 |
It was my mother who first saw the two heading up our walkway.
They were silent, soft in their steps and deliberate in their mission.
Her eyes flared at my father, Li'l Tom Hardy, America's Foremost
Psychic Entertainer, and he averted her stare.
I grabbed my little brother and dove behind the divan. Tommy Jr.
cried out momentarily when his forehead struck the arm of our faded red
couch.
I stared at him and held my hand over his mouth. He was 7 and I was 12. He was also immature and I was practically an adult.
Consequently, I was not surprised but was bothered when he started
licking the palm of my hand in an immature effort to get me to remove
it from his mouth.
"Lick all you want," I said with a soft whisper. "We're out of soap in the downstairs bathroom so it's your funeral."
His eyes darted down towards my hand and then back up at me to see
if I was joking. He must have assumed that I would not joke like this
at such a dangerous moment. The licking stopped, I released my grip
and he breathed deep but silently.
I looked from around the couch and saw my mother, still in her
church clothes, pinned against the wall by the doorway and my father
kneeling beneath the window sill. I could also see one of the
strangers' arms in a long-sleeve white cotton shirt. It was a hot day
and yet there did not seem to be any perspiration stains on the part of
the shirt I could see.
Like the crew of a hunted submarine, we said nothing. My mother
gestured her concern for Tommy Jr.'s head and promised to get some
Bactine on it as soon as the visitors left. Tommy Jr. nodded and
looked at me.
I wanted to be brave for him but I couldn't. I knew what was at risk.
If we were caught, if the visitors determined we were secretly hiding
behind the door, they would wait us out.
My father had two shows later that day and I was going to assist in
both. I knew that if the visitors didn't leave, or worse, if they
caught us, we could miss one or both shows.
I was angry.
 |
The doorbell sounded for the first of what would likely be a dozen
times. We remained silent and did not move. Tommy Jr. indicated to
Mother that his head was really hurting.
Despite the best maternal instincts, she held her breath and showed sympathy with her frightened eyes.
Ding-Ding, our retarded Siamese cat wandered into the living room and checked out the four statuesque positions we had taken.
Ding-Ding was stupid but very confused. She couldn't figure out why
we would be in these poses and why no one would bend down to pet her as
she rubbed against each of us.
She rubbed against my brother's head and then began to lick his
abrasion. My mother's eyes glared at Ding-Ding. My brother did not
realize what was happening until he felt Ding-Ding's tail stroke his
ear.
"OH MY GOD!" Tommy Jr. yelled as he tried push the imbecile and family pet away.
With that shout, we were exposed. My father stood up from his
kneeling stance, waved at the strangers and moved to open the door.
My mother grabbed Tommy Jr. and rushed to the downstairs bathroom
for medical treatment. I heard Tommy Jr. wretch as he noticed there
really wasn't any soap in the bathroom.
I stood behind my pop as he opened the door.
"Is this a bad time?" the taller of the two very tall men asked.
"No, not at all," my father lied. "C'mon in, grab a seat."
They walked in and surveyed the room. They sat next to each other
on the couch and opened their knapsacks to remove their materials.
My father and mother were always tolerant of other beliefs and
supportive of those who tried to find the correct path, no matter where
that path initially seemed to go. It was ironic, then, that they would
be harassed by the Friends.
The Friends, short for The Friends of FISM, were missionaries
dedicated to sharing their beliefs with magicians around the world.
They saw uniformity as strength and disunity as disloyalty to the
greater good of Magic.
These two Friends were tall, as I said, had similar short haircuts,
red ties, white shirts, black tuxedo pants and patent leather shoes.
"Did you have a chance to read the materials we left for you last
week, Tommy?" one of the Friends asked. I don't recall their names so
I'll call him Frick.
Frick's diction, like all of the Friends, was impeccable. He may
have been from our community but I knew from the stories down at the
Magic Den that they were usually from other countries.
