The Demonstration

By Saylos

"This place is a repair shop!" Roger stared up at the dusty glass face of the dilapidated building before him, barely making out the shadows of rows and rows of shelves within. He took the last puff from his cigarette, tossed it to the ground, and snuffed it out under his boot.

"It's a goddam repair shop." He chuckled, gray ghosts of smoke spilled from his mouth. It was just before dusk, and the sun was setting behind the building, filling the sky golden pink. Roger shielded his eyes and tried to get a better look.

"And it's a friggin' dump, probably condemned."

"It ain't condemned!" The greasy slender urchin said. Roger didn't know his name, didn't need to. He'd seen that type a million times before, washed up hustler looking for a quick buck. The only thing that mattered to Roger was getting his twenty bucks worth out of this guy and if he was right about this place, twenty bucks would be a bargain..

"I seen him in there, " He continued. "In and out, every morning at eight A.M., and every night at 7:15. See, the McDonald's across the street always throws out their stuff from the night before, and me and the guys go there for breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah," Roger said. "You're sure it's him?"

"Sure as I'm standing here Mr. Banham. Yes sir, sure as I'm standing here. Saw him once when I was a kid, 'bout four or five. Now he was the best."

Roger grit his teeth, "Save the life story for Oprah" Roger looked up. The sun had been swallowed by the building, and a long shadow fell on the two men standing there in an empty gravel driveway, in front of this dead looking place. "Doesn't looks like he's the best anymore."

"I didn't mean anything by it Mr. Banham. I never seen your act."

Roger grinned at the thought of this human refuse trying to get past the bouncer at the Sands. "No, I guess you wouldn't have." He made a swift gesture with his hand, and slid his two fingers apart, revealing a folded twenty dollar bill. The bum's eyes widened, and he grinned toothlessly. His greasy hands reached for the bill, but Roger snatched it away at the last moment.

"If this is bulls**t . . . "

"No sir," He said. "I swear on my momma's grave Mr. Banham, it's him."

Roger handed the folded bill to the bum who snatched it greedily as though it would vanish if he were too slow. He unfolded it, and felt it between his dirty fingers, perhaps to make sure it was real. It never ceased to amaze Roger how money affected people. Everyone was for sale, at the right price. Judging from the building in front of him, he figured Nathan Tolbert's price would be quite low.

"Get lost," Roger said. "Go buy yourself a little magic in a bottle will ya?"

"For another twenty, I'll watch your car until you get out Mr. Banham." The bum said. Roger grinned.

"I'll take my chances." He said, reaching in his pocket and pulling out his keys. He hit the remote, and there was a piercing beep. Eighty-five grand for that car, and worth every penny of it.

"Okay Mr. Banham," The bum said. "Just be careful, please be careful." There was fear in his eyes. Blind, rabbit fear. The bum looked back at the building and shivered slightly. "Mamma always said some stones better left unturned . . . you just might uncover a snake."

"Try to keep that in mind." Roger reached in his pocket for another smoke. The bum had gone about his way, most likely to the nearest package store. Truth was, he was a little afraid too, though he couldn't quite nail what it was. Maybe it was the stillness, or that feeling like he was being watched, being led like a rat right into the mouth of a python. Maybe he'd seen the crumpled marquee posters. "See the Astounding Tolberto! Master Magician! Watch in shock and amazement as he changes RIGHT BEFORE YOUR VERY EYES! Three nights only!"

The Astounding Tolberto was really Nathan Tolbert . . . didn't take a lot of digging to find that one out. Most of his tricks were old-hat, making things disappear, card tricks. The type of thing that kept the crowds at Grossinger's astounded. None of it would be of any use to him. But that trick, his show stopper . . . that was a different story altogether.

He'd heard stories, stories were all there were. The Amazing Tolberto, it would seem, refused to do his showstopper trick on Television when asked, and eventually faded into obscurity. Just a vague image in the clouded minds of those fortunate enough to have lived long enough to remember having seen it first hand. And what they said was, well, beyond belief.

Roger looked at his watch. 7:09 P.M.. The watch cost three grand, and worth every penny. Everything, and everyone had it's price, including him. This was the only thing he was totally sure of. That, and the fact that there was no trick that could not be explained. That's why they were called tricks, after all. Just that people were foolish, and wanted to believe in magic. Hell, when He'd made the Sears Tower 'disappear', he was almost sure they fell to their knees like primitive man before an eclipse. Truth was, all he did was move the stage, not the building. That was the trick, the gag. And this Nathan Tolbert's 'transformation' act had to be the same kind of trick, same kind of gag.

