I was the secret admirer?" I wasn‘t a motorcycle gang member, I wasn‘t a drug dealer, ex-con or no account bum. Considering the situation, I tried to take myself out of the picture. I really didn't know much about Mr. Lee‘s relationship with Gina. I‘d just taken for granted that they were close because they saw each other so often. I really felt sorry for him now; he was so overprotective that he was making himself miserable. And what about Gina? How in the world did she ever put up with him controlling her life that way? Maybe she didn't. Possibly she dated the wrong kind of men because her father was too protective. Thinking back, however, I couldn't even remember her ever dating a motorcycle hoodlum. That did it! I was going to lay my job on the line. He was going to have to let me date his daughter or he could fire me! "Well, James?" he asked. My knee-jerk self-preservation reaction took over. "Yes, of course you can count on me," I hated myself, but I had never handled this type of situation before, and I was, well, sort of winging it. "Jim, why don't you talk to her tonight? It‘s almost two o'clock now; if you asked her to go out for a drink tonight after work she might spill her guts to you." I couldn't believe my ears. He was asking me to take Gina out.
"Well, I don't even know if she would go out with me," I said, still in minor shock and absolutely not believing this latest development. He wanted me to date her! Ha! "Oh, I'll bet that she would meet you for a drink or something like that. After all it's not like it was a date or something." "Okay, I'll give it a shot," I said. "Good," he said, standing up extending his hand to me. "Thanks a lot for helping me out, James. I'll make it worth your while." "Don't worry about it." I certainly wasn‘t worried about it being worth my while. Here I was getting him to actually sanction a date with Gina, without even asking his permission – a trick worthy of the incredible Max Vi. We shook hands, after which, I practically danced a jig back to my office cubicle. Work seemed to be extra tedious after that, with my mind repeatedly wandering to events of the previous twenty-four hours – more excitement than in the last few years combined. It was almost too much to handle. What was I going to do about Gina? And what about Max's question? What about my life? I closed my eyes attempting to concentrate. Feeling a tension headache coming on, I began to rub my forehead. My hand was joined by a much softer pair of hands slowly rubbing my temples. I opened my eyes and there stood Gina. "Do you have a headache?" she asked in a soothing and sympathetic voice. "Yes, and that feels great," I said, before it dawned on me what was happening and how it must have looked to everyone else in the office. "I'll be okay," I said , "as soon as the aspirin kicks in." Sitting up straight in my chair, taking her hands in mine, I reluctantly pulled them away from my temples. Inside I was dying. How was I going to forget about the girl I loved, knowing in my heart that she would love me too if we could just leave the rest of the world out of the picture? "Daddy said that you had something that you wanted to ask me," she said. "Oh yes, there is something that he wanted me to talk to you about," I said fumbling for words, "I need to talk to you about something personal." "What do you mean?" she asked, giving me a rather puzzled look Stumbling and groping for words, "I don't know what I mean," I said, my heart pounding. I took a deep breath and asked, "I just wondered if you would like to maybe meet me for a drink tonight after work." "Is that all? Yes, I would love to," Gina replied. "Any place special?"
"Well, I thought maybe," I said, as my mind raced searching for a place to have a drink with a beautiful girl that you want to impress, "we could meet at the ..." Before I finished, she interjected, "How about the Lake Austin Palace? Do you know it?" "Oh yes, it‘s a beautiful place," I said, knowing of its reputation as a fine restaurant, but never having actually been there. "What time do you want to pick me up for dinner?" she asked. She was so forward. I was just asking to meet for a drink and now she had me picking her up for dinner. But, it sounded okay to me! "I guess I could be ready around seven thirty, is that all right?" "That's just fine. I guess it‘s a date," she said with a smile. Guiding my career right down the drain would almost be worth planting one big wet kiss on her lips. I really wasn't that happy with my job anyway. With what was probably a very stupid grin on my face I just gulped, saying, "Okay, I guess it's a date." After a couple of "see-ya-laters" she waltzed off down the hallway and was gone. Somewhere in my state of confusion, I was lost without a road map. Things were really getting complicated. To get me out of this would take a guardian angel – although I really didn't want to get out of this one. That was the tough part. Maybe it had something to do with what Max had said at lunch. Max had a way of providing answers before I knew the questions. But what did what he said have to do with my situation? The question that he had asked was "What was I?" and I knew that he didn't mean the same thing as "Who was I?" but I was still confused. They were the same and had nothing to do with my question at hand. Mark walked up to my desk and handed me a piece of paper. "I think that you better take a look at this, James." Looking down at the paper; I turned it over front to back only to see that it was blank on both sides. "What is it?" I asked, totally confused as to why he handed me a blank sheet of paper. "It‘s your job description after Mr. Lee finds out that you and Gina are messing around," he chuckled. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Mark, but Gina and I aren't fooling around," I said. "In fact we are going out tonight as a favor to Mr. Lee." "That‘s not what it looks like to me and the gang. You may say you‘re doing the boss a favor, but it looks more like the "bossanova" to me," he said. "You know what I mean? Not that we blame you – that baby do got back!"
"That‘s pretty funny, Mark – really good toilet humor. Did you ever think about becoming a comodian? Well, I have a lot to do. You'll have to excuse me while I get back to work, or we‘ll both end up with this for a job description," I said, handing back his blank sheet of paper. "Hey, sorry if I upset you. I was only kidding around," Mark replied. "I think it‘s fine for you two to go out; you‘re perfect for each other. You‘ve been flirting with each other for the last – what – three years? I would just consider my job if I were you. But, then again, she might just be worth my job." "Yeah, thanks Mark. I‘m not upset, but I really have to get to work," I said, ending the conversation. He left and I went back to work. But, because of Mark‘s joke, I couldn't help thinking about Max Vi‘s new question: "What was I?" If you ask a person who somebody is, they will tell you the name of the person, nine times out of ten. If you ask them what they are, they will tell you what they do. In that case I guess I‘m an accountant. That's it! What you learn is what you are! I am an accountant because I know accounting principles. I learned accounting. What you are is what you learn to be. If I were a dentist, I would have learned dentistry, if I were a teacher I would have learned how to teach. That‘s what he meant. What you are is that which you choose to learn. You have the choice to be what you are. The thought made a chill shock my spine and I knew that I was on the right track. Max had said to remember that anything was possible with the correct knowledge, training, beliefs and attitudes. I had no control over who I was, but I was in control over what I was. To learn and believe whatever I wished was my choice. Just like the little boy who asked his father. I could be whatever I wanted to be. Again a chill through me, stronger this time. Unlike who I was, over which I had no choice, I could choose to learn to crawl, walk, run or swim. Well then, what was I? Was I just an accountant? I shuddered. Surely I was more than an accountant; I had learned more in my life than just GAP accounting. Really, I, like Max, was a magician, too. At least I could perform some tricks. At that moment I realized, "what" I was, was just a label. To the kid who was told not to talk with strangers, I was a stranger. He had changed the way he reacted to me, because the label he had assigned to me said that I was a stranger. We all assign labels to everyone, creating what they are. Learning what you are is only part of what you are. I knew who and what I was somehow was not so important. It is more important that I am, just the existence of me is me. I am a storage of experiences and knowledge. I am a person, a real person. There is more to me than just who and what I am. Was an accountant all that I was? No, definitely not, I had dreams, ambitions, aspirations, emotions, fears, and regrets … I had love to give … Yeah – I had regrets, all right.
