The Sad Clown Mystery

What happens to the magician's soul when his face has been burned by the stares of ten thousand judges? Or the soles of his shoes after ten thousand miles of walk-around performance? Does the busker, in his war helmet bowler hat, become as snappy and cold as the streets he calls home? Does the heckled become the heckler of life?

What becomes of the callouses on his hands after lugging all those props up hotel loading docks, through narrow corridors, or across crowded festival streets baked in the sun?

Is it romantic to become and stay pro, in laymen gig land, for 20+ years? What of his eyes- do they see the magic still as it once was handed to him by some storybook shop owner 20 years back, when magic shops still existed on picturesque sidewalk corners? Does he still hear applause?

Does this 20+ year mage pro still wear the same grandfathered suit from the 1980s? Does he shave? Or does he let himself go to become as grizzled as mall Santa, the center of attention but not really- face concealed behind anonymous face to face the hours as they become years and decades in front of these passing crowds that seem to get younger? Does he become the old face you see, but don't really look at, as you drop money into the faded hat of?

Is the pro entertainer the the crying clown, the depressed jester, make-up streaking down wrinkles when the lights go out, eating pancakes at Denny’s at 2am? At a bar at 2am?

Does he tire from putting up an act? From peddling a show? When the real him seeps out, what magic seeps out then? What does the magic look like for the mage soul pro of 20+ years?

The hobbyists grow old and merry. The trick kids can’t sleep, feverish with the bug. The award-winners, inventors, lecturers- the “Names”- cruise down hallways of magic conventions like the populars of a high school. And then that middle-class, middle-age worker population of trench vets- I’m curious where they be at, and what the magic is like there.