and onto the stage. I listened as the volunteer picked a card, then returned to his seat.
Next came the false reveal, where Dad would draw the ace of spades from the deck.
“Is this your card?” he asked.
“Nope!” replied Work Boots. The audience laughed uncomfortably.
“Oh, dear. Let me see . . .” I pictured Dad’s well-rehearsed frown as he thumbed through the deck again, this time plucking out the queen of diamonds.
“Voilà!” he said.
“That’s not it, either.” A titter in the crowd. A few boos.
“Wait, wait. I have it.” Now Dad’s footsteps approached the box I was hiding inside. He produced a big brass key, unlocked the padlock, and flipped open the lid. I couldn’t make out his features against the glare of the lights, but I knew he was smiling down at me.
He backed away as I rose, unfolding myself from the box and raising my arms in a victorious V. On the front of my bodysuit was emblazoned the volunteer’s card: the nine of hearts.
The lights were blinding, and in the black void beyond their glare the audience exploded in cheers and applause. My face split in a wide smile, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The adrenaline was pumping now, coming on too fast. I gritted my teeth and tried to hold steady.
Dad’s voice drew reality back into focus as he launched into the patter that introduced Linking Rings.
We had switched our usual roles; tonight Dad was the foil, yanking at his solid steel rings in a vain effort to separate them, while I slipped mine apart with ease to whistling and cheers. My pulse climbed higher. I felt light inside, as if a helium balloon were inflating in my chest. When Linking Rings ended, I moved downstage to interact with the audience; now it was time for my kind of magic.
I started small, approaching the bartender to order a shot, which I had him drink before I vanished the glass by slapping it flat into the bar top. Then I moved into the audience and found the bartender’s watch on the wrist of a woman in the front row. I returned it to the barman, only to find the woman’s iPhone in his back pocket.
Next came my take on Card to Fruit, barroom style. I had a biker pick a playing card, sign it, and place it securely in his girlfriend’s purse. Then I crossed back to the bar and grabbed a lemon from a bin on the counter. Borrowing a paring knife, I sliced it open and pulled out the biker’s card. I held it up so the audience could see his signature on the back, now wet with lemon juice. There was even a seed stuck to it.
The cheers were deafening; the audience was with me now, eating out of my hand. My heart beat in my throat as if I’d just sprinted four city blocks. I was high, racing at the speed of light.
Next, I found a man wearing a Chicago Bears cap. I pulled it off his balding head, reached inside, and extracted the shot glass I had slapped into the bar. Then I took a silk from my pocket and draped it over the glass. I reached down for the fifth of Wild Turkey bourbon I was supposed to produce from under the silk—but as I was bringing it up, it slipped out of my hand and shattered on the tabletop, soaking the guy’s lap in whiskey.
My face went cold—but Bears Cap was so hammered that he just laughed it off. I laughed along with him; I’d gotten lucky. I shrugged, playing it off like the spill was intentional, and mopped his shirt with the silk handkerchief before making it disappear into my fist.
It was a huge gaffe—and even though the audience had laughed, I could tell they were uncomfortable now. Embarrassed. I was losing them. The balloon in my chest had become overinflated, and my breath came in short gasps as I made my way back to the stage.
The lights dimmed, and the slow-motion ricochet beat of Tori Amos’s “Hey Jupiter” began to thump through the speakers. I locked my thumbs together and raised my hands over my head, making the shadow of a bird on the back curtain. When I separated my fingers, a live white dove burst forth and flew in an arc around the audience. They applauded as the bird returned to alight on a perch upstage.
I remember that first