The rest of the day passed rather quickly. At five o'clock I straightened my desk and was about to head out to the elevator. I had opened up my desk drawer at least a dozen times to look at the rose, which was now starting to wilt and about to lose its petals soon if it didn't get some water. Deciding to take it home with me, I was just putting it into my vest pocket when Gina walked around the corner. "Hi, James, I‘m looking forward to our date tonight," she said. "So am I," I said, feeling very good about seeing her again, "Wait a second and I'll walk you to your car." We got into the elevator and again I found myself fighting back those feelings. She stood there just a few feet from me. I could smell her perfume, Elizabeth Taylor‘s Passion. I found myself breathing too heavily, feeling a little light-headed. I wanted so much to embrace her and kiss her. Taking a step toward her, I looked into her blue eyes and said, "Gina." This was it. She looked up at me, and we both knew what was going to happen. However, nothing was going to happen. Just then the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Several people entered, talking about their jobs. The mood changed; my heart quit pounding. And though I was a little disappointed, I was almost relieved. If the elevator hadn't stopped, would I have kissed her? I quickly recovered from my light-headedness when the elevator doors opened into the garage. As I headed for my car, Gina reached out and grasped my hand, squeezing it with a giggle. "James," she smiled a sincere smile and said, "thank you for the flowers." I didn't say a word. I just stood there grinning, watching her practically skipping over to her car. As she drove past smiling like the cat that just ate the canary, she waved and honked her horn. "I really do love her," I said to myself
Chapter 8 "Life Is Full Of Happiness And Sadness Whenever Life Is Full."
A
fter a quick shower and shave, I put on my best silk blazer with a new pair of pleated slacks
and Polo shirt, better than wearing the old standby, my navy blazer and khaki slacks. Reaching for some cologne, I wondered what would be right to induce the proper mood. Then it dawned
on me. What mood? What was going to happen? I wasn‘t going to be seducing anyone! I was supposed to find out who Gina thought sent her the roses. But I already knew who she thought did – me! And I already knew who did – me! What would I say to her on this date that wasn‘t a date? Mr. Lee had already determined that it was just a get together for a drink after work. Yes, I wanted her, but I also knew that I just couldn't throw away my career. Her dad may not have me thrown out on the streets, but I was up for partnership review this year. Although I really cared about her, I knew that it was in my best interests to not see her again; we would have to just be friends. I‘d just have to tell her we were only friends. That was that. I reiterated this plan over and over to myself, all the way out the door, into the car, and driving to her house. However, when she opened her door my mental train derailed and suddenly I forgot all about my terrific non-involvement plan. She was lovelier than I had ever imagined possible. Wearing a back-less black satin dress, her golden hair was pulled up revealing her soft neckline wrapped by a single strand of pearls. She looked and smelled of sweet seduction. I had never seen her wearing anything like this and I liked it. I liked it a lot. She smiled, turned a circle holding the dress out to her side like a dancer, saying, "Hi there, sailor, new in town?" My eyes must have been popping out of my head and my mouth gaping open. It was obvious that I‘d never seen her looking like this before. All that I could muster was a long pause and a, "Hi." She took hold of my hand and stepped out of the doorway, pulling the door shut behind her. "You look and smell marvelous, James. I don't know if I want to go eat dinner or you," she said with a chuckle. Then she laughed and added, "Oh, I didn't mean for that to come out the way it sounded. I just mean that you look great." Obviously I had picked the right cologne. "You look absolutely stunning," I said, at last able to complete a full thought without rambling. "Thank you, James. And I want you to know that I think that you are the most handsome man that I have ever met," she said. "Of course, I've never met Mel Gibson, Tom Cruise, or even Mel Brooks, for that matter." I was glad to see that she still maintained a sense of humor even while she looked ravishing. We both laughed and I opened the car door for her. I was kind of quiet, even for me. At a loss for words on the drive to the restaurant, I felt kind of awkward. I kept thinking things like: I should have washed the car, and did I remember to brush my teeth? I found myself even wondering if my socks matched. "James, you sure are quiet. Don't be so shy. I‘m still just me, Gina. I‘m the same person who wears blue jeans and a T-shirt that you always tease at work," she said.
