The Shine

The clothes make the woman

The guy running the show in Pine Bluff helped me get booked on a couple more shows down here so I called the guy running the Casper show to tell him I was out. I called the number I talked to him before anyway. Someone who wasn't him answered the and said that he never heard of that guy and hung up. So I guess I'm good.

I get flack for working in boxing trunks instead of appropriate tights. What the fuck is appropriate in wrestling? You work a show, one guy is dressed like a pimp, one guy is wearing assless chaps, one guy is in overalls, another is in a kilt, and another is draped in a velour jumpsuit. What's appropriate about any of that? I feel like my explanation of "they were free" is a great defense of my boxing trunks.

It got me to thinking about a new spell for making clothes.

My smooth '96 Caprice Classic wagon looks packed with stuff. Which it is. Until you consider that it contains everything I own. Viewed though that lens it's not so much really. Would all your shit fit in your car? Most of the back seat is taken up by a trunk that I inherited.

Obaluaiye introduced me to magic before he mysteriously disappeared, but the owner of the trunk is the person I really learned magic from. His stage name was Royale Fantastique because in addition to being a real magic practitioner he was also a stage magician. I think I should keep his real name to myself.

I met Royale Fantastique in Vegas. I had gone there to work a show for a fucking piece of shit that breaks promises who shall remain nameless. I was walking, wandering, since I had no money and nothing to do.

I saw a distinguished looking old man in an alleyway getting screamed at by a dude in a letter jacket while a hooker watched and egged him on to kick the old guy's ass. A guy in a letter jacket in HS is kind of douche, a guy right after HS in a letter jacket is a total douche, and a guy in his thirties still wearing a letter jacket has definitely raped someone. This guy was the last kind.

Letter jacket made his move to pound the old guy, but instead what happened was the old guy touched him with a wand, literally a stupid wand from a stage magic show, and letter jacket was knocked on his ass. Old guy then said something to the hooker and she ran away screaming.

Before I met Obaluaiye, I would have assumed that I hadn't seen what I saw. I would have made myself believe that I just missed the old dude smacking the guy in the letter jacket or that letter jacket slipped or the old man had a stun gun.

I would have come up with explanations other than magic. But because of Obaluaiye, I knew what I had seen, and what I had seen was magic. People talk about opening their third eye, which is fuckery, but is kind of true metaphorically. You can't look for things before you know they exist.

I walked up to the old man and said that I knew a little magic, real magic, and wanted to learn more. He said that he would be happy to teach me and that was that. A few months after I left Vegas, his trunk showed up sitting by my car, as if by magic. That probably means that he's dead. He had a lot of enemies and not all of them were losers in letter jackets.

The trunk mostly has old playbills and props and other not real magic memorabilia stuff in it from his stage career, but it has his notes and thoughts on real magic too. I haven't had time to go through it much yet to figure out what's what but I would bet that he had a spell for clothing. He was always dressed to the nines. He took a lot of pride in his appearance. He was always bemoaning my ratty clothes but not in an asshole way, in a good-natured way.

I need to make some time to look through his notes and see if there's a clothing spell I can start practicing. 

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