Everything Is Perfect When You're a Liar (32 page)

The elevator doors open to a large, round lobby. It's very dark and throbbing with intense trance music. I wish I was making that up. We make our way across the lobby and into a hallway that seems to go on forever. It's the longest, darkest hotel hallway on earth, with burly security guards in front of some of the doors. I look over at Matt, Angela, James, and Stacy, and the sight of the five of us walking down the longest hallway to this intense music sound track reminds me of some 1990s movie, but one where everyone dies. Involuntarily, I whisper to myself, “Going to meet David Copperfield to this intense music is intense,” but they hear it and laugh.

And then it happens.

All at once, David Copperfield appears out of nowhere—he is a wizard, after all—in the hall in front of us. He's wearing a black shirt and has prayer hands raised to his face, like a goddamned life-sized cutout. He says, “Do I hear the sounds of laughter out here?” I'm frozen. I wonder for a moment if he'll start to pull an infinite amount of scarves from his throat. I would stand and watch him do that, in this hallway, with this music and no talking, forever.

No one says a word as Copperfield ushers us back into his loft, holding the door for us to enter. He is tall and broad shouldered and has the beautiful bedroom eyes of Osama bin Laden. The first time I thought about how beautiful Osama bin Laden's eyes were was in the middle of the night, and the next morning I woke up with the worst UTI of my life. I'm sure the two were connected. I should probably find some cranberry juice later. But David does not give off an evil vibe at all, not even a creepy uncle vibe. There are no falcons, no retractable roof, just a stunning bright white loft space and a child in the dining room.

“Water, anyone?” David, the perfect host, walks over to the open kitchen and grabs a few bottles of Fiji water as his beautiful girlfriend, Chloe, comes down the stairs. She is not Vegas, she's entirely French. Beautiful young woman, no makeup, long natural hair. She probably washes with Fiji water.

“I like water,” Matt says, a hint of mystery to his voice. He's totally going to talk about the Fountain of Youth.

I realize I should probably play the perfect guest, and friend to Angela, so I introduce David to everyone before Matt can follow up about the water. “Thanks so much for inviting us. Our rooms are perfect.”

Angela coos, “Your daughter is so cute. I can't even look at her, she's so cute.” We all turn to look at Copperfield's daughter, and she begins to cry.

“Thanks. Come, let's sit down.” David's arm extends dramatically, like there's any other way for a magician's arm to extend, and he guides us to the living room. Matt, Angela, James, and I all squeeze onto the white leather couch. David takes the modern white leather chair across from us, and Chloe perches on the arm of his chair, like some goddamn beautiful French angel gargoyle.

“How do you all know each other?”

“How much time do we have? Isn't your show in, like, ten minutes?” I ask, taking a sip of my water.

He turns to Chloe. “I think it's in four minutes?” She nods, then he turns to me. “I just wanted to say hello before I went on.” I can't help but stare at Chloe and David. They look so young. I mean, I know she's actually young, but I have no idea how old Copperfield is, and he still looks young for that age. Matt's totally right about David's Fountain of Youth discovery, and now I so want him to ask about it.

“Short version: Angela and I were in a Korean day care together as toddlers, but we didn't figure that out until we were eighteen and she worked in my video store.”

“What kind of video store?”

“It was called Alternative Video.”

“Not a Blockbuster,” David confirms.

“No. Way before Blockbuster,” Angela says, making me feel old again.

“Angela would recommend videos to me. Diamonds in the rough. And then we started dating these guys pretty soon afterward.”

“More diamonds in the rough.” David laughs. Funny magician. “So I know Kelly is a writer. What do you guys do?”

Matt leans back. “I'm in health care.”

David looks at Angela. “I'm a buyer. Shoes, clothes.”

“Oh.” David turns to Chloe. “Chloe is designing shoes.”

Of course she is. She's perfect. She's a perfect shoe designer. I love Chloe, the same way I love Gwyneth Paltrow. Most girls choose to hate these types of perfect girls, but I love them the most
because
other people have chosen to hate them.

