The air smelled singly of ozone, all other odors obliterated by the sudden influx of power. An angry hornets’ nest of stray electrons continued to sizzle and buzz, gradually fading to an unnatural stillness.
He had materialized in a valley, robbed almost entirely of his memories. He knew his name, where he had to go, and that he was a wizard of unfathomable power. Deeper than these three facts he could not penetrate. Where he was, why he was here, what he had done before today; all were unattainable pieces of information to him. They were also of no consequence — there would be plenty of time to resolve these minor difficulties once he reached his destination. And that lay toward the West. Just how far west he did not know — the direction was all that held any significance to him at present. Westward to the information he sought, and toward his destiny.
He traveled on foot, not so much from necessity, but rather from choice. It gave him an opportunity to assess the situation he found himself in. For the first two days every new sight was a valuable piece of information, a learning experience. Slowly he began to remember.
Birds. Trees. Rain. People… a certain King in detail.
The third day began cloudy and overcast, and soon had turned to a gentle rain. When it began to rain again on the fourth day, Poté-Nûn (for thus was his name), exercised a smattering of his extensive power for the first time. Speaking only a single word, he formed what would be called on another world an umbrella. His spell served the same purpose as an umbrella; though there was no visible manifestation, Poté-Nûn remained dry. The rain simply refused to fall on him. Even the ground was dry where he placed his feet.
Shortly after midday the rains cleared and the sun issued forth. The wizard decided to stop for a short while for a small meal and to further ponder the ongoing effects of his strange amnesia. Why should his name, his destination and the name of Maront the King be the only important facts he could remember? Obviously the three pieces of information were interrelated. But how? And for what purpose?
The lack of positive information was maddening. Surely there must be some hint, some clue that would unlock the mystery of his past; but try as he might, that clue still eluded him. At times it seemed to mock him, standing almost within his grasp and then backpedaling the minute he made a conscious effort to comprehend it. At other times, it was as if the hint he was looking for would sneak up behind him, only to evaporate when he turned around to face it.
His meal of gathered berries and fruit finished, his deep meditations having yielded nothing useful, he resigned himself to continue his journey. He was almost manic in his purpose, the possibility of not finding the information he sought never entered his mind. He would succeed and he would have his answers, but for now, westward, for however long fate required of him.
The surrounding countryside impinged upon his senses not at all. Though some would have called the rolling hills and flowering trees beautiful, Poté-Nûn scarcely noticed them. He walked on the only road that traversed this country, all but oblivious to the verve of life that encircled him. These things held no answers for him, could not tell him what he so desperately wanted to learn. Since they played no part in his destiny, they were beneath his notice.
He paused as he crested a hill. The road wound down the far side of the hill directly into a village scattered over a small valley. Village? City? He remembered both terms but could not make a distinction. The name of the place he needed to find was Gorian. Maybe this was it. Maybe his answers were not so far away.
No. Gorian was a city. Maront was a King. Somehow he knew that this was not Gorian and that he would find no king here. So be it; for the moment even a village meant people, and people meant possible information.
From the hilltop the only logical choice was to head straight for the center of town, and, with no further hesitation, he began his descent into the valley. The buildings around the square appeared to be in somewhat better repair than the others. Some even showed signs of fresh paint; an indication of persons and functions of relative importance.
His passage into the village did not go unnoticed. It was nearly sundown, and virtually all the inhabitants were at home or returning home from their day's labor. He assumed that visitors of any kind were rare in this hamlet; and everyone paused to stare at the stranger on their street.
Looking neither left nor right, he threaded his way through the throng directly towards the center of town. When he reached the square his eye fell upon a sign attached haphazardly to a ramshackle, two-story dwelling that looked as if it had never stood square and hale.
Not overly impressive as a hotel, he thought silently.
The sound of water sloshing caught his attention and he turned to see a huge man with two buckets of water suspended from a pole across his massive shoulders approaching the structure. Years of hard labor in the sun and wind had burnished his skin to the color and texture of well-used leather. Wrinkles etched the corners of his eyes and the flesh of his forehead. His red beard had gone mostly gray. To Nûn, he didn’t appear to be the sort of man that would make an hospitable innkeeper.
No matter, thought the mage. A place to stay for as long as he needed would serve his purposes admirably. Who his landlord was immaterial.
“I need a room for the night. Is this your establishment?”
The man stopped, turned toward the wizard and regarded him warily for a moment.
“It is, sir. We don't see many strangers ‘round here, but I guess if you can afford the room, you’re welcome to it. A hot bath and dinner, too, by the look of you.”
“Both would be appreciated,” answered Nûn. Peasant! he silently added. If you knew half the extent of my power you would not hesitate to offer me anything I desired.
The wizard restrained himself. There may be some piece of information to be gathered here, slight as that chance may be. Better to learn what I can first, then punish this upstart commoner, the mage reasoned.
“My name is Wiak,” said the innkeeper. “Lodging is half a silver crown. That includes supper, a bed, and first meal at sunup on the morrow.”
Nûn stood silent and motionless for so long that Wiak began to fidget. Finally, Wiak spoke again.
“That’s our price, and fair it is, too! If you can’t pay, then you can as easily keep on goin’.” A note of defiance had crept into his voice.
Poté-Nûn, in answer, stooped down, picked up a flat stone from the dirt at his feet and flipped it into the air like a coin. He lashed his hand outward, snatching the stone from the air, and extended his hand palm up to Wiak. On the flat of his hand lay a full silver crown.
“Someone must have dropped this coin here, and fortune smiles on me to find it,” Nûn said. “That should cover my expenses for two nights. If I am here for a longer period of time, you will have your money.”
To Wiak's ears, it sounded like a threat.
“My room?” Half a silver crown, indeed! Half a copper is probably closer to the truth. Wiak regarded the coin (it had looked like a stone moments before), set down his buckets and hefted the weight of the coin, turning it over and over again, and bouncing it up and down, up and down in his hand. Satisfied that it was genuine, he slipped it into a pocket of his shirt. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Faik! Faik! Where are you, you little whelp?”
A small, dark-haired boy of about ten came racing around the corner of the building. His companion was a dog of indistinguishable breed. It was impossible to determine who was chasing whom, but this seemed of little consequence to either the boy or the dog. On they came, bounding and laughing and barking all the way to Wiak’s feet. At the sight of the stranger, both stopped as if a puppeteer’s string had snapped. Had Wiak not been so distracted by the coin, he would have thought his son’s behavior extremely odd. The boy’s energy was usually boundless; it was impossible to make him sit or stand completely still for more than a few seconds. Alas, Wiak did not take heed of the wariness that had replaced the laughter in his son’s eyes.
“Show this traveler to his room. He will be in number two at the end of the hall.”
“Yes, sir,” was all the answer from the boy.
Faik turned and proceeded into the inn, pausing only to light a candle at the door.
The boy is afraid of me, thought the wizard. The old man was too blinded by the wealth that I flashed before his eyes, the fool! But the boy… the boy I will have to watch closely.
Poté-Nûn followed the innkeeper’s son up the stairs to his room. The wizard probed the other rooms with his senses and could detect no other persons in residence. Perfect, he thought. Except for the innkeeper and his family this place is deserted.
Faik lit the room’s single oil lamp and disappeared as quietly as he had come upstairs, refusing even to look at the stranger lodging in his father’s inn. Nûn spared him no more attention. He walked to the only window in the room. The view was as he suspected; it looked out onto the square, now almost empty with the night settling in. The first moon was just rising in the East. Its pale orange glow illuminated the mall with a shifting, wavering, feeble light. The last remaining stragglers were hurrying to their individual homes.
Poté-Nûn stood gazing out at the ascending moon long after the last of the villagers had retreated to within the shelter of their homes. Something about standing at the window staring up at the glowing orb tugged at his memory. This was the time it had happened. But what was it that had happened? Try as he might, he could not complete the connection. Maddening! This inability to remember. He knew the missing pieces of information were paramount to his guest, but that was all he knew.
A knock sounded at the door. Nûn roused himself from his fruitless reflections, closed the curtains and turned to the door.
“Come,” he said.
The door opened to reveal Wiak standing in the hall with two buckets of water. He held one in his hand; the other rested on the floor, obviously placed there to allow him to open the door.
“Yes?” demanded Nûn, glaring at the innkeeper’s interruption.
“For the bath you wanted.”
“Set them over there. If I require anything further I will summon you. Please serve me my dinner here in my room.”
The wizard chose to ignore the look of incredulousness on Wiak’s face. The ignorant peasant has probably never been addressed by that tone of voice, he thought. He is most likely used to being called ‘sir’ and treated as if here were a minor noble. HAH! It is time someone put him back in his place. He is no more noble than the kitchen scullions at the palace. He should be …
Nûn paused in his mental castration of Wiak. Palace… kitchen scullions… nobles…
These were all pieces of the puzzle, but the wizard had no idea where they fit.
“Schimry!” he swore aloud. “Was there something else?” he challenged the innkeeper, who was still standing in the doorway as if caught in a stasis spell.
“No, nothing,” came the sullen reply. Wiak turned and stalked down the hall, leaving the door of the room open.
Muttering an imprecation against all peasants in general who thought they were pedigreed, Poté-Nûn rapidly crossed the floor and slammed the door home. Still mumbling, he returned to the water buckets the proprietor had left sitting next to the wooden tub. He poured the first one in and reached for the second. Seizing on an idea, he replaced the remaining bucket on the floor and waited for the water in the tub to become still. The mage focused his attention on the now calm water and prepared himself for his spell. Magic directed at the others was relatively simple. Magic directed at, or concerning one’s self was not only more difficult, but also more dangerous. The spell could, all too often, get out of control. Nûn, however, had complete confidence in his abilities.
Randomly picking a geometric shape, he projected this shape onto the face of the water; mentally, he covered the shape with a veil. The configuration represented the entirety of what he used to know. The veil was his amnesia. Throwing the full force of his concentration at the picture now before him, he whispered only a single word:
“Unveil.”
Slowly, the shroud began to slide from the heap of his questions. Nûn began to perspire, both with anticipation and with the sustained effort of his exertions. This was the most dangerous part; if he failed, lost control, or allowed his attention to wander, he might drive himself insane, or worse. The veil had completely disappeared and Nûn applied himself even more diligently to determine what lay beneath it. Shapes began to coalesce before his eyes. Three shapes, three distinct objects. The first was a medallion that lingered momentarily on the face of the water and then dissolved. The second was unfamiliar — a flat object with markings in two corners and four black spots on its face. This was replaced in turn by a third image, a form that caught and held his attention: a scroll rolled very tightly, yet not bound in any manner.
As the mage watched, the parchment began to unroll of its own volition. Try as he might, he could not read the words written on it. They were of an extremely ancient origin, true, but more than that, they seemed to be constantly in motion. They flowed on the page like drops of liquid on a glass pane. As he watched, the scroll, too, began to fade and disappear. Soon all that remained to be seen was his reflection in the shallow water.
“By the balls of Alóer!” he cursed. “What went wrong? That spell should have worked! Unless this amnesia is caused by a wizard almost as powerful as myself?”
Nûn retrieved the last bucket of water and dashed it into the tub. He stepped out of his robe and lowered himself into the now tepid water and began laving the road dust from his body. While his hands performed their mechanical duty, his mind was occupied by questions concerning his adversary. Not that an enemy surprised him; everyone was a potential enemy if they chose to stand between him and his goals. But an enemy with the ability to call on enough power to subvert his spells… that surprised him.
And what significance did those three crumbs of information convey? Were they the clues he needed? Were they the tools employed against him? Were they the key to his opponent’s identity?
“Schimry!” he swore again. Putting the problem from his mind, at least momentarily, he concentrated on his bath. Finished, he stood up, stepped out of the tub and exercised his power once more.
“Dry.”
The water that had been dripping from his body instantly evaporated. He donned his robe and sandals and proceeded to empty the wooden tub. He stood listening to the gurgling of the water as it ran from the drain in the floor, through a pipe and down the wall of the inn to be reabsorbed into the ground below. He realized he was trying to avoid thinking about his complete lack of information and cursed his unknown nemesis again. The reminder of his predicament lent new impetus to his quest.
“I must proceed to Gorian with all haste. There I will find the answers to this quandary. To Gorian, first and foremost to unlock this prison I find myself in and then to find the jailor.”
Another knock at the door.
“What now?” he snapped. He had completely forgotten about dinner.
“S-S-Sup-supper, sir.” Faik’s trembling voice came through the door.
“Leave it. Tell your father I will see him at first light by the well. Tell him also, I do not wish to be disturbed again this night.”
He heard the boy’s running footsteps as he headed towards the stairs and his family’s living quarters on the first floor. A half smile touched the wizard's lips.“Nightmares.”
He knew the spell would keep the boy up all night. He felt the quiet surge of power as his magic materialized and followed its quarry. Again, the half smile ghosted his face. He weighed the idea of eavesdropping on the boy’s nightmares, but discarded it as trivial entertainment. He could use a good night’s sleep. If he desired, he could replay the spell at his leisure.
The smile was still on his face as he fetched his dinner. It was simple fare: a bowl of stew, half a loaf of bread and some hard cheese. Grumbling at the sparseness of the meal, he carried it to the table, sat down, and proceeded to ingest it.
“Peasants!” he mumbled again
Nûn was up before the sun. He dressed quickly, strode out of his room and down the stairs. Crossing the common room, he opened the door and stepped outside, heading for the well in the square. After tossing the bucket into the water, he stooped down and picked up a small handful of loose gravel, dropping the pebbles in a small silk pouch he wore at his belt. The handle creaked in protest as he turned the crank to recover the bucket. Finally, he scooped a ladle full of water from the pail and added the contents of the silk pouch to it. Then he raised the utensil skyward.
The sun was just becoming visible on the horizon. Nûn stood motionless, his arm extended over his head. He waited, gathering his power in a shadowy aura about him. When the full disk of the sun had become visible, he was ready.
“FIRE!”
At his command the contents of the ladle burst into a brilliant flame. Reds, greens, oranges and blues all coalesced and dissolved in a magical, hypnotic dance that the gods alone knew the steps to. One color would dominate briefly, only to be consumed and superseded by another, and then another. The coruscation continued as Nûn watched, and with a final blazing flash the transformation was complete. Before he could lower the ladle to observe the jewels he had metamorphosed, he heard a low whistle behind him. He whirled to face the intruder.
“A wizard!” whispered the boy, Faik, as he turned and began racing back to the inn. “Papa! Papa! He’s a wiz…”
“Stone.”
The wizard’s single word command cut through the air like a knife. A flash of lightning, a roll of thunder, and the boy became a master’s sculpture, caught in the act of running.
