From the eyes of a Magician

I find myself at the end of a long line at the hot dog stand, wondering how long it’ll take today to get that one hot dog I’ve been craving—the only good part of my day.

Earlier, I had no luck making the kids laugh. It felt like they couldn’t care less about the rabbit popping out of the hat anymore. What once sparked wide-eyed wonder now barely earned a glance. My heart ached as I watched them, faces buried in their phones, missing the magic—yes, the tricks were old, but still enchanting to those who hadn’t seen them before.

Finally, after what feels like forever, I step up to the stand. My turn at last.

"Good morning," I say.

"What's up with the magician today? Why so sad?" the vendor asks with a mocking grin.

"It's not funny." I hand him the money, and he snatches it from my hand without a second thought.

As I lean forward to grab my hot dog, he stops me. "First, show me a magic trick."

I stare at him, confused. Why was he acting like this? But I don’t ask—I just reach into my pocket, pull out a handkerchief, and perform a trick. One that used to light up faces, used to be enough.

He just stares. Blank. Then scowls.

"What was that? That’s the lamest thing I’ve ever seen," he says, his voice sharp with disdain.

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "I'll do better next time. Can I have the hot dog now?"

"Yeah, sure," he replies with a smirk, tossing the hot dog straight into the trash bin beside me. "Enjoy."

Before I can respond, the crowd behind me begins to push forward, forcing me aside. I stare down at the hot dog resting on top of greasy wrappers and crushed soda cups. I hesitate, but hunger doesn’t. I pick it up and eat it.

I haven’t had a proper meal in what feels like weeks.

Hardly anyone comes to my shows anymore. It feels like I’m losing my spark. But this—this is what I’ve always wanted to do. My father was a magician too, and a great one by all accounts. I learned all my tricks from him.

But I also knew the man behind the curtain.He wasn’t the legend people believed in—he was a con artist, manipulating kids out of extra coins with cheap tricks and false promises. I swore I’d never be like him. I wanted to bring real wonder, not deceit. But maybe that’s why I’m standing here now, broke, alone, eating from a trash can.

Just like when I was a kid, I still wear the same makeup—white face, black cape, bright red lipstick. And tonight, I go to sleep in it, too tired to even wash it off.

The next morning, I wake up and fall into the same routine. The long, lonely walk to the small stand I built with my own hands. I set everything up, as always, hoping someone—anyone—will come to see the magic.

Only one kid shows up.

I smile at him, trying to summon that old warmth. But he just starts to cry.

"Oh no, dear, don’t cry. I’m a magician," I say gently, pulling out a deck of cards and showing him a trick I’ve done a thousand times before.

He cries even harder.

Suddenly, his mother rushes over, frantic. She scoops him up and glares at me like I’m something vile.

“Get away from my child,” she snaps. “Or I’m calling the police.”

I take a step back, slowly, eyes lowered. I don’t say a word. Just turn and sit quietly on the small bench next to my tiny stage.

I wait.

There aren’t many kids playing in the park anymore. Most of them are glued to their parents’ phones, blank-faced. Their parents stand nearby, laughing loudly, throwing glances in my direction as they talk—bitching about me like I’m some kind of joke or warning sign.

I sit there, still in my makeup, waiting for someone to believe in magic again.

I look down at my weary hands—wrinkled, tired, smudged with fading makeup—and feel a hand on my shoulder.

It’s a policeman.

“Hey, buddy. You’re gonna have to take your stuff and move along,” he says, voice firm but distant, like he's done this a thousand times before.

“But why?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He avoids my eyes. “The parents aren’t comfortable. They say you’re scaring the kids.”

“But the kids aren’t even looking at me,” I say, louder now, my voice rising above the murmurs. “And I work here. I built this stage. If anyone’s uncomfortable, maybe they should leave.”

The parents hear me. I make sure of it. A few of them glance over, scoffing, whispering. One even laughs.

The cop sighs. “Hey, man. What you’re doing—it’s not really work. It’s just you trying to avoid a real job. And if you don’t leave right now, I’m gonna have to make you.”

I look at him, eyes glassy, the tears welling despite everything in me trying to hold them back. Without another word, I gather my things—my cards, my cape, my crumpled hat—and start to walk away.

Halfway down the street, I hear shouting. Screaming.

I turn around.

A group of people is tearing apart my stage—the small, hand-built platform that I poured my heart into. They kick it, pull it apart, laugh while they do it. Like it's a joke. Like I’m the joke.

I try to run back, but the policeman grabs my arm and yanks me away. “Let it go,” he says, like it's just some broken wood.

But it wasn’t just wood. It was everything.

I’m dragged down the road, my head twisting for one last look as it all collapses. The one place where I still believed in myself—gone.

They leave me under a bridge, alone, like something discarded.

And that’s when I finally break.

I cry. Not a few tears—I cry. For hours. For the stage, for the magic, for the dreams that feel like dust now. I think about what my father would say if he saw me like this.

He’d probably scoff and say, "Man up. Stop crying."

Believe me, I’ve tried. God, I’ve tried. But the tears just won’t stop.

I hear footsteps behind me.

Slowly, I turn my tear-streaked face and see a small boy standing there, smiling at me.

We just look at each other for a moment—no words, just quiet understanding. Then, slowly, I rise to my feet. I pull a few cards from my pocket, start with a simple trick, then another, and another. The boy’s eyes light up, his laughter growing louder with each trick, until his cheeks turn red and his eyes water from joy.

And just like that, I’m laughing too. Laughing and crying at the same time.

For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel seen. A boy in a striped shirt and grey shorts, and a magician with makeup cracked from wear and time—sharing a moment of real magic, the kind you don’t find on a screen.

Eventually, his mother’s voice calls out, distant but urgent. He looks back at me with one last smile before running off.

I watch him go.

Then I wipe my face with the back of my hand and look around for the first time that day—really look. There’s a beautiful blue lake nearby, its surface calm and shimmering under the moonlight. The air is cool against my hot, damp cheeks, and everything feels so quiet. Peaceful.

I walk to the edge of the lake, sit down, and slowly dip my feet into the water. It’s warm, sending little tingles up through my legs, into my chest, like life trying to wake something up inside me.

I smile.

A real one. The kind that makes your cheeks ache because you forgot how to do it.

Then, one last time, I tilt my head back and look up at the sky, at the stars scattered like glitter across the dark. And I smile again—so big it almost hurts.

And then I step forward.

Into the water.

Letting it carry me to a place I’m still too young to go, but where, maybe, the magic never fades.