"I'm sorry, I do seem a little nervous, I guess. I don't know why," I evaded, more than just a little nervous. Usually I didn‘t get this nervous on dates, but I knew that Gina and I really had potential and I didn‘t want to blow it. "Well, don't be nervous. I won't bite you – yet," she said, as she pushed up the armrest and scooted across the seat. Then reaching over, she lifted up my arm around her shoulders and kissed me on the cheek. That helped relax me a bit – a lot. With a surge of confidence from her actions, I said, "Thanks, I needed that." I squeezed her shoulders in close to me. She smiled. Fantastic. Maybe I need to relax, keep my thoughts in the present, not concentrating so much upon the past or future. My thoughts were graced with a tingle up my spine and I knew it was the right thing to do. We pulled up to the Palace, probably the most chic and ostentatious place in Austin. Just the drive up into the long circular driveway, around the flowing fountains, past the Rolls and Lamborginis to get to valet parking, was an experience for most. If you weren't a state legislator or senator, you normally would have to wait a week to get a reservation. Luck must have been on my side or I wouldn't have succeeded with such little notice. We approached the uniformed doorman and exchanged good evenings. He opened the doors as if he were presenting royalty. When we entered, I understood why. The restaurant was extremely elegant. Huge windows overlooked the lake; grand crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling; each table sported a complete service of fine china and crystal glasses in place. All were covered with starched white linen tablecloths, adorned with a different colorful floral centerpiece, and came complete with a smiling waiter in a tuxedo, attached. A large flowing fountain centered it all, and beyond, the rear windows overlooked the valley with a grandiose view of the lake and the city in the distance. A string quartet was softly playing chamber music in the corner. The scent of the flowers filled the whole restaurant. Our arrangement, coincidentally, was a bouquet of four dozen red roses. "Oh, James, isn't this just beautiful?" Gina said as the maitre d' showed us to our table. We did, indeed, have one of the best tables with a beautiful view of the city. "I had heard so many good things about this place, but it‘s more elegant than I ever imagined. Thank you again for bringing me," Gina said. We then exchanged some more small talk concerning the ambiance of the restaurant. I was almost afraid that we'd run out of conversation, but the waiter was soon there and I took the privilege of ordering the wine. Gina was somewhat impressed by my expertise. Fortunately, I had prepared myself for just such an occasion, years ago, by attending an adult education class on fine wine tasting. But I had almost never used the knowledge that I had gained from it and up until that moment thought that it was a waste of sixty bucks. The nearest to ordering a fine wine for me was a trip to the Ale House to pick from the ninety-eight different varieties of beer. At the time I took the class I hoped to meet someone like Gina. Who would have thought that it would have taken this long to have the opportunity to order a decent bottle of wine?
I completed all the proper moves, viewing the label, sniffing the cork, trilling the wine, and finally the ubiquitous approval. With all of the formalities that go with such a high class culinary excursion out of the way, Gina spoke up, "James, I want to know more about you. Tell me about yourself." "Well," I said, wondering if my life would ever be the same after tonight, "I don't really know where to start, or what to say." "You can start by telling me about your past, I guess. You know that I don't really know much about it, after our one date in high school." "Well, after high school I went to school at the University of Texas, where I studied accounting..." "I am not asking for a resume, James; I want to know about you," she said. "Tell me about your family. Let's talk about your dreams and aspirations. Tell me about where you want to be in ten years. Tell me who you really are. What do you want to be when you grow up?" "And to think that for a few moments I thought we weren't going to have anything to talk about," I said laughing, practically overwhelmed by all of the questions. At the same time I couldn't help being pleasantly awed by the coincidental nature of being asked, who I was and what I wanted to be. It was great to see that Gina truly did have an interest in me, the real me. But something inside of me still held back. I wanted to talk to her about the inner me, about my recent experiences with Max, and how it had reawakened my dreams of being a magician. I wanted to tell her about my feelings, that I was missing something in my life, and how I wasn‘t really fulfilled at work. But, I didn‘t want to freak her out with the stuff about Max. And I‘m sure it wouldn‘t have been the greatest career move to tell the boss‘ daughter that I couldn‘t stand my job. So, I took a more conservative approach. "I‘m just a normal guy: I like sports; I drink beer. But I guess that I‘m not stereotypical because I like to go to the theater and the symphony too. I really like a lot of different things," I said, knowing that it probably sounded wimpy and boring. I apologized, "I‘m sorry, it just seems so hard to start off talking about myself." "Well then, tell me about your family, I don‘t remember if you have any brothers and sisters," she said. "I want to know what I‘m getting into here." "Well, for starters, I guess I can tell you that I have a younger brother, Carl. He hates when I call him my little brother. He is a twenty-five-year-old struggling actor out in Hollywood who actually believes he‘s the good-looking one. Carl has never really made the big time, but he‘s done a couple of commercials. He‘s always doing some kind of play or something, waiting tables on the side to keep afloat. However, he recently landed a part in a TV series, which he says should make him a household name. Who knows? Maybe I‘ll have a famous brother some day. You would like him; he‘s a real nut at times. He‘s a ham, just like my father..." I paused, trying to recall if I had ever told her that my father was deceased.
"What‘s your father like?" she asked. "My father died when I was in my early teens, of cardiac arrest. It was rather unexpected." "I'm very sorry. I forgot," she said, but rather than dwell on a possible faux pas she pushed forward. "I don't know what I would do if it weren't for my father. He‘s the greatest. What about your mother?" "Oh yes, Mom is still very much alive. She lives in Houston, so I visit her about once or twice a month. Every time I do she says the same thing, too. ?Are you married yet?‘" I said and laughed, hoping that I wasn't making any improper insinuations. "Tell me, why isn't a catch like you married?" Gina asked. So much for my insinuations. "I guess that no one will have me," I answered. "At least that‘s what I tell my mother." Gina leaned forward and asked, "What is the real reason? You aren‘t one of these guys that is afraid of commitment, are you?" "Oh, no, I am looking to be committed. Ha, ha. That really sounded stupid. Well, what I meant to say is that sometimes I think that maybe I‘m not really happy with myself. I‘ve had a couple of relationships, but they just didn‘t seem to work out. How can you be happy with someone else if you haven't got it together for yourself?" Gina answered, "You could let the other person help you get yourself together; I think marriage is all about sharing the good and bad. Too many people wait for life to be perfect before they start to enjoy it. At least that‘s what I believe," she said. "Besides, you really seem to have it all together. You have a great job. You have great looks. You have a great sense of humor." "Funny, I tell myself the same thing," I said. "But, somehow I feel that I‘m missing something." "What?" she asked, leaning forward. About to answer her, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a person approaching the table wearing a white tuxedo. Before I could look up, he spoke and I immediately recognized his voice. Once again I was slipping into the Twilight Zone. Every time he showed up, my world became more unreal. "Good evening, madam and sir. Allow me to introduce myself," he said. "I am the amazing, astounding, and incredible Maximillion Vi. However, you can call me Amazing for short or Max for shorter. I am the house magician this evening. Perhaps you would like to see a little bit of legerdemain, or a paltry amount of prestidigitation, or a conundrum of conjuring. If not, then how about a few magic tricks while you wait for your dinner to arrive?" Max turned his head just enough in my direction to give me a wink without Gina seeing, to remind me that while he was performing I was not to reveal that I knew who he was.
