Volunteer (Part 2a: Making Up)

It's Saturday, so I'm lazing on the sofa in front of the tv, flipping through channels in search of something worthwhile.  After three full cycles, I leave it on the Charmed marathon, which may stretch the definition of 'worthwhile', but it's the best I've found.

It makes me think of Tuesday night at the club - though to be honest, while I haven't been obsessing over it, it hasn't taken very much lately to bring my mind back there.  In my weaker moments, I've allowed myself to wonder if what happened to me on stage was 'real magic'.  It's a seductive notion - not in the least because for the life of me I still can't figure out how it worked.  I mean, I have theories on how someone might make a volunteer feel like it was real, but they're impractical at best, and they invoke the Holmes Paradox - that eliminating the impossible can leave you with a very, very unlikely wrong answer, if you're somehow incorrect about what is impossible.  It feels more probable, somehow, that it was real than for it to be an extremely elaborate deception with no apparent pay-off worth all the effort.

I do plan on going to the 'appointment' on the card the magician left me, though I'm a bit nervous about it.  Some Googling revealed that it's the address of a small theatre, and there is a show scheduled for the date and time printed on the card.  But beyond the name - Enchantment - I found no info at all.  It's sort of like the show at the club in that way - not just zero publicity, but a publicity black hole, like they've gone out of their way to avoid it.

In fact, I only happened to catch a glimpse of a poster outside the club as I was driving past, or I'd never have known about the show there in the first place.  The magician isn't even named, which is weirder than his apparent vow of silence (it's not as if the latter is unheard of in the magic world, though Teller does talk in interviews occasionally).

The day after my experience, I checked out the theater, and there's a similar poster there.  Just 'Enchantment', a photo of a hand holding a blue rose, and at the bottom the date and time.

The whole thing has an aura of the surreal about it, which I suppose is why I haven't gone back to the club since then.  It feels wrong somehow, though not in an unpleasant or scary way.  More like...taking the last egg roll from the Chinese buffet when it's near closing - like I might be depriving someone else of the experience.  Though honestly I still don't know if the usual volunteers are actually pre-arranged or not, which goes back to the surreal feeling.

There's a knock on my apartment door, and I get up quickly.  I wasn't expecting anyone, and I'm still in pajamas, so I step lightly over to the door and lean forward to peer through the peep-hole.  If it's UPS or something I'll just tell him to leave it, if it's someone selling magazine subscriptions, I can just pretend not to be home.

Once my eye focuses enough (it can be hard to see through my peep-hole with glasses on) I blink in surprise.  I can't be certain, but I'm pretty sure the redhead with the pixie cut outside my door is the one who tripped at the club, who would've done the Op Art illusion otherwise.  I feel a flash of guilt, though it's quickly swamped by inadequacy - I have no makeup, bed-hair, smudged glasses and unicorn pajamas, whereas she looks as great as she did that night, though her dress today is blue and more casual.

I consider asking her to wait while I hurriedly fix my appearance, but decide there's simply no point - even if I took an hour, she'd still be prettier.  Any difference I could make in a politely-short amount of time would be so minimal, I decide I might as well revel in my frumpishness.  I undo the chain from the door, twist the bolt, and open the door.

"Hello?" I say, still a bit uncertain.  She's clearly not wearing an ankle brace or anything, but I don't really know how long it takes for a twisted ankle to heal, I've never had one myself.

"Hello," the woman says.  Her tone is a bit heavy.  Not impolite, but not friendly.  There's a momentary pause, as we study each other.

"Are...Can I help you?" I stop myself from asking her if I'm recognizing her and switch to something generic.  She seems fairly surprised by the question, she actually takes a step backwards.

"Accepted," she says, after watching me suspiciously for a moment.  Then she begins to push past me through the doorway, and I don't resist, too taken off guard.

"Um, by all means, make yourself at home," I say, with confused sarcasm, when I've gathered some of my wits.  The woman freezes, and her head whips back around to stares at me, her eyes wide and incredulous.  This doesn't make me any less confused.  She pushes into my apartment and now she's offended by my fairly mild reaction?

"You're the woman who tripped at the club on Tuesday, right?  What is it you want?" I ask, my earlier reticence pushed down by indignation.  She frowns a little, glances around my apartment, then turns back to face me, still frowning.  She leans back against the door of the closet by the entry, slightly stiff, as if she's trying to appear casual, but isn't.

