The Love & Squalor Social Club

A Little Pre-Party Homework

Because nothing says “party” like assigned reading.

We wanted to give our guests a copy of the first story, “The Illusionist,” before the party, so everyone can arrive prepared, opinionated, and ready to discuss Greg’s extremely normal decision to live in a glass cube at the mall.

Read it. Judge freely. Come ready to talk.

For private book-club use.

Greg was tapped out. He’d tried. He thought he could muster a second wind, some energy—any energy—but it was looking like a Nah, kid. He didn't have it in him, nothing left in the tank. He was going to quit, break his word, go back on all his boasts and promises. Oh, God. How fucking embarrassing.

There were going to be repercussions if he quit. He could picture them so easily: Linda would be upset. She’d scream.

“I told you so!”

His kids would be disappointed.

“Whatever.” “Lame.”

His friends would laugh behind his back.

“What the hell was that idiot thinking?”

Roy, his brother, would be the worst, because Roy would try to make him feel better about it.

“Dude, you tried. That's all that matters.”

But that wasn't all that mattered. All that mattered was that Greg finish what he started. If he couldn't stay inside this glass box suspended by a crane in the middle of the mall for a full month like he’d advertised, then the stunt was a fail. Worse, it would mean that Greg wasn’t the gifted magician he'd told everyone he was.

He was no fucking Harry Houdini or even Lorenzo the Laotian, and he hated Lorenzo the Laotian. He thought Lorenzo the Laotian was a total hack. Lorenzo did basic escape techniques but dressed goth and acted like he was a magic devil or something. Shot lasers from his fingers. Flashy and dumb. That's why Greg chose to do a simple, basic escape trick like surviving through something that seems, to the common man, utterly impossible.

He had underestimated the leg cramping, for sure. He didn’t love the half-assed patchy beard growing on his face. The food program was also not working; he was shitting and pissing more than he wanted. He had to pull out the black sheet and cover the glass walls of the box so the shoppers in the mall below didn’t see him take a shit or catch a glimpse of his dick. Then, of course, there was the lowering of the shit-and-piss bucket on a rope to remove his waste from the suspended cube. His brother Roy was tasked with the removal of the bucket’s contents. Roy had balked at the idea of handling Greg's honey bucket but agreed to do it once Greg said he would pay him. Roy appreciated the value of a dollar. He always had. Greg naturally hated thinking about money. Greg was more of a dreamer.

The Illusionist

When the idea first took hold in his brain, Greg felt it only right to tell his family before anyone else. Even though Linda and Greg were in the process of getting a divorce, they were technically still a family, so for now Greg would grant her the privilege of being one of the first to know about his exciting next chapter.

Greg sat before Linda and his two children, Max and Shanna, in the kitchen of the home where he used to live with them. Max was twelve, with a soft tire of kid fat around his waist. Shanna was eight, her glasses thick with fingerprint smudges on both lenses. Linda was obviously coming straight from the beautician’s, with her freshly cut bob or whatever the hell it was called—her new divorce haircut with weird highlights and sharp edges.

“You're going to do what? You're going to live in the mall?”

She was unimpressed. Angry, even.

“Well, the box I will place myself in will be suspended in the middle of the mall. I won't be, like, living in the mall. I'll be inside the box. A glass cube roughly the size of a refrigerator, big enough for me to sit up in or lie down in. The cube is hanging from a crane. So I'm not even touching the floor of the mall. I'll be, like, floating in the mall is the more appropriate way to word it.”

“Floating in the mall. For a month? Why?”

“Because I'm gonna be a famous magician, Linda.”

“How is what you're doing considered magic? You just sit in there for a month? Anyone can do that! That's not even magic.”

“Well, that’s your opinion, and you're wrong, too. So, how embarrassing for you. But to a lot of people, what I’m doing would be considered impressive.”

“And what exactly are you doing?”

