Post by Morgan le Faye on Nov 14, 2014 20:36:33 GMT
Look at all of them, they don’t care. They couldn’t be more uninterested in what’s happening right in front of their eyes. Children used to be amazed by the little things. I can pull flowers out of a hat, but they’d rather watch something on Youtube or plop in front of a video game. These are my clients. I’m hired by parents who don’t care. Cheap entertainment: A distraction from the cake and the pile of presents.
This is my life.
I’m up front, cheap music on a lousy speaker system and a banner straight from Kinko’s. This is me. This is the path I took. This is how ‘Magic Morgan le Faye’ earns her living. My next trick is a classic card trick, and I need someone from the audience. I smile. I exaggerate. I put on a show because even if the audience doesn’t respond, it’s my job to perform for them. It’s my job to try. It’s my job to care. Because no one else will.
This is my life.
I manage to get the birthday boy to help out with my trick. He’s reluctant. He saw a brand new action figure under his parents’ bed and that’s all his mind is focused on. That and cake. But not magic. Not this magician in a top hat and black lycra. She’s just some weird lady who says ‘ZVARRI’ a lot. I would feel sorry for his parents, but they probably don’t even care if their child is happy or not. Plop him in front of the television, let that take care of it. He picked his card. I turn my back, giving him the order to make sure that I don’t see his card. He’s supposed to show the crowd. I doubt he does.
With my back turned I look at the bottom of the deck. In the magic world, this is called the key card. A magician never reveals her secrets, but this key card is key to pulling off the trick. Good name for it. This method, the ‘turn around and look’ method is inelegant. If this was a typical crowd they’d know what I was doing. The magic is lost. But these kids don’t care. I could create fire in my palm and they wouldn’t care. And that trick is for older people anyway. So I cheat. I turn my back and look at the deck. His card is the three of clubs.
This is my life.
I play my part. I act enthusiastic. I try to get him to participate, to become part of the act, but when I finally show him his card, I’m met with tepid applause from the kids whose parents taught them manners. I don’t even bother doing a finale. I thank the kids for being a wonderful crowd and I start to pack my things. I put on a show. They didn’t want to see it. It’s the bullshit artists of the magic world that ruined it. The ones who have television specials where they pay dopes to pretend that a life sized balloon of a famous person is actually the real person being floated over a house. Fuck those charlatans. They don’t care about magic. About the craft. About putting on a show.
I do. I care. And my reward is a check that will just barely keep a roof over my head another month.
This is my life.
With my bag of tricks packed and my feet carrying me to the driveway, I hear the party liven up considerably. The tearing of paper. The raucous applause. It’s time for presents. I really was just an obstacle.
This is my life.
As I round the corner to the driveway I come face to face with my face. A cartoon caricature of my face, plastered over the side of my black van. My Magic Mobile. It’s got a website to visit, a phone number to call, both for booking information. ‘Miss Morgan le Faye, Mistress of Magic’ is written above my head. It’s a bit wordy, but it’s alliterative and therefore clever. In this van I tour the nation, continental United States only of course. I get booked and my reward is gas money. And even that is running out. No one is interested in magic anymore. Not of the traditional sort.
This is my life.
Why the hell did I ever want to be a magician? The joy I felt as a child carried me only so far. I was born too late. I’ll never make it to Vegas. I’ll never headline my own show. I’ll never see my name in anything other than fancy pink font on the side of my van. I love magic. I honestly, truly do. But I feel like I’m the only one. People who go and see a David Blaine thing aren’t going because of the magic; they go because of the name attached. What will it take to get my name out there? To revive people’s love of magic?
I sit in the driver’s seat of my van, head resting on the steering wheel. I can’t call this gig successful, that would be lying. It was one step above a train wreck. Is it sad that that’s been my most ‘successful’ gig recently? Post show ritual. Reflecting on where the show went wrong and what went right, combined with resentment of my career choice.
The bluesy guitar of ‘Black Magic Woman’ knocks me out of my thoughts. My cell phone. I answer the call with a mumble.
“Show went well, I take it?” The voice belongs to Tony Hughes. Former flame and current manager. I call him manager only because he handles the booking side of my website. He calls me, tells me the gig, and in return I pay him a portion. That’s not his full time job, of course, and I honestly think he does it because he wants to rekindle our burnt out flame that was our brief relationship.
“So well they didn’t even ask for my grand finale.” Spin it, Morgan, spin a negative to a positive.
“As long as the check clears, yeah?” Good ol’ Tony, all about the money. Businessmen are all the same.
“You’re calling me, Tony. You never call to check on me, tell me you’ve got a job.” I’m in no mood for small talk. Not after today’s gig.
“And here I thought you showgirls were all about the buildup. But yes, I’ve got something. East coast, even, your favorite.”
“Is it another fucking birthday party?” I’m so tired of birthday parties. I’ve really started to hate kids.
“It depends on your definition. Tell me, how do you feel about tights and men who wear them?”
