The Revelation, Twice

Barbara J Nosek

The Revelation, Squared

Something is going to have to change. And drastically. He’d seen firsthand, and more than once, what can happen when the zest for life is fading away. And there is a good chance that’s exactly what’s happening right here.

He’d just returned from his 500^th performance as Lord Darkley, Master of Mystery. A milestone, for sure. But not one molecule of his being feels like celebrating. Nor can an atom be found cheering the fact that in a few days he’ll be gearing up for Number 501.

Still in full dress, he sinks into a chair, resting his head against the back, tired. It just seems the passion that had convinced him to leave his corporate job for a life in magic all those many years ago no longer burned quite as brightly.

But why?

Audiences still loved him. Colleagues revered him. His agent had no trouble filling his schedule. Local and national media still came calling.

Is he just getting too old for this? Probably not. Thanks to good genes and healthy living, he is even at 62 still physically fit, mentally sharp.

So, what is the culprit? How he wished Patsy was still here to sound this out with him, always knowing when to respond and when to just listen. Still misses her so much since her passing five years before.

Is it all the professional prep work? Maybe. Lay people might be surprised what goes on behind the scenes, the meticulous routine that takes place before every single performance, be it for a large group or small. At least the way he does it.

Every detail for every aspect earning laser focus. Studying the group and the venue for the local color he always works into his performance. Watching a video of his current act. Manipulating each prop for each effect in turn as it came up on the screen. Afterward checking each of those props one more time to make sure every one is in perfect condition. Adding in those items that need to be new for each performance. Then making sure all of them are placed with critical precision into their proper niches in the black briefcase.

Then comes the clothes. Tuxedo freshly brushed and steamed. Shirt of choice laundered and pressed. Shoes shined to a mirror finish. Pocket square, bow tie, top hat, all ready to go.

Finally in the hours before leaving for the venue, another check to make sure he knows exactly where he’s going and the best route to take. A little trim on the already-perfect haircut. Close shave, mustache trim, touch of aftershave, any other hair issues resolved. Then, carefully dressing in his formal attire, and any props that did not belong in the briefcase secreted in pockets here and there, and yes, cliché as it may sound, even up sleeves. As a last step, dark eye makeup to complete the transformation into Lord Darkley.

And then the un-doing when you get home. All that could definitely factor in. But what else?

Maybe it’s the change he’s seen in audiences over the years, a kind of evolving coarseness. And the ready availability of alcohol at most of these establishments often makes things even worse. Guys coming right onto the stage or platform, or trying to. Hecklers, of course, who are sure they know how you did that, often punctuating their opinions with crude language. And, as entertainers have endured since time immemorial, people throwing objects at the stage, but on those few occasions not men hurling the proverbial rotten tomatoes and the like, but women chucking underwear. Without modesty he could admit he was a decent looking sort, but come on, he wasn’t exactly Tom Jones. And then there are the people he invites on stage to participate in an effect who decide this might be their only chance for fifteen seconds of fame and go full-on “ham” mode.

Probably because of his Lord Darkley persona’s serious demeanor and formal bearing, he’s suffered fewer of these incidents than some of his colleagues. Throughout the magic community tales abound of fist fights in the audience, blaring conversations about the act or even something else, sharp missiles aimed at the stage, threats when leaving the venue. It’s definitely a different world.

But as he thinks about it, there’s another kind of audience encounter, generally safer than most, that’s starting to bother him in a deep and disturbing way. The increasing requests to reveal how he did this or that effect. Women offering to trade favors. Expensively dressed men displaying large rolls of bills. Kids putting on their most innocent faces and saying pleeeeeease. In this information age, when there are so few other secrets anymore, there seems to be a sense of entitlement to these secrets too.

He rebuffs all of them of course, but it’s hardest with the youngsters. He believes where adults are looking for a kind of trophy, kids genuinely want to satisfy the natural curiosity of a fresh, young mind.

And that brings back the memory of the volunteer gig he’d joined last week at a children’s hospital. The program also included a ventriloquist, juggler and storyteller. It hadn’t required much to revive the kids’ comedy magic act he’d developed and performed when he first left corporate life. Still had all the props, patter, and bright plaid jacket that turned him into Mr. Doofus. And he’s realizing now that it was the most rewarding booking he’d had in a very long time. No pay, who cares, seeing the smiles on those little faces, hearing the laughter that however briefly displaced the suffering, was priceless.

One little guy did ask how he made that oversize bouquet appear. But he was prepared and didn’t have to shut the child down with the song and dance about magicians not giving away their secrets, instead telling him he could go one better and give everybody their very own magic tricks. And with that, gave each one a card-sized foldout with an ace of hearts front and back and instructions inside for four simple tricks for kids, telling them, give this to your mom or dad or other adult so they can gather the objects needed for whichever ones they’d like you to perform. Unsaid was that parents could then select whatever was appropriate for their kids and then monitor them.