David looks at James. “I'm an environmental engineer. I'm a hydrogeologist. Ground water. I mostly clean up the crap that oil companies leave behind. Not physically—I'm behind a desk, drawing up the plans.”

David leans forward, scrunching up his face, and for the first time I see lines. He seems very interested in this stuff, for a wizard anyway. “I have some water issues on my island.”

Matt leans forward too. “I've
heard
about the water on your island.”

Holy shit, Matt is going to ask about the Fountain. I can see Angela shifting her weight as she mentally stabs Matt to death.

David's assistant enters the room and David slaps his knees lightly. “Well, we have to get going. I have a show in thirty seconds.”

David walks ahead of the rest of us down the dance-club-music-filled hallway. He weaves as he walks, from one side of the hall to the other and back. You know how there are those electric fish that dangle a light in front of their mouths to seduce prey? I feel like Morgan Freeman's freckles are kind of the same thing. But at that moment, I felt like a tiny fish . . . watching that light.

As we reach the gate, Matt speeds up his pace. He passes David and opens it for all of us, including one other person.

“Dude”—James grabs Matt's arm—“that was Evander Holyfield. You held the door for Evander Holyfield.” I missed it. I didn't get to see the ear because I was mesmerized by Copperfield's seductive S-patterned walk and the thought of Morgan Freeman's freckles.

David does a few more weaves, then turns dramatically and waves, making fancy Osama bin Laden magician eyes. And then he's gone.

When I imagined this evening, I thought we'd be in the huge MGM theater with cauldrons of magician's fires, falcons, and stadium seating. Instead, Chloe leads us to a large, lounge-y room. Round booths and tables, the kind you imagine in every Las Vegas venue, except for the one where David Copperfield performs. We are seated front-row center. Our table touches the stage. We can see under the props. I'm already looking for mirrors. But I still know that David can fly.

“Do you know how he does all the illusions?” James asks Chloe as we take our seats around the tiny table.
God
, James. You can't ask that kind of thing right off the bat! I have no idea what the protocol is when you first meet a magician's significant other, but this doesn't feel right.

“We look like superfans,” Matt mouths to James. Then his eyebrows shoot up. “They've got cashews on the menu, James!”

We order a bottle of wine and a bowl of cashews, and I'm almost done with my second glass before the show begins. And I have to pee. While I was digesting the fact that Copperfield was a normal, falcon-less dude, seemingly as normal as James, I had drunk my entire bottle of Fiji water. I followed it with two glasses of wine. And now my bladder is bursting.

David does a series of tricks in his act that drive me crazy because I just can't figure them out, which makes me think maybe his
normal guy
stuff is an act. The most impressive trick is one where he lies in a coffin-sized box. The box is then collapsed, getting smaller and smaller, until he is only a head and feet sticking out of a tiny box spinning in front of us. I'm horrified to the point where I don't even remember how badly I need to pee. With my hands at my mouth, I look at a grimacing Chloe, who seems equally horrified. She does fuck him, after all. Is this pure contortion work or is he a wizard? I lean toward the latter, because the only humans I've seen contort themselves like this are French Canadians or small Asian girls, and David is a Jewish man. He didn't grow up with a
ceinture fléchée
or parents who turned his toddlerhood into one long plate-spinning class. If I had the gift of wizardry, I would totally be living it up with falcons and shit. For sure.

“Is there a good time during the show for me to run out of here and use the ladies' room?” I whisper to Chloe as she sips her Pinot. She looks at me like I've said, “I've shit myself.”

“Ahhhhh . . .” she hums, looking confused, but not “I am French and don't understand” confused.

“I just really have to pee. I don't think I can hold it.” But Chloe is looking over my shoulder and smiling.

And then there is light. A spotlight.

And then David is standing behind me. He is in the audience, with his hand on my shoulder. I find myself involuntarily standing up. He's bringing me onstage. I look over at James, who is smiling and chewing cashews. “I told you,” he mouths to me, with wet nut crumbs in the corners of his mouth, as I walk toward the stairs. Numbly I climb them, one by one, as I think,
Please do not pee yourself. It will be harder to lie about a rejected bladder-saving operation to a crowd of people than it was to a gas station attendant
.