Nûn was amused to see that because his mind had been occupied by the making of the jewels, the statue before him was formed of precious stones. Rubies, emeralds, and sapphires made up the body and limbs, with two black onyx stones for eyes. Onyx that was blacker and deeper than any ever found. These two stones burned with the light of life of the young boy trapped forever within the prison of stone.
The noise and commotion had aroused the rest of the village and the inhabitants were pouring forth to discover the cause. Wiak stepped from the door of the inn, his eyes scouring the square until they fell on the living stone that had been his only son.
“My son! By all the gods now living and dead! My son!” He looked to Poté-Nûn who had not moved from his spot by the well.
"You! Demon! What have you done to my son? I command you to restore him this instant!”
The wizard just looked at him and laughed. “You command me? You dare to command me? Don’t be a fool!”
Wiak’s overwrought mind snapped. The sight of his son trapped in the stone and the laughing, taunting voice of the wizard were too much for him. Growling low in his throat as a wolf about to make a kill, he rushed the mage, hoping to catch him off guard. Several of the other townspeople, seeing Wiak’s determination, also charged the despoiler.
Nûn stood his ground, spreading his arms as if welcoming them. He brought his hands together like a thunder clap and shouted, “Blind!”
He sidestepped one man who came charging straight at him despite the loss of his eyesight. The man continued headlong into the stonework of the well and, carried by his momentum, plunged to his death in the water dozens of feet below.
Wiak had stopped running and was now wandering aimlessly, cursing the wizard and promising to cut him into little pieces and burn them when he caught him. The agony of his heart and mind were apparent on his face. His unseeing eyes were tear-filled, spittle drooled from the corners of his mouth, and intense hatred had twisted his countenance into an hideous mask. His hands, resembling animal claws more than human appendages, were full of hair that he had yanked from his own head and beard. A long, wailing cry of grief and desperation escaped his throat as he groped his way along the square. He staggered and fell to his knees, unable to locate the source of his terrible suffering. He raised his hands to the heavens in supplication, begging the gods to intercede on his behalf.
All to no avail. The gods were silent on that dark day.
Robbed of his son, deprived of his sight, and denied his revenge, Wiak could take no more. He howled his anguish and despair; his heart burst, and he collapsed into the dust. Blood frothed from his mouth and seeped into the dirt where he had fallen.
Poté-Nûn, oblivious to the despair and chaos transpiring around him, simply stood by and watched Wiak die. He felt no remorse. Rather, he experienced a perverse pleasure in realizing how effective his last two spells had been.
“Let anyone try to stop me,” he laughed. “I am the most powerful wizard alive!”
He threaded his way through the throng and out of the village. Once the mass confusion of blindness had taken over, he had used the opportunity to transfer the jewels from the ladle to the pouch. He tucked the pouch into his belt and threw the ladle aside. His last thought of the village was that no one would ever notice that the wooden utensil had been transformed in the fire that spawned the jewels. It was now solid gold.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Monday, November 12, 2007
Chapter 4
It was considerably warmer than it had been the last couple of days, so I decided to walk. Couple of miles wouldn’t hurt me at all — might even do the circulatory system some good. More good than the taxi ride from the other night.
At least I would have plenty of time to review my notes and cram for the quiz. Unfortunately, my notes were in a state somewhere between incomplete and abysmal. I had written “History of Magic” at the top of the page. Below that, “traced to earliest roots of mankind”; followed by: Salient Points; and then “points all her own, sittin’ way up high”. That was the extent of my notetaking. Not a heck of a lot to study from. I had to wonder if the lecture had indeed been that boring or if my attention had wandered that freely. Had to be a little bit of both, I decided.
Not wanting anyone to observe my utter failure at notetaking, I quickly tore the page from my notebook, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it in my coat pocket. Not a moment too soon, either; Sheila had just walked in. (Whew! That was close!) Maybe she would let me study from her notes.
“Hi, Sheila. Somehow I managed to leave my notes from Monday night at home.”
You despicable liar!
“Could I do some last minute brushing up from yours?”
“Sure. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch everything he said, but you’re welcome to them if they will help.”
“Thanks.”
She handed me three sheets of notes in exquisite penmanship. At that moment ‘Old Grouch’ entered the room. Damn! Time to do some heavy cramming. He was speaking even before he reached the lectern.
“Please put away your notes. Take out a three by five card. We are going to have a quiz. Put your name and today’s date in the upper right-hand corner. Any cards with this information in the upper left-hand corner will be marked as ‘Fail — unable to follow directions’.”
I was frantic. I didn’t have a three by five card. No one had ever told me about the stupid three by five cards. But, since I didn’t have a student handbook to refer to, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Wonderful. Two days into this useless class and I’m going to flunk. Absolutely wonderful!
Sheila noticed my distress (probably because of the tears in my eyes) and passed me one of her three by fives.
“Thanks,” I said. “‘Old Grouch’ is too tame a name for him. How about Little Hitler?”
“Sshhh,” she warned.
“Jeez. Any mark in the upper left-hand corner is an immediate fail; anyone not blonde and blue-eyed is an immediate corpse. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“Sshhh,” she cautioned again.
I didn’t have an answer to the first question. Or the second. For that matter, I didn’t have an answer to any of the questions. Except for my name and the date in the upper right-hand corner, I was ready to turn in a blank three by five card when I reconsidered. I thought it would be a good idea to point out that, although I hadn't answered any of the questions, neither had I made any marks in the upper left-hand corner. I felt that entitled me to at least partial credit for being able to follow directions.
“Please pass your cards to the right. When you have all the cards in your row, pass them to the front, putting your stack on top.”
Little Hitler stood at what must have been perfect at ease, with his hands clasped in the small of his back. He neither moved nor spoke until all of the quiz cards had completed their circuitous travels to the front of the room. He snatched the cards from the student offering them to him as a three-year-old will snatch a favored toy from a sibling. I could almost hear the word “Mine!”. After collecting them, he squared the edges by tapping all four on the desk and then placed them on its corner. He promptly forgot about them, scooped up his notes, and proceeded with the lecture he had started on Monday.
“Magic has always been closely associated with prominent world religions, and more so with the cultures spawned by these religions. The Egyptians. The Greeks. The Romans. The Indians. And in more recent times the Catholics…”
Once again, I found it difficult to assimilate the discussion of magic and religion with the intent of becoming an illusionist; it struck me as a senseless waste of my time and money. Magic, defined in such a context, was a fool’s answer to scientifically explainable phenomena. The classical definition also bore little or no relation to illusion or sleight of hand as it was today. I wanted to shout at him, “Get to the point and teach us some real tricks!” Why the long preamble, anyway?
“Did my notes help you at all?” Sheila asked at the conclusion of Old Grouch’s digression.
“I’m afraid not. I drew a total blank. I think it’s some form of psychosis whenever a test is involved. But, I’ll do better on the next one.”
“The written examination you have just completed will be the only written test for this entire course. Future grading will be done solely on the basis of your performance of assigned illusions.”
Had he read my mind?! “Great! I’m off to an absolutely amazing start!”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine on the illusions,” Sheila offered.
“Maybe. I wish I was that confident,” I said as Sheila and I walked out of the room together. “So tell me — what does the ‘Old Grouch’ teach here at the University?”
“You mean ‘Little Hitler’?” She smiled. “History and sociology. He teaches them the same way, too. In fact, all of his classes are some of the most difficult at school. He never gives any breaks; doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” She put her hand on my arm — a gesture of familiarity with which I was totally unfamiliar. “You would not have believed the History of Civilization class I took with him last semester. We spent the first fourteen weeks covering the various Egyptian dynasties and then rushed through the next four thousand years in three weeks. The final exam was over two hundred questions long, only three of which related to Egypt.”
“Sounds like a philosophy prof I had in college,” I chuckled. “He believed if you could finish his exam in the allotted time that: a) the exam was too short, or b) you as a student obviously didn’t know what you were talking about due to a serious lack of disciplined study time. As far as I know, no one ever completed one, and the best you could hope for on an incomplete exam was a “C”. Jeez, was I ever glad to flunk out of that class! Uuhh, I mean… uh… when that class ended.”
She smiled. “I think I’ve had a couple of classes like that.”
“The only question I remember from one of his tests was ‘define table’. I expounded for three pages that, simply because an object had been assigned the name of someone’s arbitrary choosing, it did not necessarily make that object a member of the class that bore the nomenclature. Then, I went on for four more pages to discuss the characteristics of ‘tableness’. I concluded that similar objects with similar characteristics and or attributes could be placed in the same category if one were willing to accept minor differences.”
“That sounds pretty deep and philosophical,” she said appreciatively. “What did the professor say?”
“He marked me off for the entire question. Nowhere in my eight-page dissertation was there a definition offered for ‘table’. Had there been, I probably would have been marked off for it, anyway.”
“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed in the wonderful voice of hers.
“I’m not. I still remember the words written in red ink on the last page: ‘It is painfully obvious to me, at a glance, that you have spent a disproportionately small amount of time in preparation for this important examination. Had you attended to the discussion we held in this class throughout the entire semester, you would have responded to this question thusly: Owing to the lack of context, no definition can be offered that could not be proven wrong given a more explicit frame of reference (e.g. water table, table of contents)’.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That was my philosophy professor. We called him Ivan.”
“So, why did you sign up for this class, Brent?” she asked.
“Me?” Because I wanted to meet you, I couldn’t say. “My friend roped me into it and the school wouldn’t give me my money back. How about you?”
She looked almost embarrased. “I wanted to take something fun. I graduated valedictorian of my high school class, always doing what was expected of me, straight “A’s”, extra credit. And the same thing here for four semesters. I decided it was time for a change. All my other classes this semester are just plain boring. And since they don't offer a course with tickets to go see “Phantom of the Opera”, I thought maybe this would prove to be an adventure of sorts.
“Besides, my grandfather always used to entertain me with magic tricks and I wanted to surprise him. He’s the only family I have and I think that would make him happy. He’s done so much for me, I would like to repay him in some small way if I can.”
We had reached the door at the end of the hall and I somehow ran out of things to say… well, that’s not quite true. There was a whole barrage of things I wanted to say, but I couldn’t manage to form the words. Was I imagining things, or was she waiting for me to continue the conversation?
“See you on Friday,” I managed.
“Good night, Brent,” she smiled as she exited the building.
I stood there replaying the sound of her voice caressing my name (read mesmerized). Realizing I was probably beginning to look like an ass (and not much for caring) I pushed open the door and started down the steps, hoping to catch her. She had vanished like a true magician, and we had only been in class for two days.
Friday for sure.
Nope. Not Friday, either. I chickened out again, but hey, class was only one week old. I still had almost seven full weeks to work up my courage. I hoped that would be enough time. Meanwhile, I resolved to practice my assignment over the weekend. ‘Old Grouch’ (I still hadn’t bothered to find out his real name) had spent the entire class period on Friday showing us several illusions with a deck of playing cards. He even passed out detailed instructions for each trick. That should make these a piece of cake.
I wasted an entire Saturday playing fifty-two card pick-up. Sunday was fifty-one pick-up. I lost the four of spades somewhere. Due to the fact that a particular illusion centered on the four of spades, I felt it prudent to practice another trick.
I really worked at that one. I must have spent five or six hours at Doug and Kim’s playing “pick a card — any card.” I actually pulled it off once. From there it was easy — six times in a row. Maybe this magician stuff was going to be easier than I had thought. I was certain that I would be pulling rabbits out of my hat in no time. I practiced all day Monday. I had Charley picking cards at every opportunity. I only missed twice. Had the right number but the wrong suit. I’d show that Old Grouch. I would have him pick the card and then I would tell him which one it was.
“Here’s mud in your eye, buddy. Just because I’m late the first night doesn’t mean I’m not going to make it. Brent Teller is a survivor.” I walked into class that night feeling more self-confidence than I had since… since… I couldn’t remember when. I almost floated. When the Grouch asked for volunteers to demonstrate their ability with the card tricks my hand was the first one up.
“Mr. Teller?” After finding no one else, he reluctantly called on me.
“Watch this,” I whispered to Sheila and casually strolled to the front of the room.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my deck of fifty-one cards. I laid them face up on his podium, fanned them out briefly for him to look at, then closed the fan. Face down. Shuffle; fan again, face down. “Pick a card — any card. And through the use of my magic I will be able to deduce which card you have selected.”
He regarded me skeptically for a moment, then reached out and removed a card from the center of the deck.
“Okay. Let's see…reshuffle. Fan, face down; close; tap the top card three times. Pass right hand… or is it left? No, right… Pass right hand back and forth over deck. The harmony of the deck has been broken. By concentrating on the song of these cards I am able to discern the missing piece.” I thought the added touch of a little magic-sounding jargon might enhance the rating of my performance. “Yes. Yes! I can hear the discord faintly. I am beginning to make it out… Yes, the first card that I reveal will identify the suit of the one you are holding,” I intoned. I attempted to appear as if I were in deep concentration, then held up the top card. It was a heart.
“Yes, it is becoming clearer to me — I can almost identify the missing card. The next card I reveal will match the number of yours.” I gave that concentrating look again, and pulled the bottom number from the deck and held it aloft. “Seven!” Perfect! This was going better than I had hoped. The seven of hearts was the card this illusion revolved around. “Your card is the seven of hearts!” I pronounced triumphantly, waving the card I was holding around the room like a victory flag.
After only the briefest of hesitation, he said, “Wrong. It is the four of spades. Keep trying, Mr. Teller, and you may succeed, eventually.”
I was so completely flabbergasted at seeing that blasted four of spades appear out of nowhere that, once again, I was playing fifty-two card pick-up. The Old Grouch, with a look that served as a reprimand and a flick of his wrist, had thrown the four of spades onto the pile I had dropped. I scooped up the deck and dejectedly shuffled my way back to my seat, shaking my head in bewilderment. Where did that four of spades come from? How could he have known that that was the card I had lost? I convinced myself, at least partially, there was absolutely no possible way he could have. It had to be just a fluke, a coincidence.
“Who is next?” the professor asked.
Jack Cole jumped to his feet. Jack was about six-foot-four, very broad across the shoulders, dark-haired, and had one of those faces that belong on the cover of GQ; a real Adonis. I instantly hated him.
I know, I know — that’s not fair to Jack. I had never even met him. Nevertheless, that’s how I felt. He breezed through three or four tricks with no mishaps, and sat down to a smattering of applause. Showoff! This was probably his second time through this class. No wonder he could manage those illusions so effortlessly. He had a whole semester to practice.”
“Yeah, right.”
That sarcastic little voice in my head was back.
There were others; none of them as polished as Jack, but none of them as bungling as ol’ Brent, either.
The next week was no better for me. Or the next. We moved from card tricks to cutting strips of paper and putting them back together. Then it was rabbits out of a hat.
