Dreidels on the Brain (25 page)

Normally I do all my setup in secret, but no one seemed to be watching me, except for an old man who was chewing on something. When I was almost finished, he said, “What are you doing here?”

“Hey there!” I said, turning toward him. “Funny you should ask. I'm doing a magic show for Khanuka!”

“What?”

“A magic show! For Khanukah.”

“Why?”

“Because everyone loves magic!” I said, just like Mister Mystery.

He didn't answer, just shrugged and kept staring and chewing. I finished setting up my tricks—except for Herrmann, who needed to go in at the last minute. It was already 2:15 when the attendants, who were big guys dressed in white, began wheeling in the rest of the residents. Soon there was a good-sized audience, but the attendants didn't seem to care which way their chairs faced, and neither did the patients. A few more wandered in, some on walkers, some with canes.

But there was no sign of my grandmother. I waited, running through bits of patter in my mind. “The oil never runs out! It's a miracle!” “Eight rings—for eight nights of Kchaanukkah! Each more magical than the last!”

A white-haired lady near the front said, “Are you going to do a show?”

“Yes, indeed!” I said. “A magic show!”

“Do you sing?”

“No, I don't sing. I'm doing a magic show!”

“Can't you sing instead? I like singing better.”

Finally, at 2:30, a couple of orderlies entered the room, escorting my grandmother by her elbows. She was wearing her favorite dress, brown with white polka dots. I waved at her, but she didn't respond. They sat her in a chair in the back. She didn't look like she was having a good day. “Now just sit here and be quiet,” they said. “All right?”

Before I could say hello, Not-Esther came to the front of the room with her clipboard. She put on her glasses and said, “All right now, everyone, pay attention. This is the eighth night of Hanuukkaahh so we'll be lighting all eight candles.”

That was my cue to load Herrmann—Maccabee—into her hiding place, along with the dreidels, so she would be ready for her first appearance. As I did, Not-Esther twisted the shammes to light it, then each of the eight other bulbs, and read the blessing from her clipboard.
“Baruch atah Adonai elohaynu melech ha-olam . . .”

“Why aren't you singing?” asked the woman who likes singing. She started clapping her hands and singing the blessing all over again.
“Baruch atah . . .”

“Doris,” said Not-Esther, “we're not singing. And I don't want any trouble from you. Or you're out.”

“Yeah, Doris! We don't want to hear you singing,” said the man next to her.

“I like singing,” someone called from the back.

“Shush!” Not-Esther finally shouted. “Or I'll unscrew the candles!” That quieted them down, though the TV was still really loud. “Today as a special Hanuka treat we have a young man who will do a magic presentation. His name is Josh—”

“Joel,” I corrected.

She gave me a look and went on. “His grandmother is a resident here. You know Anna.” Not-Esther looked around the room, spotting her. “There she is. In the back. Wave at everyone, Anna.”

She raised her arm, looking confused.

“Now, I know you'll all welcome our guest, and behave, not like the last time. So everyone, please, welcome Josh the Magician.”

There was some applause and a lot of blank stares, some at me and some in whatever directions people had been pointed. Not-Esther left the room and I leapt up, put on my best Mister Mystery smile, and said, “Hey, everybody—I know why you're here—because you believe in . . .” Then I took the pause, just as I'd planned, pulled out the feather flowers, and said, “. . . magic!”

The woman who liked singing applauded.

“Of course, I can't do magic by myself, even today, the most magical of days—the eighth night of Khanukkah! So I brought a helper along with me—Maccabee the rabbit!” I held up the box. They were supposed to call out “It's empty!” but no one said anything. I pretended to frown. “Of course, being a magic rabbit, Maccabee's invisible. What do you think—would you like to see him?”

Usually, when I do this for kids, they call out “Yes!” But everyone just stared at me. I figured that maybe they hadn't heard, so I said it louder, and slower, enunciating like I do for my mother.

“I said, would you like to meet Maccabee the magical rabbit?”

They still didn't respond and I wasn't going to try a third time. I plowed on. “To make Maccabee appear, we'll need to say the magic words,
‘Nes Gadol Haya Sham!'
which means, as you all know, ‘A Great Miracle Happened There!'” Still silence, except for the TV, where the woman who had been talking to the doctor was now crying about something. “Let's all say it together, shall we?
Nes Gadol . . .
”

The box was dripping. A puddle was forming on the stage.

“Attendant!” called Doris, in the front row. “Someone had an accident—you'd better clean it up!”

I pulled the lever and Herrmann appeared, sopping wet,
looking none too happy as I lifted her up. “No problem—I've got it,” I said, looking for something to wipe my hands on, and ended up using the Twentieth-Century Silks. So much for that trick.

But does a great magician get thrown off when there's a problem? No way. I thought of Mister Mystery—and Houdini. What would they do? Improvise. Like the time Houdini was chained up inside a trunk, then lowered into a hole cut into the ice of a frozen Lake Michigan. He managed to escape from the trunk, no problem, but the current was so strong that he drifted, and couldn't find the opening. Did he panic? No. He floated up to the surface and found a pocket of air between the water and ice, which let him breathe until he finally found the hole.

“Well, that's too bad—but we're not going to let Maccabee's little accident put out the Hanukah lights, are we? Of course not! Especially when we have . . . the Bottomless Oil Jug!”

I had shifted the order around. While nobody was very impressed with the trick, it did let me wash my hands, which had become sticky and stinky. I shook them off and pressed on. “And now, for some Magic Matzoh Balls!” One appeared at my fingertips. “They're made by my grandmother, Anna, so light and fluffy—they disappear!” I said as it vanished.

