The Prestige

I saw a movie last night called The Prestige, starring Christian Bale, Michael Kane, and Hugh Jackman. Scarlett Johanssen has a bit part which isn't much worth mentioning even though I just did. She filled the sexy factor quota, I guess. I kept asking my date if he noticed the wart between Christian Bale's nose and his right eye. He didn't notice. But he did notice Scarlett's lips, so I suppose all is right in the world.

Apparently there are three parts to every trick. The Pledge, where the magician shows the audience something ordinary (but no doubt really isn't). Then, the Turn, where he makes his ordinary thing do something extraordinary. And finally, the Prestige, where he uses twists and turns to show you something you've never seen before. And I say "he" because let's face it, most magicians are nerdy dudes. A look at the audience last night was confirmation enough for me.

A peek inside of the early days of on stage magic was interesting and the period costume was depicted well, but the story was a little difficult to follow (especially near the end), and the movie was at least a half an hour too long. My rating? Half a Can (out of a possible Two Cans). At any rate, the characters kept referring to "the trick" and "stealing tricks" and "secret of the trick" and it all reminded me of a little story. Wanna hear it? Of course you do. So settle down, and listen up. It'll be more interesting than The Prestige and take a lot less time to tell.

Years ago when I was bartending and looking for work, I stopped into a place now formerly known as The Village Idiot. Really classy joint. Ok, no, not at all. Not even close. On West 14th Street, the Idiot was a crassier Coyote Ugly. A haven for construction workers by day and by night just the place for anyone who wanted to get loaded didn't mind dirty glasses or their feet sticking to the floor. I went in after reading in their ad in Craig's List about an open call for a bartending position. Females Only, the ad read. Did I actually think I could envision myself working at a place like that? I didn't know. I really didn't think about it too much. I needed a job, so I checked it out.

I walked in on the designated afternoon which happened to be a sticky and humid day. The place smelled of stale beer. My friend Brandy would say it smelled like "an asshole fucked an arm pit."Country music blared from the juke box, the air conditioner did not exist, and the place was packed with waiting applicants andIrish construction guys getting their fill of beer and attention from the bartender. I sat down next next to one such fellow who bought me a beer while I waited to interview.

So you're here for an audition, he said. An audition? I think to myself. Seconds later the guys start tapping on their beer glasses and the bartender, or bar wench, if you will--a petite broad with big cans and a rough face--poured a pint glass of water over her head, drenching her wife beater and those big cans of hers for all to see. Tips abound.

Now I'm freaking out.

"Do you know any tricks?" the construction guy asks me.
"Tricks?" I ask.
"Yeah, you know, tricks."
"Well, if you mean tricks like pouring a pint glass of water over my head when people clink their glasses for a self-induced wet t-shirt contest, not really. I'm not that kind of gal."
"No?"
"Not really, no."
"Lisa! Come here!" he tells the soaking wet bartender. "Show her your trick!"
I shrug. She walks over.
"You're not going to steal my trick, are you?" she asks.
"No. Of course not," I reply. Terrified.
"Ok, then," she said. With that, she took from around her neck a shoelace with a large flat stainless steel bottle opener attached at the end. She grabbed the non-opener end of the laniard in one hand like a whip, slightly squatted in her tight jeans, and swung the string between her legs from the frontal cooch area to the back, so that the bottle opener gained some speed on it's way through and up just enough to smack her on her own ass. Again. And again. And again.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth went the bottle opener between her legs and landing with a smack on the ass. Everyone cheered and waved dollar bills. I smiled weakly.

Awkward...

After her last swing with the rope she put it back around her neck, looked at me sternly, leaned in and said, "DON'T STEAL MY TRICK."

I didn't. After all, it was her Prestige.