I should say the rest of the class proceeded to each of these illusions. I was still trying to find the damn four of spades.
Once more it was Jack who proved to be the star pupil. With the others, you could see exactly how their hands moved; where whatever came from or disappeared to. Not so with Jack. He had mastered every aspect. He was a real showman. Although I still did not like him, he had earned my grudging respect.
On Wednesday of the fourth week of the course, I overhead several of my classmates discussing where they were going to go for a beer after class. Most of them were full-time students at the university and there were no classes the next day. Tonight there was going to be a party.
Someone had asked Sheila if she was going to join them; her reply was in the affirmative. I suddenly felt twice my twenty-four years. Though I was only three or four years older than most of them, to my mind, it represented an interminable gulf between us. I had resigned myself to going home, opening the last bottle of beer in the fridge, and staring morosely at the television when Sheila’s voice pierced the fog in my head.
“Aren’t you coming, Brent?”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t really fit in with the college crowd anymore, and I’ve got to be at work early…”
My imagination was playing tricks on me again. She looked disappointed at my refusal. Could it be that she actually enjoyed my company?
“Well… why not. I’m not old and stuffy yet. Even sounds like it might be fun.”
“Sure it will. You’ll see.”
“So, where are we going?”
“I don’t think that’s been decided yet. You know how these things work; first you have to decide who’s going, then everybody argues for the next five minutes about where to go. Then you have to figure out who’s riding with who and who owes who a drink from the last time. Relax. We’ll probably be another fifteen minutes or so just sorting out all the details.”
I tried to think back to when I was in college. Had it really been that much of an involved process, simply to decide where to go and have a beer? I couldn't remember for sure, but I didn't think so. But then, I didn’t go to college in Chicago. We didn't have an unlimited number of choices. We had two: one place to go watch the college girls, and one place to go shoot pool. Most of the time I opted for the pool hall. I know — you're thinking ‘this guy is strange’. You don’t know the girls I went to college with. There were two standing jokes on campus about the females in attendance there. The answer to the first is ‘the garbage gets taken out once a week’. The answer to the other is ‘the cow’s about fifty pounds heavier’. You can probably figure out the jokes for yourself (a hint: they both started with ‘do you know the difference between…’)
Amidst my reminiscing it seemed that all the details had been ironed out. I mentioned to Sheila that I needed a ride. She was riding with two of her girlfriends and said she was sure I could catch a ride with them. Somehow we all managed to move outside, remember where all the cars were parked, pile in and begin our journey to wherever it was we were going.
The Lights and Libations Lounge had eventually emerged as the unanimous choice. I had never been inside the place, but the mere mention of the name had the power to conjure visions. I imagined mile after mile of glaring, flashing neon signs, drinks with ridiculous names and prices to match, and a rich, young college crowd. Definitely not my kind of place. But, because Sheila was going and I thought it might prove a good opportunity to talk to her, I decided to tag along.
I had guessed correctly about the bar (excuse me; nightclub); glass, brass and no class. The name sprawled across the front of the place in overly large, overly bright green neon. The foyer was worse — pinks, greens, blues, reds, whites; even a ghastly purple. Each one clamored for primary visual attention. One wall held a mural of a tropical beach, complete with neon palm trees and simulated ocean surf. “The HOTTEST Cooler” the slogan proclaimed. Predictably, the words were in a red neon that was chased by orange flames. The optical onslaught was reinforced audibly by the resounding strains of one of the latest new-wave songs. I couldn’t tell you which one — they all sound the same to me.
“Why do they have to play that stuff so loud?” I shouted at one of my companions.
“Yeah! Good crowd tonight! Must be ’cause no classes tomorrow!”.
Realizing that further conversation was a futile effort, I moved with the rest of my group into the main lounge. The change in lighting was excruciating and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim illumination. The others, seemingly having no such trouble, moved on into the large room, nodding to acquaintances and calling out greetings to friends. How they could tell who was where in the gloom, I had no idea. Unless they had assigned seats and then just nodded or waved in the proper direction.
Despite the crowd, the noise, and the impossibility of seeing anything, we managed to find a table. Reconfirmed my theory about assigned seats.
The waitress be-bopped over to our table to take our orders. Beer. Beer. White wine. Rum and Coke. Corona. Screwdriver. Fuzzy navel. Hawaiian vacation.
“And for you?”
“Glenfiddich.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What was that?”
“Glenfiddich. It's a scotch.”
“Oh, scotch! Why didn't you just say so?”
I don't want just any scotch…” I should have saved the protest. She had already turned and skipped towards the waitress station. I knew it would serve no purpose to try and shout over the combined din of the sound system and everyone else trying to shout louder than said system. Bar rail. Could have been worse, I guess.
After the drinks had arrived and been paid for, I was convinced that I should give up this magician’s madness (and my computer repair job) and apply as a waiter at the Lights and Libations, or buy stock in the place. Twenty-five dollars for the drinks, plus a five dollar tip. I quickly did the math in my head: figure an average of eight dollars in tips per table per hour; each girl has what looks like seven tables; fifty-six bucks an hour multiplied by, say a four-hour shift; equals an astounding two-hundred twenty-four dollars a night. I could work two nights a week, make enough money to pay all the bills, and still have plenty of pocket money left over. My eyes glazed over as I reveled in what I could do with that kind of money. Pool halls, poker, the horse track at Arlington.
And me broke and penniless in a month. Maybe I was better off staying where I was.
“Brent, would you like to dance?” Sheila’s voice helped drive away the last lingering fragments of my daydreaming.
“I’m not sure I can dance to this stuff.”
“Sure you can. Besides, the dance floor here is usually so crowded that all you can do is bounce off the other dancers, anyway.”
I acquiesced. The chance of a dance with her was why I had come in the first place. I even managed to bow her out onto the dance floor.
“Thank you, sir,” she said with a small curtsey and a smile.
She was right. The dance floor was so overpopulated that I didn’t think we could find room, but she slid to her left, sidestepped a couple doing what looked like full contact break dancing, and emerged in an empty spot on the other side. I negotiated my way through the press (not quite as nimbly as she had) and eased into the dance. Rather, I began to bounce and jostle and carom off the rest of the crowd. I felt like the steel ball on a Black Knight pinball machine.
The air was stifling. The music was deafening. Sheila was beautiful. The strobe light blinded me, especially when it prismed from the facets of the disco ball hanging from the ceiling. That relic from the seventies looked extremely incongruous with the other garish, art-deco accoutrements.
“I’ve never heard this song,” I shouted.
“I like it, too.”
Conversation, even in short bursts, was still impossible, so I simply bounced off the couple behind me and smiled at Sheila. I had only begun to find the rhythm when Sheila pointed at the table and mimed a drink. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand out in the middle of the dance floor by myself, so I followed her back to where we were sitting.
“Whew! That sure was a long song,” I said when the deejay paused to change records.
Sheila giggled. “That was six songs, silly.”
“Six! It all sounded the same to me.”
She smiled again, thinking I was making a joke.
I managed to catch the waitress’s attention and ordered refills through sign language. She must not have studied American Sign Language; instead of the two drinks I wanted, she brought a round for the entire table.
“Comes to twenty-four dollars and fifty cents,” she smiled while double-snapping her bubble gum.
Good God! I wasn’t sure I had enough to cover it. After digging through all my pockets, looking in my wallet twice, and finding a quarter on the floor, I was able to pay for them all. I thought she was going to stand there until I tipped her, but after trying to burn me with the fire in her eyes, she whirled around and deftly stormed off through the crowd.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sheila said. “They can buy their own drinks.”
“Oh, well, it’s only money,” I answered. Only money! It was the only money I had for the rest of the week. I suddenly found myself trying to remember if I had any spaghetti or popcorn left at home. I didn’t think so. Doug and Kim might find a lost, hungry waif on their doorstep about dinnertime for the next few days. Sure hope they don’t mind.
The music was again drowning out any hope of conversation, so Sheila and I just sat, sipped our drinks, and smiled at each other. Sounds boring, right? Well, I was in heaven. I am easily entertained, and being in the presence of a beauty queen is one of the most enjoyable forms of entertainment I know. Moreover, the less I had to try and make conversation, the more comfortable I was. I didn’t have to worry a great deal about embarrassing myself that way. The others returned from dancing and I was immediately the most popular person at the table.
“Thanks for the drink, Brent,” from Joan.
“Yeah, thanks,” Diana said.
“Cheers!” from Randy.
“Hey, you’re all right, Brent. Even if that card trick won’t work for you.” This from Jack.
I knew it was intended as a joke, but the memories of my utter incompetence on that trick were still painful. I was completely unable to comprehend what had gone wrong, or where that goddamned four of spades had come from at that inopportune moment. I realized I was blushing and tried to hide it.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”
“Don’t worry about it. I guess I was pretty nervous. Not trying to change the subject, but what happened to the music?”
“They called last call. Time to drink up and go.”
“So soon? I didn't realize it was so late.” The night was over and I didn’t get a slow dance with Sheila.
“Where we goin’ for breakfast?” Jack asked.
There followed the usual debate about where to go, who had the best late night menu, who was driving, who was going with who…
“Brent, you going?” Randy asked.
“No, I think I’m going to go home. You people have it lucky; no classes tomorrow, but some of us have to go to work.”
“Party pooper.”
“Spoil sport.”
“See how you are?”
I enjoyed the ribbing and comraderie. I was part of the gang, even if I couldn’t do a single card trick. It was a pleasant change. I stood up and took my leave.
“Good night, folks. ‘Night, Sheila. Thanks for teaching me how to dance to this stuff.” I waved my hand in the general direction of the dance floor, not wanting to leave just yet, hoping to think of something witty to say to make her smile at me again and coming up empty. But still I stood there.
“It was fun. We’ll have to do it again sometime. Good night, Brent.” She stood up and kissed me on the cheek.
Lights flashed, my head began to spin, and the world tilted slightly. I reached out and put a trembling hand on the chair to steady myself.
“Are you all right?” Sheila asked, her voice full of concern.
“I’m fine. Just stood up too fast. Well, time for me to go. Good night.”
“Drive careful,” she called.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was taking a cab. I headed for the door, feeling like I was walking on air. Sheila had kissed me! Okay, okay — so it was only a good night peck on the cheek. In my book (and this is my book) that’s well nigh a proposal. I danced my way through the crowd, pushed open the door and stepped outside.
Only then did I realize I was flat broke. Have to call Doug from the pay phone. Collect, of course. At two o’clock in the morning. With absolutely no idea where I was.
Oh boy! This ought to be a barrel of fun!
At least I would have plenty of time to review my notes and cram for the quiz. Unfortunately, my notes were in a state somewhere between incomplete and abysmal. I had written “History of Magic” at the top of the page. Below that, “traced to earliest roots of mankind”; followed by: Salient Points; and then “points all her own, sittin’ way up high”. That was the extent of my notetaking. Not a heck of a lot to study from. I had to wonder if the lecture had indeed been that boring or if my attention had wandered that freely. Had to be a little bit of both, I decided.
Not wanting anyone to observe my utter failure at notetaking, I quickly tore the page from my notebook, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it in my coat pocket. Not a moment too soon, either; Sheila had just walked in. (Whew! That was close!) Maybe she would let me study from her notes.
“Hi, Sheila. Somehow I managed to leave my notes from Monday night at home.”
You despicable liar!
“Could I do some last minute brushing up from yours?”
“Sure. I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch everything he said, but you’re welcome to them if they will help.”
“Thanks.”
She handed me three sheets of notes in exquisite penmanship. At that moment ‘Old Grouch’ entered the room. Damn! Time to do some heavy cramming. He was speaking even before he reached the lectern.
“Please put away your notes. Take out a three by five card. We are going to have a quiz. Put your name and today’s date in the upper right-hand corner. Any cards with this information in the upper left-hand corner will be marked as ‘Fail — unable to follow directions’.”
I was frantic. I didn’t have a three by five card. No one had ever told me about the stupid three by five cards. But, since I didn’t have a student handbook to refer to, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Wonderful. Two days into this useless class and I’m going to flunk. Absolutely wonderful!
Sheila noticed my distress (probably because of the tears in my eyes) and passed me one of her three by fives.
“Thanks,” I said. “‘Old Grouch’ is too tame a name for him. How about Little Hitler?”
“Sshhh,” she warned.
“Jeez. Any mark in the upper left-hand corner is an immediate fail; anyone not blonde and blue-eyed is an immediate corpse. Makes perfect sense to me.”
“Sshhh,” she cautioned again.
I didn’t have an answer to the first question. Or the second. For that matter, I didn’t have an answer to any of the questions. Except for my name and the date in the upper right-hand corner, I was ready to turn in a blank three by five card when I reconsidered. I thought it would be a good idea to point out that, although I hadn't answered any of the questions, neither had I made any marks in the upper left-hand corner. I felt that entitled me to at least partial credit for being able to follow directions.
“Please pass your cards to the right. When you have all the cards in your row, pass them to the front, putting your stack on top.”
Little Hitler stood at what must have been perfect at ease, with his hands clasped in the small of his back. He neither moved nor spoke until all of the quiz cards had completed their circuitous travels to the front of the room. He snatched the cards from the student offering them to him as a three-year-old will snatch a favored toy from a sibling. I could almost hear the word “Mine!”. After collecting them, he squared the edges by tapping all four on the desk and then placed them on its corner. He promptly forgot about them, scooped up his notes, and proceeded with the lecture he had started on Monday.
“Magic has always been closely associated with prominent world religions, and more so with the cultures spawned by these religions. The Egyptians. The Greeks. The Romans. The Indians. And in more recent times the Catholics…”
Once again, I found it difficult to assimilate the discussion of magic and religion with the intent of becoming an illusionist; it struck me as a senseless waste of my time and money. Magic, defined in such a context, was a fool’s answer to scientifically explainable phenomena. The classical definition also bore little or no relation to illusion or sleight of hand as it was today. I wanted to shout at him, “Get to the point and teach us some real tricks!” Why the long preamble, anyway?
“Did my notes help you at all?” Sheila asked at the conclusion of Old Grouch’s digression.
“I’m afraid not. I drew a total blank. I think it’s some form of psychosis whenever a test is involved. But, I’ll do better on the next one.”
“The written examination you have just completed will be the only written test for this entire course. Future grading will be done solely on the basis of your performance of assigned illusions.”
Had he read my mind?! “Great! I’m off to an absolutely amazing start!”
“I’m sure you’ll do just fine on the illusions,” Sheila offered.
“Maybe. I wish I was that confident,” I said as Sheila and I walked out of the room together. “So tell me — what does the ‘Old Grouch’ teach here at the University?”