I thought to myself, "Who he was indeed!" This was not just a mere coincidence. I might as well just sit back and enjoy. I was just along for the ride now. "Well, Gina, would you like to see some magic?" I asked. "You know I love magic. Of course I would," Gina replied. For the next few minutes he did some of the most incredible illusions and had us laughing all the while he performed. "Do you like card tricks?" Max asked. "I love them," Gina replied. "Well, I wish that I knew one," Max replied. "Then we would both be happy. I suppose I could make up a card trick if I had a deck of cards." "If you‘re really a magician, just make them appear," Gina challenged. I had to agree. But I knew he was too good for that. Max would not have brought cards up at all if he were not prepared in the first place. "Don't you have any cards I could borrow?" Max asked, directing his question to Gina. "No," Gina replied. "Look in your purse just to make sure," he said. Pulling her purse into her lap, she opened it up. Lo and behold! Inside was a deck of cards with a sticky, yellow, Post-it note stuck to it. The note read: "If I were really a magician, I would make them appear in your purse." Both Gina and I were astounded. Max proceeded to do some card tricks, each more astounding than the last. After the cards had vanished, he made some little red sponges appear and disappear in Gina's hand. He made coins appear and vanish right in front of our eyes and eventually they passed one at a time through the table and into a goblet which he held under the tablecloth. He ended by pulling a small black and white rabbit out of his top hat. I was still glad it wasn‘t the solid black rabbit from my dream. Somehow this bunny seemed more physical and less metaphysical. A good thing since I was trying to get a grip somewhere on the reality of the evening. Not an easy task, the way things were shaping up. "Magic is like life. It‘s simply what you make of it. Some people choose to see distasteful deception while others see awe-inspiring illusion. Still there are those, like James, who see magic and life for what they really are," Max stated directly to me. "What are they really?" Gina asked of Max.
She wouldn't get a straight answer. But I was as anxious as she was to hear what he would say. Even though she was the one asking the questions, I knew that he was really talking to me. "What are they, you ask?" said Max. "Amazing!" "That's not much of an answer," Gina said. "I guess that depends on how really amazing magic and life are, don't you think?" Max asked with a smile and a wink in my general direction. I could read volumes into what he had said, but now I wondered if I was reading too much into everything. Maybe I was giving more credit to what was happening with him than I should. After all, his tricks were just that, tricks that I had seen other magicians perform in other restaurants. I even knew how he did some of them. A few were very similar to those I‘d seen in my handbook and I could probably perform them myself with a little bit of practice and training. Yet, I didn't know how Max got the deck of cards into Gina's purse without my seeing. That was impossible – that one had me stumped. He then placed his hands out in front of us, cupping his empty palms together. "Allow me to look into the future for this evening." When he opened his hands he revealed a small crystal ball that now filled them. "Look at that, James," Gina said. "Okay, magician, tell us our future." If anyone could foresee the future, it was Max, and I was not about to interrupt. I just sat quietly and watched, trying not to put myself into the picture, rather, thinking how marvelous this evening was. Without prejudicing my view (by including all of my own doubts and questions), the events surrounding me did appear really astounding – a significant moment of my life. Gina, Max, the flowers, the fountain, the lake, everything – life had created a beautiful illusion for me. "Oh crystal ball, I wish to see into the future of James and Gina," Max said as he gazed into the crystal. "Reveal unto me – the future that you see ... I see both of your futures are becoming very intertwined. Fate will play its hand tonight, changing both of your lives, forever." "Will we live happily ever after?" Gina asked. "The path to true happiness is a trail blazed by your own heart. Happiness is up to you," he replied. "What about sadness, will there be any sadness?" Gina asked. "I know it sounds trite, but without sadness how would you know how to appreciate your own happiness?" Max Vi replied. "How can you even begin to feel alive if you‘ve never felt real sadness? Life is full of happiness and sadness – whenever life is full."
"Sounds like pretty standard stuff to me," I said. "You know, I expected some better, more welldefined predictions, from one such as the Amazing Max Vi." After saying it, I realized I must have sounded cocky without really meaning to. "No one can really predict another person‘s future," he said, giving me a rather harsh look and tone of voice. "But, you can influence it. You can change it. Sometimes you can create it. If you don?t create your own future, someone else, or something else, will create it for you. Remember, Jim and Gina, the difference is not in the path that one takes, but the trail that one makes." Gina – like my protector – chimed in, feeling that the conversation was getting tense. "Amazing? That is what you said to call you, isn't it?" she asked. Max smiled and said, "You can call me anything you like, any time you want." "How do you do such magical things?" she asked. "A magician never tells his secrets, right?" I responded before Max had to. Then Max continued, "Just if you ask him how; the trick to getting the secret is to ask why?" "Well then why?" Gina asked. "Let Jim tell you why," Max replied. "He knows." "I've just barely figured out what," I said and we all laughed. Only Max and I really understood, but it still sounded kind of funny. "I‘m glad to hear that," Max replied, "It means it‘s time for you to work on why." Then the waiter appeared at his side with the table tray. "I'm sorry, but the time has come for dinner to be served and for me to vanish. Thank you both very much, you have been a perfect audience. And I might add that you make a perfect couple." With that he winked, turned, and walked out of view. As the waiter set the entrées on the table, Gina looked at me questioning, "Is that the magician from the Festival? The one that you know? I know it is. Aren't you going to give the man a tip?" "Oh yes, thank you, I nearly forgot didn't I?" I reached quickly into my wallet and pulled out a ten-spot as I called over a waiter. "Would you please give this to the magician?" "Excuse me?" responded the waiter. I repeated, "I would like to give this tip to your house magician." "Do you mean the quartet?" the waiter replied.
