Dreidels on the Brain

by Joel ben Izzy

  “Is something the matter, Joel?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Are you sure?” she said. “Why do you want to know about melting gold?”

  “Because, well . . . I’m just curious.”

  The bell rang, and I was out the door. A minute later I was across the street and running down Kimdale Drive.

  On Wednesdays after school, the timing is really tight. I need to run home, feed Herrmann, grab my magic suitcase, then run to Baldwin and catch bus number 259, which is supposed to arrive at 3:37. That gets me close enough to Oak Grove Boulevard to jump out at 3:52. That’s just long enough to get to Mister Mystery’s apartment for my lesson at 4:00. If it all works right, I get there with three minutes to spare.

  Today I ran even faster than usual so I could check the Phone-O-Matic. I made record time, getting home by 3:20. I fed Herrmann and sure enough, the tape reel was spinning around, its loose end whipping all over the place. This is another one of my dad’s inventions. He’s always waiting for important phone calls he doesn’t want to miss, even if no one is home, so he built a machine with Howard’s old Erector Set. When the phone rings, it sets off a doorbell buzzer that triggers a motor that turns these gears that lift the phone receiver off the hook. Then he has two tape recorders hooked up, with a lever from the Erector Set rigged to push the button on one and then, thirty seconds later, on the other. The first one plays a recording he made about the Phone-O-Matic, saying that the caller should talk to it even though it’s a machine. Then the first tape recorder clicks off and the second one turns on and records the person’s voice.

  I stopped the tape from going round and round, then found scissors to cut off the end, which gets shredded from all that spinning. Once I did that, I ran it through the tape heads and rewound it.

  That’s the unfinished part of the Phone-O-Matic. It can only take one message at a time. It turns out that while it’s easy to get the Erector Set to press a button to record, it’s hard to get it to stop and reset. Someone had called, and I hoped it was my mom saying the surgery was over and everything was okay. But when I reached the beginning and pressed PLAY, there was a garbled sound, some clicks, and then silence. That could have meant that the caller didn’t understand the Phone-O-Matic and hung up. I played it again. Too garbled to hear. It could have been my mom calling. Because she doesn’t hear very well, she’s never quite sure what to do when she calls the Phone-O-Matic. She’s supposed to leave a message, but sometimes she gets flustered and hangs up. Whatever happened, there was no message. I wrote a note for Kenny and Howard: “No news yet.” Then I reset the Phone-O-Matic. It was 3:31. I grabbed my suitcase and ran out the door.

  I got to the bus stop, sat down, and pulled out my watch. It’s my dad’s old one that he gave me when the band broke, so I keep it in my pocket. It read 3:35. Perfect. Right on time. I stopped to catch my breath. Then waited.

  And waited.

  And waited.

  Jews don’t believe in hell, at least not the kind with flames all around and devils poking at you with pitchforks. There is some idea of Gehenna, where the sky is made of copper and the ground is made of lead, but it’s not like if you’re bad you get sent there after you die.

  I asked Rabbi Buxelbaum about it once, before he died, when I was in second grade at Sunday school, and we had Meet the Rabbi Day. He told us all about being a rabbi, then asked if we had any questions. I raised my hand.

  “What happens after you die?” I asked.

  “After you die?” he said. “They put you in the ground. But Judaism is not about what happens in the next life. It is about making the best out of this one.”

  Maybe so, but that still left me wondering about this hell business. After a lot of thought, I’ve decided that we don’t actually need some imaginary hell, because we have RTD buses.

  RTD stands for “Rapid Transit District,” but everyone calls it “Rancid Transit District,” because the buses are both slow and disgusting, crawling along block after block of ugly streets the color of smog. If it was up to me, I would never ride another RTD bus. I would have a car—a red Sunbeam Tiger, like Maxwell Smart drives on Get Smart. Or a Corvette Stingray. Even a VW Beetle. Anything but a bus.