“You mean ‘Little Hitler’?” She smiled. “History and sociology. He teaches them the same way, too. In fact, all of his classes are some of the most difficult at school. He never gives any breaks; doesn’t know the meaning of the word.” She put her hand on my arm — a gesture of familiarity with which I was totally unfamiliar. “You would not have believed the History of Civilization class I took with him last semester. We spent the first fourteen weeks covering the various Egyptian dynasties and then rushed through the next four thousand years in three weeks. The final exam was over two hundred questions long, only three of which related to Egypt.”
“Sounds like a philosophy prof I had in college,” I chuckled. “He believed if you could finish his exam in the allotted time that: a) the exam was too short, or b) you as a student obviously didn’t know what you were talking about due to a serious lack of disciplined study time. As far as I know, no one ever completed one, and the best you could hope for on an incomplete exam was a “C”. Jeez, was I ever glad to flunk out of that class! Uuhh, I mean… uh… when that class ended.”
She smiled. “I think I’ve had a couple of classes like that.”
“The only question I remember from one of his tests was ‘define table’. I expounded for three pages that, simply because an object had been assigned the name of someone’s arbitrary choosing, it did not necessarily make that object a member of the class that bore the nomenclature. Then, I went on for four more pages to discuss the characteristics of ‘tableness’. I concluded that similar objects with similar characteristics and or attributes could be placed in the same category if one were willing to accept minor differences.”
“That sounds pretty deep and philosophical,” she said appreciatively. “What did the professor say?”
“He marked me off for the entire question. Nowhere in my eight-page dissertation was there a definition offered for ‘table’. Had there been, I probably would have been marked off for it, anyway.”
“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed in the wonderful voice of hers.
“I’m not. I still remember the words written in red ink on the last page: ‘It is painfully obvious to me, at a glance, that you have spent a disproportionately small amount of time in preparation for this important examination. Had you attended to the discussion we held in this class throughout the entire semester, you would have responded to this question thusly: Owing to the lack of context, no definition can be offered that could not be proven wrong given a more explicit frame of reference (e.g. water table, table of contents)’.”
“That’s terrible!”
“That was my philosophy professor. We called him Ivan.”
“So, why did you sign up for this class, Brent?” she asked.
“Me?” Because I wanted to meet you, I couldn’t say. “My friend roped me into it and the school wouldn’t give me my money back. How about you?”
She looked almost embarrased. “I wanted to take something fun. I graduated valedictorian of my high school class, always doing what was expected of me, straight “A’s”, extra credit. And the same thing here for four semesters. I decided it was time for a change. All my other classes this semester are just plain boring. And since they don't offer a course with tickets to go see “Phantom of the Opera”, I thought maybe this would prove to be an adventure of sorts.
“Besides, my grandfather always used to entertain me with magic tricks and I wanted to surprise him. He’s the only family I have and I think that would make him happy. He’s done so much for me, I would like to repay him in some small way if I can.”
We had reached the door at the end of the hall and I somehow ran out of things to say… well, that’s not quite true. There was a whole barrage of things I wanted to say, but I couldn’t manage to form the words. Was I imagining things, or was she waiting for me to continue the conversation?
“See you on Friday,” I managed.
“Good night, Brent,” she smiled as she exited the building.
I stood there replaying the sound of her voice caressing my name (read mesmerized). Realizing I was probably beginning to look like an ass (and not much for caring) I pushed open the door and started down the steps, hoping to catch her. She had vanished like a true magician, and we had only been in class for two days.
Friday for sure.
Nope. Not Friday, either. I chickened out again, but hey, class was only one week old. I still had almost seven full weeks to work up my courage. I hoped that would be enough time. Meanwhile, I resolved to practice my assignment over the weekend. ‘Old Grouch’ (I still hadn’t bothered to find out his real name) had spent the entire class period on Friday showing us several illusions with a deck of playing cards. He even passed out detailed instructions for each trick. That should make these a piece of cake.
I wasted an entire Saturday playing fifty-two card pick-up. Sunday was fifty-one pick-up. I lost the four of spades somewhere. Due to the fact that a particular illusion centered on the four of spades, I felt it prudent to practice another trick.
I really worked at that one. I must have spent five or six hours at Doug and Kim’s playing “pick a card — any card.” I actually pulled it off once. From there it was easy — six times in a row. Maybe this magician stuff was going to be easier than I had thought. I was certain that I would be pulling rabbits out of my hat in no time. I practiced all day Monday. I had Charley picking cards at every opportunity. I only missed twice. Had the right number but the wrong suit. I’d show that Old Grouch. I would have him pick the card and then I would tell him which one it was.
“Here’s mud in your eye, buddy. Just because I’m late the first night doesn’t mean I’m not going to make it. Brent Teller is a survivor.” I walked into class that night feeling more self-confidence than I had since… since… I couldn’t remember when. I almost floated. When the Grouch asked for volunteers to demonstrate their ability with the card tricks my hand was the first one up.
“Mr. Teller?” After finding no one else, he reluctantly called on me.
“Watch this,” I whispered to Sheila and casually strolled to the front of the room.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my deck of fifty-one cards. I laid them face up on his podium, fanned them out briefly for him to look at, then closed the fan. Face down. Shuffle; fan again, face down. “Pick a card — any card. And through the use of my magic I will be able to deduce which card you have selected.”
He regarded me skeptically for a moment, then reached out and removed a card from the center of the deck.
“Okay. Let's see…reshuffle. Fan, face down; close; tap the top card three times. Pass right hand… or is it left? No, right… Pass right hand back and forth over deck. The harmony of the deck has been broken. By concentrating on the song of these cards I am able to discern the missing piece.” I thought the added touch of a little magic-sounding jargon might enhance the rating of my performance. “Yes. Yes! I can hear the discord faintly. I am beginning to make it out… Yes, the first card that I reveal will identify the suit of the one you are holding,” I intoned. I attempted to appear as if I were in deep concentration, then held up the top card. It was a heart.
“Yes, it is becoming clearer to me — I can almost identify the missing card. The next card I reveal will match the number of yours.” I gave that concentrating look again, and pulled the bottom number from the deck and held it aloft. “Seven!” Perfect! This was going better than I had hoped. The seven of hearts was the card this illusion revolved around. “Your card is the seven of hearts!” I pronounced triumphantly, waving the card I was holding around the room like a victory flag.
After only the briefest of hesitation, he said, “Wrong. It is the four of spades. Keep trying, Mr. Teller, and you may succeed, eventually.”
I was so completely flabbergasted at seeing that blasted four of spades appear out of nowhere that, once again, I was playing fifty-two card pick-up. The Old Grouch, with a look that served as a reprimand and a flick of his wrist, had thrown the four of spades onto the pile I had dropped. I scooped up the deck and dejectedly shuffled my way back to my seat, shaking my head in bewilderment. Where did that four of spades come from? How could he have known that that was the card I had lost? I convinced myself, at least partially, there was absolutely no possible way he could have. It had to be just a fluke, a coincidence.
“Who is next?” the professor asked.
Jack Cole jumped to his feet. Jack was about six-foot-four, very broad across the shoulders, dark-haired, and had one of those faces that belong on the cover of GQ; a real Adonis. I instantly hated him.
I know, I know — that’s not fair to Jack. I had never even met him. Nevertheless, that’s how I felt. He breezed through three or four tricks with no mishaps, and sat down to a smattering of applause. Showoff! This was probably his second time through this class. No wonder he could manage those illusions so effortlessly. He had a whole semester to practice.”
“Yeah, right.”
That sarcastic little voice in my head was back.
There were others; none of them as polished as Jack, but none of them as bungling as ol’ Brent, either.
The next week was no better for me. Or the next. We moved from card tricks to cutting strips of paper and putting them back together. Then it was rabbits out of a hat.
I should say the rest of the class proceeded to each of these illusions. I was still trying to find the damn four of spades.
Once more it was Jack who proved to be the star pupil. With the others, you could see exactly how their hands moved; where whatever came from or disappeared to. Not so with Jack. He had mastered every aspect. He was a real showman. Although I still did not like him, he had earned my grudging respect.
On Wednesday of the fourth week of the course, I overhead several of my classmates discussing where they were going to go for a beer after class. Most of them were full-time students at the university and there were no classes the next day. Tonight there was going to be a party.
Someone had asked Sheila if she was going to join them; her reply was in the affirmative. I suddenly felt twice my twenty-four years. Though I was only three or four years older than most of them, to my mind, it represented an interminable gulf between us. I had resigned myself to going home, opening the last bottle of beer in the fridge, and staring morosely at the television when Sheila’s voice pierced the fog in my head.
“Aren’t you coming, Brent?”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t really fit in with the college crowd anymore, and I’ve got to be at work early…”
My imagination was playing tricks on me again. She looked disappointed at my refusal. Could it be that she actually enjoyed my company?
“Well… why not. I’m not old and stuffy yet. Even sounds like it might be fun.”
“Sure it will. You’ll see.”
“So, where are we going?”
“I don’t think that’s been decided yet. You know how these things work; first you have to decide who’s going, then everybody argues for the next five minutes about where to go. Then you have to figure out who’s riding with who and who owes who a drink from the last time. Relax. We’ll probably be another fifteen minutes or so just sorting out all the details.”
I tried to think back to when I was in college. Had it really been that much of an involved process, simply to decide where to go and have a beer? I couldn't remember for sure, but I didn't think so. But then, I didn’t go to college in Chicago. We didn't have an unlimited number of choices. We had two: one place to go watch the college girls, and one place to go shoot pool. Most of the time I opted for the pool hall. I know — you're thinking ‘this guy is strange’. You don’t know the girls I went to college with. There were two standing jokes on campus about the females in attendance there. The answer to the first is ‘the garbage gets taken out once a week’. The answer to the other is ‘the cow’s about fifty pounds heavier’. You can probably figure out the jokes for yourself (a hint: they both started with ‘do you know the difference between…’)
Amidst my reminiscing it seemed that all the details had been ironed out. I mentioned to Sheila that I needed a ride. She was riding with two of her girlfriends and said she was sure I could catch a ride with them. Somehow we all managed to move outside, remember where all the cars were parked, pile in and begin our journey to wherever it was we were going.
The Lights and Libations Lounge had eventually emerged as the unanimous choice. I had never been inside the place, but the mere mention of the name had the power to conjure visions. I imagined mile after mile of glaring, flashing neon signs, drinks with ridiculous names and prices to match, and a rich, young college crowd. Definitely not my kind of place. But, because Sheila was going and I thought it might prove a good opportunity to talk to her, I decided to tag along.
I had guessed correctly about the bar (excuse me; nightclub); glass, brass and no class. The name sprawled across the front of the place in overly large, overly bright green neon. The foyer was worse — pinks, greens, blues, reds, whites; even a ghastly purple. Each one clamored for primary visual attention. One wall held a mural of a tropical beach, complete with neon palm trees and simulated ocean surf. “The HOTTEST Cooler” the slogan proclaimed. Predictably, the words were in a red neon that was chased by orange flames. The optical onslaught was reinforced audibly by the resounding strains of one of the latest new-wave songs. I couldn’t tell you which one — they all sound the same to me.
“Why do they have to play that stuff so loud?” I shouted at one of my companions.
“Yeah! Good crowd tonight! Must be ’cause no classes tomorrow!”.
Realizing that further conversation was a futile effort, I moved with the rest of my group into the main lounge. The change in lighting was excruciating and it took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim illumination. The others, seemingly having no such trouble, moved on into the large room, nodding to acquaintances and calling out greetings to friends. How they could tell who was where in the gloom, I had no idea. Unless they had assigned seats and then just nodded or waved in the proper direction.
Despite the crowd, the noise, and the impossibility of seeing anything, we managed to find a table. Reconfirmed my theory about assigned seats.
The waitress be-bopped over to our table to take our orders. Beer. Beer. White wine. Rum and Coke. Corona. Screwdriver. Fuzzy navel. Hawaiian vacation.
“And for you?”
“Glenfiddich.”
“I’m sorry, sir. What was that?”
“Glenfiddich. It's a scotch.”
“Oh, scotch! Why didn't you just say so?”
I don't want just any scotch…” I should have saved the protest. She had already turned and skipped towards the waitress station. I knew it would serve no purpose to try and shout over the combined din of the sound system and everyone else trying to shout louder than said system. Bar rail. Could have been worse, I guess.
After the drinks had arrived and been paid for, I was convinced that I should give up this magician’s madness (and my computer repair job) and apply as a waiter at the Lights and Libations, or buy stock in the place. Twenty-five dollars for the drinks, plus a five dollar tip. I quickly did the math in my head: figure an average of eight dollars in tips per table per hour; each girl has what looks like seven tables; fifty-six bucks an hour multiplied by, say a four-hour shift; equals an astounding two-hundred twenty-four dollars a night. I could work two nights a week, make enough money to pay all the bills, and still have plenty of pocket money left over. My eyes glazed over as I reveled in what I could do with that kind of money. Pool halls, poker, the horse track at Arlington.
And me broke and penniless in a month. Maybe I was better off staying where I was.
“Brent, would you like to dance?” Sheila’s voice helped drive away the last lingering fragments of my daydreaming.
“I’m not sure I can dance to this stuff.”
“Sure you can. Besides, the dance floor here is usually so crowded that all you can do is bounce off the other dancers, anyway.”
I acquiesced. The chance of a dance with her was why I had come in the first place. I even managed to bow her out onto the dance floor.
“Thank you, sir,” she said with a small curtsey and a smile.
She was right. The dance floor was so overpopulated that I didn’t think we could find room, but she slid to her left, sidestepped a couple doing what looked like full contact break dancing, and emerged in an empty spot on the other side. I negotiated my way through the press (not quite as nimbly as she had) and eased into the dance. Rather, I began to bounce and jostle and carom off the rest of the crowd. I felt like the steel ball on a Black Knight pinball machine.
The air was stifling. The music was deafening. Sheila was beautiful. The strobe light blinded me, especially when it prismed from the facets of the disco ball hanging from the ceiling. That relic from the seventies looked extremely incongruous with the other garish, art-deco accoutrements.
“I’ve never heard this song,” I shouted.
“I like it, too.”
Conversation, even in short bursts, was still impossible, so I simply bounced off the couple behind me and smiled at Sheila. I had only begun to find the rhythm when Sheila pointed at the table and mimed a drink. I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand out in the middle of the dance floor by myself, so I followed her back to where we were sitting.
“Whew! That sure was a long song,” I said when the deejay paused to change records.
Sheila giggled. “That was six songs, silly.”
“Six! It all sounded the same to me.”
She smiled again, thinking I was making a joke.
I managed to catch the waitress’s attention and ordered refills through sign language. She must not have studied American Sign Language; instead of the two drinks I wanted, she brought a round for the entire table.
“Comes to twenty-four dollars and fifty cents,” she smiled while double-snapping her bubble gum.
