Intersections

  I smoked joint after joint of the weed as I lay in my silky king-sized bed, watching TV and dreaming. As if I gave a damn about the “no smoking in the rooms” policy. Catch me if you can. I paid cash.

  As I lay on the mountain of pillows, clicking through an assortment of reality TV and sitcoms, the colorful plan turned into a movie, complete with plot and characters. I knew what to do.

  * * *

  As much as I hated to, I returned to my home town of Lucan, Ontario. Just for a day. Yes, that Lucan. Home of the Black Donnellys. Or was home to the Black Donnellys. Growing up in a ghost town, a dot on the paranormal investigator tour, gave me pause for all the different types of folks one is going to run into in one’s life. When I was a kid, I thought there was something weird and off about the ghost hunters who came through town, trying to connect with the ghosts from the tragic story. I wondered why they wanted to talk to them. Why did they bring all that equipment when the ghosts were right there, waiting to speak?

  They were so busy with their gear; they didn’t see and hear them, right there.

  * * *

  The hoard and its hoarder were still there like some live-action nightmare. Mom was huge and bloated, so large that she spilled out of her wooden rocking chair, her flowered muumuu grazing the floor barely covering her sagging flesh. She didn’t care that I was home, she barely stirred from watching whatever she was watching on her big screen TV. Mountains of filth surrounded her, but her TV was crystal clear. So was the sound for that matter.

  “Did you get new speakers?” I asked her.

  “Yes, good sale at the Hardware Store,” she said. I bet. She likely had seven pairs of the same speakers in the house somewhere but who knew? I just knew I had come for only a couple of things and then was hitting the streets. Yes, the streets were better than this hell.

  I fought the urge to vomit from all the putrid odors violating my nose. Cat piss. Dog shit. Garbage. More garbage. Rotting meat with the accompanying flies and maggots. The place was a million times worse since I left.

  I went into what had been my room. It was still my room but the hoard had leaked into there as well. And yes, there were several boxes of speakers. Why buy just one when seven will do?

  I dug through several boxes and closets until I had amassed what I could that didn’t smell too horrible or wasn’t too damaged by time. I packed up the oversized suitcase I had brought and imagined a life where I never had to return to this shithole again.

  * * *

  For the next month, I rented out a cheap motel room in Parkdale and worked on my new look. My new persona.

  I spent hours watching old movies, reading old romances, and mysteries. I was a fixture at the library googling magic tricks and mentalism illusions.

  When I first googled mentalism, I admit, I was disappointed. I had always thought mentalists had some sort of gift. I knew that magicians used illusions but I thought mentalists really had an edge. That they were able to use some kind of ESP. And yes, sure, in a way they do, along with body language, math skills, iron clad memories, and plain old trickery. Mentalism was very much like magic as far as I could see. It both thrilled and saddened me as I deciphered trick after trick on YouTube.

  I dyed my hair black and picked up an assortment of vintage wigs at the various thrift shops around town. I added on to my wardrobe: antique dresses, pillbox hats, old-fashioned pocketbooks, and heels. I learned to walk in all manner of little strappy heels and even high ones.

  I was my own Henry Higgins training Eliza Doolittle as I practiced my tricks in front of the mirror. I began to hang out at some of the local bars in my new look, always certain that I returned home with a little something towards my rent.

  I stalked the mentalist on social media and watched for his next show. In the meantime, I practiced tricks with the deck of cards I had relieved from him that day.

  * * *

  Danny the mentalist was performing at a small theatre in Toronto. A night of mentalism to thrill and chill the audience. This show required tickets and seating. It would also require the unveiling of my new persona.

  Annette.

  That night, my look was Betty Page crossed with Annette Funicello. My bangs were straight cut, my shoulder-length hair jet black, and my lips painted ruby red to offset thick eyelashes and pale skin.

  A red and white polka dot vintage sundress with red shoes and a red pocketbook completed the look.

  I sat in the front row, not sure what to expect nor what I would see. His pack of cards was tucked into my purse.

  I looked around the tiny theatre. It was jammed with people from all walks of life. Certainly, the theatre couldn’t hold more than one hundred but at twenty bucks a ticket, he did all right. It was old and musty. The seats were likely one hundred year old movie theatre seats. There was no curtain, the stage was very small. Music from the old time vaudeville shows was playing over the speakers. People mingled and talked with each other. Even Danny himself was in the lobby, greeting the excited people.

  At last, the lights dimmed and then went out. The music stopped. Then, the spotlight glowed where Danny welcomed us in true carny style. The show began and I watched carefully as he led us through his bag of tricks. Some of the illusions he performed, I couldn’t figure out. Others, I could see how he had put his special spin on a basic trick that had been passed down for generations.

  Again, I enjoyed his easygoing nature, his sense of humor, and his comedic timing. His sleight of hand was perfection, his illusions both amused and amazed. As he bowed after his final trick, I smiled in the darkness.

  When the lights went up again, most of the audience was already on its feet; some rushing up to the stage to speak to him, others just trying to get home.

  I sat in my seat in the front row, watching as people shook his hand and congratulated him on his show.

