… starring B.O. the Magnificent!
A more-or-less fantasy by Maynard
…being for the amusement of anyone who has had their life savings savaged by the recent financial storm, and is not particularly encouraged that Obama’s recovery plan seems to consist of spending a trillion dollars of funny money hiring union members to wash rocks at the beach.
How much more of this can you take? Feeling the need for a break, you slip away to the magic show that everyone is talking about. You’d like nothing more than a dose of escapist entertainment.
However the show isn’t living up to its hype. The stunts turn out to be rather sophomoric; you’ve seen them all before, and performed with greater professionalism by better entertainers. But the crowd is inexplicably passionate. You watch incredulously as the magician gets an extended ovation for a trick that, as far as you can tell, is nothing more than a man turning water into urine. (Reading smartly from a teleprompter, he tells the cheering throng it’s actually lemonade. You watch him pass the cup to a girl in the front row. She gulps it down with gusto and beams from ear to ear. The applause is thunderous. But after the spotlight moves away, you see her fall to the ground retching, to be hastily carried out of view by a team of Obama Youth. You cynically observe that socialized medicine has arrived not a moment too soon.)
The performance drags on. You’re starting to nod off, when…
“May I have a volunteer from the audience? You, sir!”
You’re jolted out of your reverie. “Me?” Your head jerks nervously. “Ummmm, I’d rather not.”
“Don’t be shy. Just stand up. Sir, would you please examine your wallet.”
“Okay, I guess…Hey, my wallet is gone!”
The magician pauses for applause. Then, with a flourish of his cape…
“Sir, is this your wallet?”
“Why, yes, it is. How’d you do that?” You are, in spite of yourself, impressed. “Nice trick.”
“Thank you, sir.” More applause as the magician takes a bow.
You’re struck by a sudden sense of foreboding. “Alright, that was good, but can I get my wallet ba—”
But he’s speaking to the crowd, and you are shushed into submission. “And now, for my final trick…” A hush falls upon the hall.
With a sudden flick of his arm, your wallet flies through the air, and money rains down on the gallery as the now-empty wallet bounces off your nose. A free-for-all ensues, as the crowd scrambles for bills. You stand on the sidelines watching the mêlée, knowing you don’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of recovering anything. A grimy character struggles in your direction with a fistful of bills. “Hey, isn’t that my money?”, you ask as he pushes by. “Whadya mean? He made it,” the guy says with a gesture towards the stage. “Isn’t he great?” You decide it would be unwise to challenge this assertion, so you give an uncomfortable nod. With a hostile glance, the man darts away, pocketing the cash.
The next day you’ll open the New York Times to read high praise for the conjurer, suggesting that his mystical powers are of a divine nature. There will be a few harsh words for the anonymous volunteer who turned out to be a big sourpuss and cast a pall over an otherwise delightful show.
I get the feeling we’re living in the twilight zone.