Songs E-Book

Michael Smith

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 282

Beschreibung

Songs - A collection of 10 short stories. The Dry Cleaner From Des Moines - A lucky weekend in Las Vegas. Hocus Pocus - A Magician uses real magic. Don't Worry About the Government - A US politician tells the truth; a Political Fantasy? Joys Of Christmas - Santa needs a minder. County Fair - Following a serious accident, a woman waits for her memory to return. P. Machinery - Political memoirs of popular deception, from the late-1990s. Medicine Show - A hair-raising story from way out west. The Happening - The truth about Area 51? Becalmed - A businessman is given an opportunity to re-assess his priorities. The Voice - A man gets more than he bargained for from his computerized home.

Leseprobe

Introduction

The Dry Cleaner From Des Moines by Joni Mitchell

Hocus Pocus by Focus

Don't Worry About the Government by Talking Heads

Joys Of Christmas by Chris Rea

County Fair by Joe Walsh

P. Machinery by Propaganda

Medicine Show byBig Audio Dynamite

The Happening by Pixies

Becalmed by Brian Eno

The Voice byThe Alan Parsons Project

References

Imprint

Introduction

           I have always liked music. Naturally, some songs I like more than others. For this collection of short stories I have selected ten of my favourite songs and used the title, theme or lyrics as a starting point.

I avoided songs that themselves tell a ‘story’, preferring to use the imagery created by the song as a guide when writing. Nowhere is this more evident than in the two stories inspired by instrumental songs.

Listening to the song before reading each story is recommended (if needed, see the ‘Reference’ section for YouTube links).

I’d like to thank my wife, sons, and several colleagues and friends for their support throughout the process of bringing this book to fruition.

            I hope you enjoy reading these stories every bit as much as I did writing them.

The Dry Cleaner From Des Moines by Joni Mitchell

‘Make the most of tomorrow - it will never happen again.’

The broken parts of my fortune cookie lie strewn on the freshly laundered, white linen table cloth.

“What does that mean?” I ask. Indifferent shrugs ripple around the restaurant table. No one cares much; it’s just a meaningless fortune cookie.

“You worry too much, John. Just enjoy being here. We only get this chance once a year.”

“Yeah, a long weekend away from the grind.”

“Gentlemen; a toast. To freedom.”

These are my pals; the ones I can trust to drag me away from my tedious job running the dry-cleaning shop and share a guys’ weekend away. A weekend in Las Vegas. Always April. Always the third weekend. Same hotel. Same restaurants. And, best of all, always the same casinos.

We’d first met twenty years ago as ‘American Youth Football’ fathers, taking our young sons to football practices and games, giving our wives a few hours respite each week. Ten years later we found ourselves sitting on the bleachers, watching our kids perform in their final senior high match. As the sun cast ever-lengthening shadows over the bleachers, we knew an era was drawing to a close. The kids (of course, they we’re just about fully grown men by this time, ready to head off to college) didn’t need us any more for transport and advice; but we turned up each week anyway. What else were we to do? I reckon we needed them now more than they needed us.

Sharing beers during half-time of that last football game, Larry had suggested that, after all we’d been through, the shared experience of fatherhood, it would be a shame to lose contact. Sure, we could still come and watch the games but, without the familial interest, we all knew it just wouldn’t be the same. Paul suggested the four of us meet up for at least the first and last games of each season and also, with wives, for Thanksgiving and Christmas. We all agreed. Tony pointed out, though, that all four of these events took place in the second half of the calendar. How about something special earlier in the year? And, the annual trip to the Vegas casinos was born.

We all raise our glasses, “To freedom!”

“Freedom from what?” enquires Tony, “The IRS?”

“Well, I’ll certainly drink to that!” Paul earns more than the rest of us; but he works hard for it with his haulage company and doesn’t flaunt it. He, more than any one of us, needs a weekend away from work.