  As his admirers thinned out, he looked over at me a couple of times. At last, he made his way over. I stood up and let him kiss my hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss...” he looked at me with large brown eyes, a moment of hesitation in his voice.

  “Miss Annette. You may call me Annette,” I cooed softly in the new baby-woman voice I’d been practicing.

  “Miss Annette, I’m Danny,” he dropped my hand and performed a small bow. “Did you enjoy the show tonight?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Very much,” I said.

  “Have you seen me perform before?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen you perform street magic. Never a show such as this,” I said, waving my hand around the tiny dusty theatre.

  “What do you like better?” he asked.

  “I like the glamour of the theatre. The lights. The magic,” I said. Then I lowered my voice, “but I also enjoy the intimacy of one-on-one magic.”

  He blushed as I batted my long black false eyelashes at him.

  “Are you busy right now?” he asked. “Would you like to go for a coffee somewhere?”

  I smiled.

  “I could come with you for a short while,” I said.

  We went for a coffee and it lasted much longer than a short while. I regaled him with my story about how I’d come to Toronto to be an actress. I had been a background performer in over twenty productions so far. It was fun but not quite paying the bills. He promised to look around for me to see if anyone had any kind of work I could do to fill the gaps. As he talked about friends in semi-high places, I produced his deck of cards from my purse and laid them out on the table.

  He stopped yammering in mid-sentence and looked down at the cards.

  “Where did you get those?” he asked.

  “Why? Do you recognize them?” I asked. He reached for them then stopped. He looked over at me.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I replied and sat back in my chair to watch. He picked up the cards and thumbed through them, recognizing nicks and cuts, turning them over and inside out. He looked over at me.

  “Wh
ere did you find them? I’ve been looking all over for these,” he said.

  “The magician doesn’t always have all the tricks,” I said as I held up his watch for him. He reached for his wrist and then met my eyes with his. His lips slowly formed a grin. Then he laughed. He stopped laughing and grew serious.

  “Yes, another magician who wants to hook up with me. I get them all the time. I had hoped that we were on a coffee date,” he said.

  “Not much of a mind-reader, then,” I gently teased. “I’m not a magician and I don’t want to hook up with you. I was just having fun.”

  I gave him back his watch and stood up. “The last subway is leaving soon. I have to go.”

  “But wait,” he said, his words following me out of the cafe as I hurried down the street.

  I heard footsteps running up behind me. I stopped and turned.

  “How do I get in touch with you, Miss Annette?” he asked.

  “You don’t. I’ll call you.” I smiled and turned back to the street.

  He ran back into the cafe, not wanting to do a disappearing act on our tab. I ran around the corner and by-passed the subway. I kicked off my fancy-ass pumps and put them into one of those little tote bags that come with tiny folded up flats. It was a very long walk back to the room and I wasn’t doing it in heels.

  * * *

  A couple of weeks passed and I thought I should pop back into Danny’s life once more. I had read more about mentalism and manipulation. I had learned a few more practical illusions and was getting pretty good at them by myself. I never had the nerve to stand around performing tricks for anyone. But certainly, my daily stash was growing with my skill. However, picking pockets was so petty next to just plain tricking people out of their money. The art of it excited me; it kept me awake at night. However, I knew there had to be more to it all. There had to be some kind of real magic; paranormal, or something. Not everything could be a trick. Some of it had to be unexplainable.

  Those were the real secrets I craved. The ancient knowledge in the Magician’s Handbook. Real mindreading and telekinesis. Real shape-shifting and teleporting. Not the illusions easily found on the internet. What did they discuss at the Magic Castle? Were there ancients rituals performed? Was their real magic the same thing as witchcraft? Was witchcraft real?

  And as I educated myself mentally, I perfected my character. A combination of Betty Page, Betty Boop, Marilyn Monroe, and Liz Taylor. I starved myself further into being the perfect tiny-waisted fifties pinup girl, with a soft voice, and gentle demeanor. I practiced walking every day as I thought I’d never get used to the different styles of heels. I practiced my expressions in the mirror, perfecting a red-lipped pout and a bewitching sultry stare.

  The more I googled ideas, the more I stumbled upon other ideas. My head was so full of theories and lessons that I thought it would explode. However, knowledge is power. And I wanted power over everyone and everything. I was finished with being invisible.

  * * *

  I wanted to see him again. In fact, it became almost an obsession. I wouldn’t allow myself to call him or email him. I stalked his social media and attempted to gauge his habits.

  One day, I dressed in a black and white pencil skirt and button back blouse along with a small white straw hat decked out with a wide black ribbon. I sat on the little wooden chair that came with the room, or at least, made a valiant attempt to sit on it without ripping my skirt until I opted to stand. The skirt was just too tight and I didn’t want to rip it. It hugged my body perfectly. He wouldn’t be able to resist this dark-haired seductress. My eyebrows were pencilled in thick and black and my eyelashes were enhanced with thickening mascara. My lips were painted red like maraschino cherries. I caught my reflection in the mirror that was on the dresser. I admired myself. My stomach rumbled. I was starving but looking in the mirror was worth it. I bet I was as thin as Vivian Leigh in Gone with the Wind.