“I'm going to survive, Linda. Against all odds, I'm going to do the impossible. And I'm doing it for the world to see. Thirty days. On full display for every single person that walks into Northwoods Mall. They'll be able to watch and behold. Maybe even be inspired. You never know.”

“How will you eat?” asked his son.

“Good question, Max,” said Linda. “Bet you didn’t think about that, Greg. What are you gonna do about eating, Greg? You just gonna starve yourself in front of everyone too?”

“It is a good question, Max. Your mom is trying to weaponize and frame the question against me, but I'll ignore her and answer your inquiry. Your curiosity is appreciated, my son. There will be limited food and water.”

“So you'll have food? How's that magic, then?” asked Linda.

“Limited amounts of food does not suddenly make it not magic, Linda. God, you sure as hell don’t know anything about magic, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, roll your eyes and be dismissive all you want. I'm doing it. Thirty days. I'll show you.”

14 days in

Friday evening and the mall was packed with shoppers. Inside the glass box, Greg was trying to sleep, but he couldn't. The ache in his lower back was brutal. He pretended to sleep because he didn’t want to make eye contact with any shoppers below. There was a fashion show or something down near the Candle Emporium. Seemed like there was a decent turnout.

Just as Greg had envisioned, the glass cube was suspended in midair with the use of a spider crane in the center of the mall—the same area where they staged Santa's Workshop at Christmas. A prime location.

Greg was a little disappointed in the amount of attention he was getting. Some people literally walked past without even looking. Some people stopped and watched him, and more would, he was sure.

A young boy waiting for his mom outside of Casual Carol's stared right at Greg, who watched the boy try to unpack what he was seeing. Greg knew that the boy was probably wondering: How is he doing this? This is UNREAL. Suspended in a box with barely any food and water?

Greg, understanding that in that moment it was his job to keep the illusion going, to floor this little motherfucker, ignored his back pain. He tried to make his eyes kind of spooky by not blinking, like he was in some heightened escape-artist-magician mind trance. The boy cocked his head. It's working, Greg thought as he slowly waved at the boy with the tips of his fingers. This appeared to startle the boy, who quickly ran off to catch up with his mom. He tugged on her jacket and pointed to the floating cube, but his mom didn’t look and pulled him away. The boy looked over his shoulder at Greg one last time. Got him, thought Greg. Blew his little fucking mind. This is what it’s all about.

—

A few weeks earlier, Greg and his friends, Chip, Deon, and Wheeler, were cruising through the marsh on a Carolina Skiff. It was Wheeler's boat, so he sat behind the wheel, drinking a beer and playing music on his phone, his tan belly hanging over his bathing suit. Chip lathered zinc across the bridge of his nose, just under his reflective Oakleys. Deon fiddled with a tangled lure. Greg smiled as the sunshine and marsh air washed over him. It was time.

“So, I got something I need to confess to you boys. A change that I am about to go through.”

“Oh, cool, I was wondering when somebody I knew was gonna do this. A bunch of kids in my daughter's school have. But nobody I personally know,” said Wheeler.

“What? No, Wheeler, that’s not what this is. I'm not changing that way. It's something different.”

“You and Linda getting back together?” asked Deon.

“No. We're still divorced. We'll never be married again. That's not the big news.”

“You're moving to another state or something?” Chip wiped his greasy, suntan-lotioned hands on his swim trunks.

“No, I'm not moving. My kids still live here. I'm not just gonna move away. Jesus. Just...I'm not really looking for you guys to guess what it is. I'm trying to tell you what it is. It’s not a guessing conversation.”

“You have some kind of terminal sickness?” asked Wheeler.

“No. I'm not dying. Stop guessing! I’m going to go for it. Finally make the leap to be a full-time magician.”

Deon, Chip, and Wheeler were entirely quiet.

“That's the thing I was going to tell you. The magician thing. That's what you all were trying to guess at.”

“Got it,” said Wheeler.

“You know I've had a rough year. Going full magician seems like it could be the answer. Magic has always been a passion of mine, as you know.”

