Marvin’s Magical Shop
“Welcome to Marvin’s Magical Shop. How may I help you?” That’s the old-fashioned greeting I give to everyone who visits my little shop, one of the last of its kind in The Big Apple. “Yes, Rodger,” I repeat, “it’s a real magical hat. Not a Rabbit Hat, but a Dove Hat.” I have specialized in tricks, slights of hand and real magic since my teenage years and was once the star of many-a-Catskill mountain-resort magic show. I now own and operate in my own neighborhood shop. Been here since 1961. Magic keeps me alive, but Rodger drives me nuts.
“No, Rodger,” I insist, “There are no doves in the hat. “That’s not how a Dove Hat works. The magician generates birds from thin air,” I tell him. “Yes, thin air,” He laughs, “or from a pocket in his magical jacket.” Doves are ethereal creatures. They are all around us, everywhere, but not for Rodger.
It is only the gifted magician who can summons birds from thin air. I was that kind of magician once, but will not further infuriate Rodger, or you with my professional history.
Every time Rodger comes into my shop we argue, sometimes for hours. He is not really a bad guy. I like Rodger, but he’s no Houdini and blames my tricks for his lack of skill. He’s not even a Marvin, but not a bad guy.
“Let’s try the hat, Rodger,” I suggest. “You can see a tiny button just under the band. Give it a little push. There, notice the trap door at the bottom of the hat. No, there are no doves in the hat. That’s where they end up. Of course, it works” Here we go again. “I’ll show you, but first you give the trick a try.”
“Concentrate! Birds from thin air or from a hidden pocket in your magical jacket. One or the other. Be very still, say the magic words: Abracadabra, Sis-boom-ba! Rodger, is that bird dead? You have two dead birds in your left-hand Rodger. How long have they been in that pocket?”
Roger grumbles and laughs a little, then says, “The birds were alive this morning, Marvin. I don’t know what happened to them.” Rodger winks and smiles, then queries, “How about sawing a woman in half, old man?” The look on Marvin’s face.
Rodger thinks of Marvin as a friend. He knows that Marvin is old fashioned. He believes in real magic. Doves from thin air, levitation, all kinds of hocus pocus. Marvin’s a freakin antique.
“Maybe the Dove Hat is defective,” Rodger yelps. “Show me how it works, Marvin,” but Marvin’s not wearing a magical jacket. He’s wearing a tee shirt and blue jeans. “OK old man shows me.”
The hat looks good on Marvin, like he was born for it. Then he says the magical words: “Abracadabra, Sis-boom-ba!” Not one, but three full grown doves fly from his Hat. Three fat white birds. Marvin looks happy. But how the heck did he do that? Not one, but three, no there’s another and another: five flappin doves. One shits on Marvin’s shoulder another on my shoe. The shop is suddenly filled with bird song, fluttering breezes and shit.
“OK, OK, I’ll take the hat!”
This happens every time I walk into Marvin’s Shop. Marvin talks me into buying all his old second-rate tricks. He’s either a great magician or a great salesman.
Rodger slips Marvin nine dollars and some change.
Marvin says, “alright kid,” then Rodger, on the way out the door half-shouts to his old friend, “See you next week, you-old-fart, and Jesus H. Christ, will you clean that freaking birdshit off the floor!”
“Rodger is exhausting,” Marvin mumbles as he opens the front door of his shop and shoos five fat doves out the door. They obey his beckon. Together they fly eastward then disappear into grey city skies. Marvin smiles and mumbles once again, “Rodger is exhausting.”
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