My father mumbled something about not really studying the four
pamphlets they left the previous week. To be honest, he should have
told them that he tossed them into the pile of papers used for
Ding-Ding's cat litter area – she had not successfully relieved herself
within the confines of the pan since we found her. The paper area was
crucial. We needed plenty of absorbent paper constantly.
"We have some new materials for you, Tommy." Frack, Frick's Friend, said.
He handed my pop four more pamphlets: Music Is A Must; Sponge Balls Make Spongy Shows;Your Personal Grooming and Your Audience Appeal; and Dancing on Stage Magically.
My father was a gentleman and said nothing in response. He didn't
even roll his eyes. He took the pamphlets, looked them over with
courtesy and set them on top of the television.
"So, how about you, young man?" Frack asked me. "You intend to do magic like your father?"
I nodded. My father beamed.
"What kind of magic do you do?" Frick asked me.
I looked to my dad for approval and permission to speak. He granted both with a nod of his head and a pat on my leg.
"I do escapes and mentalism." If I could have ripped out Frick's
heart and hit it with a tennis racket deep into Frack's throat, I would
not have received a worse reaction.
Frick swallowed deeply and looked at my dad. My dad still looked
proud. They knew that my father, Li'l Tom Hardy, America's Foremost
Psychic Entertainer, did mentalism but perhaps figured he was too far
gone to be saved.
I, on the other hand, was apparently tying my soap box derby car to
the bumper of his Show-Mobile for a out-of-control ride on the Highway
to Hell.
"Do you like other types of magic?" Frick asked.
I nodded.
"Like what? Do you like to dance on stage and make canes vanish, appear, dance with you?"
I shook my head.
Frack took over, "Is that because you are self-conscious of your dancing; afraid you'll look 'silly'?"
I cleared my throat and looked at my dad.
"No, I just want to be like my pop. I want to carry on the family name."
My dad smiled. Frick and Frack stared at each other.
Frack spoke: "No, offense, son, but you're dad's approach to magic is
dated. You'll never make Vegas or the Lido with that kind of act. You
need to have polish and dance on stage."
My father took my hand and then turned to Frack. "No offense to either
of you or the whole Friends Movement, but we're happy doing the kind of
magic we've done in the Hardy family since great grandpa got off the
boat."
Frick responded nastily, "Even though you play nothing more than school
assemblies, birthday parties, and an occasional trade show? I could
see you continuing the tradition but why drag your son down?"
My father looked at me and I took up the argument for the family.
"We don't need to play Vegas, Lido – wherever that is – or fancy
theaters where no one like us can afford to go. We're happy with our
Blue and Golds and church picnics. Why don't you leave us alone?"
There was silence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my little brother and mother
lean their heads out from the bathroom doorway. They were smiling.
"Why?" Frick asked softly. "Why? Let's assume you were walking down a
street, any street, and you saw a fire engulfing a home. On the top
story, you saw three of your best friends screaming for help. Wouldn't
you find a way to get them down and away from that inferno?"
I couldn't think of three of my friends who would all be in the same
building at any one time. They were all loners but that was beside the
point.
Frick continued, "That is no different than what we have here. We see
magicians like you and your father in a building engulfed in flames.
Sometimes you know there is fire, sometimes you don't, but in either
case, it is our obligation to save your lives."
The metaphor was lost on me but my father got it.
"I think we would prefer to burn to death," he said.
"But that's the problem," Frack said, "It is unethical and immoral for
us to let you burn to death. You can fight us but that's only because
you don't know how painful it is to live as you are living. You need
to step from the fire to realize the world can be much nicer."
Silence. I saw my mother and brother emerge from the bathoom and walk
towards the kitchen. My brother's head was bandaged but he was
smiling, as was my mom.
My father shook his head. "Are we all done, then?" he asked politely of the guests.
"Will you read our pamphlets?" Frack asked as he pointed towards the television.
"Probably not," my dad said.
They took his rejection in stride.
"Son, will you look at the pamphlets? They have pretty pictures of magicians around the world performing in the FISM style."
My father looked down at me and I looked at our visitors.
"No, I don't think so. I will be assisting my father in his shows. We have a name to carry on."
|
It was my mother who first saw the two heading up our walkway.
