I Lie for Money

by Steve Spill

  Next, I returned to the center of the bar and displaying a small purple cloth bag with gold drawstrings—the type that surrounded new bottles of the Crown Royal whisky we served—reached into the bag and took out a piece of fruit. “In this ratty old bag is the mystery orange, which today is a lemon—that’s the mystery.” After showing the lemon, it was returned to the bag, and the girl who autographed the hundred was instructed to hold the bag up high, even with the roach clips and the knife.

  I looked up and down the bar at the three helpers holding the stuff, “Makes kind of a nice picture, don’t cha think? Okay, we better go ahead and do the trick. This is a very quick trick . . . it’s like a snake bite when it happens. So don’t cough or blink or look away, or you’ll miss it.”

  The bill was taken from the clips. I told the guy to keep the clips handy, since they would be needed in just a second, and walked down the bar so everyone got a clear look at the girl’s signature on the hundred. I stopped in front of her and asked, “Is your name still on the bill?” If everyone couldn’t clearly hear “Yes,” I had her say it again louder. It was not only an important presentational point before the money vanished, but also a dress rehearsal for her all-important “Yes” at the trick’s finish.

  “Okay, everyone ready? It’s at the fingertips . . .” I wiggled my fingers, “Yes he will, no he won’t,” and as the money vanished into thin air I said, “Now you see it, now you don’t . . . Quick, who has the lemon?” The girl screamed, “I’ve got it,” as did the man when I asked, “Who has the knife?” The lemon was cut in two, and for a fraction of an instant it looked like something went wrong and that I tried to cover it up with some jokes.

  “If the trick worked . . . inside the lemon . . . uh, well . . . lemon juice . . . Does anyone have another hundred? I know I can do it . . . Wait just a second . . . Can you see it? Can you see it in there?” I pointed out a speck of green in the center of the lemon. Using the knife, the bill was excavated so it stuck halfway out. As I walked the halved lemon with the bill stuck in it over to the guy with the roach clips, I could hear a few “no ways,” “wows,” and audible gasps.

  “Using the roach clips, reach inside, so everyone can see that bill come out of the fruit . . .” As the bill emerged the rest of the way out I hollered, “It’s a boy!” I grabbed the clips holding the cash, walked them to the center of the bar, and had the girl who signed remove the money from the clips. “Unfold that bill very carefully. I’ll ask you one question—please answer in a loud clear voice, yes or no, do you see your name on that hundred-dollar bill?”

  “Yes, oh yes, YES!” The crowd roared. I told her, “You were a great help, you can go ahead and keep the hundred!” Another joke. In fact, when the hundred was returned to its rightful owner, nearly every single solitary time, it was donated to the tip jar. Perhaps some of the reasons—the money was integrated into the trick, the mystery and humor had people laughing and wanting to give—but it is likely that part of the tip givers’ generosity could be attributed to the fact that no one wants to put wet sticky money in their wallet. The Lemon Trick is, intrinsically, the most perfect magic trick that anyone working for tips could ever do—past, present, or in eternity.

  Near the end of the Jester years, a friend who was also a bartending magician asked that I teach him my Lemon Trick routine. Being unusually charitable about the matter, I did so, and it has subsequently been a source of profound regret that I did.

  Down the road I got a call from this friend, who I had generously taught for free and who had been making behind-the-bar tips from my gift. He called to tell me that he had taught my routine on an instructional videotape that would be sold to magicians worldwide.

  If he were to tell the truth, I think he would have to agree that he wasn’t exactly calling to ask for my permission since the tape had already been made. In fact, he wasn’t even offering me any compensation. Plus his call was so late in coming that it was obvious he was just attempting to soften the surprise that the video would be released the following week.

  When I demanded to know what he felt gave him the right to sell my routine, his answer was “It’s a cornerstone of my bar show, I’ve been doing it a long time.” I asked, “If you sang a Beatles song in your bar show would that entitle you to sell licenses to others to sing that song?” Apparently he could not comprehend the analogy or logic or refused to understand what I was trying to say. “Don’t worry Steve, I gave you complete credit, your name is all over it, it’s advertised right on the box as Steve Spill’s Lemon Trick!” As if to prove what an ethical guy he was, he claimed, he “almost” called me the night of the filming. But he didn’t.

