Author: Chih Sang

I volunteered to perform at my magic club’s Christmas party 2024.

This is how confident I was:
“I have four or five tricks no one here will have seen.”

This is how delusional I was:
“It’s fine if I don’t practice. I am just too overworked to get time, the tricks will lead themselves.”

It was Christmas season. Work was busy. Life was full. But —and this is important— I did prepare all my props. Everything was packed. Everything was organized. Everything was… theoretically brilliant.

Winging it would be fine.
Right?

Now, for context: this wasn’t a regular audience. This was a room full of magicians. People whose hobbies include spotting methods, predicting outcomes, and politely smiling while mentally reverse-engineering your soul.

What could go wrong. The night arrives. Performers go up one by one —senior members, professionals, people who absolutely rehearsed. Strong sets. Tight pacing. Applause.

And then I realize something terrible.

I’m last.

I am the closing act.

No pressure. I begin with a production. You know the moment —the ta-da. The reveal. The magical punctuation mark.

Nothing.
No gasp.
No applause.
Just a room full of people silently thinking, “Ah yes, that method.”

Okay. Shake it off. On to trick two.

A prediction.

It’s wrong.
Not “magically wrong.”
Just…. wrong.

At this point my inner monologue is no longer helpful.

Time for audience participation.
Because when things are going badly, the obvious solution is to introduce variables.

I call up a participant.
“Roger!”

He looks at me and says, “It’s Robert. “

Cool. Cool cool cool.

Throughout the trick, I proceed to call him Roger again.
And again.
Each time he corrects me.
At some point it becomes our thing.

Naturally, the trick doesn’t go as planned. I blame Roger internally. Roger is probably blaming me externally. The magicians are enjoying themselves now —just not in the way I intended.

Final trick.

Redemption arc. I call up James. James is also not James. He’s Jim.

At this moment I discover a personal truth: when I’m lost, my name memory evaporates completely. People become vibes. Facial features. Gentle accusations.

Somehow, I finish.

The club applauds. Because magic clubs are kind. Supportive. Generous with ovations when someone has clearly suffered enough.

I lower my head. I smile. I leave the stage knowing something important.

In my head, the performance was flawless.
In reality, the execution was…. festive.

And that’s the lesson.

For the Fringe, I have five months.
This time, I will rehearse.
This time, I will be ready.
This time, I will not rely on optimism and good lighting.

And most importantly:
I will not ask an audience member for their name.

Problem solved.