Over the years, we have settled into a comfortable routine in Vegas. Travel on the Friday, arriving mid-afternoon. Unpack. Meet up in the ‘Silver Moon’ Chinese restaurant for drinks and a meal before hitting the casinos. After being cooped up together on the flight from Des Moines, via Denver, we spend the first part of the evening working the casinos individually, meeting at ‘The Lucky Loser’ around ten for a beer and exchange of the inevitable bad luck stories.

At around half seven we leave the ‘Silver Moon’ and deliberately head off in four different directions. It’s difficult to know if the golden-bottomed clouds are reflecting the Nevada sunset, or the myriad neon signs on the Strip.

Some days you know your luck is vacating elsewhere. After an hour of Black Jack, I know I’m only going through the motions, losing steadily, but not heavily. Gamblers are eternal optimists, and I convince myself Roulette might prove to be more lucrative. Within twenty minutes I know I’ve been a victim of another gambler character trait - self-delusion. I decide to cut my losses and spectate, winning vicariously - the safe refuge of all losers.

I wander slowly to our rendezvous, ‘The Lucky Loser’, feeling dejected, a small fish swimming with difficulty against the tide of humanity that flows unabated down the Strip. Larry and Tony are there already and Paul arrives not long after. A pitcher of beer soon lightens the mood as we share our predictable tales of near misses with good fortune. We console ourselves with the dream that better luck is just around the corner; another forlorn gambler trait.

“I’m down by two hundred,” I confess, head hung.

“Just over a hundred for me. It would have been nearer two but for one big win.”

“You’re doing better than me, Larry. One-seventy-five, and counting. Why do we put ourselves through this each year?” asks Paul.

Tony answers, “It’s the lure of striking lucky. The promise of a big win. Thought I had it too. One lousy Ace; that’s all I needed. Still, I reckon I’m doing best of all of us at the moment. I’m ahead.”

“By how much?” I ask with excitement.

“A magnificent five dollars, boys.”

“Hey, we always do badly on the first day.”

“Tomorrow will be better.”

$$$$$$$$$$

Our hotel offers a breakfast buffet until lunch for guests who need to sleep off the excesses of the previous night. The four of us take advantage of this, including several pots of strong coffee.

After breakfast we kill some time drinking orange juice by the pool. Larry has brought a deck of cards with him, and we sit round a poolside table, playing poker for peanuts - literally. One bag of unsalted each. It’s the lowest stake of the weekend; a bit of light-relief down-time before we hit the casinos again mid-afternoon. As cheap cigar smoke drifts into the warming air, we relax and reminisce - mainly the football games we’ve seen our sons win.

After an hour, I throw in my last hand and sigh, “I can’t even win for peanuts.”

It’s not long before we quit the light relief and prepare for the main event - Saturday night, Las Vegas style.

We warm-up by hitting the smaller casinos mid-afternoon. By early-evening, I’m dried up. I consider myself very fortunate to be only a once-a-year gambler. I’ve played within my financial limit - just, and had sufficient will power to quit before I do something recklessly stupid.

I head to the bar for a drink and, without thinking, sit on a bar stool next to the resident drunken amateur philosopher. It seems he has a problem - what a surprise!

“I shhould never of let her go. Shhee was good for me. But now shhee'sh gone. Gone! I shshoulda known when I had a good thing. I shshoulda been gratefuller.”

He takes a pull on his beer. “Hey, fella, lemme ask you some.. somethin’. This glash here - is it half full or half empty? Hmm?”

There’s no escape. I have no alternative but to answer his dumb question.

I lean over, lower my voice, and reply, “If you look at the bigger picture, you’ll see that the logical answer is ... both.”

The barman smiles and continues his cleaning, while my newfound best buddy just frowns, drains his beer and asks the barman for a refill. I toss a five on the bar and leave.

I have a special wallet I use only for Vegas. All year I save in it spare cash I have no use for at the time, the odd dollar bill, sometimes a Lincoln, and very occasionally a Hamilton. By the time April comes around I usually have a few hundred dollars I know I won’t miss if I lose badly in Vegas.