Twelve minutes after seven. Roger walked toward the door. The gravel crackling under his feet was the only sound he could hear. There was that eerie stillness in the air, not so much as a bird was singing. No car drove past. Not even the wind rustled discarded newsprint. Jesus, he thought. This must be what it would be like to be the last man on Earth. He wagered the stillness would get you long before anything else did, long before hunger or thirst.

He opened the door, it squealed with age, tipping an antique cowbell that jingled softly.

"Hello?" He said. "Mr. Tolbert?"

The building was lined with row after row of steel shelves towering ten feet in the air. Each was crammed with endless bric-a-brak, a broken typewriter, an old ventriloquist dummy with his lower jaw missing. Throwaways, useless junk.

"It is Tolbert, right?" He called out, walking past the shelves. No signs of life at all. "Nathan Tolbert?"

Roger came to a large standing frame, draped in a white sheet. He could tell by the shape that it was one of those large dressing mirrors. He reached down and grabbed the cloth at the bottom.

"The Astounding Tolberto?" He repeated, lifting the cloth a little higher.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." A raspy voice said from directly behind him. Roger jumped, dropping the cloth.

"Jesus Christ! You scared the s**t out of me!" He said.

The man grinned. "Mirrors are funny things, sometimes they show us what's really there. Sometimes we don't like what we see."

"Are you Nathan Tolbert?" Roger said, his heartbeat slowing down a little.

"Was that disbelief I sensed in your voice?" The man said in a slick voice. "Is the figure before you not at all what you were expecting?"

"Not at all," Roger said. "Just thought you were . . . "

"Taller? I get that a lot." Nathan turned his back to Roger, and vanished behind one of the shelves.

"Yeah," Roger said. "I guess I thought you'd be taller."

"Nothing wrong with being short is there?" His disembodied voice crooned from somewhere amidst all those maze-like shelves. "Or would 'squat' be more apt? Yes, I think 'squat' is a far better description."

Nathan peered at Roger from the corner of the shelf. His eyes look magnified to the size of overripe tangerines behind those thick, buddy holly glasses he was wearing. Long shoots of gray hair stuck out from beneath the brim of a faded black bowler that perched on top of his head at a curious angle. He flashed a smile at Roger. His teeth were astonishingly white and well-taken care of.

"But I am afraid that whatever you have that needs mending will have to be left on the counter. I'm closed." He pulled his head back behind the shelf. Roger walked double time to the end of the shelf. He was gone. Roger walked the length of the store, to an old counter against the far wall. It was strewn with what looked to be the innards of a clock. There was one of those tiny bells on the counter with a sign below "ring for service."

"Mr. Tolbert?" Roger cried out. "Where the hell is he?" he said softly. He turned around and leaned against the counter. "If you even ARE Nathan Tolbert."

"I am he, and he is me." Roger turned around to find the curious old man behind the counter, fumbling with the pieces of clock before him.

"The only thing that remains to be discovered is who are you?" Nathan smiled again. There was something very unsettling in that perfectly white, Cheshire Catlike grin.

"Roger Banham," He said taking a step back. Something clanged behind him. He spun around to stare into the twisted face of some ancient god etched into the surface of a great gong.

"Yes," Nathan said. "You're on television. You made the Sears Tower disappear."

"I didn't actually make it disappear," Roger turned back to the counter. Nathan was gone. Roger shook his head. This sense of unease had not escaped him, and this Nathan Tolbert had apparently lost his mind.

Nathan came out of a little back room carrying a small cardboard box.

"I know that, it was just a trick, an illusion. But people believed in it, believed you really did it. There's a lot of power in that, a lot of power indeed."

"Yeah," Roger said. "TOO many people believed it was real."

Nathan looked up from his box, staring intently into Roger's eyes. An intensity made deeper by the magnification of his eyes.

"You say that as though it were a bad thing. Nothing is bad in believing in something Mr. Banham." He looked back into the box. "I seem to have misplaced a cuckoo. Perhaps it flew east, or west."

"You can say that again," Roger muttered. Nathan either ignored this, or didn't hear it. Roger placed his bets on the latter, the old man was probably just as deaf as he was mad.

"They all come to me in time," He said. "All with something broken and in need of repair. A cracked mirror, a busted clock." He looked up at Roger and smiled that unsettling smile of his. "What do you need mended Mr. Banham?"

"Nothing!" Roger said sharply. "That's not why I'm here, and you know it."

"Isn't it Mr. Banham? Isn't that exactly why you're here? To mend your career? Sure outdid yourself with that Sears Tower thing, but what next? You have to outdo yourself again don't you Mr. Banham?"

"Nice trick," Roger said. "More psychology than telepathy though."

"Everything is a trick to you, isn't it Mr. Banham? Never trust what you see, isn't that right Mr. Banham? It must be frightfully dull in your world."

"What you see isn't always what you get old man. That's the real world, that's reality. You might have a few suckers convinced of that trick of yours, that showstopper, is for real. But I am not a sucker."