  But the bus is the only way I can get to Mister Mystery’s. That isn’t his real name, by the way; it’s a stage name. His actual name is Sheldon Greenberg, and that’s one of the cool things about him: He’s Jewish! But not awkward-out-of-place-homely-looking-like-me Jewish. No, he’s suave, a vocabulary word that means “charming, confident, and elegant.” He always knows exactly what to say and do. Nothing ever knocks him off balance—though sometimes he pretends to be surprised, like when he’s doing The Cut and Restored Rope, and he invites a volunteer to cut a rope into two equal pieces. Only they’re not equal; one is longer. So the volunteer tries again, and again, but the more they cut it, the longer it gets. Then Mister Mystery will say, “Hello!” and the audience laughs. Why? Because they know he’s in complete control.

  That’s what magic is.

  I’ve been learning to do it on Wednesday afternoons in his apartment. I’ve got to tell you about this place. I’ve never been anywhere like it. It’s clean. It’s perfect. He knows exactly where everything is. When I went for my first lesson, we sat at his desk and he opened a drawer filled with manila files, each one neatly labeled. He took one out, opened it, and handed me a sheet of paper—a list of magical effects I’d be learning.

  Just producing the list was magical. It read:

  1. FORCING CARDS

  2. MAKING COINS APPEAR AND DISAPPEAR

  3. SPONGE BALLS

  4. CUPS AND BALLS

  5. CUT AND RESTORED ROPE

  6. THUMB TIP

  7. LINKING RINGS

  The last one was actually an illusion I had seen him do at our temple, where he performs each year on Purim.

  “But the real magic,” he said at that first lesson, “is not in the tricks.” I nodded, knowing that I could never be as cool as him. “The real magic happens in their minds. But only when we make it happen—like this.” As he said “this,” a John F. Kennedy half dollar appeared at his fingertips. He asked me to hold out my hand so that he could give it to me, but when I did, the half dollar had vanished.

  “You see?” he said. “People want to believe in magic. In miracles.” He leaned in closer to me. “And you and I? We let them.” So saying, he reached into my right ear. I felt something funny—and it was the coin!

  “That’s why we magicians never reveal our secrets—except to other magicians, of course. Because they understand this. But to the audience?” He shook his head. “Even if they beg. Because as much as they think they want to know the secret, what they really want is to believe.”

  What I really wanted to believe, as I sat there at the bus stop on Baldwin, was that the stupid bus was coming soon, even if it was already fifteen minutes late. Finally I saw it, way down the street, taking its time. I checked my watch again: 3:52.

  When it finally arrived, I jumped on, as though that would make it go faster, and I put my quarter in the fare box and looked around. The bus was practically empty, so I could have sat in the seat marked RESERVED FOR ELDERLY AND HANDICAPPED. But I didn’t. I sat in the one right behind it and thought about how much I hate buses.

  You know why? Because buses are for losers. This one was really hot. I pressed the button by the window that said PRESS TO OPEN, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “They don’t open,” said the driver, looking at me in his mirror.

  “But it says press—”

  “They’re fake windows,” he said, shaking his head. “To save money.”

  The sign above his head read CLIMATE CONTROLLED, so I said, “Well, then, could you turn on the air conditioner?”

  He shook his head again. “It’s broken.”

  Great. I looked out the window that d
idn’t open, and you know what I saw? Cars. Nice cars. Shiny cars. Mustangs. Alfa Romeos. Corvettes. All filled with smiling people, zipping along. And I was stuck on the bus. Waiting. Forever.

  The minutes ticked by. I thought of my father, in the hospital, and wondered whether he was out of surgery. Maybe he was already walking. Dancing? The doctor had said it would be quick, but this quick? Who knows. Maybe. Time does strange things when you’re on a bus.

  Then I thought of Amy O’Shea, who was probably already at Mister Mystery’s apartment, waiting. She had been asking about Mister Mystery since she learned I was taking lessons, and about a month ago I asked him if she might come to one, which he thought was a great idea. But when it came time to ask her, I was nervous, like I was asking her out on a date.

  And now I was late. Really late. The bus stopped at a red light. Then it stopped at a green light. Someone got on and, by the time they did, the light was red again. It was like we were moving backward through time, and I’d be stuck on this bus forever.