As I check the disappointingly thin wallet, my suspicions are confirmed; just a solitary Jefferson is left for the remainder of the weekend. I’d had it bad some years, but never like this. Just two dollars left!

I change the note for a roll of dimes and head for the slot machines while I wait for my friends to contend with their good or bad fortune. I find myself actually missing Des Moines. A machine becomes free and I take a seat in front of it.

This is not how I’d imagined I’d be spending my big Saturday night out in Vegas. I’d had dreams of rolling over my impressive winnings on the roulette table, to the extent that I could toss a hundred chip to the croupier as thanks. Black Jack would reveal aces and faces all night, until I became bored with winning. A gambler’s dream.

But no. I find myself sitting between a pair of pensioners, one wearing her slippers, the other fighting a losing battle with her badly fitting dentures. They talk incessantly - to the slot machines, coaxing every last drop of luck out of each dime. If Larry, Paul or Tony see me now, I will never hear the last of it. I can’t believe I’ve sunk this low - playing the slots.

I tease the first dime out of the roll, and try to slide it into the slot. The coin slips between my finger and thumb and clatters to the floor. As I scrabble on the thick scarlet carpet, Dentures takes her eyes briefly off her machine and glances down at me with a look that says, ‘Amateur!’ She continues feeding the ever-hungry slot.

The retrieved dime finally makes it to the slot. I begin. I’m not really paying attention; it’s almost as if I’m playing the slots to punish myself for bad fortune elsewhere.

Then, with my first dime, out of the blue...

Three oranges.

The machine lights up and disgorges my winnings. Slippers glances over, giving me the evil eye, letting me know it was just beginner’s luck.

I try again...

Three lemons.

This time the clatter of coins attracts both Dentures and Slippers simultaneously. If looks could kill.

Undeterred, I try again...

Three cherries.

A lady with long blonde hair sidles over, looks over my shoulder, and asks me how I’m doing. Her face looks familiar; I vaguely recognise her from somewhere. I smile and she suggests I try again...

Three plums.

I turn to the blonde and apologetically inform her, “It's all luck, it's just luck.” She begins to make notes in a small book she’s produced from her bag.

As the evening progresses, I keep winning. I can’t stop. Inevitably, I suppose, Security become interested in me. I knew they were Security; everyone can spot Security by the mandatory neck with a thigh-sized girth, the curled wire leading from one ear, and the propensity to whisper to a jacket cuff; how could they have been anything but Security?

The bells keep ringing. Slippers and Dentures stop playing and are now staring open-mouthed at me as I win continuously, switching machines every few minutes. A small crowd gathers and Security, via their earpieces, are informed that enough is enough.

“Excuse me, sir. The manager would like to speak with you.”

I guess I should have known my good fortune would not go unnoticed.

“Can I collect my winnings?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Well, could you, maybe, help me carry all these coins?”

Through the accusatory glares of my fellow gamblers I am ‘escorted’ to a nondescript door in a dark corner of the casino.

One Security guard carries my earnings for me; how very helpful, I think. The other produces his swipe key card from a trouser pocket as if he were a gunslinger at high noon.

Passing through the door, I leave behind the cacophony of opportunistic capitalism and am immersed into the calm, soothing womb of yellow light, lush carpets and piped muzak. From chaos to control. This labyrinthine world behind the casino signifies that, while the punters believe they are trying their luck, in reality little is left to chance. I pass a part-open door and see a bank of TV monitors. Each table is being watched. I assume they are on the look-out for card-counters and other chancers who erroneously believe they can tip the odds away from the house.

We reach our destination and one of my companions opens the door, while the other ensures, politely but firmly, that I enter. Once inside, the Security men stand either side of the door that has now been closed, and locked. Each guard clasps his left wrist with his right hand in front of his body and proceeds to stare professionally into the middle distance, confident that their leg of the job has been completed successfully.

The room has no windows. Reproduction prints in gaudy frames partially conceal some of the worst wallpaper I’ve ever seen. Taste is not something that increases with wealth and here is a room decorated by someone believing the more gold leaf, brass fittings, and general frills a room possesses, the classier it will look. This frequently happens when money is no object.