To be honest, I thought Tony was joking with his offer. What the hell did I know about wrestling? And why would people going to a show want to see a magic show beforehand? But, they were paying in advance and I wasn’t picky, despite my birthday bias.
But of course I accepted the job.
If nothing else, I’d get a free wrestling show out of it. What was the worst that could happen?
This is my life.
I’m up front, cheap music on a lousy speaker system and a banner straight from Kinko’s. This is me. This is the path I took. This is how ‘Magic Morgan le Faye’ earns her living. My next trick is a classic card trick, and I need someone from the audience. I smile. I exaggerate. I put on a show because even if the audience doesn’t respond, it’s my job to perform for them. It’s my job to try. It’s my job to care. Because no one else will.
This is my life.
I manage to get the birthday boy to help out with my trick. He’s reluctant. He saw a brand new action figure under his parents’ bed and that’s all his mind is focused on. That and cake. But not magic. Not this magician in a top hat and black lycra. She’s just some weird lady who says ‘ZVARRI’ a lot. I would feel sorry for his parents, but they probably don’t even care if their child is happy or not. Plop him in front of the television, let that take care of it. He picked his card. I turn my back, giving him the order to make sure that I don’t see his card. He’s supposed to show the crowd. I doubt he does.
With my back turned I look at the bottom of the deck. In the magic world, this is called the key card. A magician never reveals her secrets, but this key card is key to pulling off the trick. Good name for it. This method, the ‘turn around and look’ method is inelegant. If this was a typical crowd they’d know what I was doing. The magic is lost. But these kids don’t care. I could create fire in my palm and they wouldn’t care. And that trick is for older people anyway. So I cheat. I turn my back and look at the deck. His card is the three of clubs.
This is my life.
I play my part. I act enthusiastic. I try to get him to participate, to become part of the act, but when I finally show him his card, I’m met with tepid applause from the kids whose parents taught them manners. I don’t even bother doing a finale. I thank the kids for being a wonderful crowd and I start to pack my things. I put on a show. They didn’t want to see it. It’s the bullshit artists of the magic world that ruined it. The ones who have television specials where they pay dopes to pretend that a life sized balloon of a famous person is actually the real person being floated over a house. Fuck those charlatans. They don’t care about magic. About the craft. About putting on a show.
I do. I care. And my reward is a check that will just barely keep a roof over my head another month.
This is my life.
With my bag of tricks packed and my feet carrying me to the driveway, I hear the party liven up considerably. The tearing of paper. The raucous applause. It’s time for presents. I really was just an obstacle.
This is my life.
As I round the corner to the driveway I come face to face with my face. A cartoon caricature of my face, plastered over the side of my black van. My Magic Mobile. It’s got a website to visit, a phone number to call, both for booking information. ‘Miss Morgan le Faye, Mistress of Magic’ is written above my head. It’s a bit wordy, but it’s alliterative and therefore clever. In this van I tour the nation, continental United States only of course. I get booked and my reward is gas money. And even that is running out. No one is interested in magic anymore. Not of the traditional sort.
This is my life.
Why the hell did I ever want to be a magician? The joy I felt as a child carried me only so far. I was born too late. I’ll never make it to Vegas. I’ll never headline my own show. I’ll never see my name in anything other than fancy pink font on the side of my van. I love magic. I honestly, truly do. But I feel like I’m the only one. People who go and see a David Blaine thing aren’t going because of the magic; they go because of the name attached. What will it take to get my name out there? To revive people’s love of magic?
I sit in the driver’s seat of my van, head resting on the steering wheel. I can’t call this gig successful, that would be lying. It was one step above a train wreck. Is it sad that that’s been my most ‘successful’ gig recently? Post show ritual. Reflecting on where the show went wrong and what went right, combined with resentment of my career choice.
The bluesy guitar of ‘Black Magic Woman’ knocks me out of my thoughts. My cell phone. I answer the call with a mumble.
“Show went well, I take it?” The voice belongs to Tony Hughes. Former flame and current manager. I call him manager only because he handles the booking side of my website. He calls me, tells me the gig, and in return I pay him a portion. That’s not his full time job, of course, and I honestly think he does it because he wants to rekindle our burnt out flame that was our brief relationship.
“So well they didn’t even ask for my grand finale.” Spin it, Morgan, spin a negative to a positive.
“As long as the check clears, yeah?” Good ol’ Tony, all about the money. Businessmen are all the same.
“You’re calling me, Tony. You never call to check on me, tell me you’ve got a job.” I’m in no mood for small talk. Not after today’s gig.
“And here I thought you showgirls were all about the buildup. But yes, I’ve got something. East coast, even, your favorite.”
“Is it another fucking birthday party?” I’m so tired of birthday parties. I’ve really started to hate kids.
“It depends on your definition. Tell me, how do you feel about tights and men who wear them?”
To be honest, I thought Tony was joking with his offer. What the hell did I know about wrestling? And why would people going to a show want to see a magic show beforehand? But, they were paying in advance and I wasn’t picky, despite my birthday bias.
But of course I accepted the job.
If nothing else, I’d get a free wrestling show out of it. What was the worst that could happen?