“I've never heard you talk about magic before,” said Deon.

“Well, you've probably never heard me talking about breathing either, but that doesn’t mean I don't do it, Deon.”

“Is magic even a full-time job?” asked Chip.

“If you're good, yes, of course it is. Some people even make a lucrative career of it. Ever heard of David Copperfield?”

“Yeah, but he’s like the only famous magician I can even name, and he's been around forever.”

“There's also the one guy that’s in the Pussy Posse with Leonardo DiCaprio. David Blaine. And the tiger ones, Siegfried and Roy,” said Deon.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about them,” said Chip.

“Oh, and there's that demon guy, Lorenzo the Laotian. He does magic too. He's also kinda famous.”

“Yes, I have heard of Lorenzo the Laotian. Not a fan, but I understand he has his fan base,” said Greg.

“So, a handful of magical guys? And you're just getting started now, in your forties? Do you know how long it probably took those guys to make it big doing magic? Probably a long time. And there's still only like two of them.”

“Well, you can't be intimidated by the length of the race or the odds of winning, Wheeler. I've always known that I had a gift when it comes to performing magic, and I squandered that gift, if you want the truth. I met Linda, had kids, and let a lot of stuff that was important to me go by the wayside. Magic most definitely being one of them.”

“So, what are you going to do? Like try to perform at kids’ birthdays?”

“No, I won't be doing kids’ fucking birthday parties. Jesus. I'm doing real magician stuff. Things of spectacle and scope. Remember when Copperfield made the Statue of Liberty disappear? Stuff like that. Stuff that gets everybody's attention.”

“You gonna make something big disappear?”

“No, not that, he already did that. Magic isn’t always disappearing things. It’s the art of making people believe the impossible. Doesn't always have to be making things disappear. Like I was thinking about doing something I like to think is Houdini-esque. I'm going to try and survive the impossible.”

“Really?”

“Like jump out of a burning car?” asked Deon.

“No, Deon. This part isn’t a guessing part either. I'm just telling you.”

“Sorry.”

“I'm going to survive for a month in a glass cube suspended in the middle of the shopping mall for all to see.”

Deon, Chip, and Wheeler were entirely quiet.

“For a month. An entire month.” Greg sat back proudly, in a “take that” fashion.

“With no food and water?”

“No. I'll have food and water.”

“Oh.”

“The food and water part doesn't matter. Nobody will care. It’s still crazy, what I'm gonna do. It’s the triumph of the human spirit. Man facing the impossible. I think it’s gonna blow minds.”

“Ah fuck, I think I got some zinc in my eye, shit,” said Chip.

The lights in the mall shut off. The mall was closed, and the Friday night shoppers had left. Greg felt relieved. No more pressure to put on the act. He could conserve that bit of energy for now and focus on finding a position that wouldn't give him any more cramps or backaches.

Earlier in the day he felt a tiny tinge of claustrophobia when he had the urge to stand up inside the cube. But he’d pushed through it. He could never allow himself to be claustrophobic. Can't be afraid of tight spaces if you were going to do what Greg was trying to do.

Hell, after the mall act, he was thinking about doing something with handcuffs and maybe some kind of fire element. Or maybe it could be a water thing where he’s submerged and must get out. Or he’s submerged and he must stay in. The act would revolve around Greg holding his breath for what seemed like an impossible amount of time. That would be no problem—he had read about tribes of men in some remote jungle that could train their bodies to only take a breath every forty-five minutes. He would find out who this tribe was and maybe he would go live with them for a bit, soak up their ancient breathing wisdoms. He'd have to arrange it for a time when Linda had the kids. But that shouldn't be that hard. There might be a little bit of a language barrier, but his phone could probably understand them.

Greg was only getting the kids for a weekend a month. He could see them more than that, but they would only be staying with him at his home, once he found one, for one weekend every month. He wanted more time with them, but it didn’t seem like the kids really wanted much more than the weekend. Linda would have been happy to take his one weekend away, which was fucked up. He loved his kids. He thought about them, imagined they were probably sleeping comfortably in their beds. He hoped they were. Greg shifted, trying to find a moment of comfort. And then Greg fell asleep.