Good God! I wasn’t sure I had enough to cover it. After digging through all my pockets, looking in my wallet twice, and finding a quarter on the floor, I was able to pay for them all. I thought she was going to stand there until I tipped her, but after trying to burn me with the fire in her eyes, she whirled around and deftly stormed off through the crowd.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Sheila said. “They can buy their own drinks.”
“Oh, well, it’s only money,” I answered. Only money! It was the only money I had for the rest of the week. I suddenly found myself trying to remember if I had any spaghetti or popcorn left at home. I didn’t think so. Doug and Kim might find a lost, hungry waif on their doorstep about dinnertime for the next few days. Sure hope they don’t mind.
The music was again drowning out any hope of conversation, so Sheila and I just sat, sipped our drinks, and smiled at each other. Sounds boring, right? Well, I was in heaven. I am easily entertained, and being in the presence of a beauty queen is one of the most enjoyable forms of entertainment I know. Moreover, the less I had to try and make conversation, the more comfortable I was. I didn’t have to worry a great deal about embarrassing myself that way. The others returned from dancing and I was immediately the most popular person at the table.
“Thanks for the drink, Brent,” from Joan.
“Yeah, thanks,” Diana said.
“Cheers!” from Randy.
“Hey, you’re all right, Brent. Even if that card trick won’t work for you.” This from Jack.
I knew it was intended as a joke, but the memories of my utter incompetence on that trick were still painful. I was completely unable to comprehend what had gone wrong, or where that goddamned four of spades had come from at that inopportune moment. I realized I was blushing and tried to hide it.
“Sorry, man. I didn’t know it bothered you so much.”
“Don’t worry about it. I guess I was pretty nervous. Not trying to change the subject, but what happened to the music?”
“They called last call. Time to drink up and go.”
“So soon? I didn't realize it was so late.” The night was over and I didn’t get a slow dance with Sheila.
“Where we goin’ for breakfast?” Jack asked.
There followed the usual debate about where to go, who had the best late night menu, who was driving, who was going with who…
“Brent, you going?” Randy asked.
“No, I think I’m going to go home. You people have it lucky; no classes tomorrow, but some of us have to go to work.”
“Party pooper.”
“Spoil sport.”
“See how you are?”
I enjoyed the ribbing and comraderie. I was part of the gang, even if I couldn’t do a single card trick. It was a pleasant change. I stood up and took my leave.
“Good night, folks. ‘Night, Sheila. Thanks for teaching me how to dance to this stuff.” I waved my hand in the general direction of the dance floor, not wanting to leave just yet, hoping to think of something witty to say to make her smile at me again and coming up empty. But still I stood there.
“It was fun. We’ll have to do it again sometime. Good night, Brent.” She stood up and kissed me on the cheek.
Lights flashed, my head began to spin, and the world tilted slightly. I reached out and put a trembling hand on the chair to steady myself.
“Are you all right?” Sheila asked, her voice full of concern.
“I’m fine. Just stood up too fast. Well, time for me to go. Good night.”
“Drive careful,” she called.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was taking a cab. I headed for the door, feeling like I was walking on air. Sheila had kissed me! Okay, okay — so it was only a good night peck on the cheek. In my book (and this is my book) that’s well nigh a proposal. I danced my way through the crowd, pushed open the door and stepped outside.
Only then did I realize I was flat broke. Have to call Doug from the pay phone. Collect, of course. At two o’clock in the morning. With absolutely no idea where I was.
Oh boy! This ought to be a barrel of fun!
Chapter 3
Monday came as cold and uninviting as Sunday had been. I caught a ride to work with Doug as usual. The computer repair place I worked for was not exactly on his way, but hey — what are friends for?
“Good luck at that magician’s class tonight, Houdini.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And not just with Sheila.” He flashed me that knowing grin of his as I climbed out of the car.
“Go to hell!” I responded and slammed the door.
He waved and smiled again as he drove away.
Work was slow. There were only two calls all day, and somebody else handled both of them. I spent most of the day trying to appear busy — shuffling and re-shuffling repair orders, studying the new tech manuals from Hewlett Packard, and shoe-horning twenty minutes of paperwork into two and a half hours. I kept telling myself not to watch the clock; it wasn’t going to make the day go any faster. So, every time I was convinced an hour had passed, I glanced at the time, which turned out to be every ten minutes. That means I only looked at the clock forty-seven times that day.
At twenty minutes to five, I called for a cab and told them to meet me out front at five. When the cabbie picked me up at five-thirty, I gave him the address of the university and told him I was in kind of a hurry. Big mistake! If you have ever ridden in a cab through Chicago after telling the driver to hurry, you need no further explanation; if you have not yet experienced this singular mode of transportation, justice would not be served for me to attempt to describe it to you. Suffice it to say, class didn't start for another forty-five minutes after we arrived. Plenty of time to cross the street to Denny’s for something to eat and hopefully calm my racing stomach.
While gorging myself on a steak and half a bottle of Inglenook Red (it was all they had), I tried to determine my motives for going through with this nonsense. I really had no delusions of grandeur about becoming a great magician; maybe I could learn a few sleight of hand tricks to entertain my friends at parties, but that would undoubtedly be the extent of my prowess.
My thoughts were extremely jumbled and ran something like this:
You dumb cluck! Seventy-five bucks just to learn a couple of cheap card tricks that you will probably never be able to do right, anyway.
“They wouldn’t give me my money back.”
You’ll be wasting your time, the class’s time, and the instructor’s time.
“I don’t relish the idea of dropping seventy-five dollars for nothing. I have to at least try it. Besides, Sheila is in the class.”
Big deal! She won’t even notice you unless you happen to make a complete ass of yourself, which I must say is a definite possibility.
“Maybe I won’t. I really think I can do this.”
That only works in nursery rhymes. It's going to take more than a couple of tricks to impress a girl like that.
“If that doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.”
What? Your good looks? Your abominable wit? Your utter poverty?
“Whatever it takes.”
Maybe she dropped the class like Doug did. She won’t even be there tonight. Then what are you going to do?
“I guess suicide is always an option.”
Now you’re talkin’, pal.
“Leave me alone!”
This last must have been aloud, because the waitress, obviously startled, dropped an armload of dishes at my feet.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud. I didn’t mean you.”
“Oh. Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?” A note of wary caution crept into her voice.
“Just my check, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She produced it hastily from her apron pocket and scurried away before I could say anything more to her. Feeling guilty, I tipped her the last three dollars I had in my wallet. So much for asking Sheila out for coffee after class tonight. Oh, well, payday was Wednesday. Maybe then.
I told you she probably won't even be there.
I almost snarled out loud again, but caught myself just in time. I paid the tab, shrugged into my coat and hurried back across the street to the university. Not two steps inside, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was heading. Glaring at my watch, I saw that it was already twenty-eight minutes after six.
You're going to be late again, Brent ol’ buddy. At least things were off to a good start.
Crossing the floor to the information desk, I asked the girl at the window (she appeared about ready to go home) where I could find the magician’s class.
“That’s in room 204,” she said, as she gathered up her books. “In the Andrews Building.”
“Uh… and how do I get to the Andrews Building?”
She favored me with a look that said ‘You should know that without me telling you, and if you couldn’t find it in your handbook you should have been here half an hour ago to find it.’ Although there were other sentiments in that look, I can’t repeat any of them.
“You have to go back outside.” She grinned at my grimace of discomfort. “Turn right. It’s half a block down on the other side of the street. You can't miss it.”
I’m improvising on the last part of her directions. What she actually said was ‘you have to go back outside, turn right. It’s half a block mmmph nndnb mmmph cenmmphdn.’ She had slid the glass panel on the window closed and was wrapping a scarf around her nose and throat.
I left the building and headed down the street to the right, and there it was! Just like she almost said it would be. Even I couldn’t have missed it. (I began to wonder what was going to go wrong.) I even managed to find room 204 with no trouble.
Who says the age of miracles has passed?
Hesitating briefly at the door, I again had to beat down the impression that I should just walk away from the whole thing.
Seventy-five dollars down the tubes just like that.
(Most people talk to themselves; I have this nasty little voice in my head that ridicules me.)
This is going to make a good impression — fifteen minutes late on the first day. The instructor is not going to be pleased, and Sheila is going to think you are unreliable.
“Oh, shut up!”
“Fighting to overcome my inertia, I pushed open the door and strode confidently into the classroom. Well … almost confidently. At least I didn’t trip over the threshold. The instructor looked up sharply from his notes at my interruption.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“My name is Brent Teller. I uh… I signed up for this class.”
“Good evening, Mr. Teller. We are so glad you could join us tonight. In the future we would be grateful if you could be here on time. All of us this evening, including yourself, I am sure, are extremely busy people. That would explain your tardiness tonight, would it not?
“However, it is grossly unfair to the other students to expect them to adjust their schedules to conform to the needs of one individual. More importantly, it is now necessary for me to begin my lecture again. Your seat is that one over there. You will have to check with someone else for the needed materials for this class.”
The instructor pointed to the only empty chair in the room. It was right next to Sheila! Even his tongue lashing seemed to fade into the background at my sheer good fortune. I stood where I was, unable to move.
“Are you hard of hearing as well as tardy, Mr. Teller? Or is that seat unacceptable to you?”
“No, sir. That seat is fine, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I can’t imagine why I was just standing there like that.” I walked over and dropped meekly into my seat.
“Don't worry about him — around campus he’s known as the ‘Old Grouch’.”
The voice was music in my ears. I glanced at Sheila and all the cute, trite, witty opening lines I had rehearsed for this occasion immediately fled my mind. I could think of absolutely nothing to say. Zero. Zilch. Not a word. Not even a stutter.
“Hi. My name is Sheila Walker.”
“I — I know.”
That was a statement of incomparable brilliance! Try something else, Einstein! “My name is Einstein — uh… I mean, Brent Teller.” By now I was completely tongue-tied and could say no more.
I sensed that I was being watched — probably by ‘Old Grouch’ — and swiveled my head towards the front of the room. ‘Watched’ was not the correct term; glared at would be a more appropriate choice. Stapled, bent, folded and mutilated would also work. Glare all you want, mister — the most beautiful girl in the world just spoke to me, and nothing can spoil this moment!
“Mr. Teller! May we proceed, now?” he asked icily.
“Please do, sir,” I smiled.
He continued throwing daggers at me with his eyes for a moment, cleared his throat, shuffled his notes, and began his lecture again. “Magic has an history as lengthy and as varied as that of mankind itself. What we know as magic was most likely first associated with the people…”
I was no longer listening. He seemed to have already forgotten our confrontation and my mind was beginning to wander. Thinking about Sheila; her eyes, her smile, her voice. Which coffee shop could we go to after class? How long was this class, anyway?
I stole a glance in her direction. She was studiously transcribing notes from the old codger’s lecture. The way her slender hand moved across the paper held me mesmerized. Doug’s voice repeating ‘awestruck’ ran through my mind, and I ignored it. No ring; beautiful hands.
She was absolutely the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her long hair cascaded around her shoulders in waves the color of raven’s wings; beautiful hair. Her amazingly blue eyes were set high (not too high) and wide (not too wide) on her pretty, dark-complected face. Beautiful eyes. Her nose was small and petite (just right) and turned up slightly at the tip. Beautiful nose. Her lips were dark and full… sensuous. Beautiful face. Beautiful girl!
She was wearing a white, knee-length, knit skirt and a white wool sweater that clung to her (but not too tightly) in all the right places. Around her neck was a finely worked, delicate gold mesh necklace with what looked to be a very old, and extremely expensive, gold locket suspended from it. Beautiful necklace.
She must have sensed my eyes on her (read staring) because she looked up from her note taking with a slightly perplexed expression on her face. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable and unable to look away, I adjusted my notebook to allow me to observe her (read still staring) out of the corner of my eye, and tried to concentrate on the lecture.
I managed to copy of few of what I thought were the more salient points. What did Bob Seger say: ‘She had points all her own, sittin’ … (oops! Sorry.)
The monotone of a lecture stopped. It couldn’t be eight-thirty already! We had just started, hadn’t we? The clock said eight-thirty. Someone must have jockeyed the hands; but I heard ‘Old Grouch’ saying, “That’s all for tonight. There will be a quiz over this evening’s material on Wednesday, at six-thirty sharp.”
I was fully aware that the last comment was solely for my benefit, but I let it pass without reacting. I was preoccupied with gathering my notes — and my courage. I had devised a plan. It involved my getting out the door ahead of Sheila and waiting for her. Once we were both in the hallway it would be easier for me to ask her for a date (I hoped). I had already decided to stop at the bank, withdraw a crisp new twenty dollar bill (screw the checking account) and take her somewhere for coffee. Or hot chocolate. Or ice cream; if she wanted ice cream on the coldest day in January, who was I to argue?
I stood in the hall fidgeting. She was almost the last one out and headed down the hall alone. No time like the present, Brent boy. You’d better hurry.
“Uh… excuse me, Sheila?” It sounded like a croak. “ Umm, I don’t want to, uh, bother you, but, uh…”
The coffee was superb. Even the ice cream in January was delicious. The conversation was not at all forced.
“Of course it wasn’t forced, you dumb ass! ‘Excuse me, Sheila. Umm, I don’t want to, uh, bother you, but, uh… Nice class, wasn’t it?’ GOD!”
“So I didn’t ask her out.”
“Chicken!”
“She’ll be there on Wednesday.”
“You won’t ask her out then, either.”
“I might.”
“No you won’t, chicken!”
“I am not a chicken! She looked tired. I was tired. I wasn’t sure my timing was right.”
“Chicken!”
No matter how strenuously I argued, no matter how perfect my rationalization, and no matter how many excuses I made, that was the crux. I had chickened out, made some ridiculously asinine statement, and now here I sat at Denny's drinking coffee and not enjoying an ice cream sundae — alone.
“She probably would have turned me down, anyway.”
“Hey! That’s my line,” said the Nasty Little Voice.
“Sorry.” I am going crazy. This is the second time today that I have been in an argument with myself. And lost! Paranoia. Nerves. Mental instability. Psychotic behavior. Stress-induced insanity. I was familiar with all the terms.
Tuesday was interminable.
Wednesday was worse. I was late for work, spilled my first coffee of the morning (and my second) and then proceeded to get lost on the way to my first service call. Damn road construction, anyway. The call had come in from Hammond, Indiana, about thirty miles away. No problem — we make runs to Hammond three or four times a week.
So there I am in my service van, tooling east on I-94, looking for the Calumet Exit. First I see the sign ‘Calumet Exit ½ mile’. The next sign I see reads ‘Exit Closed’. Great. Just great.