Dominating the room is a desk of prodigious proportions, it’s walnut surface uncluttered. Behind the desk I see the back of a black leather chair.

Silence.

It occurs to me that this performance is definitely a well-used Management attempt to intimidate suspects. They’ve obviously seen several movies of a genre matching their profession, without realising their B movie status. I know what’s coming next; and am not disappointed.

A smoke ring floats into the air above the chair.

‘He’s going to slowly rotate the chair,’ I think.

The chair slowly rotates.

Facing me is the casino’s manager, his diminutive size in complete contrast to the heavy-set sentinels still perusing with feigned fascination the nondescript middle-distance. His cigar is out of all proportion to his small hands. The only thing missing is a white cat sitting on his lap. I can’t help thinking, ’Please don’t call me Mr. Bond.’

Without any preamble he begins to speak quietly and softly,

“I see you have been the recipient of some good fortune this afternoon, and at our expense. While we are delighted that you have had a dalliance with Lady Luck, we feel it only fair to point out to you; possibly forcibly (here he glances at his associates by the door), that we do not encourage anything beyond a passing flirtation with her Ladyship.”

He pauses either for effect, or to create another smoke ring or, possibly, both. I decide to take the opportunity to defend myself.

“It's all luck, it's just luck. Really. Yesterday I got a fortune cookie that said...”

“Stop! Whatever pathetic excuse you are about to deliver, please be aware that I have probably already heard it many times before. You have a choice. Either leave this establishment now, and for good; and before you ask, yes you can take your winnings with you. Or, my associates here will be delighted to carry out their contractual obligation and beat the crap out of you, in the hope they may discover just how exactly you are managing to unload all those slot machines. Electronics, is it? No, don’t tell me; I don’t want to spoil their fu... sorry, their obligation.”

“Look, really, it was all just luck. I can explain. Quantum philosophers reckon there are millions of parallel universes, where each and every possible outcome of a life is played out. Why can’t this be the universe where I do, actually, get to win many successive games on the slots?”

With an expression that communicates his patience is at an end, the manager glances once more at the door and replies, “Do these two guys look like philosophers? Was Nietzsche six foot four, 290 pounds, with a couple of scars? Hmm?”

I know the casino can’t prove any foul play, such as an electronic device I might be wearing, because I’m not; so I know they can’t press charges. Equally, I know I’m wasting my time, and so agree to leave.

“Could you at least change all those coins into something more transportable?”

The manager nods his approval to one of the heavies at the door, who leaves. His associate escorts me to the casino’s main exit where I’m given the paper equivalent of my winnings. I leave.

Outside it’s dark. No, that’s wrong. It is never dark in Vegas. What I mean is, the sun has set. The air is a little cooler. Walking the Strip, I reflect further on the fortune cookie I received yesterday and how it might be a positive omen; although I remember the cookie seemed to imply my good fortune would last for one day only. I ponder how best to use my good fortune, and realise it will be better to avoid hitting one casino big, but to hit lots of casinos for small amounts; playing until Security become twitchy, but not aggressive.

The four of us had arranged to meet at a Mexican place for an evening meal around 7pm before hitting the main casinos for our annual flirt with Lady Luck.

I tell them about my encounter with the drunk and his barstool philosophy.

“Okay, Einstein, if a tree falls in the woods and there’s no one around, does it make a sound?” asked Larry.

“Well, first of all, Einstein was not a philosopher. However, the tree will definitely make a sound when it falls.”

“How are you so sure?”

I lower my voice and get all serious. “The tree can’t be sure if anyone is listening or not; so it makes a sound, just to be on the safe side.”

Three seconds of silence; then Larry cracks and we all laugh.

“So, how are we all doing?” asks Larry, “I had a good run on the table and managed to stop myself in time to come out ahead by two hundred.”

Paul seems happy to report that he’s breaking even.

“Me too,” adds Tony, and turns to me, “So that must mean you’re this year’s loser.”

