by Jeff Strand
“Exactly!”
“Until they’re pulled beneath the dark surface of the water by the jaws of a shark,” the man interjected. “Sure, it’s nice that they learned to swim so quickly, but that doesn’t do you any good without arms or legs.”
“Did you have a bad childhood?” Grandpa Zachary asked.
The man shrugged. “There were some rough patches.”
Grandpa Zachary stared at him for a moment and then returned his attention to the rest of the audience. “My point was that in order to achieve greatness, sometimes we must face our fears before we think we’re ready. And so, I present to you a beguiling illusion by the awe-inspiring, gasp-inducing prodigy…Marcus Millian the third!”
The audience applauded politely. Marcus stood there, motionless, as if his entire body had been covered with shellac.
“I didn’t bring my cards,” he said.
“Nonsense,” said Grandpa Zachary. “You always carry a deck of cards. I can see card-shaped bulges in your pockets right now.”
Marcus knew that he had two options. One, he could drop to the floor, curl into the fetal position, close his eyes, cover his ears, and let out a high-pitched shriek until everybody became so uncomfortable that they vacated the premises. Or two, he could go onstage and do a trick.
Option one sounded very appealing.
Nah, he’d just do a trick.
The audience applauded again as Marcus walked to his doom. “You’ll do great, I promise,” said Grandpa Zachary, handing him the microphone with a wink.
“Hello,” said Marcus. “For my first trick, I will make my great-grandfather disappear.”
Marcus waved him away, and Grandpa Zachary walked back into the audience as everybody laughed. Maybe performing for an audience wouldn’t be so bad. It might even be fun. It was what he’d always wanted, right? He could do this. Move over, David Blaine. Marcus Millian III would amaze them all!
“I’m going to need a volunteer,” he said.
“Me! Me!” said a little boy, waving his hand so frantically that Marcus worried that it might fly off and hit somebody. “Me! Me! Me! Me! Mememe! Me!”
Marcus didn’t really want to do this trick with such a young volunteer, but the crowd immediately went, “Awwwww,” so Marcus didn’t really have a choice without disappointing the crowd.
“Come on up here,” said Marcus, wondering how much sweat weight he’d lost in the past ninety seconds.
The little boy ran over to him.
“What’s your name?” asked Marcus. He held the microphone to the little boy’s mouth.
“Donnie. I’m five.”
“Nice to meet you, Donnie.”
“I’m five.” Donnie pretended to take a bite out of the microphone.
“What do you do for a living, Donnie?” Marcus asked. The audience chuckled.
Donnie turned toward the audience, his face red with fury. “Don’t laugh at me!”
Marcus placed a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Donnie. They were just laughing at my joke.”
“I’m five.”
Marcus took a deck of cards out of his pocket. His fingers were trembling too badly for him to do one of his truly impressive shuffles, so he just did an old-fashioned riffle shuffle. “It’s good you remember how old you are, Donnie. Are you good at remembering cards too?”
“I have a gerbil,” Donnie said proudly.
“What’s your gerbil’s name?”
“Super-Gerbil.”
“It’s not your gerbil!” a girl in the audience insisted. “Mom, Donnie keeps saying that Super-Gerbil is his gerbil, but Aunt Maggie gave it to me!”
The girl’s mother whispered something to her, and she stood there, glaring and quietly pouting.
Marcus fanned the deck of cards and held it out to Donnie. “Pick a card, any one you want. Don’t show it to me.”
“Can I keep it?”
“No.”
Donnie took a card and then took another.
“That’s two cards.”
Donnie pretended to eat one of them. The audience chuckled. Marcus wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“Look at one of the cards and remember it,” said Marcus.
“Okay.”
“Now put the card back into the deck.”
“Why?” Donnie asked.
“Because that’s the trick.”
Donnie licked one of the cards and giggled as he slid it into the deck.
“Please don’t lick my cards.”
“Why not?”