They were silent, soft in their steps and deliberate in their mission.
Her eyes flared at my father, Li'l Tom Hardy, America's Foremost
Psychic Entertainer, and he averted her stare.
I grabbed my little brother and dove behind the divan. Tommy Jr.
cried out momentarily when his forehead struck the arm of our faded red
couch.
I stared at him and held my hand over his mouth. He was 7 and I was 12. He was also immature and I was practically an adult.
Consequently, I was not surprised but was bothered when he started
licking the palm of my hand in an immature effort to get me to remove
it from his mouth.
"Lick all you want," I said with a soft whisper. "We're out of soap in the downstairs bathroom so it's your funeral."
His eyes darted down towards my hand and then back up at me to see
if I was joking. He must have assumed that I would not joke like this
at such a dangerous moment. The licking stopped, I released my grip
and he breathed deep but silently.
I looked from around the couch and saw my mother, still in her
church clothes, pinned against the wall by the doorway and my father
kneeling beneath the window sill. I could also see one of the
strangers' arms in a long-sleeve white cotton shirt. It was a hot day
and yet there did not seem to be any perspiration stains on the part of
the shirt I could see.
Like the crew of a hunted submarine, we said nothing. My mother
gestured her concern for Tommy Jr.'s head and promised to get some
Bactine on it as soon as the visitors left. Tommy Jr. nodded and
looked at me.
I wanted to be brave for him but I couldn't. I knew what was at risk.
If we were caught, if the visitors determined we were secretly hiding
behind the door, they would wait us out.
My father had two shows later that day and I was going to assist in
both. I knew that if the visitors didn't leave, or worse, if they
caught us, we could miss one or both shows.
I was angry.
|
The doorbell sounded for the first of what would likely be a dozen
times. We remained silent and did not move. Tommy Jr. indicated to
Mother that his head was really hurting.
Despite the best maternal instincts, she held her breath and showed sympathy with her frightened eyes.
Ding-Ding, our retarded Siamese cat wandered into the living room and checked out the four statuesque positions we had taken.
Ding-Ding was stupid but very confused. She couldn't figure out why
we would be in these poses and why no one would bend down to pet her as
she rubbed against each of us.
She rubbed against my brother's head and then began to lick his
abrasion. My mother's eyes glared at Ding-Ding. My brother did not
realize what was happening until he felt Ding-Ding's tail stroke his
ear.
"OH MY GOD!" Tommy Jr. yelled as he tried push the imbecile and family pet away.
With that shout, we were exposed. My father stood up from his
kneeling stance, waved at the strangers and moved to open the door.
My mother grabbed Tommy Jr. and rushed to the downstairs bathroom
for medical treatment. I heard Tommy Jr. wretch as he noticed there
really wasn't any soap in the bathroom.
I stood behind my pop as he opened the door.
"Is this a bad time?" the taller of the two very tall men asked.
"No, not at all," my father lied. "C'mon in, grab a seat."
They walked in and surveyed the room. They sat next to each other
on the couch and opened their knapsacks to remove their materials.
My father and mother were always tolerant of other beliefs and
supportive of those who tried to find the correct path, no matter where
that path initially seemed to go. It was ironic, then, that they would
be harassed by the Friends.
The Friends, short for The Friends of FISM, were missionaries
dedicated to sharing their beliefs with magicians around the world.
They saw uniformity as strength and disunity as disloyalty to the
greater good of Magic.
These two Friends were tall, as I said, had similar short haircuts,
red ties, white shirts, black tuxedo pants and patent leather shoes.
"Did you have a chance to read the materials we left for you last
week, Tommy?" one of the Friends asked. I don't recall their names so
I'll call him Frick.
Frick's diction, like all of the Friends, was impeccable. He may
have been from our community but I knew from the stories down at the
Magic Den that they were usually from other countries.