  When the bus finally got to Oak Grove, it was already twenty minutes late. I ran the last three blocks to Mister Mystery’s apartment and arrived drenched in sweat and coughing from the smog. I rang the bell. His voice in the speaker said “Hello!” that way he always does, then he buzzed me in and I ran up the stairs.

  “It would add a whole new dimension!” Amy was saying to Mister Mystery as I entered. She was standing up, talking, while Mister Mystery sat at his desk, nodding.

  “Hello, Joel,” said Mister Mystery, turning to me. “Have a little trouble getting here? Not a problem. I was just hearing Amy’s thoughts about your act.” I nodded, realizing how much more I was sweating now, even though I was inside, with the air-conditioning on. “She has some great ideas!”

  “I was just saying how we could do a routine to music,” she said. “It would be really professional—and we could charge more!”

  “She’s absolutely right,” said Mister Mystery. “Music would put you a notch up.”

  “Maybe the ABC blocks,” she said. “It’s a good trick, but not much of a routine.” She turned to Mister Mystery. “Do you have any music we could use?”

  Amy was right about the ABC blocks. You stack three up on a stick, then cover them with a square box. Then, by magic, the B block is transported to a hat your assistant is holding. It’s a cool effect, but doesn’t have much of a story.

  “I like the way she thinks,” said Mister Mystery. “One step ahead.”

  He walked to the entertainment center, slid open a door, and there was a turntable. He thumbed through the records on the shelf, then chose one. “This might be the perfect magical music: Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. Do you know them?”

  Of course I did—they’re on the radio all the time. And Herb Alpert—you guessed it—is Jewish.

  He placed it carefully on the turntable. “And this may be just the song you’re looking for. It’s called ‘Tijuana Taxi.’ Let’s try it!”

  Amy nodded, then opened up my suitcase and took out the ABC blocks, which she set up on Mister Mystery’s magic table. I hadn’t brought my hat, but Mister Mystery had his, which he handed to me. I slapped it against the back of my wrist, and it popped open. So did Amy’s eyes as I handed it to her.

  “You have to get one of these!” she said.

  Mister Mystery lowered the turntable’s arm. There was the music, and suddenly Amy was dancing around, having a great time.

  I just stood there watching her. I had no idea what to do. I don’t know how to dance. I’m not talking about the fox-trot or waltzing. I’m talking about regular old dancing, the kind of dancing around that you’re just supposed to know how to do, like Amy was doing. She looked as natural as could be, holding the hat, putting it on her head, then looking back at me. And I just stood there, staring, feeling like a complete idiot.

  “C’mon, Joel!” said Mister Mystery. “Have fun with it!”

  I have to do something, I thought, so I tried waving my arms around, because that seemed like part of it. Even as I did, though, I felt stupid, like I was drowning on dry land. And I couldn’t very well lift the blocks and show them—which is the first part of the trick—while I was flapping my arms, so I stopped and started to shake my legs around instead. Now I looked like the guy in a film we’d watched in science class, who was having an epileptic seizure.

  “Hello!” said Mister Mystery, standing by the record player. He lifted the arm and the music stopped. “Perhaps we should try it again—a little slower, shall we? Joel, maybe just start by listening to the music. Then close your eyes and feel the beat.”

  The music began and I did just what he said, closing my eyes, hoping that Amy was closing hers too, so she wouldn’t see me. But with my eyes closed, I began to see pictures. My dad in the Neck-O-Matic. My parents driving off to the hospital. A beaker of bubbling liquid gold. A kite over the gates of Auschwitz.

  I shook my head, trying to get the pictures out of my mind.

  “That’s good,” said Mister Mystery. “Let your head sway back and forth. Now let your body move with the music.” I tried to bring up happy pictures. My father healthy and out of the hospital. “There you go!” he said. “Good. That’s it!”

  Yeah, I thought. This is good. I imagined my father with his new gold joints, a huge smile on his face. As I did, I could feel my arms floating over my head. I snapped my fingers. I took a step. Then another.