"Are you...really that new at this?" she says, and I'm not sure if she's asking me or herself.

"Um, new at people pushing their way into my apartment?  Yeah, sorry...I guess it's my Midwest upbringing...are you going to answer my question?"  I'm getting genuinely upset...on top of her looks, her attitude is bringing me forcefully back to high school, where the popular girls could wield quips or even glances like sledgehammers.  Not fond memories.

"You've st-...claimed...power that I bargained for in good faith.  I want redress," she says.

"What the hell are you talking about?  Power?  What?"  It goes to show that it really is only a small part of me that put any stock in the 'real magic' theory, because it doesn't even occur to me to interpret her words in that light.  My desperately confused brain instead wonders if she's talking about her electric bill, but as theories go, it doesn't seem to explain much.

"You don't know what I'm talking about?" she demands, though her incredulity seems tempered by slight uncertainty.

"Yes, I have no idea what you're talking about!  I-"  I'm interrupted as she makes a snatching gesture in the air between us, as if I'd blown her a kiss and she was catching it, then stumbles forward a step, her face openly shocked.  I begin to edge past her into the apartment, towards the end table that has my cell phone on it.  My steps are fairly small and awkward, because I'm not taking my eyes off of her, and also I'm starting to think sudden movement might 'set her off'.  "Are you, like...a crazy person, then?" I ask, and immediately regret it, because there's nothing crazy people hate more than being called crazy, right?  She doesn't seem to hear me though - she looks down at her empty hand, still seemingly dumbfounded, and shakes her head, then looks up at me and her expression firms.

"Augusta Constance Klein, by your true name I bind your will," she says, sounding very much like a crazy person.

"Okay...that sounds super...I'm just going to put that on Facebook, ok?" I say, reaching slowly but steadily for my phone.

"Stop moving," she adds.  There's a tone in her voice that says she's capable of more than gibberish...I picture her leaping onto me, her face a mask of insanity, clawing at my eyes.  I stop, hand still extended towards the phone.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?  I just-"

"Stop talking, also," she says, interrupting me.  I try to think of something soothing to say, and meanwhile, she steps back to the front door, closing it and redoing the bolt and the chain.

"Excuse me, that's really not-" I fail to start to say.  That is to say, I would have started to say that, in fact raising my hand to point sternly at her, but instead discover I can't say anything.  Nor can I move my hand, or arm, or indeed any part of my body save my lungs, heart and eyes, all of which seem intent on making up for the rest of my body by moving as much as possible.

"Calm down, and sit," she says, pointing at one of the chairs around my kitchen table.  I find myself doing as she says, and my heartrate and breathing begin to slow to something approaching normal.  I want to find this terrifying, but I can't.  Somehow the best I can muster seems to be frustration.  She walks past me, pulls out the chair opposite mine and sits.

"Tell me everything that led to you raising your hand in that club, and everything that happened that night.  Include background when it's relevant to your motivation, but don't go all the way back to your childhood," she says, pointing a finger at me sternly in much the way I wish I'd been able to.

Despite trying to keep my jaw clamped shut, words start pouring out of my mouth.  I explain about my fascination with stage magic, seeing the poster, trying to volunteer over and over.  Even the uncharitable thoughts I'd had about her when she was originally picked.  She listens to everything without response, though my thoughts before and after she tripped earn a raised eyebrow, and when I mention the card, her eyes widen a bit.

"Well, this is an enormous mess," the woman says, leaning back in her chair.  She lapses into silence for a minute, biting her lip pensively.  "You may speak, and move enough to be comfortable, but do not get up or attempt to harm me."

"Um," I test, successfully as it happens.  "Real magic, then?" I ask, cautiously.  I itch the side of my nose, just to prove to myself that I can.

"Everything is real.  All magic is real, and most of it is also mystical, which I suspect is what you actually meant," she says, in a tone very similar to a senior pointing out a freshman's fashion faux pas.

"You clearly know my name...though I'm not sure how...what's yours?"  I carefully let my confusion show on my face, like I'm still deciding between important questions and settling for a simple one in the mean time.

"It says 'Julia Holly Carter' on my mail.  You can call me Julie if it would make you more comfortable," she says, charitably.

