Magic and Glitter

Taking my eyes off him? That wasn’t an option. Staring. It was all I could do. Was it the fresh tattoo, tiny droplets of blood running down over the other tats on his arms? Or maybe the fuzzy felt black top hat on his head reminded me of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland? The suitcoat he wore was jet black, tails extending just past his rear end, covered in colorful patches, reminding me of clowns I’d seen in paintings from the early part of the twentieth century. But his shoes struck me as odd, more so than the top hat, long-tailed coat, and the bronze lion topping his dark-stained wooden cane. Converse Chuck Taylor’s hightops adorned his feet, the identical basketball shoe created in the early teens of the twentieth century, which, to be fair, worked with the whole outfit. The shoes themselves weren’t the oddity. It was the colors. The right one was a bright reddish color, shiny. For a canvas shoe to pull off the sheen it had was a trick. It wasn’t a vinyl covering. It was the canvas shoe, but the color shone. The other was a rich, deep purple color, also brightly shining, reflecting the color onto his black skinny jeans. His smile was contagious, kindly beckoning you toward him, not away from him. If he was wearing any makeup, I couldn’t tell.  

“Peace and tranquility upon you, dear sir,” he smiled, grabbing me by the shoulders and hugging me tightly. I had no choice but to let him continue the hug until he let go of me. “I’m a hugger, and you needed a hug today.”

“No,” I replied. “I really didn’t. And not from a total stranger.”

“I’m no stranger,” he replied, a lilt in his voice, which made it feel and sound sing-songy. Like he was writing poetry while he spoke. “I’m familiar. In a long time. Without end and ending here. Ending today. And you, my dear sir, need more than a friend. You need,” he spun around the cane and produced a deep, dark green four-leaf clover with a flourish. “Some luck. For your,” he turned again and pointed at me with his cane, “career?” He squinted, looking at me puzzled. “And financial stability?” His puzzled look left, replaced with an assurance that he was absolutely one hundred percent correct. “Yes! Financial stability and a solid career, Mr. Storyteller.”

“I’m afraid you have missed the mark,” I smirked. “I’m not a storyteller.” I wanted to cross my arms but chose not to. I continued, “I work for Tasty Tots Incorporated. I’m a factory drone.”

He laughed, dancing around me. I wondered if this was King Arthur’s experience with his court jesters. If they danced and sang their way around the stresses of royal life. Or if this was an expression of entertainment for the court. Maybe this man was sick, suffering from some kind of mental disorder. Split personality? Or some other three or four-letter DSM-5-TR diagnosis. Not that it mattered all that much. I wasn’t trying to engage with him. He picked me out of the people walking by him.

He stopped dancing around me when I said the word drone. “Drone? Oh, I think not, good sir. Tell me something, Anthony,” he winked at me, “how have you figured out how to describe me, using words and phrases that would capture the imaginations and hearts of those reading your words? And, more importantly, how did I know your name since, as you say, we’ve never met?”

His words stumped me, so I crossed my arms as a reflex, knowing he was making me feel very uncomfortable. “I don’t know.”

“Not everything needs to be known, Anthony.” Three small red balls appeared from nowhere as he started juggling. The three turned into four as he juggled. “Sometimes magic is just that,” he threw all four balls into the air, disappearing, “magic!”

“That’s where you are wrong,” the juggling man said apropos context. “Magic is real. And you don’t have to believe in it to see. It can and frequently happens right in front of you!”

“I didn’t say anything,” I said the juggler.

“Ah, yes, Anthony. That is quite true. But you cannot tell me that you weren’t thinking ‘magic isn’t real,’ or ‘I don’t believe in magic,’ now, can you?”

I was betting my face changed colors on the street, but no one else was walking around us. Just me and the juggler. Two men, one dancing as he talked, the other staring dumbfounded, while the other continued with his rhetoric. He pointed at me, still smiling, leaning on the cane. “You ARE a storyteller. And you are working on our narrative now, writing it in your head. You will go back to work thinking about this conversation, trying to puzzle out where the balls went. Trying to figure out how I knew so much about you, having never met. Here’s the thing, Anthony,” he whispered, getting closer to me, “you have magic inside you. And you need to let it out!” Jumping backward, several doves burst from his coat, awkwardly flying off to who knows where.  

The blood dried up, the tattoo revealing its message – Storytelling is magic, written in a cursive script, spilling out of the middle pages of a thick book. Sparkles or glitter I wasn’t sure what it was, sparkled in the sunlight. Did he have glitter stuck under his skin, along with the ink?

“Stare as long as you like, but the glitter is a part of me,” he danced behind me, tossing golden glitter in the air, some of it landing on my feet. “Oh. Yeah. That’s a thought-provoking question. I don’t know,” he smiled, dancing away from me, throwing more glitter in the air. “And it’s okay that I don’t!” he shouted, turning his face upward into the glitter cloud. All of his skin glittered, golden sprinkles everywhere. “Fun stuff, glitter.”

I laughed loud enough for him to hear.

“Herpes of the craft world. That’s a new one.” He turned around. “I don’t think I know an Adam Baker.” His puzzled look didn’t look right on his face. “Yeah. I’m drawing a complete blank.” He clapped his hands, disappearing, a glittering cloud sparkling through the sunshine.