It was the summer of 1988, just before moving upstate, from NYC, to start college at the University of Rochester. That afternoon, my girlfriend and I had gone to see Big. Tom Hanks plays a kid trapped in an adult’s body, and there’s a scene that had us completely captivated: Josh and Mr. McMillan are exploring FAO Schwarz when they stumble upon a giant piano laid out on the floor. They start experimenting, stepping on keys, and eventually break into a duet of Heart and Soul.
By the time the credits rolled, we were buzzing with excitement. The question was obvious: was that piano real? The answer, of course, was just a short walk away.
FAO Schwarz was a place of dreams for a kid. The long escalator to the second floor carried us through an impossibly high ceiling, past a huge, talking Teddy Ruxpin. The toy demonstrators were in full swing—remote-controlled cars zipped by, balsa wood gliders floated through the air, and life-sized stuffed animals loomed over us. Then we saw it. The piano. It wasn’t quite the grand version from the movie, but it was real, and it was waiting.
We climbed on, grinning like little kids, and started stomping out notes. Instead of Heart and Soul, we decided to go Bach to the basics by cobbling together a piece of a Bach two-part invention. We didn’t exactly put on a polished performance. As we clumsily hopped around, we noticed a crowd gathering. Not to applaud, mind you, but to wait for their turn. Before long, people started edging closer, eager to push us off the keys. We ended our little recital abruptly, stepping aside to let others take their shot. Recognition for our skilled playing would have to wait.
As we headed toward the exit, laughing about our short-lived piano escapade, I spotted something equally unexpected: a clown on stilts tossing juggling clubs through the air. Or rather, she spotted me. My own juggling clubs, too long for my backpack, stuck out of the top like antennae. From somewhere above me, I heard a voice.
“What kind of clubs are those?”
There weren’t many companies making professional juggling equipment back then, and any juggler in New York City could spot a pair of Brian Dube clubs a mile away. “Brian Dube,” I said, glancing up at her.
“You must be heading to the juggling club tonight,” she replied. She wasn’t wrong—I had planned to head down to Greenwich Village that evening for the weekly meet.
“Toss one of them up here,” she said, holding out a hand.
Without much thought, I grabbed one and threw it to her. Before I could process what was happening, another club came sailing back down to me. She wasn’t adding my club to her pattern. No, we were passing.
Now, my passing wasn’t great. My throws were shaky at best, and I wasn’t sure how well she could move on those giant stilts. But we gave it a shot, juggling back and forth as shoppers stopped to watch. It didn’t last long—my inconsistency got the better of me—but we laughed about it and drew quite a bit of attention. This time, though, the recognition felt different. Passing clubs, I demonstrated more skill than hopping on the piano, and I felt a sense of pride that wasn’t there earlier.
When the juggling stopped, I looked to my left and noticed someone I hadn’t seen before. It was a woman who’d been watching quietly, waiting for her moment to speak. She wasn’t just another shopper; she was the talent booker for FAO Schwarz—the person responsible for hiring the demonstrators who brought the store to life.
We chatted for a bit, and I told her about my background. Not juggling—I wasn’t about to sell myself short with those uneven throws. But when I mentioned magic, her eyes lit up. A short conversation later, I walked out of the store with a job. I was replacing one of the magic demonstrators who’d been working there for years. That afternoon started with a piano and ended with a job offer. Not bad for a day of goofing around in Manhattan.
Working at FAO Schwarz wasn’t just a job; it was a stage. As the store’s magic demonstrator, my role was to sell magic kits designed for kids. That meant performing the tricks from the kits, showing parents and children alike how easy it was to amaze their friends. The kits were packed with miniaturized versions of classic tricks.
There was the Professor’s Nightmare, where three ropes of different lengths—a short, medium, and long piece—somehow transformed into three ropes of the same length. In the kits, the ropes were barely bigger than shoelaces, but the illusion was just as baffling. Then there was the thumb tip trick, which Penn and Teller famously called “the great American magic trick.” Using a fake thumb, the magician could make a silk scarf vanish into thin air and reappear just as easily. The kits also included staples like the Cups and Balls, where balls appeared and disappeared under cups in impossible ways, and plenty of other classics to get young magicians started.
These tricks were fun, and I enjoyed demonstrating them. But they were also just the starting point. To draw people in, I had to go beyond the basics. That’s where my love of cards came in. Outside of work, I spent hours in Central Park, not just practicing but performing. I set up a small table, laid out a deck of cards, and busked for hours, collecting tips after every set. The constant flow of new audiences forced me to hone my skills. I learned to read people, tweak my stories, and adapt my sleight of hand on the fly.
In the store, I brought that energy with me. When the crowds started to form, I’d pull out a deck of cards—not for sale, of course—and use it to weave intricate stories that captivated both kids and adults. The cards became my escape from the routine of demonstrating kits and a way to keep myself engaged. The crowds would sometimes grow so large that my manager had to remind me, not so kindly, that I wasn’t there to put on a full show. My job, after all, was to sell magic kits, not block the aisles with spectators. But the thrill of performing was too good to resist.
One day, I pulled off what might be the biggest miracle of my magic career—completely by accident. The table I performed at was shaped like an upside-down magic hat, with the brim forming a circular tabletop. I leaned over toward a child just under its height and fanned out a deck of cards. “Pick a card. Any card,” I said. He reached up and plucked one from the fan. “Look at it, memorize it, and show it to everyone so they can help you remember it.”
Once everyone had seen the card, it was returned to the deck and shuffled thoroughly—or so it seemed. There’s sort of an open secret in magic. When a magician says a card is “lost in the deck”, it’s not. Normally, a magician has some way of keeping track of the chosen card, but my fingers slipped, and I lost it completely. I had no idea where it was. I was pretty sure it was the jack of clubs, which I thought I glimpsed as the card was passed around, but I couldn’t be sure. Improvisation was my only option.
I began making elaborate gestures, passing the deck between my hands and drawing the audience’s focus to my movements. “Watch closely,” I said. “Your card will rise out of the deck.” The boy leaned in, his eyes fixed on my hands. The crowd leaned in with him. To sell it, I exaggerated the motions, lifting my hand high in the air, drawing the boy’s eyes upward as I said, “The card will rise up!”
Then it happened. The boy screamed. The crowd gasped. “How’d you do that?” they asked.
Confused, I followed their gaze upward. High on the two-story ceiling was a jack of clubs, stuck face-down. I hadn’t done a thing. Apparently, some other magician before me had performed a similar trick and left the card there. But to this audience, it was a miracle.
To the calls of “how’d you do that?” I smiled and shrugged. “Magic,” I said, and the crowd erupted into applause. Sometimes, the best tricks are the ones you don’t even know you’re performing.