From Under What Rock...?
“Well, at leassst they cared enough to heckle tonight,” mused the young man as he prepared for bed. Tossing a worn black cape and battered top hat into the corner chair, he reached for a nearly empty bottle on the night stand.
“I’ll make you dissssappear anyway”, he said to the clear golden liquor which so perfectly matched his own eyes, before draining it in a single gulp. Only this magic elixir could make the nagging voices in his head disappear and it wasn’t the first bracer he had taken in the last 20 minutes. His feet turned awkwardly in a circle, arms spread wide, and he trumpeted to an invisible audience.
“Ladies and gennelemennnn-n, the Tahitian Woom at the Fab-ulous Step-Rite Inn is prou’ to present, fresh off a world-winnnn tour, Nachton the Great!”
With the announcement he staggered to his left and missed the TV stand by inches.
“Nothing up my sleeve…” he said and tore his cuffs up to the elbow, sending buttons everywhere.
“Abra-ca-effing-dabara” he slurred. Then the man froze, a look of horror on his face and began to cry silently.
“See, the lady vanished”, he sobbed to the crowd residing only in his mind. His voice became softer, less cultured and quite younger. “She was all gone except for that shoe. That damn shoe kept slipping off.” That shoe that got stuck in the hidden panel and showed everyone exactly how the trick worked.
“You were almost right Dad”, whispered a tiny little corner of his mind. “Except I never made it to Vegas.”
These were the last thoughts to pass through the mind of Nachton the Great, magician extraordinaire, as he collapsed onto a creaky motel bed and melted into a drunken stupor.
What he lacked in hope, Nachton made-up for by possessing the worst stage presence known to the entertainment industry. Yet people kept flocking to his shows. Local papers referred to him as the “William Hung” of magic because of the can’t-look-away-from-the-train-wreck feeling whenever he performed.
Deep in his true heart, where no one was allowed to go (or had ever tried) he truly loved magic. Not that the former Willard Hoffmann liked to deceive people for its own sake. But he really enjoyed the battle of wits. Performing an illusion was a challenge. Here is the puzzle. Believe your eyes or not. Try to figure it out. He experienced far more joy in a simple card trick which no one could see through than in the well-balanced ledgers his parents would have set into his future, if he had become an accountant like them.
Endless books, videos and mail-order magic kits taught him the basics. Yet even as a young teen he knew there was far more to learn. He needed a mentor, a Master Magician to teach him all the real secrets.
This awareness opened a yawning chasm between Willard and his father on the occasion of his 16th birthday. The wide-eyed and impressionable youth had decided to leave home and become an apprentice. Worse, he told his parents.
“Magic is a waste of time!” His father had yelled. “You’ll never amount to more than a second-rate act in a cheap Vegas bar.”
“You cannot go”, added his mother in a clipped and icy tone, “You are still a child and we are responsible for you.”
Every atom of his being shook with anger and frustration. He wanted to scream at his parents, “You do what makes you happy!! Why can’t I?!” But he knew it was no use. They were, for lack of a better term, painfully practical. James and Agnes Hoffmann knew the price of everything and the value of nothing.
He bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and curb the angry outburst. “Yes…Father,” he answered. But his innermost heart swore that he would become a magician someday.
Willard knew solitude from that instant. He was just a cipher to them. Another entry in the books to be balanced between debits and credits; all that mattered was the bottom line: his obedience. So he remained at home. Without their permission he could not go. Without their love he hated to stay. Joy was swallowed-up as magic became his refuge and fortress.
***
For the next two years Willard, now proclaimed as Nachton the Great, worked on his skills. At home, in secret practice, he became very good. No trick was beyond him. And slowly he built a modest name for himself as various opportunities arose to showcase his talents. He would perform at birthday parties, events, and community centers, anywhere that three or more people gathered. Once he was even asked to do a bachelorette party but making his own clothes disappear was not in his repertoire.
Mr. and Mrs. Hoffmann however refused to give the slightest encouragement. They would neither watch nor listen to him where magic was involved. And Nachton slipped into a deep depression.
The knowledge of his parents’ rejection robbed him of the inner life needed to captivate an audience. Rather than gently inviting people to share in an illusion, he lashed out at them, daring, challenging them to see the truth. There was no wonder or amazement in the air, only anger. He growled out the spells and incantations in a voice of deep resentment. Conjuring was no longer the protective cocoon he sought but a shield and weapon against the whole screwed-up world.
