This Magic Moment

Are you tired of all the negative news lately?  I am.  Every time I turn on the TV or look at social media, there’s more negativity.  I need a recess.  So I’m going to write one and invite you to read it—to take a little respite from the negativity with me.

When Monty and I were newlyweds, I saw an ad in the paper for a magic show at the Lincoln Center.  For all the years I’d known him, Monty had wanted to go to a magic show.  He loved magic—not like normal people do, but like an engineer would.  He’d watch a magic show on TV and pause it, then watch it frame by frame to see if he could figure it out.  I, on the other hand, had never liked magic.  I was at a dinner theater once with my family when a magician accosted me and insisted on doing card tricks.  He was in a ridiculous costume and could NOT have been louder, so people came over to see what he was doing.  This was not fun for an introvert like me—a polite introvert who could not bring herself to tell this very annoying character to go away.  But as much as I disliked magic, I wanted to give Monty his dream, so I told him about the magic show at the Lincoln Center.  Monty immediately called and bought tickets, with strict instructions from me on where to sit.  I knew that magicians often had people from the audience assist them onstage, and I did not want that happening to me.  I told Monty to choose seats as far away from the stage as possible; I may have threatened him with death if we were called up onstage.

Monty bought tickets clear up on the left side of the mezzanine, in the middle of the row, assuring me that there was no way we’d get called onto stage from there.  Halfway through the show, the magician said he needed two volunteers to help him.  A spotlight searched through the crowd on the floor below, then moved higher.  Higher.  And to the left.  And out of everyone in that packed, 1,180-seat theater, the spotlight stopped right over us.  The magician said, “How about these two?  Let’s give them a round of applause as they make their way to the front!”  Monty was up and out of his seat in seconds.  I followed Monty down the row, down several stairs, and all the way up to the stage, with the spotlight on us the whole time.  When we got to the stage, someone came and took Monty away.  The magician waved me onto the stage and asked me my name.  In some strange wavering voice about three octaves higher than my usual voice, I said into the microphone, “Renee.”  The magician said, “Ok, Renee.  Are you a reader?”  I nodded, as some form of selective mutism came over me.  Then he asked the question I was born to answer: “What are you reading now?”  My mind went blank.  I could not think of a single book.  I couldn’t remember ever having read a book.  The magician said, “Renee, are you still with us?”  The audience laughed, and I said, in that same weird voice, “Um.  I’m reading . . . uh. . .the Bible.”  The magician answered, “Oooookay.  Well, since you like to read, why don’t you read this and find an ad you like.”  He handed me a phone book, and I found an ad in about one second—anything to get off that stage.  The curtain went up behind me, and Monty was standing on a chair with a bandanna around his neck like some kind of noose.  I stood there gaping while the magician talked and performed some kind of trick involving Monty and the ad in the phone book.  I have no idea what the trick was.  At that point, I was deaf, blind, and mute.  Finally, mercifully, it was over, and the audience clapped as we made the long, horrible journey back to our seats.  We sat down, and I whispered to Monty, “You realize I’m going to kill you for this, right?”  He whispered back, “Yes.  But it was worth it.”

For the next few days, Monty regaled everyone he knew with the story.  He told me his cheeks hurt from smiling.  I told him my cheeks hurt from burning.  He kept saying, “But wasn’t it fun?”  No.  It wasn’t.  It was heinous.  But seeing Monty lit up like that because one of his dreams came true?  That was fun.  And having the memory of it, the memory that still makes him smile until his cheeks hurt?  That’s fun, too.  It’s what Monty does for me—he makes my life fun.  He makes me smile until my cheeks hurt, even though he still tries to figure out magic, and I still despise it.  Remember this song?

That’s us.  But I wrote some new lyrics (below) to it that fit Monty and me better.  If you play the audio then wait two measures, you can sing along.  Oh—and Monty?  You were right.  It’s been so much fun.

Me:
Don’t know much about astronomy
Don’t understand a word of programming
Have no interest in magic tricks
I would rather write some limericks
But I do know that I love the stars
And I love to be wherever you are
What a wonderful man you are to me.

Monty:
Don’t know much about the books you read
If it’s not science, then it’s Greek to me
Your constant words cause my head to ache
It’s four a.m.; why are you still awake?
I understand your brain’s a scary place
But I promise I will keep you safe
You are the perfect puzzle for me.

Me: Now, I don’t claim to know life’s answers
But why the extra PCs?
Monty: Maybe we can figure out those answers
Do you need those five anthologies?

Me: Don’t know much about football scores
But for you I’ll pretend I’m not bored
Monty: Don’t like poems if they don’t rhyme
But for you I’ll learn your favorite lines
Me: I have loved you since I was sixteen
Monty: I will love you for eternity
Together: What a wonderful love this is to me.