king.
“My name is Ashley,” she said.
“My goodness, yes, I forgot to ask you your name. Sorry Ashley. Can you choose one of . . .”
“The six of diamonds,” Ashley shouted, to a chorus of applause from the audience.
“Thank you Ashley,” Maxie said once the clapping had subsided. “So, to summarize, this audience has randomly chosen the six of diamonds.”
Maxie turned to Hubert, whose hand was still above his head, still holding the white envelope. “Hubert, please open the envelope and reveal what is inside.”
Hubert brought his hand down and wiggled it as if to suggest that he needed medical attention. He opened the envelope and took out a playing card. Maxie took the microphone and held it in front of Hubert.
“The ten of clubs,” Hubert said.
The crowd was silent for a moment and then a wave of whispering started. Without hesitating, Maxie took the microphone. “We’ll perfect that one next year. Thank you and good night.” He quickly left the stage.
That afternoon driving from Harrisville to Ridgeberry, Maxie and Larisa were in a good mood. He asked her how the videotaping had gone and she confirmed that she had established the perfect distance so that every element of the trick could be seen and heard. She reminded him to ask for the names of the participants, and he admitted that he had just forgotten to ask for the little girl’s name. They passed a beach, and decided to stop and relax for an hour. Life was good, and they both knew it would get better soon.
At Ridgeberry, during the beach ball trick, the audience chose the two of hearts. Maxie asked a short stocky woman named Cindy to reveal the card in the envelope.
“The ten of clubs,” she shouted.
Again, the audience went silent and then started whispering. Again, Maxie took the microphone. “We’ll perfect that one next year. Good night,” he said once again, and they left.
And so, Maxie and Larisa continued on their endless trek from town to town. At every stop they’d do the beach ball trick, the audience would randomly choose a card, and then the ten of clubs would be revealed as the wrong card. Maxie would promise to have success the following year, and they would leave the stage.
Millsworth was their thirty eighth show since they had started the beach ball trick. A tall slender woman named Marcia had received the last throw of the ball.
“Choose a club please Marcia. Anything from the ace to the king,” Maxie said.
“The ten of clubs,” Marcia said and sat back down.
“Glen, please reveal the card in the envelope,” Maxie said.
“The ten of clubs,” he said, and the crowd erupted into applause.
“Thank you and good night,” Maxie said and left the stage.
Larisa caught up with Maxie backstage. “Finally,” she said and hugged him.
“I actually thought it might take a little longer. I mean, one in fifty two chance—thirty eight isn’t bad. Did you get it videotaped alright?”
“Yeah, it’s good to go,” Larisa said and handed Maxie the camera.
“Great, you drive, and I’ll go through the book of agents and figure out who we can send this thing to.”
Bullies and Frogs
It was hardly flattering; the way they approached me. I knew someone, who knew someone, who knew someone else and on and on, but truth be told; I wasn’t in a position to turn it down. It was my dream, and it was out there well beyond my grasp, but out of the blue, and without warning it was about to happen.
Within the hierarchy of professional minor league baseball, the Staynor Bullfrogs, or the “Frogs” as they’re known locally, play A-level ball in the Short Season New York Penn league. I’d just been plucked from the obscurity of a back office job at a radio station in Seattle, and given the opportunity to be half of the Frogs’ on-air radio broadcast team. The station was WPDD 650, and I’d received a call from the program manager. She explained that they’d managed to secure a former big league play by play talent by the name of Howard Gold, who was willing to do the Frogs’ games as a sort of retirement diversion. She was honest and told me that they wouldn’t be able to pay me much, as they’d blown most of their budget on Howard, but that they’d heard I knew quite a bit about baseball, and had at least worked in the industry.
Of course I jumped at it. I’d heard of Howard Gold; knew he did Cubs games way back, and would have been thrilled to just sit down and have a coffee with him. Instead, I was being given the chance to sit beside him in the broadcast booth and add a little extra to his play by play. I’d never been on-air before; I’d actually never been close to a microphone before, but how hard could it be?