"No, not musician, I meant the magician," I explained. "You know, the man performing magic tricks at the tables, wearing the white tuxedo." "Sir, I beg your pardon, but we do not employ any magicians. If there was a magician at your table, well, he was not employed by the restaurant," he said. Gina remarked, "That is so strange, isn‘t it?" "It‘s more strange than you can imagine," I said. "What do you mean?" "I believe that it was no coincidence he was here tonight," I said, looking at Gina, wondering if I should tell her the whole story and just how she would take it. "Something really strange is going on here," I added. "Well, I don't know how, but you're on to me," she said almost boasting. "I admit it; I did it. I knew you liked magic, so when I saw this magician performing last week at another restaurant, I thought that it would be nice for our first date if he came here and performed for us. I offered to pay him fifty dollars, but when I mentioned your name, he said that he would do it for free. That‘s why I thought you should tip him." "You? You did? Wait a minute! You said that you saw him last week. I didn't ask you out until today," I said. "Oh my gosh, that‘s right. Well, I guess that I have a huge confession to make," she said, looking up into the air as if to ask for divine guidance. "This date was not really your idea; it was mine. I made it all happen. Just as the magician said, I created it." "What do you mean?" I asked, suspecting that I wasn‘t the one in control from the very start. After all, all that I had intended to do was just ask her out for a drink. Look what it had turned into. Gina answered, "I have been waiting for a long time for you to ask me out. At first I thought that you had someone else, then I thought maybe you went gay. But, I know you‘re not, and I know you like me. I‘ve even tried asking you to ask me out, but you never do. Like when I asked you if you were going to the festival. Finally, I decided that I would just have to get up the nerve and ask you instead," she said. "So this morning, I gave you that one red rose, and I was going to ask you if you got anything special. Then I was going to say that we could celebrate your having a secret admirer by going out. We would come here for dinner and sit at this table with the red roses. When you made the reservations, you didn‘t know that I‘d already made them under your name. "Anyway, my plan changed a little, when, while you were out to lunch, I received a dozen roses – I sure hope that they were from you. It was Daddy that actually came up with the real plan. After I told him that you sent me a dozen roses, he suggested that he should call you into the
office for a little chat. He said that he would pretend that he was mad and that you should help him find out who sent the flowers. And of course the best way would be to take me out for a drink. Now you know why Daddy and I get along so well. He‘s devious, just like me." "You mean that your father knew about this all along?" I said laughing out loud. "I thought that I was being so cool in his office. He was great. He was really great! I have to hand it to him. I especially liked the part about the Colombian drug dealer." She gave me a questioning look. "Never mind," I said. "But I thought he really wouldn't let anyone who works for him date you. Mark even showed me the memo." "Oh, no, you heard that? Serves me right, I guess … I was the one who made up that rule," Gina said. "That was just so I wouldn't be hit on by every Tom, Dick and Harry with an accounting degree and lead in his pencil. But you‘re different from the rest; you're the exception. I kept wanting you to ask me out, but you wouldn't," she said, her lips pouting. "I think that you‘re about the most cunning, calculating individual I‘ve ever met," I said, shaking my head in disbelief. "Let me restate that. You are the most beautiful, calculating individual that I have ever met. This will have to go down as the strangest date of all time. Maybe even the best date of all time." "Well, maybe the second best?" she said reaching into her purse. "Here I brought something to show you." Out of her purse, she shyly pulled a small silver-framed photograph, which she glanced at briefly and smiled. When she turned the frame for me to see, I couldn‘t help chuckling just a little at the two awkward teenagers, frozen for posterity on the Kodak paper. There we were: Gina in her frilly, white, southern-belle gown complete with hoop skirt and parasol, me in my rented gray tuxedo with tails and ruffled shirt, both surrounded by an imitation starlit night – a hundred cardboard stars, covered with tin foil, hanging on strings. "Wow, this is amazing, I‘ve never seen this before." "You probably don‘t remember, but when we ordered them we had them both sent to me. Well, I promised back then that I‘d give one to you on our next date. Since you never called me, I just held on to it. Eventually it went into my keepsake box. Yesterday, my Mom and I were talking and she remembered it, so I went rummaging through my memorabilia, and well, here it is. That‘s for you to keep, James. It has taken awhile, but I guess I kept my promise." "Thank you, Gina," I said, "This is really terrific! I don‘t really know what to say." "Well, you could tell me why on earth you never called me," she said punching me softly on the shoulder in jest. "I am beginning to wonder that myself," I said, cradling the photo carefully for one last look before placing it into my jacket pocket.
Gina paused, waiting for more of an answer, "Well?" "I don‘t know, maybe I was shy … maybe I was just afraid that you didn‘t really like me," I said. "Why?" Gina asked, "I was nuts about you." "Well, the one thing that I can remember is that when we said goodbye I was going to kiss you goodnight and instead you stuck out your hand for the old handshake." "Oh, that," Gina lamented, "I can explain that. It wasn‘t anything to do with you. It was because of my father. When you and I were on the front porch saying goodnight, I could see Daddy peeking out the living room window," she laughed. "He always told me that good girls don‘t kiss on the first date. I was afraid that he would embarrass me something awful and I didn‘t want you to see him either, James. I had the biggest crush on you. I didn‘t know what to do, so I shook your hand. When you didn‘t ever call me after that night, I must admit that I was pretty devastated." "That was a long time ago, wasn‘t it? I can‘t believe I didn‘t call you either, I‘m sorry," I said, "but, we‘re here tonight." "Well, I‘ll tell you one thing," Gina said taking my hand across the table, "I did make Daddy promise that he wouldn‘t be peeking out the window tonight." "You‘re too much," I said and we both laughed. The rest of dinner was fantastic. We had waiters making a fuss over us as we made a fuss over each other. The conversation covered everything from high school days, both of our ambitions and dreams, to Daddy's golf game. Gina was everything that I had ever imagined, exciting, loving, smart, caring and fun. She was amazing. Why did I wait so long? After all the flirting, kidding, and joking back and forth – after years of denial – it was self-evident, I loved her then and I loved her now. When the time came to call it a night, I knew where I wanted this evening to go. That kiss, the one I had planned on the elevator for a year, was going to finally materialize and I was going to reveal my true feelings. As we walked out of the restaurant, wrapped arm in arm, looking up to a genuinely beautiful starlit night, listening to the sounds of the gushing fountains, it all came to a crashing halt. The next few seconds passed in slow motion. Walking over to the valet, handing him my ticket, I heard the screech of braking tires. Turning quickly to the sound, I saw a car jump the curb and the doorman leaping out of harm's way. The skidding Mercedes glanced off the key booth, sideswiping the concrete columns at the entry making a loud, grinding clash. It missed my torso, but my arm slammed into the side mirror as the car passed, ripping my coat from my shoulder and flinging the framed photo out into the street where it shattered on impact. Gina, however, was standing directly in front of the car. It‘s
bumper smashed into Gina's legs which buckled from under her. Gina‘s body flew across the hood of the car. Her head and body came to a crushing stop, smashing against the car's windshield. I grabbed my right arm, soaked with blood where the mirror had torn my jacket, and sprinted to the car where Gina lay motionless on the hood. Her legs were twisted under her body, obviously broken. She bled from the back of her head, which now made a circular indentation into the shattered safety glass. Searching desperately for something to stop the bleeding, I yanked at my coat to take it off only to find my sleeve impaled into the gash in my arm. When I tugged the material, I felt a tremendous pain. I yelled in pain, "Agghh," as I ripped off the sleeve caught in my own muscle tissue. The pain was immense, but taking a deep breath I proceeded to pull the jacket free, screaming at the doorman through my clenched teeth, "Call an ambulance!" The driver, a woman, cut across the chest and face, stumbled out of the car, toward me. Crying hysterically she sobbed, "Oh, my God. Oh my God!" I felt faint, knowing I was about to black out. I tried to pull the glass away from Gina's head without moving her body, pressing my jacket up against the wound in the back of her neck. It was then that I realized that she was not breathing. Everything seemed to be caving in. My vision narrowed as if I were viewing the situation through a closing tunnel. I blacked out.
