Free A Bird's Eye by Cary Fagan

Industry.
    At the next apartment, a woman in her undone bathrobe, not trying to seduce him, just not caring if he saw her sagging tits. Next, a husband in an undershirt, the wife out and her sister reading a paperback detective novel.
    A man with shaving cream on his face.
    A blind man holding a miniature dog.
    Elderly twin sisters dressed identically.
    He walked outside and sat on the apartment step to eat a sandwich wrapped in wax paper that Bella had made for him. He’d never asked her to, but she’d started leaving a lunch by the door. He ate it as late as possible so as to delay the pleasure. As he chewed, he amused himself by thinking of the project he had begun to see in his mind: a miniature clockwork city, the roofs of the houses tilting back to reveal the figures moving within — a man tipping over a table, a child going to the toilet, a couple moving up and down as they copulated in bed. He imagined a tavern where two men sprang punches at one another. A garbage dump where a boy hit a dog with a stick. Even the mechanical parts he thought through, the little pulleys and wheels and drives.
    With a pocket knife, he peeled the skin from an apple and ate one thin slice at a time. Then he brushed himself off and headed into the next building. It was better maintained, without the usual pile of undeliverable mail inside the door. He liked to start at the top and work his way down, and so he climbed the stairs to the fourth floor.
    The first door opened. He saw an unusually tall woman, glasses, large teeth. “Yes?”
    â€œExcuse me for disturbing you. I am a representative of Might’s Directory. You are Mrs. Goldsmith?”
    â€œThe Goldsmiths lived here before me. I’m Conover. Miss Daphne Conover.”
    â€œAre you employed, Miss Conover?”
    â€œI teach kindergarten at Withrow Avenue School. In fact, I’ve just returned.”
    â€œAnd if I can confirm your telephone number.”
    â€œMay I ask your name?”
    â€œKleeman. Jacob Kleeman.”
    â€œLike the pen. Mr. Kleeman, do you enjoy games?”
    â€œI don’t understand.”
    â€œAre you familiar with backgammon?”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œIt’s an ancient game, at least five thousand years old. A board, black and white pieces, dice. You can even bet, although I only play for pennies.”
    â€œYou don’t say.”
    â€œI have two cold beers in my icebox. Perhaps you’d care to learn.”
    â€œThat’s very friendly, Miss Conover. And I’m sure it’s the best offer I’m going to get today.”
    He stepped in, looking for a place to put his hat.



The thing about magic is that it must be taken very, very seriously. If you don’t, it can become a joke. This is why so many performing conjurors have an attitude of pompous gravity on the stage. They are, at heart, deathly afraid of being laughed at. They need to be believed in, like Tinker Bell in the famous play, or they will fade away. Even more, what a conjuror needs is for himself to believe. To believe that what he does has a deeper meaning.
    Perhaps this is the most important thing that Murenski taught me in the weeks that I went to see him. But at the time, I was focused far more on the glides, shifts, and palms, the methods of misdirection, the uses of silk thread, secret pockets, black velvet, small mirrors. Every hour spent with Murenski meant days of intense practice afterwards. I had the natural yearning of the young and also the unexplainable confidence of someone who believed he was born with a divine gift. Still, I didn’t think I was ready. I’m not sure that I would ever have felt myself ready without Corinne’s big hands shoving me from behind. Shoving me right up to the frosted glass door with the letters etched into it. Moses Ludwig, Manager . It was my fault for telling her that the Brant didn’t have a magician on the card anymore.
    Through the floor, I