Real Magic (5 page)

People strolled along the brick sidewalk. The men wore gray suits and hats. Every man wore a hat. The women wore slim dresses, kept their hair short and wavy, and many of them wore wide-brimmed hats or smaller types that tilted at an angle. A few children jogged by waving tiny American flags in their hands.

The thought hit Duncan that he had stepped into an old movie — the way people moved arm in arm, laughing and chatting, as if an early-evening stroll could be the height of a day. But he could taste the air in this movie — rich and clean. And he could smell this movie — an odd combination of gasoline and horse manure. He saw it transpire a short distance away as if projected on the greatest, most encompassing screen ever developed, yet what he saw clung to reality the way a movie never could.

He might have stayed that way, frozen to the wooden porch, but a car drove by and honked its horn. Duncan watched this relic slip down the street — a boxy, classic automobile with a long nose and runnerboards, cloth top and flat front, just like an old movie gangster's car. The quacking horn melded with the fresh air and the gentle chatter and the cool metal railing on his hand — this was really happening.

He glanced down to find his own clothes had changed, too. Like the other men, Duncan now wore a modest, gray suit with a black tie. The motion of his head brought his attention to the hat he wore — a classic fedora. Except, if this was all real, then it wasn't a classic any more than the cars driving by were antiques.

Duncan's face brightened. This had to be the greatest illusion he'd ever seen. That's why Pappy had forbidden him to use the door before. Pappy must have been working on this illusion for most of his life. But why had he kept it secret for so long? If he had shared this, Duncan would have helped him develop it. They could have been partners. And the money they could make would do more than pay off the Boss. The money from an illusion like this would make them famous. David Copperfield, Penn & Teller, Chris Angel — amateurs compared to what the name Duncan Rose would be with a trick like this.

He watched life pass by for a few minutes, basking in how real the whole world felt. There was an extra layer of calm in the environment that Duncan had never experienced before. No cell phones, no computers, no busy push push push. Just a quiet evening within a quiet town. Part of him wanted to stay forever.

Questions filled his head — How did this work? Mechanical? Computers? Some mix of stock footage and modern 3D technology? And what still needs to be done? As far as he could tell, the illusion neared perfection. Only one man would have the answers. "Okay, Pappy," he muttered, "time for you to come clean."

Duncan turned around, gripped the cold doorknob, and turned it. But the door was locked. He tried again. Nothing. Pressing his shoulder into the door, he attempted to open it with brute force. Still, the door did not budge.

Pounding on the door, he called out, "Pappy! Open this thing up." A few passersby glanced in his direction but most paid him little attention. Duncan jostled the doorknob again, his pulse increasing with each passing second.

The door whipped open so fast, he nearly fell into the young lady behind it. She had a round face and her eyes widened as she stepped back. "What do you want?" she snapped.

Dumbfounded, Duncan stared beyond the lady. He saw the home inside — a narrow, wooden staircase on the right, a brown-wallpapered living room sparse of furniture, and a fireplace sooty from constant use. On the wall next to the stairs hung a mirror, and even at a sharp angle, Duncan could see the backside of the door. The blank, normal door. A door without a single marking or ancient symbol upon it.

The lady crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. "You gonna just stand there gawkin'? I'll call somebody. You get outta here. You hear?"

"S-Sorry," he said as he backed off the porch.

"Watch it," an older man said as Duncan backed into the flow of pedestrians.

Duncan walked away from the house and its door. He itched to turn back, and when he glanced over his shoulder, each step away felt as if he drifted further from a lifeboat. Except that wasn't his door. Where was
his
door?

Another car passed by and a young boy leaned far out of the window. He waved a flat, straw hat in one hand and a tiny American flag in the other. "Happy Fourth of July! Woo! Happy Fourth of July!" he shouted while someone else in the car tossed out bits of paper. All the men and women walking waved their hands. Some even shouted back.

"Spare a penny?" asked an unshaven man sitting against a brick wall. He had brown pants, a threadbare shirt, and a dirty bowler. Add a little mustache and the man would have been a perfect Charlie Chaplin.

Duncan shook his head and kept walking.

The man stood and shattered a glass bottle on the ground. "You'll wish you helped out when it's your turn, bub. Everybody's gonna get a chance at having nothing!"

With each passing second, this illusion felt more real. An amazing visual was one thing, but Duncan didn't see how Pappy could create an entire town. How could such a thing fit in the apartment? He tried to convince himself he was still at Pappy's home. Perhaps he fell and bumped his head. This could all be a dream.

But it isn't,
he thought.

A wooden newsstand, dark green and leaning to one side, marked the beginning of the downtown area. Newsstands — another relic from the world Duncan only knew in the movies. As he walked by a cigar-chomping man wearing a dark green visor and an apron, he glanced down at the local newspaper —
The Reedsburg Gazette July 4, 1934
.

That did it for him. Seeing that date in print made it real. Pappy had not devised some grand illusion. Nor had Duncan banged his head sending him into a hallucination of epic proportion. What had happened was simple — incredible, unfathomable, miraculous, but simple none-the-less. Duncan had walked through a door and back in time.

Stating this helped solidify it in his brain, and he walked on with a more confident stride. He refused to become a character in
The Twilight Zone
, spending the entire show denying what had happened to him or wondering the why of it all. In his opinion, the
why?
was easy enough — because he walked through a door he had been warned never to go through.

Only one question really had any importance to him now —
how do I get back?
This answer seemed to be both easy and complicated at the same time. The easy part — he had to find the door again. The hard part — he had to find the door again.