  I felt betrayed, rooked, cheated, victimized, violated, and should have screamed at the top of my lungs, “Hey, that routine doesn’t belong to you to sell, and you know it, and you have no right to do it, cease and desist!” But I’m ashamed to say I didn’t blast him with blazing guns like I would have now.

  When I hung up, something odd happened. I immediately started feeling guilty that maybe it was my own fault, mine entirely for teaching him in the first place. I started beating myself up about putting so much temptation in the man’s way and forcing him to selfishly exploit my work and gift on videotape for his own private gain. It seems to me now, in a long backward glance, absolutely crazy to have blamed myself instead of putting the blame on him where it belonged. I had been robbed.

  Other pros in my circle knew the facts, but even today, in an era when music downloaders are prosecuted for theft, ASCAP collects royalty fees from stores that play background music, and emails receive automatic copyright protection, when it comes to the craft of magic, original expressions are generally not afforded copyrights, trademarks, or patents. And thus, there was nothing to be gained by driving myself crazy about this situation.

  In fact, newer generations have also produced and sold nearly word-for-word, move-for-move instructional versions of my routine—some with only the very slightest of subtle variations, however trivial they may be, like different jokes, and some not even knowing they’re doing my thing.

  Today, the fact remains that I have seen and heard of similar frustrating situations between magicians going as far back as my memory goes, long before I started developing my Lemon Trick routine. When it comes to resolving episodes like these, there are exceptions to every rule of course.

  But in our tiny magic world, only very rarely does a confrontation, attempt at a legal remedy, or a threat of bodily harm result in anything more than aggravation of the person who has right on their side. As you might expect, it’s usually better to put your energy elsewhere, like writing about it in a book. They say that Jesus had always forgiven, even when nailed to the cross. But Jesus never developed an original routine for, or resurrected, the long dead Lemon Trick.

  BUSKING

  Making magic at the bar in Aspen was seasonal work. Sure, we had local patrons, but its survival was tourist dependent. Winter and summer we had tourists, but when spring sprung and fall fell The Jester would close for six to eight weeks during the off seasons.

  I spent spring 1976 on a coast-to-coast busking tour with my friend Johnny Fox. Busking is thought of as a fancy word for street performing, but by definition, it also includes indoor hat passing. We traveled in Fox’s vintage auto, which was in constant need of repair. We often ran out of gas and had flat tires. All the ailments known to vehicles depending upon internal combustion afflicted that jalopy. Often we’d be barreling along the highway in this barely roadworthy hunk-a-junk, one of us trying to steer with one hand while playing with a deck of cards or a coin in the other. Today Johnny drives fine late model rides with two hands firmly on the wheel, and he is a successful sword swallower on Ye Olde Renaissance Pleasure Faire circuit.

  In 1976, though, he wasn’t yet dressing like Robin Hood and spewing the words, “Young sire, can thoust please add thy email to my list?” Fox was, however, a talented sleight of hander specializing in coin tricks, who liked perform
ing outdoors in the daytime. I specialized in sleight of hand with playing cards and preferred performing indoors in the evening. We played with cards and coins morning, noon, and night. Usually I fell asleep with a deck of cards in my hands.

  We never spent more than a few days anywhere. It was tonight and then tomorrow would be today again. New day, new locale, and we never got tired of it. We had no other cares or interests besides busking, and our lives were scheduled around it. Most people were extraordinarily generous. Almost everywhere we stopped to do a show someone offered us a place to stay, food, drinks, money—they knew we didn’t have much money, but it wasn’t because they thought we were poor that they were so kind, but rather because they enjoyed our tricks, and above all, because they wanted to offer tokens of friendship to traveling strangers.

