The Nightly Montage

The Illusionist (Part 1)

The flock of doves burst from the magician's hat, earning a deafening roar of applause. For the magician, this was another night in a gilded theatre, performing tricks to satisfy an audience bored of their mundane lives. Performing lies to entertain fantasies that would never come true.

For the audience, this might be the highlight of the year.

Backstage was quiet as the magician packed up his supplies. He coaxed the fidgety doves in their cages. They flapped their wings, eager to taste the freedom of flying once again. The magician understood; he himself was in a state of ecstasy. Every nerve in his body seemed to soar beyond the theatre's domed ceiling, reaching the moon, the stars, his dreams. He could close his eyes and the universe would be in the palms of his hands.

With a satisfied sigh, the magician stretched in his dressing room chair. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. Wasn't that something? He had come far from self-loathing to making a name out of himself. That was the key to success in life--to claim that confidence for yourself. Wield it like a wand, and anything was possible.

The first few notes of his phone's ringtone had his hand automatically searching for the device. He swiped his thumb and turned it on speaker, expecting his next client.

"The Illusionist is speaking. What can I do for you to--"

"Daddy!"

"What? He picked up?"

"Give me that! Hey Dad, we saw your performance--"

"You did? You did!" he cried, caught between utter bewilderment and sobbing with joy. "Did you like it?"

Against the background noise of the two younger kids squabbling, the eldest daughter replied hauntingly, "You promised Mom you'd be back here for dinner."

"Oh."

The magician watched a feather from the doves' cage drift to the carpeted floor. A dove--Joey, a smart, gentle creature--tilted its head, its wide black eyes reflecting the dressing room's lights.

"Oh," the magician said again. "I'd booked this show a couple months ago. It was in the newspapers. I thought you knew."

"Ho-ly fuck. Mom, can you believe that?" the eldest daughter shouted. A worn feminine voice replied, barely audible. "Yeah. Exactly. Dad thinks we can read his mind 'cause he's so famous. Why have basic communication with your family when you can follow his Instagram, right?"

The magician fumbled to switch it off speaker. He raised the phone to his ear like it was a lit fuse. "I-I'm sorry. This week was busy. It's usually when I get the most offers. I can't turn them down when they're worth--when it's a once in a lifetime chance, you know? You only have one life, and you need to make the most of it. Throwing it away is like...."

He had dissolved into using the same one-liners reserved for interviews. There, the Illusionist was a natural in front of the cameras. Here, he wiped his sweaty palms on his blazer, gulped water from his water bottle, and desperately scanned the room like the right words to say were hiding behind the pile of props.

It was quiet on the other end--the sort of quiet that preceded an explosion.