It is not possible to amble along a downtown
Atlanta sidewalk undisturbed. Street entertainers line the building sides
promising to impress, and business owners try to coax in the most discrete of
passers by.
Adorned
with a red, western neckerchief and clad in denim, the magician crouched
against the wall of a quirky vintage boutique. He was nestled among tie-dye,
tatty cardboard boxes with weather bitten corners, and an array of old vinyl
records as he fumbled with a deck of cards and tobacco paraphernalia. We then all
made the mistake of letting our primitive human intrigue become apparent.
Initially seeming redundant and absorbed by the
cards, the man burst to life in a low rambling of what we thought to be another
language, thrusting the splayed deck in front of us. He signalled for us to pick
a card. We hesitantly obliged. Every word uttered was unrecognisable but the
fluctuation of his voice, and exaggerated hand gestures made it clear when
weren’t complying. The progression of the trick relied on our trial and error,
but he eventually reproduced the card we had originally picked.
Deeming
him “very talented” and slipping him a few creased ‘ones’, we proceeded to walk
away, but the encounter was not over for the magician. He stopped us in our
tracks and continued to demonstrate the variety of tricks possible with the
deck of cards. Intimidated by his abrasiveness, we handed him more dog-eared
notes and began to edge in the opposite direction. The next was slightly
alarming since communication was not possible.
He
then became more subdued, slowly and discretely reaching inside the breast of
his jacket. This combined with a threatening murmur we had no reason not to
fear him. Perhaps he was reaching for a cigarette or a packet of chewing gum,
but eighteen dollars short we cut our losses and walked.
Unavoidably
passing him again on the way back, he offered his coarse ashy hand to shake,
perhaps as a peace offering.
