Stranger in a Strange Land

“Okay, you asked for it. Smitty, your tricks are good. Hell, some of ’em even got me baffled. But clever tricks don’t make a magician. The trouble is you’re not really with it. You behave like a carney—you mind your own business and you never crab anybody else’s act and you’re helpful if anybody needs it. But you’re not a carney. You know why? You don’t have any feeling for what makes a chump a chump; you don’t get inside his mind. A real magician can make the marks open their mouths and catch flies just by picking a quarter out of the air. That Thurston’s levitation you do—I’ve never seen it done any more perfectly but the marks don’t warm to it. No psychology. Now take me, for example. I can’t even pick a quarter out of the air—hell, I can barely use a knife and fork without cutting my mouth. I got no act… except I got the one act that counts. I know marks. I know where that streak of larceny is in his heart, I know just how wide it is. I know what he hungers for, whether he knows it or not. That’s showmanship, son, whether you’re a politician running for office, a preacher pounding a pulpit… or a magician. You find out what the chumps want and you can leave half your props in your trunk.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I know I am. He wants sex and blood and money. We don’t give him any real blood—unless a fire eater or a knife thrower makes a terrible mistake. We don’t give him money, either; we just encourage him to hope for it while we take away a little. We don’t give him any real sex. But why do seven out of ten of a tip buy the blow-off? To see a nekkid broad, that’s why—and a chance to be paid a double sawbuck for lookin’—when maybe they got one just as good or better at home, nekkid anytime they like. So he don’t see one and he don’t get paid—and still we send him out happy.

“What else does a chump want? Mystery! He wants to think that the world is a romantic place when he knows damn well it ain’t. That’s your job… only you ain’t learned how. Shucks, son, even the marks know that your tricks are fake… only they’d like to believe they’re real, and it’s up to you to help ’em believe, as long as they’re inside the show. That’s what you lack.”

“How do I get it, Tim? How do I learn what makes a chump tick?”

“Hell, I can’t tell you that; that’s the piece you have to learn for yourself. Get out and stir around and be a chump yourself a while, maybe. But—Well, take this notion you had of billing yourself as ‘The Man from Mars.’ You mustn’t offer the chump what he won’t swallow. They’ve all seen the Man from Mars, in pictures and on stereovision. Hell, I’ve seen him myself. Sure, you look a bit like him, same general type, a casual resemblance—but even if you were his twin brother, the marks know they won’t find the Man from Mars in a ten-in-one in the sticks. It’s as silly as it would be to bill a sword swallower as ‘the President of the United States.’ Get me? A chump wants to believe—but he won’t thank you to insult what trace of intelligence he has. And even a chump has brains of a sort. You have to remember that.”

“I will remember.”

“Okay. I talk too much—but a talker gets in the habit. Are you kids going to be all right? How’s the grouch bag? Hell, I oughtn’t to do it—but do you need a loan?”

“Thanks, Tim. We’re not hurtin’ any.”

“Well, take care of yourself. Bye, Jill.” He hurried out.

Patricia Paiwonski came in through the rear fly, wearing a robe. “Kids? Tim sloughed your act.”

“We were leaving anyhow, Pat.”

“I knew he was going to. He makes me so mad I’m tempted to jump the show myself.”

“Now, Pat—”

“I mean it. I could take my act anywhere and he knows it. Leave him without a blow-off. He can get other acts… but a good blow-off that the clowns won’t clobber is hard to find.”

“Pat, Tim is right, and Jill and I know it. I don’t have showmanship.”

“Well… maybe so. But I’m going to miss you. You’ve been just like my own kids to me. Oh, dear! Look, the show doesn’t roll until morning—come back to my living top and set awhile and visit.”

Jill said, “Better yet, Patty, come into town with us and have a couple of drinks. How would you like to soak yourself in a big, hot tub, with bath salts?”

“Uh, I’ll bring a bottle.”

“No,” Mike objected, “I know what you drink and we’ve got it. Come along.”

“Well, I’ll come—you’re at the Imperial, aren’t you?—but I can’t come with you. I’ve got to be sure my babies are all right first and tell Honey Bun I’ll be gone a bit and fix her hot water bottles. I’ll catch a cab. Half an hour, maybe.”