I don’t react, eager to enjoy the moment. A smile spreads slowly across my face.

“I’ll admit, I was heading in that direction. I was down to my last two dollars.”

The sharp intakes of breath, whistles, and shaking heads inform me I’ve caught their attention. Cigars are laid reverentially on ashtrays. Beer foam is wiped from mouths. The tacos no longer hold any interest. They want to hear the story. And, despite the shame of resorting to playing the slots, I tell them the full story; including Slippers, Dentures, and the mysterious blonde. By the end, they are smiling too; enjoying my good fortune.

“And you reckon that fortune cookie is behind all this?” asks Paul with undisguised skepticism.

“Only time will tell. I intend to continue tonight, playing as many casinos as I can until Security become interested in me. Then, take the money and run to the next casino.”

“So, what happens at midnight?” asks Tony, “You turn into a pumpkin or something?”

“I have no idea. But, if I start losing, I’ll quit.”

Tony, ever the thoughtful one, asks further, “Is this good fortune limited to the slots or will it work on dice, tables, cards?”

“I didn’t have time to check. Those Security guards were not about to let me experiment elsewhere in their casino. I intend to find out tonight, though. So far, it’s been only the slots, but I intend to try other options.”

Larry then asks what everyone else has been thinking, “Can we come along tonight and watch?”

“Really? You want to spend our annual Saturday night in Vegas watching me play slots with Nevada’s pensioners?”

“Sure, for a while; until you start losing. I want to be there for that!” replies Paul.

“Yeah, then we’ll resume our regular Vegas activities,” adds Tony.

“And finish off back at ‘Silver Moon’ for a late-night meal.” concludes Larry, “But don’t bring along any of your new-found pensioner friends.”

The laughter is at my expense, but I feel confident I’ll have the last laugh.

$$$$$$$$$$

We pay for our meal and leave. Larry, Tony and Paul really do stick with me as we visit our first casino of the evening. I decide I’ll start with roulette and I treat myself to a generous stack of chips. The casino has not filled yet and I find a place easily. I buy myself in and throw a twenty on ‘Even’.

“No more bets, please.”

The ball circles the spinning numbers before its centripetal force loses its battle with gravity, and dispassionately clatters down to its random resting place.

“Thirteen black, ladies and gentlemen; thirteen black.”

I stare, as my twenty is swept away across the green baize.

“Well, that was disappointing,” observes Larry, slapping me on the back, “see you later at the ‘Silver Moon’.”

Two more losses are enough to convince Tony and Paul that nothing out of the ordinary is taking place. They leave, wishing me improved luck.

My pride takes me to a Black Jack table; I refuse to believe my only luck is to be had playing the slots.

Four times in a row I ask for an extra card, and four times I hit twenty-two. Someone, somewhere is trying to tell me something, pushing me reluctantly towards the slots. I capitulate, change a few notes (I don’t even count them) into dimes, walk dejectedly over to those gaudy arrays of flashing lights designed to attract a lower class of gambler, and collapse onto a stool in front of a slot machine. My misery is complete as I notice, uncomfortably, that the stool is still warm.

First dime in the slot... Lights flash... Bells chime...

... Money cascades.

Should I be happy at my winnings or disappointed that my good fortune appears to be limited solely to the slots? Given the machines usual clientele, I feel uncomfortable; I feel like I’m robbing pensioners. If that fortune cookie is to be believed, though, I have only about three hours remaining before midnight, when my luck might change. I move to another machine and continue.

I win again.

How soon until Security notices the merry tune my slot machines are playing?

At this point, I start taking more notice of the technology of Security observation provided by the casino. The Security guards are easy to identify; they’re meant to be. The camera locations are far more interesting, and faintly sinister.

I decide to take a break, change my winnings into notes, and buy a beer. I stroll around the casino, sipping my drink, and feigning an interest in the activities of my fellow gamblers. In reality, I’m checking out the cameras. By the time I’ve finished my beer, I know there is not one square foot of the casino free from some form of electronic eye observing every movement. I know now that I can’t win big anywhere. But I can win big overall.

