Abra Cadabra

Any single gal in New York is used to smooth talkers. The last thing anybody hopes to encounter during a night on the town is a man who’ll use all his charming stories and fancy tricks to make a fool of you. Unless, of course, the man playing tricks is Magician Eric DeCamps. Having spent last Wednesday night being charmed and deceived by The Society of American Magicians’

award-winning Magician of the Year, I speak from experience.

After recently watching The Prestige, starring the delicious Christian Bale, I looked forward to an evening of illusion – the illusion being that I was Scarlett Johansson, called upon to fill the role of the beautiful and charming volunteer who disappears into thin air before the eyes of the audience. To ensure that was the case, I took a seat as close to the front row as possible. All said and done, that’s not quite how it played out… but close enough.

The show was billed “An Evening of Intimate Magic,” and intimate it was. Held in a room seating about 35 people at the old world (read: stuck-up) 3 West Club on West 51st Street, there was no room for smoke machines or invisible wires. DeCamps could only rely on the sheer skill that has made him the second person in 105 years to receive the prestigious Gold Medal of Excellence for Close Up Magic to amaze and delight us.

Upon entering the room, DeCamps instantly grabbed everyone’s attention by answering an age-old question: “Can you make money?” One after another, he made silver dollars appear, disappear and seemingly transport from one location to another, all while making sure we could each see that there was nothing up his sleeves, literally. Wives glared at their husbands as if to say, “Why can’t you pull money out of the air?” as DeCamps enchanted us with majestic stories and kept us laughing with his quick wit.

I perked up in my chair when DeCamps scanned the audience for a volunteer – it was the moment I’d been waiting for! His finger pointed in my direction, and I knew my moment was coming until he said, “You Sir, would you mind coming up here and helping me out?” He was speaking to, of all people, my boyfriend. Like an Oscar nominee whose name isn’t called, I shrunk back in my chair. Timidly, and with only an ounce of the strut I would’ve employed, my other half made his way the front of the room to be Mr. DeCamp’s “lovely assistant.”

For the next five minutes, my man assisted the magician as he made a fragile egg appear and reappear in a magic pocket. Even from such close proximity, neither a trap door nor blatant misdirection could be detected. Finally my boyfriend made his way back to his seat, and we sat and watched in amazement as the magic man finished his 80-minute show.

Even in this rough and tumble city, it turns out all it takes is a little magic to turn even the most hardened New Yorker into a kid again – if only for an hour. Now the only thing I’m left wondering is whether I can actually pull off wearing a top hat as a chic new accessory for Sunday brunch.