Duncan leaned against a closed bakery, the sign in the window reading
Fresh Baked Loaves 5¢!
Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he felt the distinctive textures of paper money and heard the clink of a few coins. He glanced back the way he had come. He could have given that guy some cash. Too late, though. Besides, looking along the street showed him that there were plenty of others in the same boat. Lots of people meandered about, dejected and destitute. And thin. Duncan was a healthy 147 lbs. but he felt chubby compared to these people. About a block up, he saw a line of people working its way around the corner. Some held bowls, some held Army mess kits, some only held a spoon. 1934 — The Great Depression was in full swing.

He pulled out the money in his pocket. Four dollars and twelve cents. Not much. Then again, it was 1934. If a loaf of bread cost only five cents, then his money would probably go pretty far.

Duncan crossed his arms and considered what he knew beyond The Great Depression. Life was hard for most people. If this little town was the same Reedsburg, Pennsylvania he knew, then not much important would be going on here for a long time. Thankfully, World War II hadn't yet begun for America. He was fairly certain Roosevelt was President. And, he thought with a grin, Prohibition had officially ended.

To his right and across the street, he saw what had to be a 1934 bar. Should he call it a saloon? Regardless of the name, that would be a place to start. Especially because even though his 1934 dollars would go far compared to 2013, they wouldn't go far enough. But they would be a good bankroll to start.

All he had to do was get a drink, observe the crowd, and he would find the makings of a poker game in no time. And while things went bad with Pancake, this time Duncan would run the show. Besides, these people are from the 1930s. They won't know any of his techniques — some of which had yet to be invented. He'd clean them out of their money with ease. Then he'd have the funds to mount a search for the door.

Armed with a plan of action, Duncan adjusted the brim of his hat and headed towards the bar. As he crossed the street, making way for a backfiring car spewing out black smoke, he saw a little girl and her mother coming the other way. The mother held her head up, stern expression firmly on her gaunt face, while the daughter wrapped her hands around a tiny cup.

"I hope it's chicken noodle," she said. "Do you think it'll be chicken noodle, Mama?"

The mother's cheek twitched, but she didn't say a word. Duncan turned right around and walked up behind them.

"Excuse me," he said with a smile. The mother grabbed her daughter and pulled her close. Duncan raised his hands. "No, no. I'm not going to hurt you. I just ... I heard your daughter and well, I've got a little change to spare. Twelve cents. May I give it to you?"

The woman glanced around warily. "That's quite a bit."

"Please."

"I'm not that kind of lady."

"And I'm not that kind of man." He put out his hand, the coins sitting in his palm. "Get that girl a full meal."

He could tell the mother liked the idea of taking charity even less than the idea of being propositioned, but twelve cents would make a difference and she had a child to take care of. With a resigned sigh, she snatched the coins. "Thank you," she said. The daughter rushed over and hugged his legs. Duncan laughed and the mother allowed a smile to crack her lips. "Thank you," she said again.

Duncan turned back towards the bar. He could feel the faces of those in the soup line watching his back, wondering why he hadn't helped them, too. He could have bought loaves of bread to feed them all, feed their families, give them something to be happy about for once. But then it would end. They'd be just as broke and back in the line the next day, only he'd be there with them. Stuck in 1934.

Sorry, folks, but I got to get home.

He walked into the bar, Joey's Corner, and a distinct smile crossed his face. No matter the decade, a bar was a bar — some things never changed. This one had the bar on the left side and it ran the entire length of the room. Large mirror behind with rows of empty glasses and filled bottles. The right side had a few stools lined down the way and the rest of the space had been left empty for the crowds to stand in. Not many people, though. Duncan guessed most were either at home having dinner before going out for a drink or already out celebrating July Fourth. In a few hours, Duncan expected this place to be hopping — Great Depression or not, people always found a way to afford a drink.

Two men dressed in white coats buttoned to the neck stood behind the bar. One cleaned glasses while the other wiped down the bar top. "Evening," the one cleaning glasses said. He had his hair slicked down and the streaks of gray looked like racing stripes. "What'll it be?"

Duncan nodded. He had to force himself not to laugh — the man had spoken in earnest but the old-timey sound of
What'll it be
tickled Duncan. He felt like he had stepped into an old Bogart film. "Manhattan," he said, figuring that would be a safe bet to have existed in 1934.

Listening to the clink of glass and the glug of pouring liquids settled over him — warm and friendly in its familiar song; dark and dangerous in its origin. The dark drink slid before him in no time. Duncan gulped down a bit and coughed hard, nearly spitting the drink back up. These folks didn't joke around with their alcohol — this was the strongest Manhattan he had ever tasted. He guessed that after so many years of Prohibition, they were happy to let the stuff flow. That wouldn't last long.

The bathroom door in the back creaked open, and a young man strode out. Like everyone else, this man wore a suit, but it fit him better. He had his blond hair slicked back, and it gave him an older, cooler vibe. He sauntered over to Duncan — straight-backed but not stiff — and he smiled in a way that set the world at ease.

"Joey, I'll have another scotch," the man said, emphasizing the owner's name.

Duncan knew this type well — confident, smart, smooth, but likes to be noticed.

The man put out his hand. "Hi there, fella. Haven't seen you around here ever."

"I just got in." Duncan shook the hand.

"Name's Vincent. Vincent Day. I gotta tell you. I like you. I can tell about a man when I shake hands with him and you're the kind of guy I like. Joey, get this man another Manhattan. What's your name?"

Vincent spoke fast. In 2013, the trait would have turned Duncan away. He never liked that old time, used car salesman speech. But sitting in a dark bar in 1934 gave the words a unique and free-flowing feel.

"I'm Duncan Rose."

Snapping his fingers at Joey, Vincent pointed to Duncan's empty glass. Joey raised an eyebrow. "Who's gonna pay for that?"