  The South seemed to work best for us—Austin, New Orleans, Memphis, Key West—these were some of the cities where we found success. But we worked everywhere. We did our magic commando style—with no introduction, no permission, just right into the routine. I walked into a crowded bar, often connected to a restaurant with a long dinner wait, or a tavern full of construction workers, or a disco, and I went right up to a table, or the bar, and interrupted conversation with a fan of cards. “Reach in and grab one,” I’d insist.

  If someone grabbed a card, I was on my way. “Show everyone your card, I won’t look, I’ve seen the trick before,” I ordered. The selected card disappeared, floated, or changed to another card. Sometimes they just kept the card, said “Thanks,” then put it in their pocket and walked away, or tore it up, or I’d get kicked out of places by restaurant managers or bartenders, but I didn’t care, I just went somewhere else.

  If I was able to complete that first trick and got a decent response, I continued for five or ten minutes and then held out my hat and said, “Help me get a room tonight.” When I’d successfully entertained a little group of folks, others in the vicinity would notice and want to have fun too.

  One time a restaurant manager in Atlanta watched me pass the hat. “Hey, you can’t panhandle in here,” he warned. “It’s offensive to our guests. Now get outta here!” The six people I was amusing left with us and took Johnny and me out to dinner elsewhere.

  Once we learned the hard way, though, about going into business with fellow buskers who we didn’t know as well. We were at a Phoenix coffee shop, and it was there that we spotted Fernando. He ripped a page from his sketchpad and walked the paper over to a table where an elderly woman was seated. Hardly a word passed between the two, the woman took the paper, smiled, and handed him five dollars. Fernando returned to his table and started busily drawing in his sketchpad. After about five minutes, he walked up to Fox and handed him a piece of paper; on it was a perfectly rendered pencil sketch of Fox.

  We hit it off right away, and Fernando temporarily joined our tour. Our Latin brother was one of us—a clever busker. He didn’t spend a lot of energy gathering a crowd, doing a show, or passing a hat. He leisurely drew pictures and let his talent do the talking.

  Little did we know that Fernando was a Mexican citizen who felt his talent also made him a US citizen. America felt differently. The last time that the three of us were on tour together, we were between Arizona and Texas when we were stopped at an immigration checkpoint. The officers asked for our identification, and Fox and I complied, but Fernando did not. They detained him and informed us he would be deported. We were fingerprinted, photographed, and accused of smuggling an illegal alien.

  We tried to explain that it had all been a simple misunderstanding and that we didn’t know Fernando’s citizenship status. But under a strict interpretation of the law we were guilty. They let us off with a stern warning. “If we catch you harboring or aiding and abetting a fugitive again, you’ll be convicted of smuggling an illegal alien, charged a hefty fine, and lose your citizenship . . . plus we’ll toss you in jail and throw away the key.” As I remember it, not only was he embarrassed, but Fox was also so upset he threw away the beautifully rendered pencil portrait Fernando had sketched of him. He never wanted to be reminded of our criminal behavior.

  It took a while for Fox to locate a good spot in San Antonio, Texas. He started working his magic at the edge of a park, at the bottom of a hill, near a busy intersection. Today, when Johnny does his sword-swallowing act he can entertain hundreds at a time. In 1976, Fox was a coin man who was a master at entertaining an up close group of ten people.

  While Johnny was in the park making silver dollars appear and disappear at his fingertips, I was scouting out The Riverwalk in San Antonio, looking for bars to return to that evening, bars where people might appreciate sophisticated, properly performed card tricks. I picked my spots, and went to meet up with Fox, who was working his magic at the edge of a park. As I walked down the hill toward the park, I saw a huge crowd, maybe a hundred people. As I got closer, I saw Fox making four silver dollars appear. Then, one at a time, the coins became invisible, a routine I’d seen him do a million times. I couldn’t believe the size of the crowd he’d drawn. Johnny had finally done it; the hat was gonna be huge on this one.

  As I got even closer, I saw that about ten people were engaged in Fox’s routine. The other ninety people were looking behind Fox, across the street, at a man standing on the roof of a ten-story building. It looked like he was gonna jump. Was he really gonna do it?