  Suddenly I opened my eyes and found myself stamping around the room, singing. “If I were a rich man! Yidel-didel-deedle-didel-deedle-didel-deedle-di! All day long I’d biddy-biddy-bum . . .” I was doing the Tevye! It was crazy, but I couldn’t stop. Neither Amy nor Mister Mystery was moving. They just stared at me. Mister Mystery’s face had this look of genuine astonishment—something I’d never seen before. And Amy looked like she was either going to laugh or cry.

  I froze, suddenly realizing how idiotic I looked. What had I been doing?

  Mister Mystery stopped the music. “Well,” he finally said, “that was . . . um . . .” It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him at a loss for words. Finally he said, “That was really something.”

  His intercom buzzed, meaning the next student had arrived. Without saying a word, I repacked the ABC blocks. Amy returned his hat, which he took with a little nod. Then we left, in silence.

  Amy’s mother was in the car waiting for us, and we climbed into the backseat, me with my suitcase on my lap. I scooted away from Amy and looked out the window.

  “Hello, Joel,” said Mrs. O’Shea. “Good to see you.”

  “Yes, Mrs. O’Shea. It’s good to see you too.” I sounded like a zombie. I could feel my embarrassment spilling out and filling the car.

  “How was the magic lesson?” asked Mrs. O’Shea.

  “Oh, fine,” said Amy.

  Neither of us said another word, all the way to my house. It was just a ten-minute drive, but it felt much, much longer. The whole time, I kept wishing I was on the bus.

  As soon as I got home I knocked on Kenny’s door, then Howard’s, and asked if Mom had called. They both said no. Just then, the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” said Howard. “In case it’s bad news.”

  By the time he got it, the Phone-O-Matic had already lifted up the receiver and started playing its recording.

  Hello dere! How you doin’?

  “Turn off the machine!” Kenny said.

  “Hello? Hello?” I could hear my mom’s voice. “Who is this?”

  This is Bob talking, but I’m not really here.

  “Who is this?” said my mom again.

  “It’s Howard!” he shouted into the receiver. “We’re unhooking the Phone-O-Matic!” My mom’s hearing is especially bad on the phone. “Hold on a moment!” he said loudly.

  “Can you hear me?” my mom shouted back.

  Kenny finally turned
off the machine, and Howard managed to pry the receiver out of the holder and put it up to his ear.

  “This is Howard,” he said loudly. There was a pause. “My day was fine. Is the operation over? How is Dad?”

  There was a long pause. And then a longer pause. Howard kept saying “Uh-huh.”

  “What’s happening?” Kenny whispered. “Did the operation work?”

  Howard shushed him and went on with the uh-huhs. There must have been about ten of them, then Howard said, “But don’t the doctors . . .” and then “When?” and a bunch more uh-huhs. It was driving Kenny and me crazy.

  “Just tell us how Dad is!” I whispered, and Howard shushed me.

  “Oh, hello, operator,” he finally said. “I see. Well, then, good-bye.”

  Then he hung up.

  “What did Mom say?” Kenny asked. “How did the operation go? Is he all right?”

  “No,” said Howard. “They didn’t do the operation.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “They couldn’t. Because Dad had a bad reaction to a medication.”

  “What medication?” asked Kenny. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s called prednisone.”

  “But he stopped taking it over a week ago!” I said. “He had me put it on the top shelf in the bathroom so he wouldn’t take it by mistake!”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Howard said. “But that wasn’t good, because he’s been taking it for so long. His body had a reaction to him stopping, so they couldn’t do the operation.”

  “So he’s coming back home?” I asked.

  “No, he’s not,” said Howard. “Without that medicine, his body shut down.”

  “Shut down?” I asked. “What do you mean?”

  “His body went into shock. Like he’s asleep, but they can’t wake him up.”

  “They can’t wake him up?” asked Kenny, starting to cry. “Is he in a coma?”

  “Yes,” said Howard. “But Mom said the doctors told her not to use that word because that makes it sound bad. They think he’ll wake up later.”