David leads me to a spot on the left side of the stage in front of a small camera crew. I turn to look out at the audience; then I see the Plexiglas box with a scorpion inside. As David has me put on large rubber gloves, I wonder how large the human bladder is, my human bladder in particular. Judging by the larger outputs of urine I've had, I would estimate that mine is roughly the size of a medium grapefruit. When I zone back, I'm holding the Plexiglas scorpion box and David asks me to pick a card. I choose the ace of diamonds. David then asks me to put down the box and take off the large rubber gloves I've just put on.

“Now,” he says, “pick up the scorpion.” And suddenly I'm not thinking about my bladder. I realize I'm on a goddamn Las Vegas stage with a full bladder beside THE David Copperfield, and he's just asked me to pick up a scorpion. I look up and over his shoulder to the large-screen TV on the theater wall. It's me. I look small, and my arms look defined, but I don't look happy.

“You don't seriously want me to pick up the scorpion?” I ask into his mike, knowing it will get a laugh—and it does—but I mean it.

“Yes, just reach in and grab it,” he says, cocking his billion-dollar eyebrow at the audience, winning himself an even larger laugh.

I look at the scorpion. I'm going to do it because Copperfield got a bigger laugh than I did, and that is just wrong. I'm going to be the goddamn hero today, David.
I
am. The crowd's laughter dwindles to nothing when they see that I'm raising my arm and reaching for the scorpion. Then, in a millisecond, it occurs to me: that little arachnid isn't moving. I haven't seen it move at all. Holy shit—it's totally fake. With the confidence of a drunk white girl dancing on a speaker, my hand darts into the clear box to grab the black scorpion. Someone in the crowd gasps: I'm fucking wowing them.

Then, just as I'm about to make contact, David grabs my arm to stop me. He smiles and shakes his head. The scorpion scuttles across the box and I remember how much I have to pee. David grabs the scorpion himself, pulls it out of the box, and holds it in front of the cards. The scorpion grabs my card, the ace of diamonds. I can't believe Copperfield subcontracts his card tricks out to insects.

After the show, I take the longest pee of my life and then we pile into a perfectly normal minivan with David and Chloe. A minivan, with toys stuffed under the seats, that will carry us to David's museum of magic secrets.

When we arrive at a large building in an industrial part of town, an entourage of people awaits us. Slowly and painfully, I climb out of the minivan's third-row seat and discover that there's no other way to climb out of the third row of any such vehicle. It's cramped and awkward and I vow never again to give my kids shit for being so slow. (Note: I do not own a minivan anymore. I own a Mazda with a third row. This is important for me to mention because of minivan stigma. I grew up in an Aerostar, I know. Minivan stigma is worse than Mazda stigma, and D.C. is probs not afraid of minivan stigma because he owns islands and can shrink in a box.)

“This is Homer,” David says. “Come over here; we'll take a photo.” David guides us to the entrance of the building, and we line up in front of the door so that Homer can take a few shots. I'm feeling out of place, but in a good way, as if Walt Disney himself were about to give me a private tour of Disneyland after hours. Like: What the fuck am I doing here at midnight, with a camera crew, my husband, and my closest friends, at a wizard's private museum?

Then we went inside.

“This was the store I grew up in, in New Jersey. Korby's.” We were standing within an exact replica of his parents' store. It was totally, perfectly retro, right down to the original shirts his parents sold. It even had the store's original TV in the corner, which was actually playing an episode of
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

I think,
This is fucking insane
.

“Yes,” David says, smiling directly at me. “I even have the original TV I used to watch while I sat in the store.” Wait, I didn't say that out loud, did I? He was just working off my “This is fucking insane” face . . . I
am
the Helen Keller of body language. Right?

David leads us into the tiny change room and asks Matt to pull on a tie hanging on the wall. Matt is more than pleased to be the Macaulay Culkin to D.C.'s Michael Jackson. He pulls the tie, and the back wall is transformed into a secret door opening into a foyer, where Homer and the entourage are standing. They've somehow gotten in there without us noticing.