“Because they’re covered in poison.”
Donnie’s eyes widened. It looked as if he might start to cry. Marcus realized that it wasn’t a good joke to make to a five-year-old, and he’d suddenly become a villain in the eyes of the audience. Marcus wanted to astound the audience with his illusions, not his ability to reduce a young child to tears.
“Snot,” he said quickly. “I meant it’s snot.”
Donnie licked the card again. The audience tittered. And Marcus continued to sweat.
Marcus glanced over at Grandpa Zachary, who gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Marcus loved his great-grandfather, but he was going to say some unkind things to the old man when this nightmare was over.
“Okay, Donnie,” said Marcus, “I’m going to need you to remember that card and put it back into the deck.”
“It’s sticky.”
The audience chuckled again.
“I said don’t laugh at me!”
“They’re not laughing at you, sweetheart,” Donnie’s mother said. “They’re celebrating you.”
Donnie stuck the card back into the deck. Marcus began to shuffle. The trick would be less impressive to the audience now that the card was covered with saliva, but there was nothing he could do about that.
“What I need you to do, Donnie, is concentrate on the card you chose. Concentrate as hard as you can. Picture it in your mind. Are you thinking about it?”
Donnie shook his head.
“What are you thinking about?”
“Pickles.”
“Can you think about pickles in the shape of the card you chose? That’s what I want you to do, Donnie. Imagine a whole bunch of dill pickles—”
“Ew! Dill pickles are gross!”
“Imagine a whole bunch of sweet pickles—”
“Ew! Sweet pickles are gross!”
“What kind of pickles do you like?”
“The ones at McDonald’s.”
“Those are dill pickles,” said Marcus.
“They are not!”
“Focus, Donnie. Think about your card.” Marcus needed to get this trick over with before it completely crashed and burned. His hands were still trembling, but this next step involved dexterity. He pocketed the deck and held up one card. “Donnie, how many cards are in my hand?”
“One.”
“How many cards are in your head?”
“Huh?”
Marcus gave Donnie’s ear a gentle tap. A stream of fifty-two playing cards cascaded out of the other side of his head, landing on the ground. The audience gasped and applauded.
“Are there any more in there?” Marcus asked. He tapped Donnie’s other ear, and another stream of cards flew out the opposite side.
Marcus held up the single card in his hand, turning it sideways to show the audience it was just one card. One last tap on Donnie’s ear, and an even longer stream of cards, 104 of them, shot out of the little kid’s head. (Well, not really. It was a trick.)
“Thank you, Donnie!” said Marcus to the bewildered child as the audience applauded. “And thank you all for being here!”
He’d done it! Marcus had successfully performed a magic trick in front of an audience! And even with the Donnie-related challeng
es, he hadn’t completely messed it up! He felt…well, he felt sick to his stomach, but not quite as queasy as he would’ve expected. Maybe if he kept this up, he’d feel less and less sick to his stomach with each subsequent performance until one day his gastrointestinal distress would be gone forever!
Oh, Marcus was still mad at Grandpa Zachary for volunteering him to perform. There were plenty of dirty looks left to give today. But aside from having Donnie’s DNA on his card, Marcus was glad he’d done it.
The people in the crowd went back to socializing amongst themselves, apparently not upset that the event’s replacement entertainment had consisted of one magic trick. Marcus didn’t think anyone had been all that excited about Banjo Dan and the Wham Zaps in the first place.
“A fine job,” said Grandpa Zachary, walking over and shaking Marcus’s hand. “A lesser magician would have stood there, slack-jawed, but not you. I’m proud of you. You are destined to become one of the all-time greats.”
Somebody snorted.
Grandpa Zachary turned to face a large man in a dark blue suit. The man looked about fifty years old, with slicked back hair and chubby cheeks. Though the fellow was not setting hundred-dollar bills on fire in a grand display of pyrotechnics, he looked like he could without missing any of them.