Now I’ll get caught in a detour that leads absolutely nowhere close to where I want to go, I thought miserably. Which, as it turned out, is exactly what happened. Despite my best efforts, I could not get within two miles of where I was going. So, after driving around downtown Hammond for an hour, I decided to simply report back and tell the boss that I couldn't find the place. I was sure he would believe me — I had managed to not find the place several times in the last few months. He would probably just shake his head, throw up his hands and mutter something such as, ‘Teller, I swear I’m going to buy you a map or send you to school to learn how to read one first.‘
Bingo! His exact words. Followed by, “What the hell took you so long to get back here?” (It was four o’clock in the afternoon.)
“I got lost, sir.”
“Lost?! How did you manage to get lost coming from Hammond? Christ, you can see the skyline from there!”
“Yes, sir. But not from Gary, sir.”
“Gary!” His face and bald head had turned an unhealthy shade of purple. His eyes bulged from their sockets. I thought he had choked on one of those Altoids he was always sucking on. “What the he—; how in the f—; Never mind. I’m sure I don’t even want to know. Give that repair order to Dolph. Charley, would you mind running out there first thing in the morning to handle that, please?”
“Gary?!” he said again, looking at me. He turned and stormed back into his office, muttering something about firing or strangling somebody with every step.
“Don’t worry, Brent,” Charley said, patting my shoulder. “I’m sure he didn’t mean that part about firing somebody. Strangle, maybe, but not fire. He knows you did your best.”
Somehow, I knew that when Charley drove out there, none of the exits would be closed, none of the roads barricaded, and he would return by ten that morning after fixing the blasted computer system that some inept temp had probably crashed.
“Yeah, thanks, Charley. I think I’ve had enough for one day. Cover for me, will you? I'm going to leave a few minutes early so I can cash my check before heading off to class tonight.”
“Sure. What kind of class? Going to learn how to read maps?” he grinned.
“Not funny, Charley.” I grabbed my coat and stalked out of the building.
“Good luck at that magician’s class tonight, Houdini.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“And not just with Sheila.” He flashed me that knowing grin of his as I climbed out of the car.
“Go to hell!” I responded and slammed the door.
He waved and smiled again as he drove away.
Work was slow. There were only two calls all day, and somebody else handled both of them. I spent most of the day trying to appear busy — shuffling and re-shuffling repair orders, studying the new tech manuals from Hewlett Packard, and shoe-horning twenty minutes of paperwork into two and a half hours. I kept telling myself not to watch the clock; it wasn’t going to make the day go any faster. So, every time I was convinced an hour had passed, I glanced at the time, which turned out to be every ten minutes. That means I only looked at the clock forty-seven times that day.
At twenty minutes to five, I called for a cab and told them to meet me out front at five. When the cabbie picked me up at five-thirty, I gave him the address of the university and told him I was in kind of a hurry. Big mistake! If you have ever ridden in a cab through Chicago after telling the driver to hurry, you need no further explanation; if you have not yet experienced this singular mode of transportation, justice would not be served for me to attempt to describe it to you. Suffice it to say, class didn't start for another forty-five minutes after we arrived. Plenty of time to cross the street to Denny’s for something to eat and hopefully calm my racing stomach.
While gorging myself on a steak and half a bottle of Inglenook Red (it was all they had), I tried to determine my motives for going through with this nonsense. I really had no delusions of grandeur about becoming a great magician; maybe I could learn a few sleight of hand tricks to entertain my friends at parties, but that would undoubtedly be the extent of my prowess.
My thoughts were extremely jumbled and ran something like this:
You dumb cluck! Seventy-five bucks just to learn a couple of cheap card tricks that you will probably never be able to do right, anyway.
“They wouldn’t give me my money back.”
You’ll be wasting your time, the class’s time, and the instructor’s time.
“I don’t relish the idea of dropping seventy-five dollars for nothing. I have to at least try it. Besides, Sheila is in the class.”
Big deal! She won’t even notice you unless you happen to make a complete ass of yourself, which I must say is a definite possibility.
“Maybe I won’t. I really think I can do this.”
That only works in nursery rhymes. It's going to take more than a couple of tricks to impress a girl like that.
“If that doesn’t work, I’ll try something else.”
What? Your good looks? Your abominable wit? Your utter poverty?
“Whatever it takes.”
Maybe she dropped the class like Doug did. She won’t even be there tonight. Then what are you going to do?
“I guess suicide is always an option.”
Now you’re talkin’, pal.
“Leave me alone!”
This last must have been aloud, because the waitress, obviously startled, dropped an armload of dishes at my feet.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking out loud. I didn’t mean you.”
“Oh. Is there anything else I can get for you, sir?” A note of wary caution crept into her voice.
“Just my check, please.”
“Yes, sir.” She produced it hastily from her apron pocket and scurried away before I could say anything more to her. Feeling guilty, I tipped her the last three dollars I had in my wallet. So much for asking Sheila out for coffee after class tonight. Oh, well, payday was Wednesday. Maybe then.
I told you she probably won't even be there.
I almost snarled out loud again, but caught myself just in time. I paid the tab, shrugged into my coat and hurried back across the street to the university. Not two steps inside, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was heading. Glaring at my watch, I saw that it was already twenty-eight minutes after six.
You're going to be late again, Brent ol’ buddy. At least things were off to a good start.
Crossing the floor to the information desk, I asked the girl at the window (she appeared about ready to go home) where I could find the magician’s class.
“That’s in room 204,” she said, as she gathered up her books. “In the Andrews Building.”
“Uh… and how do I get to the Andrews Building?”
She favored me with a look that said ‘You should know that without me telling you, and if you couldn’t find it in your handbook you should have been here half an hour ago to find it.’ Although there were other sentiments in that look, I can’t repeat any of them.
“You have to go back outside.” She grinned at my grimace of discomfort. “Turn right. It’s half a block down on the other side of the street. You can't miss it.”
I’m improvising on the last part of her directions. What she actually said was ‘you have to go back outside, turn right. It’s half a block mmmph nndnb mmmph cenmmphdn.’ She had slid the glass panel on the window closed and was wrapping a scarf around her nose and throat.
I left the building and headed down the street to the right, and there it was! Just like she almost said it would be. Even I couldn’t have missed it. (I began to wonder what was going to go wrong.) I even managed to find room 204 with no trouble.
Who says the age of miracles has passed?
Hesitating briefly at the door, I again had to beat down the impression that I should just walk away from the whole thing.
Seventy-five dollars down the tubes just like that.
(Most people talk to themselves; I have this nasty little voice in my head that ridicules me.)
This is going to make a good impression — fifteen minutes late on the first day. The instructor is not going to be pleased, and Sheila is going to think you are unreliable.
“Oh, shut up!”
“Fighting to overcome my inertia, I pushed open the door and strode confidently into the classroom. Well … almost confidently. At least I didn’t trip over the threshold. The instructor looked up sharply from his notes at my interruption.
“Yes? May I help you?”
“My name is Brent Teller. I uh… I signed up for this class.”
“Good evening, Mr. Teller. We are so glad you could join us tonight. In the future we would be grateful if you could be here on time. All of us this evening, including yourself, I am sure, are extremely busy people. That would explain your tardiness tonight, would it not?
“However, it is grossly unfair to the other students to expect them to adjust their schedules to conform to the needs of one individual. More importantly, it is now necessary for me to begin my lecture again. Your seat is that one over there. You will have to check with someone else for the needed materials for this class.”
The instructor pointed to the only empty chair in the room. It was right next to Sheila! Even his tongue lashing seemed to fade into the background at my sheer good fortune. I stood where I was, unable to move.
“Are you hard of hearing as well as tardy, Mr. Teller? Or is that seat unacceptable to you?”
“No, sir. That seat is fine, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I can’t imagine why I was just standing there like that.” I walked over and dropped meekly into my seat.
“Don't worry about him — around campus he’s known as the ‘Old Grouch’.”
The voice was music in my ears. I glanced at Sheila and all the cute, trite, witty opening lines I had rehearsed for this occasion immediately fled my mind. I could think of absolutely nothing to say. Zero. Zilch. Not a word. Not even a stutter.
“Hi. My name is Sheila Walker.”
“I — I know.”
That was a statement of incomparable brilliance! Try something else, Einstein! “My name is Einstein — uh… I mean, Brent Teller.” By now I was completely tongue-tied and could say no more.
I sensed that I was being watched — probably by ‘Old Grouch’ — and swiveled my head towards the front of the room. ‘Watched’ was not the correct term; glared at would be a more appropriate choice. Stapled, bent, folded and mutilated would also work. Glare all you want, mister — the most beautiful girl in the world just spoke to me, and nothing can spoil this moment!
“Mr. Teller! May we proceed, now?” he asked icily.
“Please do, sir,” I smiled.
He continued throwing daggers at me with his eyes for a moment, cleared his throat, shuffled his notes, and began his lecture again. “Magic has an history as lengthy and as varied as that of mankind itself. What we know as magic was most likely first associated with the people…”
I was no longer listening. He seemed to have already forgotten our confrontation and my mind was beginning to wander. Thinking about Sheila; her eyes, her smile, her voice. Which coffee shop could we go to after class? How long was this class, anyway?
I stole a glance in her direction. She was studiously transcribing notes from the old codger’s lecture. The way her slender hand moved across the paper held me mesmerized. Doug’s voice repeating ‘awestruck’ ran through my mind, and I ignored it. No ring; beautiful hands.
She was absolutely the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Her long hair cascaded around her shoulders in waves the color of raven’s wings; beautiful hair. Her amazingly blue eyes were set high (not too high) and wide (not too wide) on her pretty, dark-complected face. Beautiful eyes. Her nose was small and petite (just right) and turned up slightly at the tip. Beautiful nose. Her lips were dark and full… sensuous. Beautiful face. Beautiful girl!
She was wearing a white, knee-length, knit skirt and a white wool sweater that clung to her (but not too tightly) in all the right places. Around her neck was a finely worked, delicate gold mesh necklace with what looked to be a very old, and extremely expensive, gold locket suspended from it. Beautiful necklace.
She must have sensed my eyes on her (read staring) because she looked up from her note taking with a slightly perplexed expression on her face. Not wanting to make her uncomfortable and unable to look away, I adjusted my notebook to allow me to observe her (read still staring) out of the corner of my eye, and tried to concentrate on the lecture.
I managed to copy of few of what I thought were the more salient points. What did Bob Seger say: ‘She had points all her own, sittin’ … (oops! Sorry.)
The monotone of a lecture stopped. It couldn’t be eight-thirty already! We had just started, hadn’t we? The clock said eight-thirty. Someone must have jockeyed the hands; but I heard ‘Old Grouch’ saying, “That’s all for tonight. There will be a quiz over this evening’s material on Wednesday, at six-thirty sharp.”
I was fully aware that the last comment was solely for my benefit, but I let it pass without reacting. I was preoccupied with gathering my notes — and my courage. I had devised a plan. It involved my getting out the door ahead of Sheila and waiting for her. Once we were both in the hallway it would be easier for me to ask her for a date (I hoped). I had already decided to stop at the bank, withdraw a crisp new twenty dollar bill (screw the checking account) and take her somewhere for coffee. Or hot chocolate. Or ice cream; if she wanted ice cream on the coldest day in January, who was I to argue?
I stood in the hall fidgeting. She was almost the last one out and headed down the hall alone. No time like the present, Brent boy. You’d better hurry.
“Uh… excuse me, Sheila?” It sounded like a croak. “ Umm, I don’t want to, uh, bother you, but, uh…”
The coffee was superb. Even the ice cream in January was delicious. The conversation was not at all forced.
“Of course it wasn’t forced, you dumb ass! ‘Excuse me, Sheila. Umm, I don’t want to, uh, bother you, but, uh… Nice class, wasn’t it?’ GOD!”
“So I didn’t ask her out.”
“Chicken!”
“She’ll be there on Wednesday.”
“You won’t ask her out then, either.”
“I might.”
“No you won’t, chicken!”
“I am not a chicken! She looked tired. I was tired. I wasn’t sure my timing was right.”
“Chicken!”
No matter how strenuously I argued, no matter how perfect my rationalization, and no matter how many excuses I made, that was the crux. I had chickened out, made some ridiculously asinine statement, and now here I sat at Denny's drinking coffee and not enjoying an ice cream sundae — alone.
“She probably would have turned me down, anyway.”
“Hey! That’s my line,” said the Nasty Little Voice.
“Sorry.” I am going crazy. This is the second time today that I have been in an argument with myself. And lost! Paranoia. Nerves. Mental instability. Psychotic behavior. Stress-induced insanity. I was familiar with all the terms.
Tuesday was interminable.
Wednesday was worse. I was late for work, spilled my first coffee of the morning (and my second) and then proceeded to get lost on the way to my first service call. Damn road construction, anyway. The call had come in from Hammond, Indiana, about thirty miles away. No problem — we make runs to Hammond three or four times a week.
So there I am in my service van, tooling east on I-94, looking for the Calumet Exit. First I see the sign ‘Calumet Exit ½ mile’. The next sign I see reads ‘Exit Closed’. Great. Just great.
Now I’ll get caught in a detour that leads absolutely nowhere close to where I want to go, I thought miserably. Which, as it turned out, is exactly what happened. Despite my best efforts, I could not get within two miles of where I was going. So, after driving around downtown Hammond for an hour, I decided to simply report back and tell the boss that I couldn't find the place. I was sure he would believe me — I had managed to not find the place several times in the last few months. He would probably just shake his head, throw up his hands and mutter something such as, ‘Teller, I swear I’m going to buy you a map or send you to school to learn how to read one first.‘
Bingo! His exact words. Followed by, “What the hell took you so long to get back here?” (It was four o’clock in the afternoon.)
“I got lost, sir.”
“Lost?! How did you manage to get lost coming from Hammond? Christ, you can see the skyline from there!”
“Yes, sir. But not from Gary, sir.”
“Gary!” His face and bald head had turned an unhealthy shade of purple. His eyes bulged from their sockets. I thought he had choked on one of those Altoids he was always sucking on. “What the he—; how in the f—; Never mind. I’m sure I don’t even want to know. Give that repair order to Dolph. Charley, would you mind running out there first thing in the morning to handle that, please?”
“Gary?!” he said again, looking at me. He turned and stormed back into his office, muttering something about firing or strangling somebody with every step.
“Don’t worry, Brent,” Charley said, patting my shoulder. “I’m sure he didn’t mean that part about firing somebody. Strangle, maybe, but not fire. He knows you did your best.”
Somehow, I knew that when Charley drove out there, none of the exits would be closed, none of the roads barricaded, and he would return by ten that morning after fixing the blasted computer system that some inept temp had probably crashed.
“Yeah, thanks, Charley. I think I’ve had enough for one day. Cover for me, will you? I'm going to leave a few minutes early so I can cash my check before heading off to class tonight.”
