...an original story written by Doug, KB7RKY, in conjunction with Miss Pippa Moran, Paulette Agee, Running Brook, Kim and Nicole Ali, TC Stanwood, and Amy Sherman, for The Invisible Woman Story Archive and Shecky's Illusion Archive. This story is a work of fiction. Any similarities to actual persons, living or otherwise, is purely coincidental. This story copyright (c) 2001, KB7RKY and company. No part of this story may be copied, in whole or in part, without express written consent of Doug, KB7RKY, and those involved.

The lyrics of the songs "Too Much Time On My Hands", "Fooling Yourself (The Angry Young Man)", copyrighted by Styx, various years. No infringement of any copyright is intended.

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-Tommy Shaw, Styx, "Fooling Yourself (The Angry Young Man)", "Grand Illusion"

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"Damn it, man, how long are you gonna sit there and drink?"

"As long as it takes for me to get nice and numb. But, what the hell are you worried about? I buy the beer, you give it to me. Capeesh?"

"Yeah, and I know when someone's had too much. Let me call you a cab."

"How about you give me another Bud and keep your damn nose from getting busted?"

The bartender cracked open another Budweiser and slid it to the really inebriated man, as he staggered to the jukebox.

"Damn quarters...lessee...F-9. Too Much Time On My Hands, by Styx...(snort) Sure describes my shit-you-way-shun!"

(clink, clink...click, click)

(synthesizer begins the beat of "Too Much Time On My Hands)

The man pressed the same buttons, and Styx, again, boomed through the semi-empty bar...

"This describes my life," he said again, as he sat down at the bar. "Barkeep, another Bud down thisaway."

The bottle appeared, as if from nowhere. He stared at it for a long while, then downed the amber-colored brew.

"(snort) You wouldn't happen to have anything stronger, would you?"

"Sure do...but it won't help you."

"Crap...maybe you're right. Did I tell you I used to be a really good magician?"

"Only a hundred times today..."

"Well," the man begins, "I was. The Great Ericson, I called myself. I could do 'em all...been to Vegas, right alongside Siegfried and Roy, David Copperfield, Lance Burton...all them great magicians. I had to compete harder than most to get noticed. I opened a few shows for those guys, and a few others. I could do all the illusions...saw girls in half, decapitations, levitations, sleight of hand, coin tricks, card tricks...even some I had invented myself! There wasn't any secret I didn't know...I even invented some fantastic illusions for my own shows. Then, those other guys started seeing 'em, and downright stole them from me! Now, they're performing MY illusions, and making millions off MY ideas! Do I get any credit? Hell no! As long as people pay to see them, what do they care. This whole damn world revolves around money...money which I was making with hard, honest work, and now I don't even see one red cent! Damn it all to hell!"

He threw the beer bottle across the room, the glass shattering against the wall.

"Okay, buddy, you've had too much. Now, either you leave on your own, or I call the cops and have you removed," the bartender said.

The man plunked down a $50. "This should cover the damage...and it's all I have. No more booze money..." he says, staggering to the door.

The bartender watched him leave. "That is one sad case," he said with a shrug.

Hours later, the out-of-work magician is sitting in a park. The night of the city surrounds him...sirens in the background, a few people out for a night stroll...and him, drowning in self-pity.

"Hmpf...Steven Ericson, Loser At Large. The Great Ericson..." he said to himself, taking a long swig from a cold Budweiser Longneck. "I could do 'em all..."

Another Styx song seems to play in his mind...or is it from someone's car stereo? Steve can't tell...he's too drunk to care.

Sometime later, he found himself standing outside his apartment, fumbling for his key. As he went inside, the light on his answering machine was blinking.

"Beep...Mr. Ericson, please call 1-800..."

"Bite me, you blood-sucking leeches!" he said to the recorder. Just another damn bill collector, he thought. Well, if you want my money, take me to court, you bastards. You won't get a goddamn penny out of me...I ain't got it!

"Beep...Mr. Ericson, you're late with your rent. This is three times now...one more, and I'll have the sheriff evict you..."

"Do it...probably the best thing that will ever happen to me," Steven said.

"Beep...Hey, Steve, it's Joe. About those plans for that new illusion...well, sorry, dude, no can do. That's just too damn dangerous, in my estimation. Sorry, buddy. But, gimme a call later, 'kay?"

"Crap..."

"That was your last message," the synthesized voice said.

He pressed "erase".

"I will erase messages."

"Wish I could erase this so-called existence. God, I need a miracle!" Steve said.

He collapsed on the couch, and passed out...

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Steve awoke with a start...the phone has been ringing for a few minutes.

"Why hasn't the goddamn machine picked up?" he yelled, as he reached for the squalling handset.

"Hello...and you'd better have a damn good reason for waking the dead!"

"Um...hi, Mr. Ericson?" a definite feminine voice, with a fairly noticeable New York accent says.

"Speaking...who the hell are you, and what the hell do you want?" Steve said impatiently.

"Um, yeah...I'm...eh...calling about your ad in the paper...for the magician's assistant? I'm wondering if you're still looking..."

"Look, lady, I don't have...ah, excuse me?" Steve said. "What ad? Which paper?"

"The Las Vegas Review...in the classifieds. It says 'Assistant needed for three shows nightly at the New York, New York. Please call Steve Ericson at 555-6789'."

Damn, that ad's been expired for six months...or has it? he thought. "Um, well, sure, but I haven't had a show for quite a while. You sure it's current?"

"Yes, sir, it is...today's paper, as a matter of fact. If you have the position filled, I'm sorry to disturb you, but..."

"Um, no, no...that's...um, that's all right. I'm still looking. And your name is...?" Steve asked.

"Well...Kim...I'm glad you called. But, let me be honest with you. I haven't performed any shows in about six months, and I was sure that ad was expired. But, if you say it's current, then I'll give you an interview." He stopped for a moment. "Uh, you wouldn't happen to know anyone else who'd be interested? My show was a pretty big one, and I had lots of assistants."

The line goes silent for a moment. "Well, there's my sister, Nikki, and a few friends of ours that I think might be interested. I'll talk to them, if you want."

Steve's deep depression begins to lift...a little, at first, but he thinks there's light at the end of the tunnel. God works in mysterious ways, he thought. "Okay, Kim. You and your sister come down to...um...do you know where Starbuck's is at the New York?"

Steve looked at the clock. It was approaching 8:30 am. "How about 10:00?" he asked.

Silence again. "I think I can get ahold of everyone else by then, Mr. Ericson. Sure, we'll be there."

"Good...I'll see you and your sister, at least, in an hour and a half, then. Thanks again for calling."

"You're welcome, sir. Goodbye. (click)."

"I gotta clean up," Steve said to himself. "This might be the break I need!"

He wandered into the bathroom, and checked himself in the mirror. Damn, I've seen corpses that looked better, he thought. He turned on the shower and began to undress.

The hot water soaked into his skin, seemingly washing away the frustrations of the last six months. Hopefully, when he met up with the lady that just called, things would change...

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