Meanwhile, though, an overarching question is why all these thoughts are weighing him down now. Clearly there had been a gathering storm, but why did the clouds rip open tonight. A big clue that they had done exactly that was the way he’d fled tonight’s performance the moment it was over instead of the usual chatting with folks, signing autographs, answering what questions he could. Oddly. the show at the children’s hospital is still on his mind.

That’s a lot to think about, and here he is still in full dress. Wearily he gets up, changes into pajamas and removes the makeup. Now once again plain Dickie Miller, and despite his gloom, it makes him chuckle a little thinking about being in, say, a supermarket and coincidentally bumping into a woman he’d asked onstage the previous night – and who would not have a clue she’s just again encountered Lord Darkley.

Returning to his chair with a beer and ham sandwich he grumps that all the undoing is just going to have to wait until tomorrow. Some mindless tv will be the only thing on his agenda for the rest of the evening.

Dickie awakes the next morning with his head still heavy with all the analysis of the night before. Like a brain hangover. He starts on the undoing from the night before, hoping the familiar process might clear his head. Then a bowl of oatmeal later, he and a second cup of coffee are back in the chair.

So, what has it all narrowed down to? Tedious prep work. Deteriorating audience behavior. Increasing pressure to share the ways and means of his art. While the question of Why Now remains elusive, this trio of issues in bare bones form now clearly answers the general Why. It’s like a personal Bermuda triangle that he now has to dive into and hope to come up with solutions.

Change the prep? To do that he’d have to drastically change his act, the act that he’s polished to perfection over the years. Maybe just switch out a few things that could simplify things? He glances at his extensive library of magic books, bursting with ideas he could make his own if that’s the way he wanted to go. Mmmmm, no, not the way to go. Well respected colleagues have told him repeatedly that what he’s created is a unique treasure. Leave it alone.

What about the audience? He’d long ago learned to deal with hecklers, his most gutsy move being to ask the perp to come right up on stage and perform the trick – no takers, peace and quiet restored. It’s the possibility of violence that is the greater concern. So what, hire some burly dudes to stand at each side of the stage? Ehhhhhh, maybe not.

That leaves the secrets issue. In recent times the requests had become more like demands. Despite the somewhat scary Darkley persona, he was at heart a people pleaser which was also surely why he worked so hard to make his performance thoroughly entertaining. And now having to say no, no, no, in as many ways as he could think of, was just exhausting. But the pressure was ongoing and increasing. With the Internet putting an entire world of information at everyone’s fingertips, expectations soared that this kind of data should also be public domain. But magicians never give away their secrets and that’s just creed.

He stares off into space, dejected at having reached no solutions, and something deep inside is also nagging at him that even if he solves the triangle there’s still a missing piece. Just incidentally his gaze falls on the book collection. And a realization hits so hard it all but knocks him out of the chair. How did this escape him? Magicians never give away their secrets? They give them away all the time!

For starters, those books – most of them available on Amazon. In fact anyone could just go right ahead and order the actual tricks there too. Or watch the effects on Youtube. Or shop to their heart’s content in a magic store. Sometimes there was a famous name attached to the item, sometimes not, but didn’t matter, all the principles were laid out there, and y’all come.

And now, all at once, he sees the bright shining road ahead in its entirety. Before he can change his mind he calls his agent and tells him he wants no more than two bookings a month for Darkley and to start working on a couple a month for Mr. Doofus. Yes there would still be that prep time – and audiences - but at most four a month. He now has other plans for his time. And best of all, those plans will eventually encompass the children, the missing piece, the chance for his art to go beyond the lesser rewards of audience and peer acclaim to a place where it can bring at least a bit of happiness into little lives.

Dickie pulls his briefcase back out, along with files of previous effects that had been well received but ultimately didn’t fit smoothly into his current lineup. Next comes a stack of legal pads and a glass full of pens. A rough outline will be using up a lot of those supplies before it’s all transferred to the laptop. And a lot of time, he knows, but now he has an abundance of that resource.

The months ahead will see writing, writing, writing, editing, editing, editing. Until it all emerges as “Darkley Secrets Come to Light.” Selecting a publisher is way down that road but he hopes his reputation can open some of those doors. His grandson can help with a website. And then at performances, at magic conferences, and in media interviews he would be handing out his card, complete with a scan-able symbol linked to that site.

But it’s the project that will follow that will be nearest and dearest to his heart and soul, helped along by now re-establishing Mr. Doofus. Motivated by those sweet children at the hospital who had touched him so deeply, and who truth be told had actually created the Why Now cloudburst, next up would be “Lord Darkley Presents the Funny Magic of Mr. Doofus for Kids of All Ages,” the humor element extracted right from the actual act making it a little different from some other offerings out there. And Dickie wouldn’t just wait to be asked but would offer to perform at area children’s hospitals and wings at other hospitals. And as soon as available, give each and every patient each time a free copy.

Had he looked into his crystal ball, there just might have been visions of that beckoning road leading to DVD versions of both books, a Saturday morning TV show, DVDs of the episodes, and maybe even, could it be – a second marriage. Only time will tell – and time definitely doesn’t give away its secrets.

For the present though, for Dickie/Darkley/Doofus, once again life is looking positively magical.

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