Nowlin Craver © 1994

This was his last chance. That haunting thought kept running through Newman Carter's mind as his plane descended into the airport. He remembered when attending a magic convention in Abilene, TX gave him goose bumps. Now he was attending the World Symposium of Magic in Paris, France, and he felt nothing. Nothing but endless doubts of whether he was doing the right thing. What if he failed? What if he wasted the $4,000 he borrowed? Money which he felt deep down should be used for better purposes: feeding starving children; housing the homeless. Anything seemed better than this. He wished he had never come.

Newman didn't believe in competitions anyway. They seemed unchristian to him. He could not reconcile the idea of loving your neighbor and yet trying to inflict the heartache of losing on him. A heartache Newman knew all too well.

While doctors, lawyers, and other professionals hold annual conventions; a convention for magicians is peculiarly fraternal. Everyone from the biggest stars to the lowliest amateurs mingle together for days of exchanging secrets and showcasing their talents; and the contests provided the chance for up-and--coming magicians to gain recognition. These contests ranged in importance from inconsequential at the local conventions to monumental at the World Symposium of Magic, the Olympics of magic, held every four years. The second most prestigious was the International Society of Magicians (ISM) Stage Contest, held just three weeks ago, at which Newman had received a standing ovation for his uniquely compelling and original act. Everyone knew he had won. Everyone except the judges; who gave first place to Vince McCoy.

Vince McCoy had long been the bane of Newman's existence. They grew up going to conventions in Texas, and long before either was performing, Vince was embraced by the professional magicians because of his good looks. Newman's looks could most charitably be described as "interesting"; so over the years Newman had struggled in obscurity to create new and original magic while Vince was lionized for doing standard tricks because "He looks like a magician." So it should not have shocked Newman that Vince received the bookings and prestige, while Newman was forgotten. For as often is the case, people forgot what they really liked in deference to what they were told by others was the best.

The pain was still with Newman, and yet here he was about to enter the biggest competition of all. But what else could he do? He had tried in vain for two years to book his act, but all doors had been closed to him. There were no small clubs where this kind of act could work its way up; so finally, Newman had given in to the idea of entering the contest, where the winner received not only great prestige, but guaranteed bookings; but only the winner. For it is a curious fact that while the winner has his career launched; the runner up is virtually ignored. So, while Newman was second at the 1SM, it had done him no good, and if he didn't win here, there was nowhere else to try. It had been a major concession to enter the 1SM contest -- a one-time thing--; but when he found out Vince wasn't coming to Paris, he had to give it one more try. Once you start compromising, it's hard to stop.

These were the things that filled his head as he grabbed his dove-cage in one hand, suit bag in the other and disembarked. Suddenly he stopped; he was stunned. He became hot all over. Newman wouldn't have come if he had known Vince McCoy was going to be here. But there he was, smiling and waving as if he didn't know he was ruining Newman's life. Newman was struggling to force a smile on his face when things got worse: Marsha ran up to join Vince.

The magic contest was not all Newman had lost to Vince. Marsha's father was a magic dealer and they, too, had grown up together at conventions. Newman had always been in love with Marsha, and Marsha had always been in love with Vince. Vince had never given Marsha the time of day until she had recently lost 50 pounds and bloomed into the beauty Newman had always thought she was. Now they were living together; at least that was the rumor. Newman had tried not to believe it, but seeing them together in Paris made it gut-wrenchingly hard to ignore.

Marsha ran up and gave Newman a big hug. "Yeah; rub it in," Newman thought. "I thought you said you weren't coming, Vince."

"I thought you might like a little competition," Vince laughed.

"It's what I live for," Newman didn't laugh.

Marsha broke in, "You want to share a cab to the hotel?"

"No thanks. I have to go get my doves inspected."

"Yeah," Vince said. "Isn't that a pain? With paying for putting them on the air plane and processing, it was going to cost me over $300. You should have done what we did and smuggled them in."

"I would have if I didn't have ethics," Newman grumbled to himself.

"We'll see you at the banquet," Marsha yelled as they walked off .

Why did he always have to make things so hard on himself? Why couldn't he just smuggle his birds in like everyone else? Why couldn't he just copy his music tapes like everyone else? Why did he spend thousands of dollars to have his music specially recorded? Everyone else was violating federal copyright laws; why shouldn't he? Why was everything always such a moral dilemma with him?

Newman had two-and-a-half hours to dwell on such questions as he sat in a sweltering cargo building waiting for his doves to be cleared. By the time he got to the hotel, the banquet was over and the evening show had already begun. He watched while pacing back and forth from the rear of the auditorium. Although these were some of Europe's finest magicians whom he had longed to see, he did not enjoy himself. Instead he found himself thinking, "I'm better than they are… I can't believe everybody thinks they're so good. How can they be working and I'm not…?" By intermission Newman could take no more and went to bed, hoping to be well rested for tomorrow morning's preliminaries.

It was a futile effort. He spent the night dreaming about the contests. Some dreams were totally bizarre and some were hauntingly realistic, but they all had the same theme: he was not ready to perform his act. Once he was still leaning his act; once he left his props in Texas, and another time an audience member was eating his birds. He got up a dozen times during the night checking his props and his birds.

When he arrived at the theater the next morning, he felt worse than he had the night before. He was so tired he felt no nerves. He performed like an automaton: perfect execution, but no heart. Even so, the pure creativity and originality took the audience by storm. He quickly put his equipment up so he could mingle with the audience and eavesdrop on the praises. His joy was brought to a halt when he heard some saying, " You think he's good; he didn't even win ISM. Wait until you see the guy that beat him." Newman wanted to go outside and scream, but he promised himself he would force himself to watch Vince's' act; so he stayed.