“Sure. What kind of class? Going to learn how to read maps?” he grinned.
“Not funny, Charley.” I grabbed my coat and stalked out of the building.
Chapter 2
It snowed Saturday morning — and Saturday evening — and Sunday morning. In fact, it turned out to be one of those freak winter storms that deposit twelve inches of snow every four hours, with blowing winds, freezing temperatures; in short, a real record setter. It was of the genre that all the sadistic weathermen in this country love because it gives them a chance to unearth all the old, musty, dusty record books with their yellowed pages and quill written numbers; and then on the evening news (usually with that ludicrous smile on their face), they report that 'we haven't had this much snow in this short a period of time since 1563'; or 'it hasn't been this cold since that day in Norway when Leif Ericson set sail to discover America.' And all those other things that we, the general populace, have absolutely no desire to hear but sit through all glassy-eyed because we can't bear to change the channel.
Late Sunday morning (actually early Sunday afternoon) I crawled out of bed and turned on the TV for the news. O'Hare airport was closed. The city streets were blocked with snow and it was cold. I didn't want the weather. I wanted the sports. I wanted to know whether or not the Bulls had beaten the L.A. Lakers the night before. (I had money in the pool at the office and I desperately needed to win it.)
Just as the sports came on, the telephone rang. I have always been envious of those "more fortunate than I" individuals; the ones with an overabundance of phones (more than one) in the house. My boss had two in every room, including his three johns. (I don't know why I only work for the man.) My solitary phone was not in the living room; it was in the kitchen, behind a wall, attached to a very, very short cord; much too short to enable me to talk on the phone and see the television at the same time. I should have bought that damn answering machine while it was on sale at Radio Shack last week.
Rinnngggg!
I resolved not to give in to the Pavlovian response to answer it.
Rinnngggg! Rinnngggg!
Somehow, each ring sounded more urgent than the last. But I held fast and didn't jump to find out who would be calling me at this hour.
Rinnngggg!
“Okay, okay, I'm coming.” I could always get the scores from the paper.
Rinnngggg!
“Hello?”, not sure whether I was more upset at the person calling, or me for bothering to answer the phone in the first place.
“Hello, Brent? It's Doug.” He sounded awfully chipper for this early in the morning. He rushed on. “Hey, do you have any plans for this afternoon? None? Good! Kim and I want you to come for dinner. Say about two o'clock?”
“Doug, have you seen the weather reports for today? There's forty-eight inches of snow on the ground, it's -153° below zero, O'Hare airport is closed, and you want me to come over for dinner?”
“Brent, we live in the same apartment building. All you have to do is walk up two flights of stairs.”
“So I was kidding … see you at two.”
I hung up the phone and hurried back to the living room just in time to miss the sports and catch a special bulletin on the weather.
“Continued cold and nasty all day. And for Monday” … CLICK.
I didn't need him to tell me it was colder than a witch's… well, pretty darn cold, anyway. I could hear the wind whistling in around my windows. The landlord had told me when I moved in that he had just had the place completely caulked and reinsulated. Either he forgot my apartment or the man had lied to me; not that I want to be the one to call him a liar. I guess it's possible to forget one apartment, isn't it?
For some unknown reason the paper hadn't arrived that morning, so I opted to avail myself of the opportunity and take a little nap until lunch time. It seemed almost no time at all before I was asleep. I have no idea how long I slept before I started dreaming, but that dream I definitely remember.
I was in the magician's class; it appeared to be the last session, final exam time. I saw myself standing at the front of the room doing and saying absolutely nothing. I saw everyone but Sheila, though I could hear her calling my name from somewhere, as if over a great distance. I attempted to answer but found myself unable to form a response. Movement was denied to me. And so I remained, completely incapacitated. I watched helplessly as, one by one, my classmates began to disappear; not walking out — simply vanishing. Finally my tongue was loosed and I began to shout.
“Wait! Wait! You can't just walk out on me. So I can't pull a rabbit out of my hat! Give me a chance, will you?”
POOF! Someone else disappeared. I heard Queen singing “Another one's gone, and another one's gone. Another one bites the dust.” POOF! I was the last one remaining; there were no voices now, no more singing. I watched as I too began to fade. Starting at my feet and progressing steadily upwards, I was passing inexorably out of existence. Mesmerized, I could do nothing but continue to watch until only my eyes survived.
Something woke me up, though I have no idea what. I don't think my mental faculties could have endured observing myself vanish — that would wreak havoc on a normal mind — no telling what might have transpired with one such as mine.
Needless to say, I didn't go back to sleep that afternoon. It was almost time to head up to Doug and Kim's for lunch, anyway. I had just enough leisure to run out and grab a bottle of wine for dinner. I know, I know… O'Hare was closed. But this was almost a special occasion; it was dinner with my best friend and his wife, which meant that I didn't have to cook anything — or worse yet, eat my own cooking.
Cold! God, it was cold!
By the time I had trudged the two blocks to the liquor store, I thought my nose had been frostbitten. As I walked through the doorway I realized that I had absolutely no idea what Kim was preparing for dinner, so, after ten minutes of vacillating between a Beaujolais, a Merlot, and a Chablis, I determined that the only wise thing to do was buy a bottle of Asti Spumante. I knew there would be a dessert of some kind, and with that sweet, sparkling wine, I couldn't miss. I also purchased a half-pint of brandy; I didn't want to risk a more severe case of frostbite on the way home.
Pausing under the awning above the entrance to break the seal and take a hearty swallow, I could feel its artificial warmth stealing its fingers through my entire body. A little over half the bottle had evaporated by the time I unlocked the door to my apartment. Funny, I didn't think alcohol evaporated at temperatures below freezing.
I hung up my coat, pulled off my boots, and checked my watch. Two o‘clock exactly. Rather than rushing upstairs, I instead stretched out on the couch for almost eight minutes. They expected me to be at least ten minutes late; they wouldn't have known how to react if I had been punctual. So, you see, I was simply acting out of concern for their health and mental stability. The last thing I wanted to do was catapult them into severe catatonia.
“Why late and not early?” you ask. It inevitably seems to produce disastrous results whenever I arrive early. I made it early for graduation — a week early. Nine o‘clock on a Saturday morning, me in a coat and tie, and not another soul around. And then there was the day I took off work to stand in line for Bob Seger tickets. I pulled into the parking lot of the stadium at six-thirty in the morning, pleasantly surprised to encounter no one else already waiting. I sure didn't mind being first in line. I stood there until ten, when one of the maintenance people came by pushing his broom. He looked at me rather strangely for a moment, and then asked what I was standing around for.
“Bob Seger tickets,” I told him somewhat smugly. “I got here early so I could be first in line.
“Yeah. You'll be first in line, all right. For next year's concert. Seger played here last night. Man, that sure was some performance, too! Ain't never seen nobody put on a show like that man. Did all 'is big hits, too. Musta played for over two hours. Yep, that sure was some show.”
He walked away shaking his head and singing “Katmandu” while I stood there silently swearing in every language I knew … which didn't seem to be enough, so I repeated myself, verbally this time.
The point I am trying to make from all of this is that I don't go anywhere early anymore. I have this inexplicable aversion to headaches.
At exactly 2:08, I swung my feet of the couch, pulled on my shoes and trotted up for lunch. Oops! Forgot the bottle of Asti. So what's another minute or two?
My mouth began salivating in anticipation. Kim was a great cook. (Brent Teller's Dictionary ― 'great cook': one who is able to use a microwave oven for more than heating tuna sandwiches.) I was betting on pork chops smothered in a milk gravy, a tossed salad, baked potatoes with sour cream, broccoli under a melted cheese on the side, and probably cherry pie for dessert. Can't wait!
“Hi, Brent. Come on in.” Doug met me at the door. “You like your burgers medium, don't you? I can't ever remember.”
Burgers? “Medium is fine.”
Burgers! I risked a brutal case of acute frostbite walking two blocks in this freezing cold to get a bottle of wine for your dinner and you want to serve me burgers?
“With lots of steak sauce and onions. I brought a bottle of Asti.” Burgers. I don't even like burgers.”
Great! Let me open it,” Kim said as she came in from the kitchen and kissed me on the cheek. “Good to see you, Brent. How have you been all week?”
“Just fine, Kim. You're looking as gorgeous as ever. When are you going to pack your bags, leave this bum-for-a-husband and move in with me?”
She smiled. “Brent, you're always such a flirt. Besides, you wouldn't know what to do with a female around the house all the time.”
That shut me up. Scared me, too. She hit pretty close to the truth on that one.
“Dinner's almost ready,” she called over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
Kim, Doug and I had all gone to high school together. Kim and I had dated a few times, but never seemed to hit it off. I was moderately shy and not so moderately awkward in high school ( and college, and after college … ) In addition, I was recurringly broke. Kim and Doug had gone to the senior prom on their first date and ended up married by that August.
I first met Doug when we were sophomores in chemistry class. We were assigned as work partners and immediately developed a rapport. Allow me to preface this story about Doug by saying that he is not the type of individual one would consider to be a class cutup. However, given the proper circumstances he can hold is own with the best of us… uh… I mean, best of them.
Early in the semester we were doing an experiment to measure the rate of expansion of several gases when heated. I was trying my damnedest to pull it off. I enjoyed the class immensely and needed a decent grade.
Doug tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Watch this.”
I glanced around to see what he was doing and instantly realized he was not following the correct procedure. My first indication of something amiss was that his test tube was angled at about thirty degrees from vertical, aimed towards the front of the room. The next thing I noticed was that he had jammed a rubber stopper into the opening.
“Doug, do you know what you're doing? Man, with a cork in that thing and you heating that gas with a Bunsen burner it's going to —”
“Shhh… Just watch. I dipped the stopper in indelible ink. Now, a little more to the left… a slight adjustment in elevation …”
POP! The cork sailed gracefully through the air and nailed the chemistry teacher square on the forehead. I couldn't help but chuckle. Doug winked and grinned at me and my calm façade vanished in a wave of uncontrollable laughter. I didn't even notice that we both got suspended for three days. When we came back, the mark was still on Mr. Jameson's forehead and I started laughing all over again. That landed me another three-day suspension. Needless to say, my chemistry grade was not as high as I had hoped.
As time went on Doug and I became good friends. We did all the things that high school males do as friends; we worked the same job, drove similar cars in the same life-threatening manner, we dated the same girls (he more than I), and like any other average, American teenage males, we got kicked out of Kmart together. Just ordinary, everyday, average adolescents.
After graduation, he hired into a machine shop and I went to college. After cramming four years into five and switching my major three times, I transferred to DeVry and managed to obtain a computer technician's degree. Doug had recently been promoted to lead machinist and I was starting my career as a repair tech, still paying for three years of college. What I don't understand is that he frequently asks to borrow money from me. Not that I mind; he almost always pays me back. Maybe married life is simply too expensive.
My thoughts were jerked back to the present by the sound of Kim's voice. “Doug tells me that you are still going through with this magician's class. I never knew you were all that interested in magic.”
“Oh, well, you know me, Kim. Once I start something I don't like to quit until I finish. And I think being a magician is a great idea — they do a lot of good in the world. They entertain people, make them smile, and in general, help to ease the burdens we bear.”
“And,” Doug added with a smirk, “the school wouldn't give him his money back. But the biggest reason, I think, is some girl named Sheila. You should have been there, Kim. You would have thought he had never seen a pretty woman before.”
“I have so. Lots of times.”
“Yeah, sure. We're standing in line, right? And all he's doing is arguing with me about how he thought this was a stupid idea and how he didn't know why he ever let me talk him into it and on and on and on. Then, this girl walked in and asked for the registration forms for the magician's class. Ol' Brent here stops ranting and raving in mid-sentence and his jaw drops to his shoetops.” He demonstrated by making a google-eyed face and then continued, “And I'll be damned if the next words out of his mouth weren't, and I quote, ‘Doug, buddy, maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.’ Then he saunters up to the counter and asks, loud enough for everyone to hear, for the same registration forms. The lady hands them to him, and out of ten or twelve empty desks, he picks the one right next to this Sheila. As he's sitting down, Mr. Suave here drops everything in his hands on the floor … ”
Kim was holding her sides, she was laughing so hard. Doug possessed quite a talent for storytelling. Personally, I wasn't enjoying the whole fabrication as much as either of them seemed to be.
“But how did you find out her name was Sheila? Did you find the courage to ask her, Brent?”
“No, he looked over her shoulder and read it off her registration card,” Doug answered, still laughing.
“I really fail to see all the humor in this situation. So I changed my mind about being a magician — I decided that I kinda liked the idea. Maybe I was a little clumsy when I dropped all that paperwork, but that could have happened to anybody.”
“Sure,” Doug agreed. “To anybody who was watching her and not where he was putting the stuff. Come on, Brent, admit it! That girl had you awestruck.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I do seem to recall her being rather pretty. But awestruck? Isn't that just a little strong?”
“Maybe. How about dumbfounded? Speechless? Mesmerized? How about…”
“How about dropping it?” I felt my temper starting to flare. Doug's a nice guy and all, but sometimes his needling gets to me.
He raised his hands as if fending off an attack. “Okay, okay, but I would still like to see how much attention you pay to the instructor tomorrow night.” He was still chuckling.
The burgers were gone and the wine was empty, so we adjourned to the living room. Doug turned on the TV and he and Kim both lit their customary after-dinner cigarettes. There was some movie on; a western, I think. I had trouble concentrating enough to watch it. I kept drifting back to my dream.
“Brent, did you see the highlights from the Bulls game? That slam-dunk was really somethin', wasn't it!”
“I don't know; I missed it. The phone rang … some guy with a dinner invitation just as it was coming on. I couldn't see around the corner.”
“Oh. Sorry about that. I keep forgetting you've got only the one phone stuck back in the corner of your kitchen, and the cord's so short you have to press your ear to the wall. But it was great! You should've seen it.”
“Oh well, you've seen one, you've seen them all.” I tried to sound convincing.
The conversation lapsed into silence as we sat and watched TV throughout the afternoon and into the evening. None of us were at all uncomfortable with the fact that there was very little conversation; we had known each other long enough to be content with the silences, too. We didn't have to banter idle talk back and forth just to make a pretense of communicating. We knew there was virtually no point in wasting our breath talking about the weather, or bills, or the past we could not change, or the future we could not know. We had reached a peace with our individual and collective philosophies.
At least I was cognizant of these truths; Doug and Kim had both fallen asleep.
So, I sat and watched the western, and a black and white movie, and then an Alfred Hitchcock feature, and then …
I never did see that slam dunk. I woke them up around seven o‘clock, thanked them for dinner, and for letting me watch their color TV, and headed back downstairs to my drafty apartment, my black and white TV and my short phone cord.