Chapter 9 "If You Don’t Create Your Own Future – Someone Or Something Else Will Create It For You."
T
he awful smell of ammonia slapped me in the face. I opened my eyes, shaking my head
from the pungency, and tried to focus. Almost a lost cause, but then my thinking cleared a little. An Emergency Medical Team member was waving something in front of my eyes and nose, something to wake me up and clear my head. "I'm awake. What happened? Where am I?" I asked, still in a daze, but slowly realizing what was going on. My eyes began to focus as my head cleared. Apparently, I had been out cold for more than a few minutes. The EMT‘s had already bandaged my arm and now worked, bent over the hood of the car where Gina's body lay in a pool of her own blood. "We‘re ready to lift this one, Mike," said one of men who was bending over the hood of the car, yelling to the man standing above me.
"Okay, you just sit tight here for a second," he said to me, giving me a pat on the shoulder. He then, in one continuous motion, stood and hurried over to the front of the car. They lifted Gina's rag-doll body from the hood on to a stretcher making sure not to move her spine. One of them came back over to me. Tears automatically filled my eyes, "Is she alive?" "She's still alive," assured the EMS man, named Mike. "We'll do everything that we can. Right now we need to transport all three of you to trauma at St. David‘s. Can you walk?" "Yeah, I think so," I said, wincing from the pain as I tried to use my arm to help me stand. "Careful, here let me give you a hand," Mike said as he pulled me up by the uninjured arm. "Is the lady … is she your wife?" "No, she‘s not," I said, trying to hold back my tears. Escorting me to the front seat of the ambulance, he said, "Why don't you ride over in the front. I'm sorry, but we need all the room to work in the back. Come on." Painfully slow, I walked over to the cab of the ambulance, stepping over what was left of my torn and bloody silk jacket and the smashed photo that lay in the street. Sitting down inside the ambulance, I stared through the small window into the back where Gina lay motionless. Why? I began to cry as I feared that I might lose her forever. She was slipping away from me before I had a chance to say I love you. "Why did it have to happen? Just when I thought that I was going to be happy, they take it all away." The driver jumped in and turned on the siren, pulling out into the traffic. I turned in the seat so that I could see through the window without turning my head. The EMT‘s worked frantically on Gina. By now she had tubes stuck into her veins, an oxygen mask on her face, and her beautiful dress was cut off of her shoulders. But Gina was still motionless except for the violent jerks of her head and body as they performed CPR. One of the men shook his head then took out a syringe plunging it into her left arm. By the looks of things, I could tell that she was near death. We pulled up to the Emergency Trauma Ward entrance where two doctors, several nurses, and orderlies were waiting. Like a well-placed guard, one of the nurses stepped in front of me cutting me off from reaching the stretcher, which held Gina as they whisked her away. Finally inside, I was approached rapidly by a nurse with a pen and a clipboard in her hands. "Are you the next of kin?" asked the nurse. "No, I am just her boyfriend," I said. "Do you know how we can reach the next of kin?" she asked, writing as she spoke.
"Yes, I work for her father. I can give you his number," I said relating all of the information that I could, after which she asked me to sit in the waiting room and said she would have a doctor see me shortly. I remarked that I was fine and that I just needed to know that Gina was all right. "You're not as fine as you think," she replied. "We need to get someone to set your arm." That was the first time I noticed my broken arm. "No wonder it hurts so much," I said to myself as I limped my way toward a nearby sofa occupied on one end by a Hispanic woman crossing herself and praying. Leaning back, I rested my feet up on the coffee table, trying to get comfortable. It wasn‘t working; my head and arm, both throbbing torturously, hurt way too much. What was actually only ten minutes passed by like an eternity. A nurse finally approached me; I was half sleeping, half trying not to pass out, with my eyes half-closed. Evidently assuming I was asleep, the nurse touched my shoulder and spoke very softly to me. "Mr. Carpenter, the doctor will see you now," she said. "What about Gina?" I asked, grimacing slightly from the pain, letting out a guttural groan as I did. My heart sank. My bottom lip began to quiver, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to hear what they were going to tell me. My fear – that they would tell me she was dead. "Maybe the doctor can tell you about her condition when you talk with him," she replied. I really didn't expect her to know what was happening anyway. But I would be damn glad to finally get in to see a doctor. The nurse led me into a sterile room and had me sit on one of those cold steel examination tables covered with paper. She then took my blood pressure and pulse, asked me a few questions about dizziness and nausea, wrote a few notes into my file and then trotted out the door, completely emotionless the entire time. I was expecting a long wait, but the doctor appeared almost as soon as the nurse had shut the door. "Hello, James, I‘m Dr. Zenner. I‘m going to have to pull that bandage off and take a look at your arm. First let me..." "What about Gina? Is she going to be all right?" I asked in a state of panic, biting down on my lip (a bad habit which surfaced whenever I was under stress). If he didn't give me an answer, I just knew it was because Gina had died and since I wasn't a relative, I was not notified. "Which one was Gina?" he asked. "The girl brought in with me … in the black dress," I said, nearly panicked. Realizing too late that, by the time the doctor examined her, the dress was probably removed and, anyway, what she looked like was far from his mind. "I'm not sure, just calm down, both women are alive. Was she the one driving the car or the pedestrian?"