I repeat my strategy at the next casino down the Strip. Slots, exchange winnings for notes, drink, stroll. Same pattern, each casino.

At the fifth casino of the evening, I am once again joined briefly by the blonde lady from this afternoon. She does look familiar, but I just can’t place her. She appears very interested in my activities and, once again, scribbles something in a notebook. I win again, look up and she’s gone; I guess I’ll probably never hear of her again.

By quarter before midnight, I’m running out of casinos to hit; the good news is, my pockets are bursting with notes.

I reckon I have time for one last casino before midnight, and the possibility my luck might run out. I walk in and assess the camera situation. I feel like a pro now. In the past three hours I’ve visited so many casinos, I can accurately predict where the cameras will be located. I’m not disappointed. Nonchalantly, I take a seat in front of one of the few unoccupied slot machines and start to feed its need for coins, and my need to win.

Five to midnight, and I’ve still not lost. Machines have been playing ball all evening and I feel good. One Security guard has become interested in my activities. He has been watching for a few minutes. Now he’s talking into his jacket sleeve. Time to quit? Maybe.

I call a passing waitress and order a beer. I’m not thirsty but I want to kill a few minutes before midnight without attracting further attention by my next big win. It’s a stand-off. My Security guy is looking directly at me now, waiting for my next move. The beer arrives. I take a long, satisfying drink. He looks thirsty; probably the end of a long shift.

Thirty seconds to midnight. By now I’ve convinced myself that my luck will run out at twelve. I toy with my next dime. The one I’m going to use to test my theory.

Ten seconds to go. I glance over to Security. He’s grinning; waiting for the kill. I glance to the ceiling; all cameras are on me. Showtime. I smile, kiss the last dime and, one second after I hear the midnight chimes, slide it into the slot. The whole evening has been compressed into this one moment. Never before have I wanted so much to lose.

The tumblers move in slow motion. All colours melt into bright, white light. Silence.

Silence?

The machine is not celebrating another win.

Orange. Bar. Plum.

I’ve lost!

I glance over to Security. He exhales. I exhale. Sound returns; I welcome the intense, excessive cacophony of a busy casino at midnight.

I leave my seat and head for the exit; my work is done.

$$$$$$$$$$

I stroll to our rendezvous at the Chinese Restaurant, and order champagne.

“Champagne? Why are we celebrating?” asks Larry.

I smile. They all know why.

“How much?” Tony enquires.

I empty my pockets onto our dinner table.

My three friends stare in silence, unable to select which of many questions they should ask first.

“None of us has ever won that much before.”

“That’s a fortune.”

Larry still stares in silence, shaking his head.

“Okay, how’d you do it?”

“Gentlemen,” I declare, raising my champagne flute, “a toast. The Slots!”

“What?! You won all that playing slot machines?”

“Yep.”

“But how?”

And so, as the four of us enjoy our late-night meal at the ‘Silver Moon’, I explained all, starting with the fortune cookie and ending with the defining slot just after midnight.

“That’s quite an evening you’ve had. And you’re convinced that fortune cookie was the reason?”

“I had my doubts up until midnight; but once that next attempt failed, I knew it was the cookie. All I want to do now is head back to my room, shower and sleep. I’ll stuff myself at the breakfast buffet in the morning before we fly back to Des Moines. Then, back to dry cleaning on Monday. I wish I could remember the name of that blonde lady; she looked very familiar.”

After dessert, I’m given another fortune cookie. With some apprehension, I crack it open; this time it reads:

‘Happy is the man who knows when to stop.’

Hocus Pocus by Focus

The lights dimmed. The audience hushed. Word had spread that this might be interesting. A lone figure strode confidently and purposefully to centre stage, a single spotlight guiding his steps. He faced the audience; his audience.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Max and I’m a magician.” He paused briefly, then continued, “At least that’s what they tell me to say at Magicians Anonymous.”

