comes right down to it, magic is all about appearance. And so is happiness. Happiness is most definitely an illusion—you think you’re happy, that you’re doing well… at least from the outside. But on the inside, where it really counts, it’s all sleight of hand; you’re just showing your audience what they want to see, which is that you appear happy. Ergo, happiness=magic. Simple.
And let’s face the facts on that notion, shall we? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s no such thing as magic. It just doesn’t exist. Saying something is magic is just a nice way of admitting you got played. Tricked. Duped. Scammed. Conned. And every time you put on that “happy” façade, you’re just playing yourself.
I know this firsthand. I’m no stranger to being conned and everyone in this town knows it. Or at least that’s how it feels. Bottom line: if magic doesn’t exist, happiness doesn’t exist either. For me, anyway. I might as well add luck to the list too; I know my maker skipped over me the day he was giving that out.
I have exactly four things going for me. No more. No less. My son, Trey, my dad, and my over-opinionated gay younger brother, Brian. Oh, and, uh, this other… thing . A long-standing friendship with a person I can never have but could quite possibly be utterly and irrevocably in love with. We have this thing and it’s crazy but we keep coming back to each other. Day after day.
So maybe 3.5 things. I’m not sure this thing qualifies, since I don’t really know whether it’s coming or going.
The thing about having a thing is there’s always some other thing that comes along to muddle it all up. I have these four things and I’m trying damn hard to keep them all headed in the right direction, but it seems that Central Issue forgot to dole out my battle gear at the start of this fight called life. I’m pretty much a mess.
I glance at my cheap Wal-Mart wristwatch to check the time. 1:18 p.m. “She’s consistent if nothing else,” I mutter to myself. Maggie will drag herself in any minute. She’ll flop into the other side of our booth with an oof and toss her purse on the table. That’s when she’ll start.
My best friend must hold the record for fastest talker on the planet. She rambles on a mile a minute, her junky purse on the table bugs the hell out of me, and her complete lack of punctuality is irritating, but I love her something fierce. She’s understanding and supportive and the only person I really have to help with Trey. My younger brother, Brian, helps when he can but he’s almost always tied up doing something for that demanding mogul boss of his.
My tired eyes drift over to the door of the sandwich shop just about the time that Maggie pulls it open. Even though it’s October, Las Vegas still has days with temperatures averaging in the mid-80s. Couple those temperatures with the arid climate and it seems like my hometown is hot year round. A gust of hot, dry, Las Vegas air comes swooshing in with her and she looks to our booth. I raise a brow and tap my index finger on the scratched up face of my watch.
She looks her typical relaxed self, an eclectic bohemian in strappy gladiator sandals, coral ribbed tank top, and a flowing, long cotton skirt that seems to have every color of the rainbow sewn into the fabric. Her wavy hair is wild and unkempt and she seems as chill as can be. If I dressed like that, I’d look homeless. Maggie looks like a hipster gypsy who’s just back from following Phish.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Maggie huffs and waves her hand flippantly in the air as she makes the short walk from the door to the first booth that we claimed as “ours” so many years ago.
“You know, one day I’m not going to wait and you’ll drag in here late and be left to wonder where I went.” I smile curtly to cap off my idle threat.
Maggie tosses her purse onto the tabletop right on cue and flops down into the worn, cushy booth. Her long, coal black
And let’s face the facts on that notion, shall we? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but there’s no such thing as magic. It just doesn’t exist. Saying something is magic is just a nice way of admitting you got played. Tricked. Duped. Scammed. Conned. And every time you put on that “happy” façade, you’re just playing yourself.
I know this firsthand. I’m no stranger to being conned and everyone in this town knows it. Or at least that’s how it feels. Bottom line: if magic doesn’t exist, happiness doesn’t exist either. For me, anyway. I might as well add luck to the list too; I know my maker skipped over me the day he was giving that out.
I have exactly four things going for me. No more. No less. My son, Trey, my dad, and my over-opinionated gay younger brother, Brian. Oh, and, uh, this other… thing . A long-standing friendship with a person I can never have but could quite possibly be utterly and irrevocably in love with. We have this thing and it’s crazy but we keep coming back to each other. Day after day.
So maybe 3.5 things. I’m not sure this thing qualifies, since I don’t really know whether it’s coming or going.
The thing about having a thing is there’s always some other thing that comes along to muddle it all up. I have these four things and I’m trying damn hard to keep them all headed in the right direction, but it seems that Central Issue forgot to dole out my battle gear at the start of this fight called life. I’m pretty much a mess.
I glance at my cheap Wal-Mart wristwatch to check the time. 1:18 p.m. “She’s consistent if nothing else,” I mutter to myself. Maggie will drag herself in any minute. She’ll flop into the other side of our booth with an oof and toss her purse on the table. That’s when she’ll start.
My best friend must hold the record for fastest talker on the planet. She rambles on a mile a minute, her junky purse on the table bugs the hell out of me, and her complete lack of punctuality is irritating, but I love her something fierce. She’s understanding and supportive and the only person I really have to help with Trey. My younger brother, Brian, helps when he can but he’s almost always tied up doing something for that demanding mogul boss of his.
My tired eyes drift over to the door of the sandwich shop just about the time that Maggie pulls it open. Even though it’s October, Las Vegas still has days with temperatures averaging in the mid-80s. Couple those temperatures with the arid climate and it seems like my hometown is hot year round. A gust of hot, dry, Las Vegas air comes swooshing in with her and she looks to our booth. I raise a brow and tap my index finger on the scratched up face of my watch.
She looks her typical relaxed self, an eclectic bohemian in strappy gladiator sandals, coral ribbed tank top, and a flowing, long cotton skirt that seems to have every color of the rainbow sewn into the fabric. Her wavy hair is wild and unkempt and she seems as chill as can be. If I dressed like that, I’d look homeless. Maggie looks like a hipster gypsy who’s just back from following Phish.
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Maggie huffs and waves her hand flippantly in the air as she makes the short walk from the door to the first booth that we claimed as “ours” so many years ago.
“You know, one day I’m not going to wait and you’ll drag in here late and be left to wonder where I went.” I smile curtly to cap off my idle threat.
Maggie tosses her purse onto the tabletop right on cue and flops down into the worn, cushy booth. Her long, coal black
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