My magician and I were on our way to a quaint town, tucked peacefully in a quiet nook of the San Fernando Valley, a good trip away from our office in Los Angeles. He was dressed for show, a black and white suit, a velvet purple cape, and a ravishingly large bow tie that matched mine all except for a necessary size alteration. As he pulled into the winding, cobblestone driveway of the tiny home, in the tiny neighborhood, in the nevertheless, tiny town, I could already hear the excited squeals of children.
       
The young boy was celebrating his seventh birthday. Like my magician and I, he was a lover of magic, thus our attendance. The sky was blue, fogged with smoke from a barbecue and the ambrosial aroma of sweet and savory cheeseburgers wafted past our flaring nostrils. My magician rang the doorbell.
       
A portly man in spectacles and an old rugby shirt answered the door.
       
“You da clown?”
       
“Magician.”
       
“Same Difference.”
       
“Actually…”
       
“Just come in.”
       
And so it was. My magician and I stepped through the doorway into a messy family room, negligently spotted with unfortunate toys, bits of paper, and odorous clumps of indistinguishable food from forgotten meals of the previous week. We were directed into the backyard where the portly man and his wife had set up a makeshift magician’s stage. As we prepared for our act, the children sat with their legs diligently crossed, watching us with hawk-like intensity. I didn’t help with the first act.
       
My magician called for a volunteer. All the children nominated the birthday boy, Tommy.
       
As Tommy begun to climb on-stage, my magician froze, a cold shudder of fear rattling away at his soul. We heard an angry yell break out from inside. A new man, tall, broad-shouldered and mostly bald pushed past the portly man and out the door. His dark brown eyes were intense and he had a glinting object of some-sort in his hand.
       
“Is that Jim? Jimmy Baker?? Burbank High School, class of ‘82???” he shouted across the yard, a determined hostility ringing in his voice.
       
My magician lowered his spectacles with a quivering finger, “Yes?” he asked, his words shaky and his mouth dry.
       
“You ruined my life!” the man hollered.
       
Then there was a noise. A very loud noise. A noise so shrill and overwhelming, I thought, for just a moment, my long ears had lost their ability to hear.
       
My magician fell off the stage and the children ran away, screaming and crying.
       
I never saw my magician again.
       
That was years ago. Today, I sit, perched on a shelf, shivering in my hat.
       
In the dark.
       
Alone.
       
Without my magician.