Push

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

In a small theater, in a busy city, on a cool autumn night, a magician works to please his crowd. He spins his top hat to-and-fro, swings his cloak in a grand arc, spreading the cards out in a row. With a flick of his hat, he turns one over.

"Is this your card?" he asks to the audience member.

"Yes! It is!" the person exclaims.

The audience breaks into a scattered but well-meaning applause. The magician sighs internally. This is what you would expect at a small, independent theater. A meek crowd and lousy tips.

But, with a smile and a bow, the magician finishes his act, and exits the stage. In the back, the portly manager shakes his hand and gives him an envelope.

"Here's your pay. Good job out there, kid." The manager grins wide and leaves.

The magician cuts in to the envelope with a neat swipe and glances at the contents. A meager amount. It is enough, just barely. He steps into the changing station for a minute, returning to his normal clothes, the costume folded neatly in a briefcase. The magician-no-more takes a seat at in the chair at the mirror and contemplates his reflection.

He is 18 years old, but could (and often does) pass for his thirties with a well-groomed, trim beard and a dash of gray in his otherwise dark and wavy brown hair, . His eyes are green, sunken in from too many sleepless nights. He is about six feet tall and has a well-built body, toned abs and muscles hidden under simple clothing.

With a grunt and a groan, he rises from the chair, gathers his belongings, and steps out the back door of the building into an alleyway. It's almost too dark to see, but the light from the street exit gives him guidance. He is about to set off when he hears a nervous voice stammer, "U-um, sir?"

He turns to see a young lady, dressed in a jacket and scarf. She's clutching a pen and a poster advertising the show. "Do you - I mean, would you mind signing this?" She extends them towards him.

The performer smiles, this one genuine.  "I'm flattered, sure." He takes it. "Any name I should dedicate this to?"

"N-no, just your signature is great." She fiddles with her hair and doesn't make eye contact. He signs in his scrawled handwriting and gives it back to her. She smiles back at him and leaves. He takes a second, wanting to savor the moment, remember it. Then he heads out to the street.

It's about midnight by now, and he's tempted to take the fast way home, but shakes his head and decides that it's a nice night out, and starts walking. It takes a good thirty minutes, but he arrives at his apartment building. He pulls out the envelope and his wallet, placing some more money in the envelope, then putting it in the mailbox of his landlord. The stairs creak under his feet as he climbs, and chips of paint stick to the bottom of his shoes. He reaches for his keys and unlocks the door, stepping inside.

It's not a particularly nice apartment. It's plain, small, but most importantly; cheap. The laundry room is on the same floor, as well. He kicks off his shoes and slips off his jacket, leaving them in the entryway. He is tired, ready to sleep, but checks his voicemail for messages. There's three.

"Hello, Mr. Profeta. Just calling to make sure you get your rent in on time this month. It's the first, just like every other month. Thought I'd remind ya." The performer nods to himself. Taken care of. He hits the next button. "Hello, this is Best Buy. Thank you for your call, Mr. Profeta, but we are not hiring at the moment. We will keep your application on hand just in ca-" he hits the next button, harder this time. "Hey, man, it's Will. Calling to see if you were still down to hang out on Saturday. Know you're busy. Just give me a ring if something comes up. Otherwise, see you at the bar." He gives a small chuckle. Knows he wouldn't miss it. He needs as much relaxing as he can get. He climbs in to bed, about to nod off, but remembered he didn't lock the door.

Calabrese Profeta reaches out for his keys, levitates them down the hall, locks the door, and pulls them back to his side. Then, he turns out the lights without moving a muscle.