by John Gaspard
“You have a monkey,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Yes, this is Jinx. He’s a Javan macaque monkey.”
I squinted at Randall and his little friend. “Isn’t it illegal to own them? As pets?”
“It sure is, but he’s not a pet. Jinx is the Managing Editor for the site. He’s on the masthead. He gets a paycheck and everything.”
“I suppose that makes all the difference.”
The small creature ran up one of Randall’s arms, across the back of his neck and down the other arm, with Randall laughing the entire time. He looked over at me, grinning as widely as he had since I met him, and keep in mind, he’d been grinning a lot. “Eli, as a kid, didn’t you ever want a monkey?”
“Only always.”
“Me too.” He sat back, stroking the monkey’s tiny head lovingly. “You know, it’s weird. There were so many things I wanted when I was a kid, and now I have them all and you know what?”
“What?”
“It’s great. Just great.”
The two of them together looked like a Norman Rockwell painting, if Rockwell had ever attempted to capture a warm, heart-tugging human/simian relationship. Randall gave Jinx a quick kiss on the head and the monkey returned the buss with what sounded to me like a happy squeak.
On the metrics screen, the lines continued to grow and the lights continued to flash like a freaked out pinball machine.
Chapter 12
As I left the comic book store and crossed the parking lot, my head was still vibrating with the heavy thump of blaring rock music and chiming cash registers, so I think I can be excused for not hearing or feeling my cell phone ringing in my pocket. I finally recognized the familiar sensation before the call went to voicemail and clicked on the phone despite the announcement on the screen that this call was coming from yet another Unknown Caller.
“Hello,” I said too loudly, still trying to regain my auditory balance after the sensory overload of the store.
“Hi, Eli, sorry to bother you.” The voice was familiar, in the “I’m pretty sure I’ve talked to you before, but probably not on the phone” sense. “It’s Tracy. You know, from the theater. Next door.”
“Tracy, yes, hello, how are you?” I sputtered, overcompensating for no apparent reason, trying to remember the last time we’d spoken and then remembering the image of her unconscious in the hospital room. “I mean, really, how are you?”
“I’m okay,” she said unconvincingly. “They’ve released me from the hospital, so that must mean something.”
“That’s great,” I said, fumbling for my keys with my spare hand and hitting the unlock button on the car key.
“Yeah, well, that’s why I’m calling. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m at the hospital and they won’t let me take a cab home and I don’t have my car and so I’m kinda stuck here.”
“Okay,” I began as I slipped into the front seat, but she was still talking so I stopped.
“I called Megan, because, you know, she had come to the hospital with me. And she’s not able to leave her store, but she suggested I call you instead.”
I was just about to close the car door but stopped in mid-motion. “She suggested that, did she?”
“She did. She said something like, ‘I bet he’d love to pick you up.’”
There was a silence between us as I quickly sorted through the mental haze I suddenly found myself in.
If the situation were reversed, I would never—ever, in a million years—suggest Megan pick up Quinton Moon from anything or anywhere.
Yet here was Megan, volunteering me to act as chauffer for this attractive, single woman. Was this some sort of trust exercise, or was Megan simply lacking the jealousy gene in her DNA, making her an even better person than I had already suspected?
I’m not sure how long I sat there considering this, but eventually Tracy must have thought the connection had broken.
“Hello?” she said tentatively. “You still there?”
I snapped back to the present moment so quickly I nearly gave my brain whiplash. “Yes, sorry, just driving,” I lied. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
“I’ll bet this wasn’t how you expected to spend your afternoon. Sorry to make you change your plans.”
“Not to worry. The truth is, I rarely have anything resembling a plan, let alone the plural.”
This made Tracy smile, not for the first time on our short drive from the hospital to her apartment. “That raises an interesting question: what’s a typical day for a magician?”
I shrugged as the light changed and I touched the accelerator. “Sadly, I don’t really ever have an agenda. My day is just mostly dealing with crap as it comes in.”
“Not unlike the life of a theater manager.”
I glanced away from the road for a second to look at her. She looked normal if a bit pale. A white bandage above her temple was almost completely covered by a knitted stocking cap, which held her wild red hair in place. “And how did that happen? I mean, you becoming the manager of a movie theater?”
“It was certainly not by design,” she said with a smile.
The awkward feelings I’d had at the start of the drive were beginning to dissipate, but it still felt odd. Tracy was a decidedly attractive woman, but I wasn’t aware of any amorous feelings on my part or, for that matter, on her part.
I was starting to believe Megan’s innate trust in me was completely justified.
“You were an athlete. Playing ball in Japan,” I began, hoping this would help coax the story out of her. “And now you manage a movie theater. Connect the dots for me.”