"Oh yes!" Nathan chuckled dryly. "It's a real showstopper, but it's no trick, I assure you."

Roger leaned forward, propping himself against the counter. "Then why don't you show me, old man. Let me see for myself this showstopper of yours." He smiled slyly "Or do you need time to set it up?"

"No set-up, Mr. Banham. It's not a trick. But Like I said before, I'm closed." He turned his attention back to the box, and started to rifle through it again.

"I should have figured it'd come to this," Roger said. "Okay old man, have it your way. How much?"

"Excuse me?" Nathan said.

"For the trick, how much to show me how it's done? A thousand? Ten thousand? Of course I'll have to see it in action first, to make sure it's worth my money."

"Money!" Nathan said sharply. "Now we are onto the sordid topic of coin are we?"

"You drive a hard bargain old man . . . pretty slick. One hundred grand, final offer!"

"Keep your money! I want no part of it!" Nathan's eyes grew narrow.

"What happened to you?" Nathan said. "When did you lose your sense of wonder, your imagination? What was that turning point that made you the miserable creature I see before me?"

"I could say the same thing about you," Roger said. "You went from the top to the bottom. You're nothing, nobody. Just a childhood memory."

Nathan stepped out from behind the counter. "We're all born knowing the truth, Mr. Banham. We're all born believing in magic. It's not until we get older that some of us harden our hearts, shut our eyes, and stagger around blind to the real world around us. Our rational little minds start telling us we were wrong, science starts telling us we were wrong."

Nathan held out the palm of his hand, and a tiny little flame rose up, dancing in a circle around the pad of his palm.

"Before we even know what hit us, we start ignoring the little things. The magic in a Spring day, the wonder of a dancing flame."

The flame took the shape of a man and woman in a dancer's embrace. Roger looked from Nathan's palm, down to his sleeve.

"We sacrifice imagination in favor of reason, passion for cold hard fact. Even now, Mr. Banham, you're looking for wires, black powder, something to explain what you are seeing here. I can assure you, you will find none of that."

Nathan cupped his hand over the flame dancers. "We snuff our creative fires," He opened his hand, no scorch marks, nothing but a palm. "And all we are left with are empty disappointments."

"Projectors," Roger said. "You did that with some sort of projector. I was doing that sort of old hat when I was opening for Aerosmith."

"No projectors, Mr. Banham." He said. "No fancy tricks of light or shadow. No mirrors. Look all you want, you'll find nothing on those shelves. Nothing but the broken dreams that get dropped on my doorstep. The wonder and imagination that men have destroyed. Men like you."

Nathan looked down at his hands, his withered old hands. "So many broken dreams that need mending. They expect me to fix every one of them. I could fix them all day and there would be a whole truckload more come the next day."

"Yeah, that's real poetic and all. Great stage presence. Must have wowed the crowd in the Catskills, but things have changed now. Stage presence is half naked women. What they want is something bigger, something more. I want to see the real trick, old man. Your show stopper."

Nathan shook his head weakly. "It just isn't possible."

"God dammit old man! What's the trick? What the hell good is it doing you here, with all this junk?"

"I told you," Nathan said quietly. "It's no trick."

"It's all tricks!" Roger hissed. "Nobody really does magic. Magic is not real! It's all smoke and mirrors, misdirection. All flash and no substance! It's a lie old man! A carefully constructed fraud designed to tease the senses. It only works because people are dumb enough to fall for it. There is no magic! No great mystery! No unexplained phenomena! Just cold hard fact, just solid reality. Only a blind fool can't see the trick."

"And I say only a blind fool can't see the magic." Nathan said. He took his glasses off his face, and placed them carefully on the counter. Then pulled off his hat and sat it next to the glasses. He closed his eyes and let out a heavy, heartsick sigh.

"And the blind must be made to see again." He said. "You want to see it, Mr. Banham? Do you really want to see it?"

"That's why I'm here," He said. "Show me."

Nathan stepped out from behind the counter. His squat form seemed taller somehow. And his clothes had changed, he was wearing a black tux and white gloves.

"Just remember, Mr. Banham, YOU asked for this." Nathan said, turning around. He was younger now, just like the picture on the poster. His moustache curled slightly, his goatee came to a nearly sharp point at the end of his chin. Roger tried to figure this out. Sure, sure . . . he never actually saw the guy's feet, he could have been walking on his knees . . . and the old man look, just white powder and make-up . . . but the clothes.

Nathan turned his back to Roger, and hung his head. "You were half right," He said, "People do want to believe in magic. But what you fail to see it that they need to believe in something. To some, it's a god of some sort, to others it's science. But it's all magic. Did you ever once stop and think about that? When you remove the sense of wonder, all that remains is cold cynicism, then nothing."

