– DAVID ROTH
I show up late to work, after jumping on the wrong tram and then almost walking face-first into a lamppost. It’s one of those awesomely awesome winter days, all clear skies and crisp, chill breeze, and it kinda feels like the whole world is smiling. A cute kid in front of me turns around and giggles, probably cos I’m whistling a song from Frozen. I tip my hat and sing the chorus at the top of my lungs. The kid cheers before his laughing mum bundles him away.
My boss has just about finished setting up our stall. Not even her face, as murderous as if someone blowtorched her favourite Doc Martens, can dampen my mood. The smell of coffee and sugary donuts hangs in the air. Behind the market, the medieval buildings of the Abbotsford Convent loom.
Amy nods at me as I make my way behind the stall. She’s sporting a heavy fur coat that kinda looks like wildebeest hide, and a giant bruise on her right cheek.
‘Josh. Nice hat.’
I dip the cap I inherited from my grandpa. ‘Amy. Nice bruise. Should I even ask how the game went?’
Amy sighs. ‘Yeah. We lost again, and our best jammer’s gonna be out for months thanks to a dislocated knee. I’m scheduling extra training on the off-chance it might mean we start sucking a little less hard. You free to work Wednesday arvo?’
I grab a box of juggling batons and start stacking them on the table. Vaguely, I remember that I’ve got a paper thingy due on Thursday for Legal Studies that I haven’t even looked at yet. Or maybe it was a test. Man, was it even for Legal?
‘Sure. Wednesday? Can do.’
Amy gives me the hint of a smile. ‘You’re a superstar, Joshua Bailey. Let no-one tell you otherwise.’
Amy Avril – who also goes by the roller derby name ‘Avrilla the Hun’ – has been my boss since year ten, when I took a gamble and dropped my résumé at her magic shop in the city, the kinda distastefully named Houdini’s Appendix. Amy has Cleopatra hair, which this month is dyed a sweet shade of blue, and tattooed arm sleeves that feature, among other things, a lady with the words ‘hell on wheels’ underneath. In skates she stands almost a foot taller than me, and can pull off a Two-Card-Flight trick faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, she scared the living bejesus out of me when I first met her. Although we’ve been known to lose hours discussing the finer points of prestidigitation, I dunno if I would exactly call us friends. I’m almost certain she no longer wants to bludgeon me to death with a rollerskate, though.
I yank the cape out of my satchel and swing it over my shoulders. Yeah, I’m aware it’s dorky, but Amy insists it’s ‘ironic’. I really don’t have the guts to argue.
‘Nice,’ she says. ‘A bit of hair gel and some glitter and you may yet pass for David Copperfield.’
I close my eyes. ‘Seriously? Do you want me to quit?’
Amy shrugs with poker-faced evilness. ‘Just sayin’.’
I wouldn’t claim there’s anyone I truly hate; mostly cos I think it’s bad karmic juju to put that out into the universe. But if there’s anyone on the planet who I – intensely dislike, then David Copperfield, with his douchey hair and overblown showmanship, would be number one with a bullet. I’m not a fan of ‘extreme magic’ under most circumstances – real magic shouldn’t need cameras and helicopters and a few gazillion bucks behind it to be impressive. Also, the leather pants really piss me off. And the giant forehead. David Copperfield is first on the very short list of gits I’d like to smack in the head.
I know, I know – bad karmic juju.
Amy nudges my arm. ‘Look alive, Joshie. Mama needs a new pair of Brass Knuckle PowerTracs with Atom Poison Wheels.’
I’m pretty sure only half those things are proper words. Still, maybe I should focus on the task at hand. It beats the other thing I could be obsessively running through my head, like the replays in those ice hockey games Dad likes. I reorganise Amy’s chaotic side of the stand, my mind drifting to Sophia. Those piercing dark eyes, that guarded, heart-shaped face, the low, raspy voice that’s indescribably captivating. Then the breeze catches my cape, and one tasselled end billows up and slaps me in the eyeball.
I focus on the task at hand.
I love working at Houdini’s, but the markets are my favourite days of the month. The Convent has a really cool, villagey vibe; take away the hipster beards and organic coffee, and it could be anyplace in medieval Europe. And all I have to do is keep people engaged while Amy works the stand. I stick to simple stuff – classic cards, coins – nothing super challenging, but I usually manage to hold a crowd, and it gives me the chance to test drive some tricks of my own.
Business is awesome today. Our juggling sets are big sellers, and Amy manages to not get in a smackdown fight with anyone, which is a rare and glorious event. The day is cold but the blue sky has brought out the crowds, and by mid-afternoon our stand has an audience three people deep. A row of kids huddle in front as I talk at them while executing my version of a Hollingworth Reformation trick. It never fails to get a couple of really good gasps from the little guys.
I love performing for kids. Adults seem to feel this need to remain, like, stoically un-wowed, but kids don’t ever bother hiding their excitement. They ask a billion questions, true, but they’re mostly happy to not fully understand how illusions work. They get – better than most grown-ups – that the mystery is half the fun.
I finish my last cup trick with a flourish and the little guys at the front applaud madly. I even get a few polite claps from some parents before they hustle their kids away, presumably before the idea of tipping occurs to anyone.
‘Nice,’ Amy says as she rings up a set of Christopher Plover books. ‘I’m liking that spin you’ve added to the tear-and-restore. You gonna show me how you do that?’
‘Nope,’ I say happily as I drop my coins into my pocket.
As the audience clears, I recognise a couple of familiar faces hovering at the back – or rather, I recognise a mop-head of hair even more disastrous than mine, and a yellow bouffant that stands in an atmospheric zone all of its own.
I’m not exactly sure how I became friends with the English guys whose band plays here on market days. I recall a urinal conversation being involved, but I’ve never brought it up. I don’t get normal guys at the best of times, but I’m guessing that making friends with other dudes while semi-pants-less is generally frowned upon. Regardless, Jasper and Ethan were the first cool people I’d met in ages, and their circle of friends have quickly become some of my favourite people in the world.
Jasper waves at me, then grunts a hello and scowls at Amy, who scowls a hello back.