“It’s not a typical path, is it?” she said with another wide smile. If nothing else, the brief drive with me had gone a long way to perk up her mood. “The short version is my eligibility ran out at school at the same time I got an offer to play with a women’s league overseas. I figured, what the hell, and before I knew it I was suited up and playing in front of cheering throngs of Japanese fans.”
“And how does that connect to Minnesota, the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes?” I asked, gesturing around with one hand to indicate her present location.
“Nothing very inspired, I admit. My contract ran out and I had to go somewhere,” she said, also gesturing with one hand to indicate our present location. “I’d heard great things about the state, I’m a big Prince fan, and so I figured, what the hell?” She looked out the window at the snow-covered landscape around us. “Of course, it was early summer when I got here and, believe me, it looked a whole lot better in June than it does now.”
“Yes, Minnesota is a fickle mistress. She lures you in with three wonderful days of summer and then whacks you upside your head the rest of the year.”
“You’re funny,” she said with a smile.
“Oh, I bet you say that to all the funny people,” I said and then stopped. Okay, this definitely felt like flirting, but it was too late to pull it back.
“This is me,” she said, pointing to a three-story apartment complex on the right. I pulled into the short driveway which led to the front door and lobby. As the car came to a stop, she turned to me, her big green eyes sparkling. “Can I repay your kindness with a cup of tea and some homemade but admittedly not great chocolate chip cookies?”
Her smile was as inviting as her offer. I sifted through all the responses which flooded through my brain and was about to land on one when I noticed the mailman just heading toward the apartment building. He was sorting through a thick handful of mail as he walked and didn’t see a patch of ice in the center of the sidewalk. He hit the ice at full stride and his feet nearly jerked out from under him, but he was able to right himself at the last moment. He looked down at the offending ice patch and then checked the sidewalk ahead of him before continuing on his now slower course toward the front doors.
A phrase moved up through
the distant corners of my brain, suddenly appearing out of the depths of my consciousness. “If you don’t want to slip…”
I had a sudden memory of my late aunt Alice, a lovely but firm presence throughout my teen and young adult years. It was one of her favorite phrases which she returned to time and time again whenever I found myself on the outer edges of getting into trouble.
“If you don’t want to slip,” Aunt Alice had always said with conviction, “don’t go to slippery places.”
“Slippery places,” I repeated out loud.
“What’s that?” Tracy asked, looking around, clearly not sure who I was talking to.
“Oh,” I said, snapping out of my reverie. “I was just thinking, this time of year there are a lot of slippery places.”
Tracy nodded in agreement, as it was a hard statement to argue with.
“Thanks for the offer,” I continued, putting both hands on the steering wheel to provide a visual indicator I wasn’t getting out of the car. “But I’ve still got some more errands to run.”
“I’ll give you a rain check,” she offered, then added, “or a snow check. If that exists.”
“Sure thing. Feel better.”
“I feel better all ready,” she said. She suddenly leaned over and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek, and then just as quickly climbed out of the car. “Sorry, sometimes I’m impulsive,” she added before swinging the door shut.
Out of habit I watched to make sure she made it to the front door safely and noticed as she deftly sidestepped the patch of ice which had nearly done in the mailman.
Then I backed down the driveway, feeling like I had just narrowly missed a dangerous patch of metaphorical ice myself.
I found a parking spot in front of Chicago Magic and sat in my car for several moments, writing, rewriting and then re-rewriting a quick text to Megan. I gave the words one final read, my index finger hovering over the SEND button.
I got Tracy safely home from the hospital, per your request.
I considered—again—eliminating the “per your request” portion of the text, decided to keep it, thought about deleting the whole thing and starting over, and then took the plunge and pressed SEND.
I sat in the car, grateful not for the first time I had opted for the seat warmers, looking at my phone, trying to will it to reply. It was slow in coming, so I turned my attention to the theater marquee, which still read Guess Who’s Coming to My Dinner With Andre. Then my hand felt the phone vibrating with a response. I unlocked the screen and read Megan’s one word answer.
Tnks
I studied those four letters for way too long, looking for hidden meanings and striving to determine what tone of voice had been used to compose this maddeningly succinct reply. Rather than dwell on it, I opted for action and quickly typed a response I hoped would elicit a more detailed response.
I’m back at the store.
Again the response seemed to take if not eons then certainly hours to appear. It actually arrived in less than a minute and when it did, it provided even less information than the last text. Her response consisted of a single letter.
k
I stared at the letter far longer than was necessary and then stared out the car’s side window for inspiration for a response. I’d been in the car so long that the windows had begun to fog over, which was fine, as inspiration was nowhere to be seen. In desperation, I typed two keystrokes and hit SEND.
:)
I don’t know how long I waited for a response, but it never came and I finally gave up, shut off the car and trudged through the snow and into the store.
