Intersections Read online

  I smoked joint after joint of the weed as I lay in my silky king-sized bed, watching TV and dreaming. As if I gave a damn about the “no smoking in the rooms” policy. Catch me if you can. I paid cash.

  As I lay on the mountain of pillows, clicking through an assortment of reality TV and sitcoms, the colorful plan turned into a movie, complete with plot and characters. I knew what to do.

  * * *

  As much as I hated to, I returned to my home town of Lucan, Ontario. Just for a day. Yes, that Lucan. Home of the Black Donnellys. Or was home to the Black Donnellys. Growing up in a ghost town, a dot on the paranormal investigator tour, gave me pause for all the different types of folks one is going to run into in one’s life. When I was a kid, I thought there was something weird and off about the ghost hunters who came through town, trying to connect with the ghosts from the tragic story. I wondered why they wanted to talk to them. Why did they bring all that equipment when the ghosts were right there, waiting to speak?

  They were so busy with their gear; they didn’t see and hear them, right there.

  * * *

  The hoard and its hoarder were still there like some live-action nightmare. Mom was huge and bloated, so large that she spilled out of her wooden rocking chair, her flowered muumuu grazing the floor barely covering her sagging flesh. She didn’t care that I was home, she barely stirred from watching whatever she was watching on her big screen TV. Mountains of filth surrounded her, but her TV was crystal clear. So was the sound for that matter.

  “Did you get new speakers?” I asked her.

  “Yes, good sale at the Hardware Store,” she said. I bet. She likely had seven pairs of the same speakers in the house somewhere but who knew? I just knew I had come for only a couple of things and then was hitting the streets. Yes, the streets were better than this hell.

  I fought the urge to vomit from all the putrid odors violating my nose. Cat piss. Dog shit. Garbage. More garbage. Rotting meat with the accompanying flies and maggots. The place was a million times worse since I left.

  I went into what had been my room. It was still my room but the hoard had leaked into there as well. And yes, there were several boxes of speakers. Why buy just one when seven will do?

  I dug through several boxes and closets until I had amassed what I could that didn’t smell too horrible or wasn’t too damaged by time. I packed up the oversized suitcase I had brought and imagined a life where I never had to return to this shithole again.

  * * *

  For the next month, I rented out a cheap motel room in Parkdale and worked on my new look. My new persona.

  I spent hours watching old movies, reading old romances, and mysteries. I was a fixture at the library googling magic tricks and mentalism illusions.

  When I first googled mentalism, I admit, I was disappointed. I had always thought mentalists had some sort of gift. I knew that magicians used illusions but I thought mentalists really had an edge. That they were able to use some kind of ESP. And yes, sure, in a way they do, along with body language, math skills, iron clad memories, and plain old trickery. Mentalism was very much like magic as far as I could see. It both thrilled and saddened me as I deciphered trick after trick on YouTube.

  I dyed my hair black and picked up an assortment of vintage wigs at the various thrift shops around town. I added on to my wardrobe: antique dresses, pillbox hats, old-fashioned pocketbooks, and heels. I learned to walk in all manner of little strappy heels and even high ones.

  I was my own Henry Higgins training Eliza Doolittle as I practiced my tricks in front of the mirror. I began to hang out at some of the local bars in my new look, always certain that I returned home with a little something towards my rent.

  I stalked the mentalist on social media and watched for his next show. In the meantime, I practiced tricks with the deck of cards I had relieved from him that day.

  * * *

  Danny the mentalist was performing at a small theatre in Toronto. A night of mentalism to thrill and chill the audience. This show required tickets and seating. It would also require the unveiling of my new persona.

  Annette.

  That night, my look was Betty Page crossed with Annette Funicello. My bangs were straight cut, my shoulder-length hair jet black, and my lips painted ruby red to offset thick eyelashes and pale skin.

  A red and white polka dot vintage sundress with red shoes and a red pocketbook completed the look.

  I sat in the front row, not sure what to expect nor what I would see. His pack of cards was tucked into my purse.

  I looked around the tiny theatre. It was jammed with people from all walks of life. Certainly, the theatre couldn’t hold more than one hundred but at twenty bucks a ticket, he did all right. It was old and musty. The seats were likely one hundred year old movie theatre seats. There was no curtain, the stage was very small. Music from the old time vaudeville shows was playing over the speakers. People mingled and talked with each other. Even Danny himself was in the lobby, greeting the excited people.

  At last, the lights dimmed and then went out. The music stopped. Then, the spotlight glowed where Danny welcomed us in true carny style. The show began and I watched carefully as he led us through his bag of tricks. Some of the illusions he performed, I couldn’t figure out. Others, I could see how he had put his special spin on a basic trick that had been passed down for generations.

  Again, I enjoyed his easygoing nature, his sense of humor, and his comedic timing. His sleight of hand was perfection, his illusions both amused and amazed. As he bowed after his final trick, I smiled in the darkness.

  When the lights went up again, most of the audience was already on its feet; some rushing up to the stage to speak to him, others just trying to get home.

  I sat in my seat in the front row, watching as people shook his hand and congratulated him on his show.

  As his admirers thinned out, he looked over at me a couple of times. At last, he made his way over. I stood up and let him kiss my hand.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Miss...” he looked at me with large brown eyes, a moment of hesitation in his voice.

  “Miss Annette. You may call me Annette,” I cooed softly in the new baby-woman voice I’d been practicing.

  “Miss Annette, I’m Danny,” he dropped my hand and performed a small bow. “Did you enjoy the show tonight?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “Very much,” I said.

  “Have you seen me perform before?” he asked.

  “I’ve seen you perform street magic. Never a show such as this,” I said, waving my hand around the tiny dusty theatre.

  “What do you like better?” he asked.

  “I like the glamour of the theatre. The lights. The magic,” I said. Then I lowered my voice, “but I also enjoy the intimacy of one-on-one magic.”

  He blushed as I batted my long black false eyelashes at him.

  “Are you busy right now?” he asked. “Would you like to go for a coffee somewhere?”

  I smiled.

  “I could come with you for a short while,” I said.

  We went for a coffee and it lasted much longer than a short while. I regaled him with my story about how I’d come to Toronto to be an actress. I had been a background performer in over twenty productions so far. It was fun but not quite paying the bills. He promised to look around for me to see if anyone had any kind of work I could do to fill the gaps. As he talked about friends in semi-high places, I produced his deck of cards from my purse and laid them out on the table.

  He stopped yammering in mid-sentence and looked down at the cards.

  “Where did you get those?” he asked.

  “Why? Do you recognize them?” I asked. He reached for them then stopped. He looked over at me.

  “May I?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I replied and sat back in my chair to watch. He picked up the cards and thumbed through them, recognizing nicks and cuts, turning them over and inside out. He looked over at me.

  “Wh