“Good afternoon, Bernard,” said Grandpa Zachary. The words were thick with disdain, as if he were addressing raw sewage bubbling up from the ground.
“Hello, Zachary.”
“Haven’t seen you in a while, for which I’m grateful.”
“My theater keeps me busy.”
“Why did you make that snorting sound?” Grandpa Zachary asked.
Bernard shrugged. “The boy’s performance was okay. Nothing special.”
Uh-oh, thought Marcus. He didn’t really care that the guy insulted him, but Grandpa Zachary wouldn’t stand for it. This was going to be very…interesting.
3
“How dare you?” Grandpa Zachary said. “How dare you pollute the air between us with such ill-chosen words?”
“The kid has talent,” said Bernard. “He’s got a long and successful future ahead of him, performing at birthday parties.”
Grandpa Zachary’s eyes widened with fury. “You despicable wretch! I’d punch you in the face if we weren’t raising money for puppies and kittens!”
“Calm down, Grandpa,” said Marcus. “I’m all right.”
“I’ll not allow a man of such dubious moral character to disrespect you. Bernard Pinther isn’t qualified to judge the freshness of a carton of milk, much less an artistic performance. Begone, foul cretin! Begone!”
Bernard sneered. “Maybe the boy should make me vanish.”
“If he did, you wouldn’t come back, I assure you!”
“Is that a threat?”
“Yes, but it’s an empty threat. The boy’s a talented illusionist, but he’s not going to magically transport you into an alternate dimension from which there is no return. Grow up, Bernard.”
“Ah, Zachary. You’ll never change. You were overrated in what little there was of your prime, and now you’re nothing but a bitter, old, washed-up has-been.”
“Come on, Grandpa,” said Marcus, trying to lead Grandpa Zachary away from a confrontation. “Let’s go get some more of that delicious ooze.”
Grandpa Zachary didn’t remove his angry gaze from Bernard. “I’m not washed-up. I’m retired. There’s a significant difference, as you would know if you understood how vocabulary works. And I’d like you to apologize to my great-grandson.”
“Actually, I will,” said Bernard. “He has no control over his ancestry. Marcus, I’m sorry for my rude comment.”
Grandpa Zachary looked surprised and perhaps a bit disappointed. “Okay, good. Accept his apology, Marcus.”
“I accept it,” said Marcus, wishing he were in any of the trillions of other available places in the world than here.
“Now find somewhere else to stand and snort,” Grandpa Zachary told Bernard.
Bernard nodded at Marcus. “Good luck to you, and be sure you learn how to make balloon animals.”
Grandpa Zachary’s rage returned. “How dare you apologize to my great-grandson and then use the same insult again?”
“It wasn’t the same,” said Bernard. “It was a variation on a theme.”
“Marcus, withdraw your acceptance of his apology!”
“It’s fine, Grandpa. I don’t care what he says.”
“Withdraw it!”
Marcus looked at Bernard. “I, uh, guess I take back accepting your apology.”
“That’s all right,” said Bernard. “It wasn’t sincere.”
Grandpa Zachary gestured to Marcus. “Fetch me my boxing gloves from the trunk of the car! There’s going to be a tussle!”
“Do you really have boxing gloves in your car?” Marcus asked.
“Of course I do! For just such an occasion! Hurry…before he flees!”
“I don’t think Mom and Dad would like you fighting.” Marcus looked around to see if his parents were watching what was happening. No, they were talking to the Hendersons, who seemed to be congratulating them on what a superb job Marcus had done. Or possibly they were exchanging zucchini bread recipes. Marcus couldn’t tell.
“Five or six punches, and he’ll be on the ground, writhing in pain! Get the gloves!” shouted Grandpa Zachary. “Fighting bare-fisted would be too dangerous. I can’t risk having his death on my conscience.”
Bernard chuckled. “Now, now, there’s no need to resort to physical violence. Marcus, I should not have made the balloon animal comment. It was inappropriate of me. I’m sorry.”