Thankfully there was some laughter; but he was not there to amuse those attending, he was there to astound.

He continued, “Some of you may be here because you have heard that I can make things disappear. By magic. You, sir,” he pointed randomly out into the darkened auditorium, “is that why you’ve brought your wife?”

More laughter. He knew it was old-fashioned, sexist, and politically incorrect, but, within the next five minutes, no one would remember this part of his act.

His act was now three years old. The routine hadn’t changed much in that time; it didn’t need to. He had learnt, however, not to rush. He had grown more comfortable as a performer and now relished his few minutes of limelight each day. He strolled stage right and stood behind the small table situated there. The props were in place. Deep breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you see here an ordinary red rubber ball; the sort used by magicians the world over. I will now place the ball under this top hat. There’s no reason why it should be a top hat. Maybe convention dictates that you, the audience, expect to see magicians using top hats and red rubber balls? And I do not wish to disappoint you.”

As he spoke to the audience, Max placed the ball under the hat and took a step back.

“I know what you’re all thinking. The red ball is no longer under the top hat. By some sleight of hand I’ve managed to palm it into one of my many pockets.” Here, as always, he moved to the front edge of the stage and held out his arms.

“What pockets? As you can see, my clothing contains no pockets.” He assumed here that the audience he could not see, due to the dazzling effect of the spotlight, would be becoming intrigued; possibly impressed, “And I have short sleeves!”

“Some of you may be of the opinion that the ball is no longer residing under the hat. Let’s check, shall we?”

Max returned to the top hat resting on the table. He lifted the hat to reveal the red ball still lying motionless on the table.

“Ha ha! You were wrong; it’s still there!” He continued with mock surprise, “What? Some of you are clearly not impressed by the magical way that I didn’t make the ball disappear. Let me try again.” He then carefully replaced the hat over the ball, ensuring the audience could clearly see his hands on the top of the hat at all times and never touching the ball.

“For this piece of magic, I will need full concentration and, therefore, ask that you all remain still and quiet. Thank you.”

Ordinarily, a magician would prefer a drum roll at this point, or some dramatic music, but Max insisted on silence. He closed his eyes and allowed his head to drop, his chin resting on his chest. The audience held its breath.

After ten seconds or so Max raised his head and opened his eyes. The deed had been done. He returned to the table and raised the top hat.

The table was empty. Max loved this moment of his act; the gasp from the audience; and then the applause.

He took a bow and asked, “Would you like to see another trick?” The applause continued and Max drank it in. Once he had had his fill, he quietened the audience and informed them that he needed another red ball. “I appear to have mislaid the first one.” More laughter.

A stage hand shuffled on, in that embarrassed way of all stage hands, and passed a new red ball to Max, who then placed it on the table and covered it with the top hat.

“So you can know this is not just a magic trick, but real magic, can I have a volunteer from the audience to come up here and check that all this is genuine?”

A boy of about ten years of age ran to the front of the auditorium, up the steps, and onto the stage, accompanied by a worried female voice, “Darren, no; come back here, you little...”

Max was unperturbed and shook hands with his latest assistant. “Darren, is it? The sorcerer’s apprentice. Please check to see if the ball is under the top hat.”

Darren did as instructed, allowing the audience to see the red ball still in situ.

“Thank you, Darren. Before you leave the stage, could you take the pen that is on the table and write your name on the ball?”

Darren again followed Max’s instructions.

“Thank you, Darren. And before you return to your worried mother, would you please place the red ball back on the table and place the top hat over it?”

Darren obeyed for a third time. Max then led the audience in politely applauding Darren’s exit from the stage.

Max then returned to centre stage and, with a deft hand gesture, indicated to the audience he wanted quiet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you will observe a second table and top hat on the other side of the stage. It is my intention to transfer Darren’s signed red ball from under one top hat to under the other. For this I will need full concentration and, therefore, ask once more that you remain still and quiet. Thank you.”

Max’s head dropped again. The audience waited.

Max raised his head. There was not a sound in the theatre.