Put on a Show
1/1
Let’s just say there’s a crowd. A big, roaring crowd. A crowd that is cheering for you. Let’s say that this crowd of people fills up the entire room. An entire room, cheering and roaring and throwing their fists in the air, just for you. Let’s say there are girls, boys, men, women. Let’s just say they range from toddlers to full grown adults and even some seniors scattered through out the large crowd. Let’s say that this immense amount of people, they believe in you. They cheer for you, they egg you on. They look up to you. They listen to every word that spills across your lips.
Everyone wants someone to believe in them, the imaginary cheers and crowds are just extra.
This is a magic show. And, no, it’s not the kind with satin top hats and rabbits. There’s no spells and no curses. There’s no card tricks or optical illusions. What you see is what you get. No lies. No jokes. No riddles. No tricks up long sleeves. No trap doors. And no special assistant in a skimpy outfit.
It’s just you. Just you standing up on a felt covered ledge that someone once decided to call a stage. That same someone decided to put you on it and to put a spot light on you. The light shines right in your eyes. You squint and sweat runs down your neck. It dampens your collar. The spot light’s on you. You’re supposed to be putting on a show for the crowd. Put on a God damn show.
It’s just you, alone and nervous, on this red fake stage. This tiny ledge, this stage, it’s your life in a nut shell.
Everyone wants you. Everyone is waiting for the show to begin. Everyone is waiting for a magic trick, for a wave of the hands that makes everything disappear. You’re a magician, right? So, put on a show. Show us your so called magic and make everything disappear. Make everything better. Make everything okay. Make everything better than okay. Make it A-okay. Make everything fan-fucking-tasic.
Go ahead, show us your magic.
You cough into your hand. The microphone in front of you screeches. The crowd doesn’t cheer and you slip your hand behind your neck, which is slick with nervous sweat. The light is still shining in your eyes. The air conditioning isn’t on. Dust motes float through the spectrum of light in front of your eyes. You clear your throat as if you were to begin speaking. This sound, it echoes.
You’re standing against an awful backdrop that is the color of stained carpets in hotel rooms and it smells of old turpentine. Just you, on a made up stage. What you see is what you get. And what everyone gets is someone lost and speechless. Though not speechless in the way when you get handed an Academy Award, but the kind of speechlessness that fills the air when your ex-girlfriend tells you she’s pregnant with your kid, but you’ve never even fucked her.
And all these people, they’re waiting for a miracle. Your miracle. Your magic.
This is your life in a nutshell. The stage, the back drop, the silence, the light, the dust motes, the questions, the prayers, this is your life. And the people have gone quiet. The silence is deafening. You lick your lips. Someone asks for they’re money back, but they didn’t pay any. This is a bargain shopper’s paradise, free admission and they get answers to all of life’s problems. They get a free miracle bestowed upon them by you.
What a deal.
Only thing is, you’re as silent as a ghost and the light’s in your eyes and the people are losing faith in you. You’re a magician, right? So, put on a show. Wave your hands and solve everyone’s problems. Make everything better with a nod of your head. You swallow hard. You grip the microphone stand.
This crowd, this isn’t a cheering, rioting crowd. These are all the friends you’ve lost. These are all you’re ex-girlfriends. Okay, and a couple ex-boyfriends. And the girl who said you knocked her up and the boy who really did and the baby girl she gave birth too. You’re parents are out there too. And your baby brother. And a couple neighbors. This crowd is really everyone who gave up on you. Who you gave up on. They are all the one’s who pushed you to the brink. They wanted a magician, a savior, a miracle worker. They all came to you and asked for you to make it better.
But every time they asked you for a magic a trick, all you did was stand there and stare. Until no one believed in you. Until everyone lost their faith in you.
You’re a magician, right? You can fix things, right? You can make things better, right? You can pull fucking miracles out of hats, right?
You hold onto the microphone and lift it to your lips. You are about to put on a show. You are going to show us your magic. You open your mouth and apologize to everyone out there because you can’t put on a show tonight.
The magic show is cancelled.
Everyone wants someone to believe in them, the imaginary cheers and crowds are just extra.
This is a magic show. And, no, it’s not the kind with satin top hats and rabbits. There’s no spells and no curses. There’s no card tricks or optical illusions. What you see is what you get. No lies. No jokes. No riddles. No tricks up long sleeves. No trap doors. And no special assistant in a skimpy outfit.
It’s just you. Just you standing up on a felt covered ledge that someone once decided to call a stage. That same someone decided to put you on it and to put a spot light on you. The light shines right in your eyes. You squint and sweat runs down your neck. It dampens your collar. The spot light’s on you. You’re supposed to be putting on a show for the crowd. Put on a God damn show.
It’s just you, alone and nervous, on this red fake stage. This tiny ledge, this stage, it’s your life in a nut shell.
Everyone wants you. Everyone is waiting for the show to begin. Everyone is waiting for a magic trick, for a wave of the hands that makes everything disappear. You’re a magician, right? So, put on a show. Show us your so called magic and make everything disappear. Make everything better. Make everything okay. Make everything better than okay. Make it A-okay. Make everything fan-fucking-tasic.
Go ahead, show us your magic.
You cough into your hand. The microphone in front of you screeches. The crowd doesn’t cheer and you slip your hand behind your neck, which is slick with nervous sweat. The light is still shining in your eyes. The air conditioning isn’t on. Dust motes float through the spectrum of light in front of your eyes. You clear your throat as if you were to begin speaking. This sound, it echoes.
You’re standing against an awful backdrop that is the color of stained carpets in hotel rooms and it smells of old turpentine. Just you, on a made up stage. What you see is what you get. And what everyone gets is someone lost and speechless. Though not speechless in the way when you get handed an Academy Award, but the kind of speechlessness that fills the air when your ex-girlfriend tells you she’s pregnant with your kid, but you’ve never even fucked her.
And all these people, they’re waiting for a miracle. Your miracle. Your magic.
This is your life in a nutshell. The stage, the back drop, the silence, the light, the dust motes, the questions, the prayers, this is your life. And the people have gone quiet. The silence is deafening. You lick your lips. Someone asks for they’re money back, but they didn’t pay any. This is a bargain shopper’s paradise, free admission and they get answers to all of life’s problems. They get a free miracle bestowed upon them by you.
What a deal.
Only thing is, you’re as silent as a ghost and the light’s in your eyes and the people are losing faith in you. You’re a magician, right? So, put on a show. Wave your hands and solve everyone’s problems. Make everything better with a nod of your head. You swallow hard. You grip the microphone stand.
This crowd, this isn’t a cheering, rioting crowd. These are all the friends you’ve lost. These are all you’re ex-girlfriends. Okay, and a couple ex-boyfriends. And the girl who said you knocked her up and the boy who really did and the baby girl she gave birth too. You’re parents are out there too. And your baby brother. And a couple neighbors. This crowd is really everyone who gave up on you. Who you gave up on. They are all the one’s who pushed you to the brink. They wanted a magician, a savior, a miracle worker. They all came to you and asked for you to make it better.
But every time they asked you for a magic a trick, all you did was stand there and stare. Until no one believed in you. Until everyone lost their faith in you.
You’re a magician, right? You can fix things, right? You can make things better, right? You can pull fucking miracles out of hats, right?
You hold onto the microphone and lift it to your lips. You are about to put on a show. You are going to show us your magic. You open your mouth and apologize to everyone out there because you can’t put on a show tonight.
The magic show is cancelled.