“Should I accept that apology?” Marcus asked Grandpa Zachary.
“Absolutely not! Spit in his face!”
“I’m not going to do that, Grandpa.”
“Good. It’s never appropriate to spit in someone’s face. That was a test. I would have been happy if you failed, but still, it would have been wrong.”
“Sir,” said Marcus to Bernard, “I think we can all agree that this conversation isn’t going very well. I have to ask you to leave my grandpa alone.”
“Fair enough. Again, I apologize. I’m only trying to look out for your future. To make up for it, I’ll give you a useful piece of advice. When you negotiate the contract, make sure they’re required to save you a piece of birthday cake.”
Grandpa Zachary looked like his head was going to start shooting flames like a Roman candle. “Marcus, fetch me my machete!”
“Let’s go, Grandpa.”
“I’ve changed my mind! Fetch me a chainsaw! You’ve got a chainsaw in your garage, right? I’ll keep him here while you go get it! Make sure it has plenty of gas!”
Now others were starting to stare. Which was embarrassing, but also nice because there’d be plenty of people to intervene if Grandpa Zachary really did throw a punch.
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset,” said Bernard, clearly enjoying the whole scene. “It was just one tiny little snort.”
“Marcus Millian III will be one of the greatest magicians who ever lived,” said Grandpa Zachary, speaking to the entire crowd. “He’s currently perfecting a bewildering illusion that will shock, stun, and astonish all of you! An illusion unlike anything the world has ever seen!”
Huh? Was he talking about the dishwasher thing? Marcus wondered.
“Mark my words, Bernard. You’ll eat your words! You’ll eat your words with liver and onions! This magic trick will melt your underused brain! The collective gasp from the audience will generate hurricane-force winds! When my great-grandson takes his final bow, not one pair of pants in the entire auditorium will be un-pooped!”
He definitely wasn’t talking about the dishwasher trick.
“Is that so?” asked Bernard. “Would you like to place a wager on that?�
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“I would indeed.”
“How about ten thousand dollars?”
“No, we wager for the only thing that matters in this world—honor!”
“How about honor plus ten thousand dollars?” Bernard suggested.
Grandpa Zachary shook his head, which was a relief, because Marcus knew he didn’t personally have ten thousand dollars to wager.
“Of course a scoundrel like you places such a low value on honor. To me, it’s enough. It’s everything. And I am so confident in Marcus Millian III’s prowess that I will put my own honor on the line.”
“I don’t get how it works though,” said Bernard. “I mean, how does the transfer of honor happen?”
“It’s an abstract concept. Just go with it.”
“So when will this amazing illusion be ready?”
“Six weeks.”
Marcus wanted to say something, like “Nooooooooo,” but his mouth wasn’t working.
“I’ll have to check my schedule, but why don’t you take eight,” said Bernard. “I should have a free afternoon by then for the Amazing Marcus to mystify us all.”
“You don’t get to pick his stage name,” said Grandpa Zachary.
“I wasn’t trying to.”
“The Amazing Marcus has a nice ring to it, but now you’ve gone and polluted it.”
Bernard stuck out his hand. “Do we have a bet?”
Grandpa Zachary shook it. “We do.”
Marcus wanted to add something like “Hey, so, uh, do I get any say in this? I feel like I should have at least a little bit of say, and if you really think about what’s happening here, you’d probably come to the conclusion that I should have the most say out of anyone since I’m the one most directly impacted by the discussion that’s taking place right in front of me.” But his mouth still wasn’t working.
“Good luck to you both. I’ll be in touch,” said Bernard, and he walked away.
“That worm,” said Grandpa Zachary. “No, he’s what you would get if you crossed a worm and a rat. Do you know anybody who likes rats? Even other rats only barely tolerate them. That man is a loathsome worm-rat, and I look forward to humiliating him.”