"She was the one hit," I said and tears rushed down my cheeks. I was not crying; I just couldn't stand it any more. "Just tell me, is she going to be all right?" "James, she is receiving our best possible care. She is listed critical right now. That means that she has suffered life-threatening injuries. She has had a severe head trauma and has not yet regained consciousness. Both of her legs are broken, she has severe lacerations about her neck, and she has lost a large amount of blood. The best advice I can give you is to pray and wait." I hadn't realized that during our conversation the doctor had removed part of the bandage and was giving me a localized anesthetic. After re-bandaging he walked over to a cabinet and pulled out a couple bottles of pills. "I‘ll assume that you are going to be staying in the waiting room for a while. These pills will help with the pain, but no driving while you‘re taking them. Take two every couple of hours," he said as he gave me a paper cup full of water and two pills. I didn't know if they were pain pills, or tranquilizers, or what, but at that point I hurt too much to care. "The nurse will wheel you down to X-ray now and we'll get a picture of the break in your arm, so that we can set and cast it. And try not to worry, I'll keep you posted on the Lee girl's condition, just as soon as I return." With that he scratched a few more notes in my file and left. In the quiet I sat there, the only sound was the rustling of the paper that covered the cold metal table I was sitting on. It‘s just an illusion, I thought. It‘s got to be just an illusion. The nurse entered a few minutes after that. Beginning to feel light-headed and nauseated again after I had taken the pills, I guessed that they were starting to have an effect. Calmly, the nurse asked me to accompany her to X-ray. However, when I proceeded to get down off of the table and stand, my legs collapsed under me. My vision went spinning and then dark. I was out again, like a light. Next thing I remembered, I could feel the cool soft sheets against my skin and the pillow under my head. The air had that very recognizable hospital smell. I felt a little dizzy and drowsy, like the feeling that you get when you fall asleep on a late night road trip trying to stay awake to keep the driver company. I felt the need to be awake and I attempted to sit up – disoriented. But still, somehow I figured out that I was lying in a hospital bed in the dark. When I tried to move, I realized that my right arm was very heavy. I couldn't bend it. Then it all started to come back to me; I had broken my arm and it was in a cast. The room was void of light. I had no idea what time it was, what day it was; I could barely remember who I was...what I was. There in the dark silence I remembered. "Gina," I said aloud and sat up in the bed. What about Gina? I reached around groggily to find a light or the nurse‘s call button. Then a voice out of the darkness, I recognized. Soothing to my ears, commanding and calming, it was the voice of Max Vi. "James, she's going to be all right," he said. Peering into the black void, I squinted my eyes. I could almost see him standing in front of me in the darkness. Then the lights flashed on, the brightness hurting my eyes. Not Max, but rather, a
nurse was there to take my blood pressure. "Yes, we could use a little light," she said. Then she took my vital signs silently and recorded them on the chart. "You just get some sleep, and we'll talk about it in the morning," she said, clicking the lights back out. Too tired to comment further, I shut my eyes once again. My head spinning in a fog, I drifted slowly off to sleep. Dreaming again, Christmas Day 1968, and we are just finishing opening the presents. I see my father sitting in his Lazy Boy recliner, his feet propped up on the simulatedmarble coffee table, Kodak Instamatic in hand. Everyone is so happy, the best Christmas morning I remember. The music on the reel-to-reel is playing Elvis Presley‘s "Blue Christmas" – the joyful scent of the Christmas ham baking fills my every breath. Carl has already made quick work of his gift wrapping, the remains of which now blanket the room like remnants of an early morning snowball fight. Carl cheers, "Look Daddy!" getting exactly what he wanted, a "Robotron," a remote-controlled robot that goes forward and backward with hands that change to missiles firing ten feet at the touch of a button. Why he wanted that, I hadn‘t a clue. Still, he is pleased as punch to run it back and forth over the tiled kitchen floor. Still wrapped in its red foil wrapping, my big present is sitting on the coffee table. The label says: "To Jimmy, From Happy Papa." I tear at the paper with a vengeance to reveal that my dream had come true also. Inside I find the Blackstone Jr. Magic Set, my first real new magic kit. Having seen a commercial on TV, I begged my father to get one for me – seventeen tricks guaranteed to amaze your family and friends. "You are going to have to give us a show after dinner," says my father, peeling one of the oversized navel oranges which Santa always left in our stockings. "Say thank you to Happy Papa," says Mother. "Thanks, Papa," I reply and I run over to him, giving him a hug – so real I can feel the rough tickling of the wool on his sweater. Then just as dreams always change, without any foreshadowing at all, we‘re suddenly sitting at the dining table. Mom brings out the main course, making a big production number just as she always had before Dad died. "Presenting the star of the dinner, ta dah! You think I‘m a ham, this is a ham!" she exclaims. She was so much happier, so full of life when father was alive. Dad stands up; he picks up my plate to serve me a slice of ham. Fear and pain come over his face, a look that I‘d never seen from him before. Dropping the plate back down to the table with a clank, he bends over grabbing his abdomen in pain. Carl and I both look quickly over to Mom for some kind of reassurance. "Are you all right, dear?" asks my mother, almost nonchalantly. "Sure, it‘s just some extra acid, nothing a few Rolaids won't fix. Don't worry yourself," says Father.
Now the dream shifts time and place again. Now I am sitting in the hospital waiting room again. In my lap is my talent show trophy. My mother is seated across the hall from me. Carl, still just a little boy, is on her lap, eyes closed, mouth open, sitting upright but asleep. "Mrs. Carpenter," says the doctor as he enters into the waiting room. "Yes," replies my mother, as she stands up, carefully laying my brother back down onto the couch. Mom and the doctor walk across the cold gray room to the other side. I don't take my eyes off the doctor‘s mouth. Not actually hearing him, I can read his lips and make out the words he is saying perfectly, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carpenter." "I'm sorry, Mrs. Carpenter," he says. "What about the show?" I shout, jumping out of my seat, the words echoing over and over. The trophy falls from my hand slamming against the hardwood floor, breaking into pieces. "She is dead," my mother says crying, my dream confusing the two realities. "No, she can't die. I love her. We have to do a show for Papa," I explain. "We have to do a magic show for Happy Papa!" "There aren't going to be any more magic shows," she says. "There is no more magic." With that I opened my eyes. There, wearing his white tuxedo, sitting calmly at the foot of my bed, was Max. Not yet noticing that I was awake, in his hand he was holding the chain he generally wore around his neck, rubbing the small white cloth nonchalantly between his thumb and forefinger. Having turned on the small lamp on the table next to him, he was quietly reading a magazine. When he heard me stirring he stood up, turned, and set the magazine down. "Are you awake?" he asked. "What are you doing here?" "I figured that you could use a guardian angel about now?" "I knew it. And am I glad to see you," I said. "Tell me, will Gina, will she be all right?" "Jim, no one can predict the future," Max said. "You can. I know you can," I said, knowing that he could, but refused to tell me.