Perhaps the only thing which sustained Nachton during these turbulent years was his completely accidental induction to the Magic Castle
As a cruel joke, one of Willard’s classmates at Pasadena High had filed the application and booked the appointment without Willard’s knowledge. Then under the pretense of friendship and celebrating his 18th birthday, a group had invited him along on a visit to the world-famous magical landmark. The faux-friend procured guest cards from his father, a member and Castle Knight of the private club.
They arrived well before noon and simple Willard assumed his Nachton persona. They explored the many mysteries to be found inside the Castle’s enchanted walls. Lost in ecstatic amazement, Nachton didn’t notice the humorous tension amongst the members of his party, nor the occasional snigger when he spoke lovingly of Master Magicians past. For all he cared the world did not exist outside this sacred shrine. Here was where he belonged. He was home.
At precisely 1:45 a gong sounded throughout the building.
A small and smartly dressed man entered the lounge in which Nachton’s party and the other Castle guests had been served their lunch. “Now is the time for your auditions. If you will please compose yourselves and prepare for the test. Follow me in this order: Jones, Salazar, Nakashima and Hoffmann”, he said.
Two young men in ill-fitting tuxedos sprang to their feet and rushed to the now scowling man, the younger of the two spilling Portobello fries onto a very old and expensive rug. He looked them from head to toe and could not conceal his feeling of contempt for the stereo-typical dress and lack of presence. Then a young Japanese woman slowly detached herself from a side table and walked with deliberate ease to join the line. Her confident vibe was quite different from Jones and Salazar. She wore a Chong Sam of deep purple and gold which, despite covering her from neck to ankle, exuded an air of intense sexuality. A nod and very slight bow from the Castle representative showed his approval of her presentation.
“Did he say, ‘Hoffmann’?” Willard asked looking around. He did not see anyone else moving toward the queue. “I didn’t sign-up for an audition.”
The group of teen boys began to laugh openly and point at the line.
“No, we signed you up, Nachton .” the ring-leader said with a sneer. “You’ve talked about nothing but magic and how good you are for years. So go prove it.
When Willard hesitated he spoke again with venom in his voice. “I think you’re full of crap. You don’t have any magic in you. Now get up there and let’s see you fall flat on your…”
“Fine!” Nachton interrupted, the memory of his Father’s insults rising like bile into his mouth. “You jerks don’t know what you’re talking about. I am good. I am.”
His last words had come out almost as a plea rather than defiance. Screwing-up his face and his courage, Nachton stepped to the back of the line, ignoring the disdainful looks at his cheap suit.
The small group of would-be magicians moved quickly down the hall and into a sparse sitting-room. A dozen chairs ranged the antique-papered walls and a single door exited across from where they had entered.
“You will wait here until you are called,” they were told. Then, in his first show of genuine humanity, the dark-suited man added kindly, “Don’t worry. We all want to help you get better. Even if you don’t make it today you can try as often as you like.” He smiled warmly then left through the other door.
As if pushed apart by polar opposite magnets, each of the young people headed for a different side of the room and sat. Jones, Salazar and Nakashima then began muttering to themselves and making odd hand gestures. Obviously they were deep in thought about what tricks they were going to perform and taking some last minute practice.
Willard sat dumbfounded for a full three minutes, his mind as blank as the look on his face. Still unable to comprehend how he had ended-up in this room, it wasn’t until the little man returned and called for Jones that Willard realized he had no idea what illusions to perform. Of the hundreds he knew, not a single one seemed to be worthy of The Magic Castle. Nor did he have any of his props. This was the big show. Only the best were invited to perform here. How was he going to do anything? Nachton wracked his brain until it throbbed.
Jones never returned to the small waiting room. Willard assumed that meant he had left by another route and wasn’t sure if that was comforting or not. Part of him wanted to know if the judges were harsh but another part dreaded that possibility. After an endless ten minutes, Salazar was called through the door.
“Good luck,” floated a tiny voice from across the room as soon as the door had closed behind Salazar. The pretty Japanese girl had spoken aloud for the first time. “I saw how those boys were treating you. It wasn’t nice.”
“No, no it wasn’t”, agreed Nachton. “But I’m here now and I have to make the best of it.”
“May the spirits of Harry and Randi support you”, she added gently and then returned to her ruminations.
Willard wasn’t used to anyone giving him well wishes about anything, least of all his magic. Yet here he had been treated to kind words twice in just a few moments by two complete strangers! Once again his assumed personae had earned respect whereas the real one was nothing more than a shy and awkward loser. More than ever, Nachton the Great sought to replace Willard Hoffmann permanently in the real world.
I still like this line: "James and Agnes Hoffmann knew the price of everything and the value of nothing."
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