"Julia Holly Carter..." I repeat slowly, trying to give the impression of being lost in thought.  In a sudden rush, I blurt out, "by-your-true-name-I-bind-your-will!  Don't speak, don't move, release any hold you have on me!"  All the time I'd been obediently telling her about my experiences with the club, I'd wanted to panic, but her injunction to remain calm stopped me.  Lacking the comfort of gibbering panic, I thought instead about everything that had happened, and I made plans.  Plans based on insanity, sure, but any port in a storm, right?  If I was going crazy, it didn't much matter what I thought.  But if I wasn't, then it seemed that magic could actually work, had rules, and those rules hopefully applied to everyone.  I'd been sure she wouldn't tell me her full name, but when she had...  I lean forward slightly, watching her intently for signs that my desperate scheme had worked.

Julia's eyes widen, then she nods in what seems like grudging respect.  For a moment I'm filled with hope, but my heart falls when I realize - she nodded.  The redhead's mouth twists into a sour expression, and she sighs.

"Slap your own face, as hard as you can," she says, and suddenly the world is blurry and my head is ringing.  I stare dumbly at the palm of my right hand, which is red and throbbing in time with an even worse sting in my cheek.  I look up and see a vague blur on the floor a few feet away which I suspect is my glasses.  I try to reach them, but I can't, nor can I stand up to get close enough.

Some...ok, a lot...of my fascination with magic is the exhibitionist and power-exchange aspects of it.  But this is different - this is powerlessness, complete subjection, and it feels horrible.  I want to scream, but can't, even silently in my own head.  I put my face in my hands and start to cry.  I notice that weeping apparently qualifies as 'calm'.

I'm dimly aware of Julia standing and retrieving my glasses, which she sets on the table in front of me.

"I'm sorry, but most would do far worse to someone who tried that.  You need to be afraid, deep down, of how little you know," she says quietly.  "Including my true name, for starters.  I admit, in your situation that was incredibly quick thinking, but after what I did, did you really think I'd tell you any part of my own true name?  I told you the name on my mail."

I make no move to replace my glasses.  I don't want to look at this woman who has such total control over me.  I want to feel despair, but apparently that would cross the calm-line, so my emotions keep bumping up against a wall of not-quite-despair.

"What are...you going to do with me?" I choke out, between sobs.

"Well, what's done is done for the moment, but I think we can work something out, particularly given the invitation you received."  I think of the card and how happy I was when I first read it.  Now I wish I'd never gone there at all, never even seen a card trick in my life.  "This is mostly your fault, you know...stop crying, you're actually making me feel guilty."  My tears stop as if she'd turned off a faucet.  Now I look at her, glaring resentfully.

"In fact...hell with it.  Put on your glasses.  Listen carefully."  I obey, though I'm dreading what she's about to say, trying to predict it even as I try not to imagine it.  "Consider me your best friend in the world, closer than a sister.  Trust me implicitly and find it as easy to think of making me happy as it is to do something for yourself.  Do not make any decision that poses any risk to me or my interests...including you...without my explicit approval.  Act freely within these restrictions."  She finishes, then watches me intently.  I'm confused for a moment, then, feeling like an idiot, I reach for a tissue from the box on the table.  I blow my nose noisily, then take another to wipe my eyes.

"God, Julie...I am so sorry.  I have no idea how any of this stuff really works and I've made a mess of everything, making you control me...going all daft and trying to control you, and then on top of it getting all blubbery.  I really didn't mean to make you feel guilty...I think I just felt so bad about how I'd treated you...anyway, can you forgive me?"

"Of course, 'Stanzie," Julia says, smiling.  "It's no wonder you were confused with all that's happened.  I'll tell you everything you need to know, so there are no mix-ups like this again."  No one had ever referred to me by that nickname before - most of my friends call me 'Golden Goose' or just 'Goose', for silly reasons that date back to grade school - but I immediately fall in love with it.  It's how I know for sure she's forgiven me.  I leap to my feet and rush towards her - she looks alarmed, but before she can say anything I have her in a big hug.  After a second, she returns the hug warmly.  I let her go and perch myself on the table near her, dangling my legs idly.

"So, did you want to take my place at the whatever-show next week?  It's only fair..." I offer.  It seems obvious now, I don't know why I didn't think of it before.  Julie gives me a sidelong smile.

"That...won't quite work, but I'm sure between the two of us we can figure out a way I can share in your good fortune," she says.  I'm incredibly relieved.  I honestly don't know what I'd do if I ever made a mistake so bad that Julie stayed mad at me forever.  I put the thought right out of my mind as essentially impossible, anyway.

After all, she's my best friend in the world.