Finally the dreaded moment came: The lights dimmed, the curtain came up, and a single spotlight focused on a lone figure on stage. With his jet black hair ,rugged good looks, and piercing eyes, Vince did look like a magician. While Vince's act was essentially the same dove productions, card productions, and ball manipulations Newman had watched for the past two-and-a half hours, there was something that lifted it above the other acts. Though he resisted with all his might, Newman was enraptured by the beauty of the act. The music, the lights, and Vince's stage presence all combined to produce a whole that indeed was greater than the sum of its parts. It was obvious the battle for the Gold Medal would once more be between Vince and Newman.

Newman did not return for the evening show that night. Instead he toured the city, not with maps and destinations but simply wandering through the streets trying to talk to people in his high-school French. When he finally went to bed his feet were aching, but he slept soundly.

At 6:oo the next morning Newman took a train out to the country. He didn't know where and he didn't care. The finals weren't until 8:00 that evening--he was sure he made them--and he didn't even want to hear the word "magic" until that time. Newman loved nature. He never felt closer to God than when he was lying out in the grass singing hymns, and that's what he did all day--he even forgot about lunch-until it was time to catch the train back. The Newman entering Paris by train was a different Newman than had entered by plane two days before. His soul was quiet and peaceful.

When Newman arrived at the theater, he learned he was the second of the six finalists to perform. While this was the worst of all positions, and Vince had the last position which was the best, Vince's peace was not disrupted and it continued from the normally hectic set up through his performance. Whereas before he had been coldly efficient; tonight he was "on." From the first his tiniest bit brought gales of laughter as he combined outrageous comedy with breathtaking dove productions. He walked off from his fourth curtain call saying, "Beat that, Mr. McCoy."

He was immediately greeted by Johnny, a friend who was working backstage. "You did it. You're a cinch."

"Well, I don't know...There's still Vince," Newman said, not wanting to jinx himself by being too confident.

"Vince's going to fall flat on his face. Some goof ball bumped into his table and knocked some stuff over and then set it back up. It looks the same, but it's messed up his gimmicks. It'll be total disaster," Johnny said grinning from ear to ear.

"That's terrible. We have to tell him." Newman started off to do just that.

Johnny grabbed him. "Don't you want to win this thing?"

" But it's not right."

"Was it right what the Judges did to you at ISM? Was it right Vince lying to you about not coming here?"

"Don't you think my act is good enough to beat Vince? You heard the crowd."

"I heard them at ISM too. You think that pompous jackass would tell you if your props were screwed up?"

Newman was silent.

"What's it going to hurt, anyway? His career is already made. You're the one who said this is your last chance. Do what you want, but if you tell him, you're a jackass," and with that Johnny left Newman standing there; not convinced, but riddled with doubts about doing what moments before he knew he must do.

Maybe Johnny was right...was it really wrong not to tell him? After all, had he caused it?

What did he owe Vince? Newton was obviously the better act; he deserved to win. Maybe this was

God's way of ensuring justice was done. Okay, that was stupid... He obviously ought to tell, but how wrong would it be if he didn't...? After all, he didn't believe in competitions, and yet here he was. If performing the act was worth that compromise, what could one more possibly hurt? And one more? And one more? And one more and more and more--

"No! It's got to stop!" he said aloud, causing everyone to turn and stare as he ran up to Vince just as the next-to-last act was finishing.

"What kind of an amateurish idiot do you think I am, not checking my equipment before I go on," Vince whispered scornfully as he stalked on stage with his table.

So much for his gallant gesture. All that struggle, all that angst, and Vince already knew. Newman felt so foolish, which soon turned to worried as he heard the ooh's and ah's for Vince's act. He walked as close to the stage as he could trying to determine if the audience liked Vince as much as him. He even found himself almost wishing something would go wrong; but of course it didn't. The applause was thunderous, but-- and this pleased Newman to no end--he only received two curtain calls.

As the six finalists stood on stage waiting for the judges' decision, Newman kept telling himself not to get his hopes up. Finally all the speeches about everyone being a winner were over and the M.C. started to announce the winner. "This year's winner of the Gold Medal..." There was a pause as it was translated into various languages. ... "from the United States of America..." Another pause during which Newman thought, "Oh, please, God, let the judges make the right decision." "...VINCE McCOY!!!"

Newman's knees startled to buckle and his whole body strained to curl up in a little ball on the floor. It took all his concentration to keep himself upright without too much displeasure showing on his face. So much concentration, he was still standing there long after the other contestants had walked off the stage.

He was brought back to the world by Marsha's voice, "What you did was wonderful."

He managed a polite, "Thank you."

"I mean telling Vince about the equipment. Not many people would have done that."

"It didn't matter; he already knew."

"But you didn't know that. You risked losing in order to do what was right. Vince wouldn't have done that."

"That's because he's smarter," Newman tried to laugh, but it wasn't funny.

"I wish I could love somebody like you," she said, almost sadly, as she turned and hurried off.

Newman spent the rest of the convention in bed, huddled under the covers. The phone was off the hook and he ignored the constant knocking on the door. He didn't want to deal with trite condolences or petty attempts to cheer him up. He only wanted the convention to end so he could get out of that city.

As he boarded the plane going home, he felt like a zombie; all emotion had been drained out of him. He didn't know what he was going to do when he got home. He said this was his last chance, but was it? Or would he keep beating his head against the wall? He didn't know. He wished he were dead.. . Not really; he just wished the pain would stop.

The only thing he had to hold on to were Marsha's words, "You risked losing to do the right thing." She was right: He had risked everything to do the right thing. It hadn't mattered, but still, he made the right choice.

It wasn't much... it didn't stop the pain... but it would have to do.