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. It was dead quiet as we watched the figure high above, dive head first, straight down. Spectators blocked my view of the landing, but I can tell you the accelerated speed of his departure from the roof to his meeting with the surface of the sidewalk produced a loud, sickening, thud. I half heard it, half felt the impact come through the earth—and I was across the street. It was a haunting memory.

  I learned something very valuable that day. The juxtaposition between whatever devastating agony that might drive a man to suicide and the simple little surprises and merriment Fox dispensed made me realize what an important service we magicians offer. People need fun like they need food and water and sleep. Even if it’s only for a brief period of time, guys like Johnny and I can relieve the pain or boredom of everyday life. When audiences experience our magic, it’s a sign that maybe the future will hold even more fun. Fun isn’t just fun—it’s hope.

  WHEN BOB WAS BESS AND I WAS HARRY

  It was built in 1920 as a private school for girls. It was Jack Davis’s Brook Farm restaurant in the thirties, then a tearoom, a country inn, a French restaurant, and another French restaurant. Between the two French restaurants, circa 1980–1985, it was the Brook Farm Inn of Magic, home of a two-man dinner theater show, starring me, and master funny tricky person, Bob Sheets.

  The barn-looking building was nestled in a residential country-like setting in the Washington DC suburb of Chevy Chase, Maryland. Inside was a large rustic pine paneled room with a stone fireplace, beamed ceiling, and deer head trophies. We kept the decor just the way it had been for the last fifty years or so, adding only a stage, curtains, and some theatrical lights.

  The show was a mix of classic tricks, illusions, and magic parodies that we called Magicomedy Cabaret. It ran for five years, 290 times a year, a total of 1,450 performances, 2,175 hours on stage. Due to circumstances beyond our control, not every show was perfect. Murphy’s Law—everything that can go wrong will go wrong, acquired an addendum . . . and everything that can’t possibly go wrong will also go wrong, especially with our levitation routine.

  The cast of Magicomedy Cabaret, me and Bob Sheets.

  Normally, the floating lady volunteer from the audience looked like this: After a lengthy dissertation about the profound achievement the audience was about to witness and a ridiculous volunteer selection process, followed by a long and flamboyant hypnosis procedure, our woman of choice took off her shoes and reclined on a plywood board supported by two sawhorses. Then the female, and the board below her, slowly rose into the air above the sawhorses.

  A hula-hoop was passed arou
nd our floater to prove she was really floating and not connected to anything. More mystical gestures, and our girl and board returned to the sawhorses. The hypnotic trance was broken and the volunteer safely returned to the audience.

  Bozena is lighter than air at Magicopolis.

  One time, after our usual dramatic comedy introduction, selection process, hypnotizing, and magical mystical gestures, the giggly party girl refused to levitate. She just lay there—ten minutes of comedy build-up and no payoff. We felt like jerks.

  Another time, a pretty young woman was happily floating in midair, but Bob and I couldn’t seem to summon the power to return her to Earth. Bob threw her over his shoulder and carried her to safety—in the air above the sawhorses was the levitating plywood board. I passed the hula-hoop around the board to prove it was really floating with nothing supporting it.

  Third time’s the charm. The exquisite woman lying on our plywood board looked like the queen of Sheba. She was so international, and so glamorous, in her low-cut evening gown. As the board started to go up, her right breast started to go out. I passed the hoop around her boob to prove there was nothing supporting it.

  Yet another time, our floating volunteer couldn’t stop laughing and sneezing. She laughed and sneezed so hard that she started peeing and couldn’t stop. Her laughing and sneezing and peeing soaked and rocked the floating board she was lying on so violently that she nearly fell off. The audience was rolling in the aisles.

  In another of our favorite tricks I was Harry Houdini, and Bob, in drag, played my wife Bess Houdini with our rendition of the classic Metamorphosis. A committee of volunteers from the audience critically examined a wooden packing crate in which I was locked. Under the watchful eyes of the committee Bob vanished and I immediately appeared in his place. The box was opened and therein was found Mrs. Houdini.