"You're just stalling now, Astounding Tolberto . . . get on with it." Roger said with a bit of mirth. He was good, he'd give him that much. Somehow he'd distracted him long enough to pull that quick change routine. Roger had always prided himself on not being easily distracted.

Nathan let out a low groan, as he slouched over, nearly falling to his knees. His white gloved hands grabbed at his now dark hair. There was a sick popping sound, like squashing a large roach, then the sound of fabric tearing. This was good, Roger thought . . . He hadn't figured it out yet, but it was impressive, almost believable.

The back of the tuxedo jacket ripped as the shoulders started to spread out. The spine cracked and popped as sharp, thorny appendages parted the skin, and slid outward with a slick sound.

Next, the sleeves started to tear and the arms grew longer. Claws ripped through the white gloves, long and slender, like raven's feet. Just as the poster had promised, Nathan Tolbert, the Astounding Tolberto, was transforming before his very eyes. Changing into something that was neither man nor animal. Roger was flash frozen, unable to run, unable to do anything but rationalize. He had to figure out how this trick was done.

The low groaning turned suddenly into an inhuman growl. Nathan writhed in agony as the changed continued. There was something repulsively beautiful about it, like a well-choreographed dance.

Nathan let out a strange grunt, and rose to full height. The tattered remains of his tuxedo fell to the floor like a pile of rags. He rose higher than the tallest shelf, easily twelve feet. Even as it moved, the muscles flexed and bent in a most convincing manner. If this was the trick he did at Grossinger's, then Roger was sure it amazed them all.

Nathan turned around and gazed at Roger with cold, black eyes. Roger applauded.

"Very good!" He said, "Very impressive. What is that, animatronics maybe? How did you pull that off in the thirties? Bet you made a few modifications to the original trick since then though."

The thing let out a shrill cry, it's jaws dripping with bile. Roger felt the heat from it's breath, and the stench of something wicked. Nathan lumbered forward, a pallid thing. His skin glistened in the dim light of the store. Then there were the teeth, jagged, barbed things, still just as white as before.

There were no strings, no projectors, no mirrors, no smoke. Not this time. Roger skidded across the floor, tripping over his own feet. He wanted to be away from here, he wanted to be rid of this horrible image, the image he brought into being himself.

Nathan let out a mighty roar. One claw swiped at a shelf, turning it over as though it were made of papier-mache. The shelf crashed against another, then another, knocking them all down like dominoes. Roger was trapped.

Roger tried to climb over the mounds of junk, but something grabbed his pants' leg. It was the dummy, it's jaw still missing. It leered up at him lifelessly. He kicked at the wooden imp, forcing it to free him. He struggled to his feet. Nathan was upon him. He could feel it's hot breath tickling the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. Then, it spoke. A sexless choir of voices erupted from it's throat.

"There is magic! There is great mystery! There is unexplained phenomena! This is cold hard fact, solid reality. Only a blind fool can't see the trick."

"Please," Roger whimpered. "Don't kill me. I'll do anything."

Nathan lunged forward. Roger scrambled over the pile of garbage, nearly screaming at the leering face etched onto the gong. He turned around quickly. The door! Where the hell was the door out of this place! He thought he caught a glimpse of light, and headed toward it, straight in plain view of the dressing mirror he'd seen earlier.

"No!" Roger cried, falling to his knees. Nathan was behind him.

"Look!" He said.

"I can't . . . I just--" A clawed hand grabbed him by the head.

"I said LOOK!" Roger opened his eyes.

"I-- I don't understand," He said. "I don't understand. There's nothing there, no reflection. Why is there no reflection?"

Nathan let out an inhuman laugh. "I told you," It said. "Mirrors can be tricky things. Sometimes they show you what's really there, and sometimes you don't like what you see."

"But nothing's there," Roger said. "Nothing."

"And nothing, is all there ever was. Nothing is what is really there. YOU are nothing, Mr. Banham."

Roger felt the gnarled hand grab him by the base of the skull, lifting him to full height. He closed his eyes, allowing a tear to trail down his cheek.

"Please don't do this," Roger said. "Don't kill me."

"It's too late for you Mr. Banham. You died a long time ago." There was a quick jerk, followed by a loud snap. Nathan let go. Roger fell limply to the ground, resting amidst the rubbish and bric-a-brac.

"They all come in time" Nathan said, "All with something broken and in need of repair. A cracked mirror, a busted clock." He looked down at Roger and a tear spilled from his cold, black eyes. "But some things are beyond repair."

Nathan walked away, changing back as he did. He stopped, looked at the floor, and knelt down. He took the cuckoo gently in his hand and walked back to his counter. So many things left to repair. No time to waste on the lost causes