—

Greg woke with a startle, out of breath. He looked around and panicked for a moment until he remembered where he was. Inside the glass box. In the mall. It was the middle of the night and the mall was empty and dark.

It was spooky, he'd admit it. No one around. The only thing that made him feel better was that he was suspended in the air. Nobody could just walk up and fuck with him. He was out of reach thanks to the crane. He'd had to rent the spider crane. His brother gave him a deal on it, but still, it wasn't for free.

All together Greg was probably twenty-seven thousand dollars in the hole on this whole stunt. Fabricating the glass box. Renting the fucking crane. The rental agreement for the mall. They'd really fucked him on that deal. Greg had argued that he was doing the mall a favor— everybody knew malls were on the way out because of online shopping, and here was Greg bringing the mall something that might actually make people want to come. A free attraction for all ages. It was ridiculous they expected him to pay to do his act here. If anything, they should pay him. But still, he ended up paying them.

But that was fine, he’d reasoned with himself after signing the agreement with the mall people. Greg knew when you were a freelancer, doesn’t matter what your field, actor, animal trainer, magician—to make money sometimes you gotta spend money. A dude that wants to be a famous actor might replace his teeth or hire a personal trainer to get ripped. That's money going out the door. But the hope is that with great teeth and awesome muscles comes more gigs, more money. That's how Greg needed to look at this every time he got a little nervous about putting all his eggs in this basket. Teeth and muscles.

And he really was all in. Putting himself out there in a big way. For all to see. All or nothing. God, if Linda knew how much money he had sunk into this...had he backed himself into a corner? He could admit that it had started because of Linda. Sure, at the start it was to show her what he could do, what she was going to be missing out on. But then as he really started putting his all into it, planning, perfecting, it became something more. He remembered being over at his brother Roy’s house when he showed his kids the finished glass cube for the first time. The look on their faces.

“Dad, are you for real going to spend a month in there?”

They were blown the fuck away.

“Yeah, I am going to stay in there for a month. Pretty cool, isn’t it?”

Roy wasn't so sure. “I'll believe it when I see it,” he said. “I'd be surprised if you lasted in there a day. I couldn't do it. All squished up in there like a pretzel, hardly any room to move or stretch. No sir, I couldn't do it.”

“I know you couldn't do it, Roy. Hardly anybody could. That's why it’s a mountain that only I must climb.”

“You're going to climb a mountain too?” asked Shanna.

“No, Shanna, little one. It’s a figure of speech. I’m just doing the cube. The hanging cube in the mall. That's the mountain. The cube is.”

“Are you going to eat while you're in there?”

“Of course, Roy.”

“Drink water?”

“Goddammit, Roy. Yes, of course I'm going to eat and drink. I'm not trying to kill myself, do you think I'm stupid? Think about something before you say it. People must eat and drink to stay alive. That's not the part of the human survival thing we're challenging with this escape performance. It’s all about mastering yourself. Willing yourself to endure something that others could not.”

“Well, like I said, I'll believe it when I see it.”

“You will see it. All of you will see it.”

Back in the cube, Greg adjusted his position, stretching his legs to one side, and the movement sent the cube into a gentle sway. He looked at the red carpet directly below him. In white cursive letters: Greg the Illusionist. Seeing his name written large gave him a feeling of comfort. It reminded him what it was all about. Showing the world what he could do.

Greg had interviewed a few candidates before hiring an event coordinator named Melissa to organize and promote the spectacle. She was local. Twenty-four years old and usually did weddings and corporate events. He could have searched a big city for somebody with some real credits under their belt, but it felt better to keep it local. This event could launch Melissa's career if she pulled it off.

