A dim, neon sign hangs above the
foggy pane of the window, draped in a shroud of condensation, masking the
interior. Cars are parked haphazardly in a crumbling lot before an old,
weathered dry cleaner’s. All is dark. All is quiet.
Inside, however, is a different
story. A low buzz is barely audible from the flickering lights dangling from
the ceiling. The worn carpet could be eighty years old; its fabric, tattered
and torn, holds the dirt and dust of the ages. The room is small and claustrophobic,
lined with comics from years long passed and books filled with tales of
sweeping fantasy, some mesmerizing, some decent, some terrible, all together on
disordered shelves. A glass counter holds the platonic solid shapes of dice of
every shade, color, and hue, their vibrancy mingling in small, assorted piles,
the more expensive residing in special plastic boxes a if they were rare gems.
Then there are the cards, each with
a special name, a special illustration, and a special purpose. They are
coveted, priceless commodities. They lie beneath the clouded, glass countertop
like rare jewels in a gallery. They are prized and beloved, representing not
just a game, but an addictive escape from reality, a transcendence into another
world, the world of Magic, and the people come here to this tiny store
forgotten by so many to play.
These people sit about long tables,
eye-to-eye with their opponent, ready to plunge into this alternative reality.
Their skin is pallid, sallow, as if the sun has never graced their bodies, as
if they have never seen the periwinkle blue of the skies. Their corporeal forms
hunker down in chairs distressed and almost screaming from the weight and age
they bare, the cheap cushions threadbare and tired. The acrid scent of sweat
invades the air.
There are noticeably less women than
men, shockingly so, but, at the same time, expected. Most are college students,
giving up parties and society for this other, hidden world, this game called
Magic. It is mesmerizing that there are as many of them as there are. The store
is crowded, packed even, with bodies, tables, and chairs. There is no space to
walk, to breath. There is only magic.
Utter silence, save for only one
sound. This is the sound of shuffling, of cards crinkling, folding, slapping against
one another, and sliding across the rough, plastic surfaces of the tables. On
these tables are many versions of the same scene: one small deck of cards, face
down, unknown to the player, and small rows of cards face up, turned in
different directions, guns cocked and ready to fire.
The eyes in the room are only for
the cards, nothing else. Brows are furrowed in total and complete
concentration. Their focus is steel, unbendable and unbreakable, armor not only
against the opponents, but against the outside world. The store is a sanctuary,
a place frozen in time and untouched by reality. It is a place of refuge for
those of the game. And the game consumes. Those who play are transformed, never
to be the same, their minds riddled with thoughts of cards, booster packs,
paper spells, and strategies. They skip meals to buy more cards, hoarding them
up, storing them in delicate plastic sleeves tucked in binders, card
protectors, and boxes stuffed full. There are never enough cards, combinations,
or wins. There is never enough Magic. And their faces say it all.
The intensity of the room is almost
tangible. The veil of seriousness that has descended appears, to an onlooker,
almost comical. But there is also an innocence. These are people who have never
lost the gift of imagination, who have locked it away, preserved it, and live
in it. There is subtle beauty about it, an undeniable simplicity that must be
admired, even envied. Humans are too quick to grow up and lose their childish
spirit and its ability to appreciate the small things. Some would say that the
people huddled over their cards, fretting over their next move, never grew up,
but this is not so. They did grow up, but in a different way. And who is to say
they are living their life in a less meaningful way than anyone else buried
under a desk stacked with papers behind the glowing screen of a computer like a
slave, while the people playing Magic are free?