“If they're matzoh balls,” said the chewing guy in the
front row, “why are they red?” He wasn't heckling, just curious—like Brian, but a hundred years older.

“Because they're Hanikah matzoh balls!” I said. That made no sense, but bought me some time. “Sir, may I invite you to come up here, since you're such an expert on matzoh balls? Let's have a round of applause for our volunteer!”

This was good, because I had been looking for a volunteer, and he looked like he could climb the stairs to the stage.

“What's your name, sir?”

“Irving.”

“Let's hear it for Irving!” A few people applauded. I made the matzoh ball disappear from my hand and appear in his, then turned it from red to black, saying, “Now it's a burned matzoh ball!” Only a couple people laughed, but I knew I'd get them with the Menorah Card. Pulling the deck of cards from my pocket, I said, “Irving, I'll run my fingers through the cards, and you tell me where to stop.” He did, and I showed him his card—which was the nine of diamonds, of course—and told him to remember it. Then, taking my hat from my head, I pulled out the menorah banner I'd made, opening it up high over my head, the menorah facing backward so no one could see it.

“Very well, Irving. If this were a regular magic show, and I were a regular magician, I could simply tell you what your card is. But, this being Hanakka, I've got something special.
You tell me what card you chose, and I'll show you a miracle!”

He stood there for a moment, then said, “Seven of hearts.”

“Seven of hearts?”

“Yeah. Seven of hearts. Or maybe five. Of spades. That was it. Five of spades.”

“Five? Of spades?”

He nodded. It wasn't his card, of course, but what could I say? I was standing there with the answer over my head. “I believe the card you chose was”—and now I turned the banner around, for all to see—“the nine of diamonds!”

Everyone stared at it, then looked at Irving. He shook his head. “No. I think it was the four. Of clubs.”

There was silence now, except for the TV. I was feeling less magical by the minute. I had to take control. “Hey,” I said, making my way to the TV set. “I'm thinking this TV makes it hard to concentrate . . . maybe even difficult to remember things, like what card you picked. How about if I turn it off? Just for the rest of the show.” I pressed the off button, and the picture disappeared into a spot in the middle. For a moment it was quiet—and then, kvetching.

“Hey, I was watching that!” someone said.

“So was I!”

“So what?” said another voice. “It was a rerun. They're all reruns. She finds out she's pregnant—and the doctor is the father.”

“Thanks for ruining it!”

This was my make-or-break moment. With the TV off, I had at least the
possibility
of their attention. Deep down, everyone in this room wants to believe in magic, I told myself. And I am a magic man. The order I had planned no longer mattered; what I needed was the right effect to win them over. Suddenly it came to me—the Linking Rings!

It's a trick that comes in almost every kid's magic set. But those are small and cheap, and you can't really learn how to do it from written instructions—you need someone like Mister Mystery to teach you. I had saved up and bought the deluxe rings, and worked for weeks to perfect my routine.

“Not to worry,” I said, holding one ring in each hand. “You'll have another chance to see the reruns, but never again will you see anything—like
this
!” I held up a ring in each hand, bringing them toward each other, and as I did, a hush fell over the crowd. Everything that had come before would be forgotten—it all came down to this moment.

Ever so slowly, the two rings came closer, then actually seemed to
melt
through each other. The crowd actually gasped—then broke into applause.

“Yes,” I said as the room quieted down. “A true Khanaka miracle! But what's even more amazing is when they melt apart!”

That was true, and it happens so slowly that it's almost
hypnotic. I took my time. This was what I had been waiting for. They were in the palm of my hand, and I could see the wonder on their faces.

But then . . .

“His mother is a murderer!” my grandmother screamed. “She's poisoning his father!”

The spell was broken. They turned to stare at her, then me.

“That's my grandmother!” I said. “She has some sense of humor, don't you, Grandma?”

“And they throw gas at me!” she said.

“Always making jokes . . .”

“It's true! Every night they come in my room and throw gas!”

That's when I lost it. “Grandma!” I shouted. “I've told you before. You can't throw gas!”

Big mistake. My outburst was the cue for everyone else to start shouting.

“Tell your grandmother to shut up!” someone said. “She's always screaming!”

“
You
shut up!” shouted my grandmother.

“What if it's true? Somebody should call the police!”

“You're more
meshugga
than she is!”

Several patients began calling “Attendant! Attendant!” and others were swearing in Yiddish. A moment later, two
attendants barged into the room. “That's it!” shouted a big guy with a crew cut. “Show's over!”

Another attendant came in and began to wheel people out. The one with the crew cut came up onstage, looked at my tricks, and shook his head. “You've upset them,” he said. “I think you'd better go.” I was shaking as I began packing up. The attendant looked around at the chaos, shook his head again, and unplugged the menorah.

Pretty soon the room was empty except for my grandmother. She wasn't screaming anymore. She just stared as I picked up my suitcase and Herrmann's cage, then walked past her out the door.

When you're a kid who does magic shows, you hear the same thing over and over again from practically every adult you meet. As soon as they learn you're a magician, they say, “Hey, can you make yourself
disappear
?” Then they chuckle, like they're the first person who ever thought to say it.

There are a couple ways to respond—my favorite being: “I've got a better trick—I'll make
you
disappear!” Then I cover up my eyes and say, “Whoa, cool!” Though no one had asked me to make myself disappear at the nursing home, it was all I wanted to do as I sat on the bench waiting for the bus. When I glanced back through the nursing home window, I saw people inside looking at me.