My father mumbled something about not really studying the four
pamphlets they left the previous week. To be honest, he should have
told them that he tossed them into the pile of papers used for
Ding-Ding's cat litter area – she had not successfully relieved herself
within the confines of the pan since we found her. The paper area was
crucial. We needed plenty of absorbent paper constantly.
"We have some new materials for you, Tommy." Frack, Frick's Friend, said.
He handed my pop four more pamphlets: Music Is A Must; Sponge Balls Make Spongy Shows;Your Personal Grooming and Your Audience Appeal; and Dancing on Stage Magically.
My father was a gentleman and said nothing in response. He didn't
even roll his eyes. He took the pamphlets, looked them over with
courtesy and set them on top of the television.
"So, how about you, young man?" Frack asked me. "You intend to do magic like your father?"
I nodded. My father beamed.
"What kind of magic do you do?" Frick asked me.
I looked to my dad for approval and permission to speak. He granted both with a nod of his head and a pat on my leg.
"I do escapes and mentalism." If I could have ripped out Frick's
heart and hit it with a tennis racket deep into Frack's throat, I would
not have received a worse reaction.
Frick swallowed deeply and looked at my dad. My dad still looked
proud. They knew that my father, Li'l Tom Hardy, America's Foremost
Psychic Entertainer, did mentalism but perhaps figured he was too far
gone to be saved.
I, on the other hand, was apparently tying my soap box derby car to
the bumper of his Show-Mobile for a out-of-control ride on the Highway
to Hell.
"Do you like other types of magic?" Frick asked.
I nodded.
"Like what? Do you like to dance on stage and make canes vanish, appear, dance with you?"
I shook my head.
Frack took over, "Is that because you are self-conscious of your dancing; afraid you'll look 'silly'?"
I cleared my throat and looked at my dad.
"No, I just want to be like my pop. I want to carry on the family name."
My dad smiled. Frick and Frack stared at each other.
Frack spoke: "No, offense, son, but you're dad's approach to magic is
dated. You'll never make Vegas or the Lido with that kind of act. You
need to have polish and dance on stage."
My father took my hand and then turned to Frack. "No offense to either
of you or the whole Friends Movement, but we're happy doing the kind of
magic we've done in the Hardy family since great grandpa got off the
boat."
Frick responded nastily, "Even though you play nothing more than school
assemblies, birthday parties, and an occasional trade show? I could
see you continuing the tradition but why drag your son down?"
My father looked at me and I took up the argument for the family.
"We don't need to play Vegas, Lido – wherever that is – or fancy
theaters where no one like us can afford to go. We're happy with our
Blue and Golds and church picnics. Why don't you leave us alone?"
There was silence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my little brother and mother
lean their heads out from the bathroom doorway. They were smiling.
"Why?" Frick asked softly. "Why? Let's assume you were walking down a
street, any street, and you saw a fire engulfing a home. On the top
story, you saw three of your best friends screaming for help. Wouldn't
you find a way to get them down and away from that inferno?"
I couldn't think of three of my friends who would all be in the same
building at any one time. They were all loners but that was beside the
point.
Frick continued, "That is no different than what we have here. We see
magicians like you and your father in a building engulfed in flames.
Sometimes you know there is fire, sometimes you don't, but in either
case, it is our obligation to save your lives."
The metaphor was lost on me but my father got it.
"I think we would prefer to burn to death," he said.
"But that's the problem," Frack said, "It is unethical and immoral for
us to let you burn to death. You can fight us but that's only because
you don't know how painful it is to live as you are living. You need
to step from the fire to realize the world can be much nicer."
Silence. I saw my mother and brother emerge from the bathoom and walk
towards the kitchen. My brother's head was bandaged but he was
smiling, as was my mom.
My father shook his head. "Are we all done, then?" he asked politely of the guests.
"Will you read our pamphlets?" Frack asked as he pointed towards the television.
"Probably not," my dad said.
They took his rejection in stride.
"Son, will you look at the pamphlets? They have pretty pictures of magicians around the world performing in the FISM style."
My father looked down at me and I looked at our visitors.
"No, I don't think so. I will be assisting my father in his shows. We have a name to carry on."
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