I was left on my own to find a place to live in Staynor. My salary was indeed meagre, so hotels weren’t an option and a small single room within close proximity to the stadium was all I could hope for. The station had supplied me with a list of names, and I was able to contact several homeowners with rooms to rent. They passed me amongst themselves until I was given the name of an older gentleman who had taken in Bullfrog players in the past, was a real supporter of the team, and currently had a very affordable room available.
His name was Horace George and he was, I guessed, in his eighties. I agreed to rent a small bedroom in the basement of his two story bungalow on the outskirts of Staynor. We made the agreement over the phone after I’d explained my link to the team, and a little about my background. He explained that he was originally from Chicago and had been overjoyed when he found out that Bullfrog games were again, after a three year hiatus, going to be broadcast. He knew of Howard Gold, and swore to be his biggest fan. What were the odds, he marvelled, that his favourite broadcaster was coming to his city to broadcast minor league baseball games. He thought my calling about a room was destiny. He didn’t require any payment up front, and said he was eagerly awaiting my arrival in two weeks. I could trust him not to rent the room out.
His home was neat but weathered on the outside; the paint chipping and fading a bit, but the lawn and small garden in the front showed signs of effort. I rang the doorbell, and waited several minutes before I heard movement on the other side of the door. The noise stopped for a moment and I guessed he was looking at me through the peep hole. After another moment, the door slowly opened.
“Yes,” he said softly. He was short, just north of five feet if I had to guess. His head was tilted slightly upward, his eyes looking up at me through a very large pair of glasses—dark bold frames with gigantic lenses.
“Hi, Horace?”
“Yes, I’m Horace. Horace George.”
“It’s me . . . Jimmy.”
“Jimmy?”
“Yes, from the Bullfrogs. I’m here for the room.”
He paused. “You’re Chinese.”
I looked at him, my eyes widening slightly, my mouth hanging open a tiny bit. My mind raced, and I looked for any trace of humour or good nature in his expression.
“Yes,” I said, and gulped, and then smiled, “I am Chinese.”
“You’re a Chinaman.”
I paused again. The smile becoming harder to maintain. “I suppose I am a Chinaman. I mean, I’m a Chinese man; a man whose parents were born in China.”
“Hmmm,” he said nodding.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, just surprised. You didn’t sound like a Chinaman on the phone.”
“Well, I don’t have an accent of any kind. I thought my name might’ve been a clue.”
“‘Jimmy’ isn’t Chinese.”
“No, my last name; Ma.”
“You never mentioned your last name.”
I thought for a moment and then said “I suppose you’re right.”
“I’m sorry, I must sound like a turkey. Come on in.”
He did sound like a turkey, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to enter his home, but against my better judgement I decided to press on. “So there’s no problem then.”
“Of course not. I’m not a racist. I just had a picture of you in my head.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” I said, unable to suppress any further, at least a small dose of cynicism.
He stopped and looked up at me through the large glasses. “Now you’re just being a baby. Come on in,” he said.
In I went. Horace showed me the room; it was smaller than I had imagined, but the basement seemed dry and there was a washroom beside the bedroom with a small stand-up shower. It seemed fine.
I unpacked and then Horace called me upstairs for tea which seemed promising given our earlier exchange. I went upstairs and seated myself at his kitchen table. He said nothing as he finished making the tea, so I discreetly glanced around, trying to learn something about the man. On my way to the kitchen I’d noticed what seemed like a fairly recent picture of Horace and a woman of roughly the same age who I assumed was his wife. I hadn’t seen her and Horace hadn’t mentioned her, so I assumed that she may have passed away recently. Glancing around, I immediately picked up on the lingering evidence that a woman either lived in the house or had lived in it recently; a small pair of slippers rested just under the table, a large pair of woman’s sunglasses were folded and placed neatly on the windowsill above the sink, and a small plastic container of female multi-vitamins was visible on the top of the refrigerator. To break the awkwardness, I contemplated asking him if he had any kids, but then thought better of it, not wanting to draw attention to what might have been a lonely existence. He sat across from me. Five or six awkward seconds of silence passed.
“Your house is very tidy. It’s a very
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