  I closed my eyes. If I were a magician on a Saturday afternoon, where would I be? Sleeping? A magic store? The grocery store? The gym? A girlfriend’s house? A movie?

  I rolled through all the possibilities in my mind. I returned to each item, examining it while I breathed easily. Each possibility was turned over and explored while I paid attention to my stomach. Not the hunger rumble but something beyond that.

  Antique market.

  I swear to god or goddess or whatever, that there was a voice in my head. A voice yet a thought kind of thing. It was neither male nor female. Just a voice yet a thought. A voice-thought.

  My stomach tightened.

  Was that the sensation they spoke of in those old books at the library?

  I didn’t second guess. After all, there was no audience watching me. I didn’t even know that I’d be writing this down one day in some stupid notebook on a bus while the spirits lurk much too close to comfort.

  * * *

  The bus is bumping a lot, making my words jitter and my thoughts stray.

  However, I remain sheltered between Thing One and Thing Two for now. The pull at my energy is persistent but so far, I’m holding strong. As long as I don’t get distracted. As long as I remember my mission.

  * * *

  I check the package in the seat pocket in front of me. It’s still there. I touch the foil beneath the cloth. It’s warm. In fact, the whole bus is warm. I don’t want to squirm around too much, but I realize I’m sweating. Likely this notebook will have the added joy of dripping sweat to add to my cryptic penmanship.

  * * *

  I trusted my gut feeling that day. That’s what all the books and videos said to do. Heck, they even say it in any movie about magic or spirit. Use the Force. Trust your gut feelings.

  I didn’t question my gut feeling. I put my hand on my tummy and nodded in agreement.

  Antique market it would be.

  * * *

  As I strolled through the market, I looked at old clothes, wigs, and even creepy dolls. There was so much to look at and so much of it reminded of me of my mother’s house. Who wanted to buy a hoard to begin a new hoard?

  Not me.

  I picked up a ventriloquist dummy. It was rare to find actual puppets or dummies at these markets. Usually specialty items like those were on eBay or auction. However, this silly dummy was sitting on a pile of magic books. He was pretty ugly with freckles and red hair. I didn’t know why anyone would buy this type of doll at all.

  As I stood staring at the vacant eyes of the ugliest dummy in the world, I heard a voice behind me.

  “It’s you,” said the man, his voice a combination of relief and excitement. In fact, the force of his voice startled me. I turned around to see Danny.

  “Your long lost friend?” I asked Danny, pointing at the puppet. Danny laughed.

  “I was talking about you. I was hoping to see you again,” Danny said. I lifted the arm of the puppet.

  “Hellooo!” The puppet waved.

  “Do you like puppets?” Danny asked. I carefully lifted the doll and cradled its hideous body next to mine.

  “I can do a few things with puppets,” I lied.

  “I have several ventriloquist dolls. This little guy might make a good addition.”

  I handed the doll to Danny who slipped his fingers into the slots. The doll rolled its eyes and snapped its mouth open. The sight of it rather horrified me but I let Danny have his fun.

  “Hey, beautiful lady, would you like to go for lunch?” the puppet asked me.

  “I would love that, kind sir,” I replied.

  Danny played with the puppet a while longer before purchasing it.

  And then I let him purchase me lunch.

  * * *

  For a few weeks, I continued to be elusive with him. I wouldn’t give him my number, well, how could I, I had no phone. There was no way I was going to let him know I lived in a scuzzy little room in a shitty motel.

  Between stalking his social media and using my “gut instinct,” I was able to pop in and out of his life a few more times before I f
inally agreed to his business arrangement.

  The foolish man was actually stuttering when he asked me to be part of his act.

  * * *

  And so began many months of training, and then, my big debut as his new partner in his new act.

  * * *

  The training with him wasn’t that difficult as I’d self-taught myself so many of the illusions that I could find online. However, I didn’t tell him that. I let him believe I was quick and smart. However, most of the training wasn’t fun at all. It was tedious. So tedious. All that memorization was so boring. And the endless repetition of practicing new sleight of hand skills.

  During those months of training, he never made allusion to any untrickable illusion. His stance was truly “smoke and mirrors.” There was no magic. No true unsolvable magic.

  It was all tricks and games. Tricks and games.

  * * *

  Was I nervous the first night I hit the stage as we unveiled our new two-person magic show?

  Absolutely. I knew that forgetting one combination of numbers or letters could spoil a trick. I knew that if I didn’t play dumb and stupid, that the tricks would be more difficult to pull off. Blindfolded, I spoke softly, channeling the Goddess Marilyn, hesitantly describing the images I saw in people’s minds, the crap that people carried in their purses and bags, about what was in the envelope.

  And of course, I was always right. Always wowed them. Not through any gift, but by the simple repetition of the codes and schemes we spent months practicing.

  And sadly, that seemed to be it. There was no great secret, no grand illusion, no telepathy between us; it was all facts and science and misdirection.

  * * *