He returned to his brethren, leaving me alone at the closed-down bar by the window. Outside, a steady rain had begun to fall, washing away the ice. I chose to attribute this to my attorney’s vast influence.
3
I braved the slow, white-knuckle drive south on Route 9, a cavalcade of trucks and SUVs whipping past me in the left lane, splashing a blinding slurry of ice and mud onto my windshield. I was intensely aware of statistics: how on this road, this night, someone was ending up in the back of an ambulance.
The terrifying conditions kept me focused on the road, yet halfway home I remembered that Lou Husk’s wristwatch was still in my pocket. At the end of the trick, once the card had been transformed into the three of diamonds and the audience had finished applauding, I was supposed to say, “I have a prize for you, for being such a good volunteer.” I would then give him back his watch, which I had stolen from his wrist while shaking hands at the beginning of the trick. If my volunteer happened to be wearing a watch, and it was a kind I could pinch—Lou’s had been easy, the band made of spring segments—then producing it at the end of the trick made for a fine, surprising coda.
I rolled down my window and tossed out the watch.
By the time I parked along the road in front of my apartment, the rain had softened to a light drizzle, lifting a curtain on the raw night. There were a few bars within walking distance, and I probably would’ve been able to wangle free drinks because earlier, while sitting at the bar with Brock McKnight, I had become twenty-seven.
But at this hour the bars would be closing in on last call and turning on their rude, despairing lights. I removed my gear from the trunk and lugged it all up the three steps to the landing.
The apartment was only a small house with an upstairs and downstairs unit and a common entrance. Half a dozen of these houses stood in a line on my side of the street, bookended by a tattoo parlor and a mini-mart. I’d forgotten to leave the outside light on, and I fumbled for the keyhole while trying to prevent the table from unfolding or falling over. On the landing I tried to be quiet for Harley, the upstairs tenant, though I could already hear my birds cooing steadily.
I finally got the door open and stowed my gear under the bed. Back in the living room, I tossed my coat onto the loveseat, removed my new shoes, and checked on the birds. Their water bowl was mostly full but the food bowl was empty, so I took care of that. Unless you’re a stage illusionist who’s married to your assistant, coming home after a gig is the world’s loneliest experience. I was glad to have the birds.
While they pecked at their food, I went in search of mine. The leftover spaghetti in the refrigerator had absorbed all the sauce and looked alarmingly wormlike, so I settled on a glass of adequate cabernet. I heard somewhere that drinking alone was only sad if the booze was too cheap or too expensive. I sat down on the loveseat and pulled an afghan over my legs.
I opened my laptop and touched a key to wake it up. Did some fast Google searches: aggravated assault, misdemeanor endangerment. Google’s unblemished record of only fueling my anxieties remained intact.
I was about to shut the computer again when I found myself opening my email to reread the message that had come in that afternoon. I couldn’t help myself, like picking at a scab.
Subject: WOM Application
Dear Natalie Webb,
I’m writing to let you know that the selection committee has decided to stand by its original decision. Unfortunately, you were not selected to perform at this year’s World of Magic convention in New York City. Due to the number of magicians who applied to perform (we set an all-time record this year!) competition was especially stiff. As mentioned in my original email, the selection committee had a very difficult job, but they did it with the utmost care. To revisit those decisions now is simply not practicable.
Thank you for your understanding.
Yours in magic,
Brad Corzo
Chair, Panel Selection Committee, World of Magic
After reading the first rejection two weeks earlier, I had gone to Brad Corzo’s website. I’d never heard of him, and, as I’d suspected, he didn’t look like much of a magician—one of those people whose administrative credits overshadowed his professional ones. Did he not know that I had once been a Spotlight Guest, one of only four such magicians that year? That I’d performed on the main stage to a packed room?
I hadn’t attended a World of Magic convention since I was eighteen, since my lightning-fast transformation from Big Deal to Embarrassing Spectacle. But the self-imposed exile felt long enough, and I thought this would be the year to get back into the game. Ten years after my first WOM convention. The symmetry felt right. So I’d emailed back, asking if the committee might reconsider my application in light of my past professional accomplishments.
That email had been highly respectful and diplomatic and not at all pushy. But tonight had me feeling panicky and impulsive. I clicked the reply key.
Dear Brad,
Please review my bio one more time.
Sincerely,
Natalie Webb
Grand Prize Winner, WOM international close-up competition
Then I couldn’t help myself.
P.S. I saw on your website that you performed for three different Boy Scout troops last year. Well done.
I clicked “send” before I could second-guess it and shut the browser. I was riled up all over again, thinking about this second-rate talent wielding his authority. Yours in magic. Give me a break. Then again, what use was talent anyway? The truth was, you didn’t need much talent to fool a Scout troop or even