I found Harry alone in the shop, seated on his trusty stool, paging thoughtfully through Quinton’s magic book. He held a pen in one hand, which suggested he was actually making notes in the margin, which he only did with the best books in his collection. He glanced up at me as I entered.
“Back from interviewing a person or persons of interest?”
I nodded. “Did that this morning. And then I picked up Tracy and brought her home from the hospital.”
This statement garnered his full attention and he looked at me intently over the top of his reading glasses. “Did you now?”
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant but not getting anywhere near it. “Megan suggested I do it.”
Upon hearing this, he actually closed Quinton’s book. “Did she now?”
“Yes she did.”
“I see.” He glanced down at his watch. “Well, since you’re here,” he began, but I waved the thought away with my hand.
“Inventory, absolutely. Let’s get to it,” I said with cheer that wasn’t entirely forced. I clapped my hands together, looking for the best place to begin.
“Actually, I was going to say that since you’re here, perhaps I’ll take this opportunity to take a short nap. If you don’t mind watching the store?” He lowered himself carefully from the stool and picked up a bookmark off the nearby counter, inserting it neatly into the book.
“No problem,” I said. He began to walk toward the curtains which led to the stairs to our apartments. “Harry, are you feeling okay?”
He turned back. He looked tired, but he hadn’t lost any of the twinkle in his eyes. “Never better. Just need a nap.”
“Okay,” I said, deciding not to push the issue. He got almost to the curtain and then my voice stopped him again. “Harry?”
He turned, apparently not in the least annoyed at the second interruption to his impending nap. “Yes?”
I wasn’t sure how to phrase my question, and after one or two false starts, I finally blurted it out. “Do you think my act is any good?”
He gave the question a long moment of serious consideration. “Eli, I don’t know. I liked it when I saw it, but I really haven’t seen you perform it in years.”
“It’s essentially the same,” I said.
“It is? That’s problem one,” he said, stepping away from the curtain and crossing to a counter, where he placed a hand to steady himself.
“How is that a problem? You’re always railing against magicians who are constantly changing their acts.”
“That’s true, but an act is a living, breathing entity. It should change and evolve as you change and grow, just not on a whim.”
“You’re saying I’m not growing as a magician?” A defensive tone had begun to creep into my voice, and I did nothing to mask it.
“By no means. I would never be so presumptuous. But I will say this: I’m a retired magician and I’ll bet I still practice more than you do.”
“What for?”
“To tune up the act, like a car. Take the engine apart and see if you’re getting the most out of each piece. Look at each effect, each move, each sleight, each segment. Really ask yourself why you’re making this move here or saying that line there.”
“But you always say, ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it.’”
“I do indeed,” he said with a smile. “But from time to time, I think you have to check under the hood to see if, in fact, anything is broken.”
I began to answer him but realized he was right. “You think I’m skating by?”
“That’s not for me to say; that would be your call. But now that you’ve asked, I would have to say—if your act hasn’t changed in years and you spend virtually no time practicing—yes, you are skating by. And skating on thin ice.”
I narrowed my eyes, not entirely certain what was meant by this last remark. “How do you mean?”
“You know what Ed Macauley said.”
I shook my head. “Who’s Ed Macauley?”
“A basketball player of some repute.”
“Harry, since when do I know anything about basketball? You should be having this conversation with Tracy over at the theater.”
“I’m not sure what that means,” Harry said with
an arched eyebrow. “But Mr. Macauley said, and I’m paraphrasing here, anytime you are not practicing, remember someone somewhere is practicing. And when you meet him, he will win.”
I felt my jaw clenching up. “So you’re saying Quinton Moon is beating me?”
He seemed surprised by my mention of Quinton. “I’m saying nothing of the kind. What I’m saying is a good magician is like a swan gliding across a lake. All you see is grace and beauty, but his feet are working like mad under the surface. With the best swans, no one ever sees the effort. But the swan would never look graceful without it.”
“My act is like an awkward swan?”
“I haven’t a clue. I haven’t seen your act in years. But I’d be happy to sit with you and critique it at any point.” His tone was warm and, in his own way, loving. I felt my jaw begin to unclench.
“Not just now,” I said. “But I may take you up on that.”
“It’s a standing offer,” he said, heading back to the curtain. “After my nap, do you care to join me in a spot of dinner?”
I shook my head. “I think I’ll stay in tonight,” I said.
“And practice?” he said with a wicked smile.
“Probably.”
“Atta boy.” He disappeared through the curtains.
I stayed in the shop until closing time, and then spent the rest of the evening in my apartment, practicing my act for the first time in I can’t remember how long. I started looking at everything I’d been doing for years and asking myself why I did it that way.
It was much harder than I had anticipated and, when I finished for the evening, sleep did not come easily. When it finally did, most of the night consisted of me dreaming that I was dreaming.