The Magician’s Assistant

He was the magician and I was his loyal assistant. I handed things to him, picked cards, feigned disbelief at objects appearing and disappearing. I was there to add to the aura of mystery and awe as we stood in front of the audience. It was an important job.

He had prepared so diligently, I didn’t want to ruin anything for him. Remember, it’s a magic trick, you are tricking the witnesses. He must have said this at some point, or something to that effect.

The backyard was dotted with mismatched chairs for the audience, mostly people from the neighbourhood. I had helped to arrange all that too, and had written the invitations and placed them on front stoops up and down the street. I was never sure if anyone really wanted to come to the show, but they did anyway.

A table for his props—a silky mat that he set the cups and balls upon. It all had to look classy and professional. Mask any signs of labor and contrivance. The audience should be rapt, incredulous, willing to go along with whatever could not be explained. He achieved small feats of dashed expectations, but nothing flashy. He did not cut me in half with a saw and then put me back together, or make me disappear.

He was tall and skinny. I was tall and skinny too, four years younger. We were terribly awkward and would remain that way for a long time, until we learned some rules for how to fake things. We had to grow all the way up eventually. 

He wore a red polyester blazer and a bow tie. I can see him standing there, still, standing with the garage as the backdrop, a small row of impatiens lining the garden along the walkway that our father had planted. The whole yard was so small, but we didn’t know that then. We didn’t know large or small or good or bad or lucky or unlucky. We worked with what we had. 

He had practiced so long and hard with all the sleight of hand, and I did notice some signs of surprise and delight in the faces of the crowd when a ball appeared under a cup they didn’t expect. I was proud of him. He deserved some recognition, and it’s possible he didn’t know how to get it in other ways, not then. Maybe not later either. I don’t know. I never knew him as well as I should have. Our lives glanced against each other, spinning out in opposite directions, sometimes spinning back together for small bits of time, but never for long. 

Another element was added to the show eventually. He wanted to hypnotize me. He’d ordered a booklet about it from a mail-away magic-trick place. We practiced on summer afternoons. I was to keep my eyes open. He would speak to me in a smooth and calming voice. My head would eventually tilt to one side. Mesmerized. He would ask me questions and I would answer in a trance-like state, a spacey look in my eyes, with slightly drooping lids. These were the things that were supposed to happen.

The booklet promised that hypnotism could be used to treat all sorts of conditions: “unable to speak to girls; premature hair loss; lack of self-confidence; boils mistaken as acne; stuttering; insomnia; perforated stomach; burns from hot tar.” 

Occasionally I would feel a bit sleepy as he talked around in droning circles. He did achieve lulling me into a relaxed state, but I never got there all the way. But I gradually learned to fake it, to put on an act, to provide ridiculous answers to his perfectly straightforward questions. Wasn’t his whole magic show an act? Why would this be any different. 

But I never told him I faked it. I never came clean. I was surprised, delighted that he believed my fabrications. I wanted him to see that he could do it, he could put me into a state, that he was good and had a dazzling gift. 

This was the last part of the show: hypnotizing me in front of the audience. And I could do it, every time. I was honing my acting skills and it seemed like not a bad thing to learn. Did the audience believe me? I didn’t really care. I only wanted him to believe he could do it. 

Eventually he lost interest in magic shows. His bag of tricks was probably still in the house somewhere, in the back of a closet, decades later.

I should have been the one to disappear. I was his assistant, after all. But instead, he was the one who disappeared on a bright November day.

In the glare of reality, my metaphors always break down. 

If he’d stayed I think we would have glanced away much less over the years, and started looking right at each other, at least more than we had. I think we would have talked about everything eventually, the stuff that happens throughout a life, the tricks, the sleights, the loving lies. I think I would have finally confessed and he would have forgiven me.