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I officially changed my name when I was twenty-eight. After all, Eve
had been my stage name for years. No one knew me as Gloria anymore. I
didn’t even know myself as Gloria.
So, even though the voice was shouting “Gloria, Gloria,” I ignored it.
There was nothing unusual in Las Vegas about people shouting. Everyone
shouted - drunks and tourists, winners and losers. I just blocked it out and stared at the slot machine screen. Wheels whirled and bells chimed. I wasn’t entranced, but it was enough to occupy an hour until
my show. But there was something familiar in the voice, a high-pitched
politeness that caused me to turn, to look into the past.
“Gloria, is that you?”
Of course, I recognized them immediately, but I said nothing at first.
It was shame. That’s what I felt. Shame at knowing what they were
thinking. But then I focused on the faces. A handsome older couple. Good Scandinavian genes.
“Mrs. Olsen? Mr. Olsen?” I mumbled, my voice becoming girlish. And
why not? I was 16 the last time I saw the Olsens. Even then I was too
old to be a regular at their candy shop, but I had too much of a sweet
tooth to pass up the chocolate covered almonds they made.
“Gloria! It is you. I told Mr. Olsen it was. We were playing slots
the very next row over and I turned to Mr. Olsen and said, ‘I think
that’s little Gloria.’ Of course, he didn’t believe me. But I would
recognize you anywhere. I mean, you’ve been on the TV, and there
aren’t too many faces from Eldon Center on the TV. Isn’t that what I
said, dear.”
Mr. Olsen nodded, but he stared past me and toward a nearby blackjack
table.
“Of course, I wondered if we’d run into you. You’re the only person we
know who lives in Las Vegas, but this isn’t like Eldon Center where you
expect to run into everyone you know at church—well, almost everyone,
that is. Everyone that’s in your church. There’s more than one church
in Eldon Center. In fact, there are even more since you left.”
I smiled to encourage her to go on. It would keep me from having to
talk.
“Still, what a surprise to see you. What are the odds?” Mrs. Olsen
laughed. “Actually, this would be the place to find out? I hear tell
you can bet on just about everything down here.”
She laughed again, and I tried to join in. “So, Gloria, is this a
place you gamble in often?”
I paused. I sensed there was no right answer. “Yes,” meant that I was
a problem gambler living a dissolute life perhaps involving drug abuse
and prostitution. To say “no,” would be to scorn the Sunshine Palace
and insult the hotel they had chosen for their big vacation. Evade the
question, I told myself.
“I work across the street at Roseland. At least I’m booked there
through the weekend.”
Mrs. Olsen turned to Mr. Olsen and swatted him on the shoulder.
“Oh, honey, what luck! We will just have to get tickets to Gloria’s
show. Gloria, I swear, that time you were on that cable network, the
whole town talked about it for weeks.”
Please, stop, I thought. I don’t want to hear about Eldon Center. I
don’t want to have to think about people there talking about me, again.
I don’t want to be asked about my parents.
Then Mr. Olsen spoke. I could see it cost him something to do so. It
wasn’t his way to butt into a conversation, the domain of his wife.
“Can you—can you do a trick?”
He smiled, or at least the corners of his mouth turned up in what was a
smile if you knew to look for it. I saw a friendly face I had
forgotten. A man in a white apron bringing out samples of freshly made
chocolate. ‘Just one, each’ he’d say. But then he’d find a reason to
leave the tray so we could gorge ourselves. Why had I expected him to
judge me after all this time? Eldon Center suddenly seemed so far
away, a place where once a teenage girl got pregnant and gave a baby up
for adoption. Sad things had happened there, but it had been a long
time ago.
“Now, leave this poor girl be,” Mrs. Olsen said. “Here she is trying
to have some fun and you want to get her to work. We’ll see plenty of
tricks at her show.”
“No, it’s okay,” I said. “Do you have a quarter?” I asked Mr. Olsen.
He fumbled through his pockets and pulled out a shiny quarter. The
lights of the casino reflected off the coin. Around us, slot machines
hummed. I stepped toward Mr. Olsen and took his quarter in my hand.
“See this coin,” I said loudly, putting on my stage voice. I lifted my
hand into the air and drew my fingers into a fist. Then I wound up and
threw the quarter over their heads. Only now the coin was gone. A
burst of purple smoke appeared and sparkling confetti fell from the
cloud.
The Olsens gasped. Silver and gold glitter floated down into their
hair. As if on cue, they began to clap. People around us stared. For
a few seconds, the slots seemed to quiet.
I tapped the breast pocket of the t-shirt where Mr. Olsen's quarter now was.
He pulled the coin out of his pocket and stared at it.
“How’d you do that? How’d you get the quarter in there?” This was more than I had ever heard Mr. Olsen say at one time.
“It’s magic,” I said breathlessly, allowing myself a smile, “and I’m The Amazing Eve.”
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