“Drive careful, Brent,” Doug called. “Remember, it's cold and snowing, and drifting … ”
“Smart ass!” I called back up the stairs.
“And O'Hare airport is closed.”
Damn! I forgot to ask him for my twenty-five bucks back; but I was already at my door and didn't really want to climb back up those two flights of steps. I could always catch him tomorrow, if he remembered borrowing it at all. Can I claim charitable contributions to my friends as an income tax deduction?
Late Sunday morning (actually early Sunday afternoon) I crawled out of bed and turned on the TV for the news. O'Hare airport was closed. The city streets were blocked with snow and it was cold. I didn't want the weather. I wanted the sports. I wanted to know whether or not the Bulls had beaten the L.A. Lakers the night before. (I had money in the pool at the office and I desperately needed to win it.)
Just as the sports came on, the telephone rang. I have always been envious of those "more fortunate than I" individuals; the ones with an overabundance of phones (more than one) in the house. My boss had two in every room, including his three johns. (I don't know why I only work for the man.) My solitary phone was not in the living room; it was in the kitchen, behind a wall, attached to a very, very short cord; much too short to enable me to talk on the phone and see the television at the same time. I should have bought that damn answering machine while it was on sale at Radio Shack last week.
Rinnngggg!
I resolved not to give in to the Pavlovian response to answer it.
Rinnngggg! Rinnngggg!
Somehow, each ring sounded more urgent than the last. But I held fast and didn't jump to find out who would be calling me at this hour.
Rinnngggg!
“Okay, okay, I'm coming.” I could always get the scores from the paper.
Rinnngggg!
“Hello?”, not sure whether I was more upset at the person calling, or me for bothering to answer the phone in the first place.
“Hello, Brent? It's Doug.” He sounded awfully chipper for this early in the morning. He rushed on. “Hey, do you have any plans for this afternoon? None? Good! Kim and I want you to come for dinner. Say about two o'clock?”
“Doug, have you seen the weather reports for today? There's forty-eight inches of snow on the ground, it's -153° below zero, O'Hare airport is closed, and you want me to come over for dinner?”
“Brent, we live in the same apartment building. All you have to do is walk up two flights of stairs.”
“So I was kidding … see you at two.”
I hung up the phone and hurried back to the living room just in time to miss the sports and catch a special bulletin on the weather.
“Continued cold and nasty all day. And for Monday” … CLICK.
I didn't need him to tell me it was colder than a witch's… well, pretty darn cold, anyway. I could hear the wind whistling in around my windows. The landlord had told me when I moved in that he had just had the place completely caulked and reinsulated. Either he forgot my apartment or the man had lied to me; not that I want to be the one to call him a liar. I guess it's possible to forget one apartment, isn't it?
For some unknown reason the paper hadn't arrived that morning, so I opted to avail myself of the opportunity and take a little nap until lunch time. It seemed almost no time at all before I was asleep. I have no idea how long I slept before I started dreaming, but that dream I definitely remember.
I was in the magician's class; it appeared to be the last session, final exam time. I saw myself standing at the front of the room doing and saying absolutely nothing. I saw everyone but Sheila, though I could hear her calling my name from somewhere, as if over a great distance. I attempted to answer but found myself unable to form a response. Movement was denied to me. And so I remained, completely incapacitated. I watched helplessly as, one by one, my classmates began to disappear; not walking out — simply vanishing. Finally my tongue was loosed and I began to shout.
“Wait! Wait! You can't just walk out on me. So I can't pull a rabbit out of my hat! Give me a chance, will you?”
POOF! Someone else disappeared. I heard Queen singing “Another one's gone, and another one's gone. Another one bites the dust.” POOF! I was the last one remaining; there were no voices now, no more singing. I watched as I too began to fade. Starting at my feet and progressing steadily upwards, I was passing inexorably out of existence. Mesmerized, I could do nothing but continue to watch until only my eyes survived.
Something woke me up, though I have no idea what. I don't think my mental faculties could have endured observing myself vanish — that would wreak havoc on a normal mind — no telling what might have transpired with one such as mine.
Needless to say, I didn't go back to sleep that afternoon. It was almost time to head up to Doug and Kim's for lunch, anyway. I had just enough leisure to run out and grab a bottle of wine for dinner. I know, I know… O'Hare was closed. But this was almost a special occasion; it was dinner with my best friend and his wife, which meant that I didn't have to cook anything — or worse yet, eat my own cooking.
Cold! God, it was cold!
By the time I had trudged the two blocks to the liquor store, I thought my nose had been frostbitten. As I walked through the doorway I realized that I had absolutely no idea what Kim was preparing for dinner, so, after ten minutes of vacillating between a Beaujolais, a Merlot, and a Chablis, I determined that the only wise thing to do was buy a bottle of Asti Spumante. I knew there would be a dessert of some kind, and with that sweet, sparkling wine, I couldn't miss. I also purchased a half-pint of brandy; I didn't want to risk a more severe case of frostbite on the way home.
Pausing under the awning above the entrance to break the seal and take a hearty swallow, I could feel its artificial warmth stealing its fingers through my entire body. A little over half the bottle had evaporated by the time I unlocked the door to my apartment. Funny, I didn't think alcohol evaporated at temperatures below freezing.
I hung up my coat, pulled off my boots, and checked my watch. Two o‘clock exactly. Rather than rushing upstairs, I instead stretched out on the couch for almost eight minutes. They expected me to be at least ten minutes late; they wouldn't have known how to react if I had been punctual. So, you see, I was simply acting out of concern for their health and mental stability. The last thing I wanted to do was catapult them into severe catatonia.
“Why late and not early?” you ask. It inevitably seems to produce disastrous results whenever I arrive early. I made it early for graduation — a week early. Nine o‘clock on a Saturday morning, me in a coat and tie, and not another soul around. And then there was the day I took off work to stand in line for Bob Seger tickets. I pulled into the parking lot of the stadium at six-thirty in the morning, pleasantly surprised to encounter no one else already waiting. I sure didn't mind being first in line. I stood there until ten, when one of the maintenance people came by pushing his broom. He looked at me rather strangely for a moment, and then asked what I was standing around for.
“Bob Seger tickets,” I told him somewhat smugly. “I got here early so I could be first in line.
“Yeah. You'll be first in line, all right. For next year's concert. Seger played here last night. Man, that sure was some performance, too! Ain't never seen nobody put on a show like that man. Did all 'is big hits, too. Musta played for over two hours. Yep, that sure was some show.”
He walked away shaking his head and singing “Katmandu” while I stood there silently swearing in every language I knew … which didn't seem to be enough, so I repeated myself, verbally this time.
The point I am trying to make from all of this is that I don't go anywhere early anymore. I have this inexplicable aversion to headaches.
At exactly 2:08, I swung my feet of the couch, pulled on my shoes and trotted up for lunch. Oops! Forgot the bottle of Asti. So what's another minute or two?
My mouth began salivating in anticipation. Kim was a great cook. (Brent Teller's Dictionary ― 'great cook': one who is able to use a microwave oven for more than heating tuna sandwiches.) I was betting on pork chops smothered in a milk gravy, a tossed salad, baked potatoes with sour cream, broccoli under a melted cheese on the side, and probably cherry pie for dessert. Can't wait!
“Hi, Brent. Come on in.” Doug met me at the door. “You like your burgers medium, don't you? I can't ever remember.”
Burgers? “Medium is fine.”
Burgers! I risked a brutal case of acute frostbite walking two blocks in this freezing cold to get a bottle of wine for your dinner and you want to serve me burgers?
“With lots of steak sauce and onions. I brought a bottle of Asti.” Burgers. I don't even like burgers.”
Great! Let me open it,” Kim said as she came in from the kitchen and kissed me on the cheek. “Good to see you, Brent. How have you been all week?”
“Just fine, Kim. You're looking as gorgeous as ever. When are you going to pack your bags, leave this bum-for-a-husband and move in with me?”
She smiled. “Brent, you're always such a flirt. Besides, you wouldn't know what to do with a female around the house all the time.”
That shut me up. Scared me, too. She hit pretty close to the truth on that one.
“Dinner's almost ready,” she called over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable.”
Kim, Doug and I had all gone to high school together. Kim and I had dated a few times, but never seemed to hit it off. I was moderately shy and not so moderately awkward in high school ( and college, and after college … ) In addition, I was recurringly broke. Kim and Doug had gone to the senior prom on their first date and ended up married by that August.
I first met Doug when we were sophomores in chemistry class. We were assigned as work partners and immediately developed a rapport. Allow me to preface this story about Doug by saying that he is not the type of individual one would consider to be a class cutup. However, given the proper circumstances he can hold is own with the best of us… uh… I mean, best of them.
Early in the semester we were doing an experiment to measure the rate of expansion of several gases when heated. I was trying my damnedest to pull it off. I enjoyed the class immensely and needed a decent grade.
Doug tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “Watch this.”
I glanced around to see what he was doing and instantly realized he was not following the correct procedure. My first indication of something amiss was that his test tube was angled at about thirty degrees from vertical, aimed towards the front of the room. The next thing I noticed was that he had jammed a rubber stopper into the opening.
“Doug, do you know what you're doing? Man, with a cork in that thing and you heating that gas with a Bunsen burner it's going to —”
“Shhh… Just watch. I dipped the stopper in indelible ink. Now, a little more to the left… a slight adjustment in elevation …”
POP! The cork sailed gracefully through the air and nailed the chemistry teacher square on the forehead. I couldn't help but chuckle. Doug winked and grinned at me and my calm façade vanished in a wave of uncontrollable laughter. I didn't even notice that we both got suspended for three days. When we came back, the mark was still on Mr. Jameson's forehead and I started laughing all over again. That landed me another three-day suspension. Needless to say, my chemistry grade was not as high as I had hoped.
As time went on Doug and I became good friends. We did all the things that high school males do as friends; we worked the same job, drove similar cars in the same life-threatening manner, we dated the same girls (he more than I), and like any other average, American teenage males, we got kicked out of Kmart together. Just ordinary, everyday, average adolescents.
After graduation, he hired into a machine shop and I went to college. After cramming four years into five and switching my major three times, I transferred to DeVry and managed to obtain a computer technician's degree. Doug had recently been promoted to lead machinist and I was starting my career as a repair tech, still paying for three years of college. What I don't understand is that he frequently asks to borrow money from me. Not that I mind; he almost always pays me back. Maybe married life is simply too expensive.
My thoughts were jerked back to the present by the sound of Kim's voice. “Doug tells me that you are still going through with this magician's class. I never knew you were all that interested in magic.”
“Oh, well, you know me, Kim. Once I start something I don't like to quit until I finish. And I think being a magician is a great idea — they do a lot of good in the world. They entertain people, make them smile, and in general, help to ease the burdens we bear.”
“And,” Doug added with a smirk, “the school wouldn't give him his money back. But the biggest reason, I think, is some girl named Sheila. You should have been there, Kim. You would have thought he had never seen a pretty woman before.”
“I have so. Lots of times.”
“Yeah, sure. We're standing in line, right? And all he's doing is arguing with me about how he thought this was a stupid idea and how he didn't know why he ever let me talk him into it and on and on and on. Then, this girl walked in and asked for the registration forms for the magician's class. Ol' Brent here stops ranting and raving in mid-sentence and his jaw drops to his shoetops.” He demonstrated by making a google-eyed face and then continued, “And I'll be damned if the next words out of his mouth weren't, and I quote, ‘Doug, buddy, maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.’ Then he saunters up to the counter and asks, loud enough for everyone to hear, for the same registration forms. The lady hands them to him, and out of ten or twelve empty desks, he picks the one right next to this Sheila. As he's sitting down, Mr. Suave here drops everything in his hands on the floor … ”
Kim was holding her sides, she was laughing so hard. Doug possessed quite a talent for storytelling. Personally, I wasn't enjoying the whole fabrication as much as either of them seemed to be.
“But how did you find out her name was Sheila? Did you find the courage to ask her, Brent?”
“No, he looked over her shoulder and read it off her registration card,” Doug answered, still laughing.
“I really fail to see all the humor in this situation. So I changed my mind about being a magician — I decided that I kinda liked the idea. Maybe I was a little clumsy when I dropped all that paperwork, but that could have happened to anybody.”
“Sure,” Doug agreed. “To anybody who was watching her and not where he was putting the stuff. Come on, Brent, admit it! That girl had you awestruck.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I do seem to recall her being rather pretty. But awestruck? Isn't that just a little strong?”
“Maybe. How about dumbfounded? Speechless? Mesmerized? How about…”
“How about dropping it?” I felt my temper starting to flare. Doug's a nice guy and all, but sometimes his needling gets to me.
He raised his hands as if fending off an attack. “Okay, okay, but I would still like to see how much attention you pay to the instructor tomorrow night.” He was still chuckling.
The burgers were gone and the wine was empty, so we adjourned to the living room. Doug turned on the TV and he and Kim both lit their customary after-dinner cigarettes. There was some movie on; a western, I think. I had trouble concentrating enough to watch it. I kept drifting back to my dream.
“Brent, did you see the highlights from the Bulls game? That slam-dunk was really somethin', wasn't it!”
“I don't know; I missed it. The phone rang … some guy with a dinner invitation just as it was coming on. I couldn't see around the corner.”
“Oh. Sorry about that. I keep forgetting you've got only the one phone stuck back in the corner of your kitchen, and the cord's so short you have to press your ear to the wall. But it was great! You should've seen it.”
“Oh well, you've seen one, you've seen them all.” I tried to sound convincing.
The conversation lapsed into silence as we sat and watched TV throughout the afternoon and into the evening. None of us were at all uncomfortable with the fact that there was very little conversation; we had known each other long enough to be content with the silences, too. We didn't have to banter idle talk back and forth just to make a pretense of communicating. We knew there was virtually no point in wasting our breath talking about the weather, or bills, or the past we could not change, or the future we could not know. We had reached a peace with our individual and collective philosophies.
At least I was cognizant of these truths; Doug and Kim had both fallen asleep.
So, I sat and watched the western, and a black and white movie, and then an Alfred Hitchcock feature, and then …
I never did see that slam dunk. I woke them up around seven o‘clock, thanked them for dinner, and for letting me watch their color TV, and headed back downstairs to my drafty apartment, my black and white TV and my short phone cord.
“Drive careful, Brent,” Doug called. “Remember, it's cold and snowing, and drifting … ”
“Smart ass!” I called back up the stairs.
“And O'Hare airport is closed.”
Damn! I forgot to ask him for my twenty-five bucks back; but I was already at my door and didn't really want to climb back up those two flights of steps. I could always catch him tomorrow, if he remembered borrowing it at all. Can I claim charitable contributions to my friends as an income tax deduction?
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