"I can tell you that whatever happens has a purpose," Max said, "The purpose is to help you to discover your why. Whenever an individual is ready to discover the why to his existence, he suddenly is given an opportunity. Usually that opportunity is in the shape of a tragedy or challenge. If she needs to die in your world for you to discover why, then she will die." "But, I don't get it," I said. "I just don't understand, why?" "Jim?" he asked. "Why are you alive? What is your reason for being? You can't go through your life just existing. You have to have a passion. You have to know what drives your vitality. This is how you will learn to run. Jim, you need to discover your reason to live – why you are, who and what you are." "Don't you understand? It‘s Gina," I said. "She‘s my reason to live. With her I can have meaning in my life." Maybe because I was so tired or had been through so much, whatever reason, tears flowed down my cheeks. "James, we all have a reason for being, it‘s similar to a contract which we make with ourselves before we enter this life. Life is the struggle to meet the terms and conditions of that contract with yourself. There are two ways to complete this contract. The first way is when we have completely fulfilled our obligations to ourselves the contract simply ends. The second is when, because of circumstances beyond our control, occasionally we are unable to fulfill our obligation. Then life steps in and lets you start over. The forces in charge of life always take the necessary steps to meet their end of the bargain. Understand that this includes creating any necessary tests, trials and tribulations. "If your reason to live dies, you will die, too," Max said, now standing at my side. "But, if you go on living, then whoever or whatever died was not really your reason for living after all." I was tired; I felt so sleepy; I wanted to sleep. Max then reaches over and takes hold of my left hand, which is not in a cast. "Here Jim, I want you to have this." He places the silver chain with the pinned piece of white cloth into my hand, closing my hand tightly around it. "This piece of cloth is all the magic you will ever need to bring Gina back. If you believe in its magic, you can know how. But you must first find your why for being. Without understanding your why you will never know how. There is no how to life‘s magic if you don‘t understand who you are, what you are, and most importantly why you are." The room is becoming foggy. Somewhere in the fog, Max fades into nothingness. Clenching my fist over the necklace, I realize I‘m asleep. The next thing I knew, I opened my eyes to a sun-filled room. The brightness of the sun shown through the sheers, the drapes now pulled back by a nurse who had awakened me. Feeling
something in my hand, I looked to see if it was there; but I was not holding the necklace – only the corner of the sheet. It must‘ve been a dream. "Good morning, Mr. Carpenter," said the nurse. "How are we doing this morning?" This nurse was someone that I didn‘t recognize. I felt a little bit groggy, but not so much that I didn‘t remember the night‘s events. "How‘s Gina? Is she going to be all right?" I asked. "What was her full name?" asked the nurse. "Gina Lee," I replied, hoping for a square answer. "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to ask the doctor." I knew the answer before I even asked the question. Then I had another question. "How did I get in here? What‘s wrong with me?" "Well, let me see if I can tell," she said as she picked up the chart, "It says here that you were admitted the day before yesterday for a broken arm, bleeding ulcer and a related reaction to a drug. Did you faint or something?" "I guess I did – you mean that I have been out for two days?" I replied in confusion, but not expecting an answer. "I don't remember." "Well, you‘ve been sleeping awhile. Of course you were admitted after four in the morning, so it‘s only been a day really. The reaction probably wasn't too bad, because the doctor seems to have treated it with simple medication," she said. "He will be making another round at four thirty; you can ask him all of your questions then. Meantime, several people came to see you and left you cards and flowers. You seem to be a pretty popular guy at work." I looked over at the credenza where there were two bouquets of flowers and several cards propped up against them. "Could you please hand me the cards?" I asked. "Certainly," she said as she picked up the cards and handed them to me one at a time. Opening them was a little difficult. However, once I got used to the fact that my right hand didn't work very well in the cast, I was able to rip them out of their envelopes ungracefully. The first card had a magical motif and was signed from the gang at work. "Wishing you a magical recovery," it said. The second card, a more plain vanilla "get well soon" variety, was signed simply: Mr. Lee. I wondered if he were still here; I wondered if Gina were still here. I had been out for almost two days. The doctor walked in, quickly picking up my chart and asking, "How are you doing?"
"I'm all right, but I need to know how Gina Lee is doing," I said. Not even looking up from the chart, he asked, "Is she a relative or friend of yours?" "She was with me, uh, ... on a date, when she was hit by the car. We were both in the accident. Please, I‘ve got to know. I've been out for two days and the last I knew she was in intensive care, and they didn't know if she would live." "Jim, let me be straight with you. Gina is alive, but she is hanging on by a thread. I really didn't give her as much credit as she was due. With an injury to her head that severe, she should not even be alive." "Thank God she is alive," I said. "Can I see her?" "Jim, she hasn't regained consciousness, and I am very sorry, but to be absolutely truthful with you, it is highly unlikely that she ever will," he said. My heart stopped. I experienced that same indescribable emptiness that I had felt when my father died. It suddenly became painfully obvious why all that her father had written on his card was "Mr. Lee." That he could have written anything at all was a wonder. She is dead, I said to myself, and my eyes filled with tears. I started to say something, but my mouth became dry, quivering, and I found that I couldn't speak. "I'm sorry, Jim, in your condition, I really didn't want to tell you. But you do have the right to know," he said. "As for you, the medication we are giving you seems to have done the trick. You should be able to leave here within a couple of days. We just want to keep an eye on you for a while and monitor your progress." "That's what they told my father, too," I said, and I guess that the doctor said a few more things to me, but in my almost catatonic state I really didn‘t care and didn‘t know what. I couldn't hear him anymore, completely unaware of anything going on outside of my own thoughts. Oh, I was aware that the room was now empty; I was empty.
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