Melissa was hired not only to handle the promotion of Greg's feat but also to decorate the staging area where the cube would float for all thirty days. She was also in charge of putting together the opening ceremony to commemorate the moment Greg sealed himself away in the cube. Likewise, she would coordinate the closing ceremony, celebrating Greg's eventual exit.

Back on the first day, Greg had arrived at the mall early to loosen up, to see the cube and the space. He had taken a few laps around the mall to get into the proper headspace. From a distance he watched Melissa and her crew decorate the staging area. They unfolded a large banner:

Greg the Illusionist Attempts the Impossible. The Cube in the Mall. Will

He Survive?

She had also hung some posters that she designed for the stunt. Some were dramatic photos of the cube, some were photos of Greg concentrating, and a few were just stock photos showing an eclipse of the sun. She'd actually done a good job as far as ad campaigns went. He wasn't sure what a solar eclipse had to do with his escape, but it did set a mystical tone.

Despite the professional-looking decorations and the posters around town, hardly anybody showed up for the opening ceremony. Greg had asked Linda to bring the kids, but she was a no-show. His friends and Roy showed up, but his friends didn’t stay very long. They were more concerned with eating in the food court than wishing Greg good luck. Greg said a few words to the random shoppers that stopped to see what was going on.

“A lot of you probably can't believe I'm doing this. But over the next thirty days, I invite you to believe in the impossible. Please come and watch whenever you want. During mall operating hours, of course. I'll be right here.”

After a smattering of scattered applause, Greg sealed himself in the cube and gave Roy the thumbs-up. Roy hit a lever on the crane and the cube slowly lifted to its final resting position in midair, twenty feet above the tiled mall floor, above his name on the red carpet below. In hindsight, Greg regretted that he hadn't lined up music to accompany his ascent. It would have given the moment a little more drama. Damn. Next time.

Now, in the middle of the night on day fourteen, it was completely silent in the mall. Shadows stretched in all directions. The store signs had gone dark. Greg blew condensation against the glass and drew two tits and a dick with his finger.

A light bounced through the reflection.

Greg straightened up.

A flashlight cut down the south corridor of the mall where a church had taken over the old movie theater. The bouncing light moved toward the atrium of the mall.

Toward him. Fast.

Greg watched the light approaching. One flashlight. He couldn't tell who was using it. Dark figures? No, the dark blob was a person. A big person. Greg remained perfectly still. Maybe they wouldn't notice him.

The beam of light was aimed straight for him, harshly illuminating the interior of the cube. Greg was completely exposed, his vision blinded by the light. He sat there helpless. Shit, who was this? A robber? A bandit of some sort? In the mall in the middle of the night?

“Greg! Greg! It’s me!”

Greg knew the voice. It was Marlon.

Marlon worked night security at the mall. Greg met him on his first night in the cube, just after closing. Marlon had been locking up when he noticed Greg's posters. He stopped to check them out, yelling up to Greg, who sat silently in the cube.

“Is that you in these posters and pictures?” Marlon had asked.

“Uh, yes. Greg the Illusionist.”

“‘Illusionist’? That's crazy. I've never met an illusionist. What do you do?”

“I do, like, illusions and magic and escape stuff. Just things that capture people's imagination and give them a sense of awe.”

“Sick. You gonna really stay in there for a month? You ain't gonna go home secretly after the mall closes and then come back before it opens and get back inside? You can tell me, I won't squeal.”

“Of course not.”

“You gonna eat food in there?”

“Yes. Not eating food is not part of the trick. I don’t mean to be rude, but I don't really have time to discuss all the ins and outs.”

Marlon looked around the empty mall.

“Why? You got appointments?” he said, chuckling.

“No. It’s just, what I'm doing requires an incredible amount of mental focus. Any sort of distraction can throw me off my game. My concentration is more important than anything.”

“I get it. You don’t have to talk now. I'm here every weeknight, so it won't be the last you see of me.”

“Again, because of my need for concentration, there’s a good chance I will never communicate with you even if I do see you.”

“Cool, cool. Then I'll keep my distance.”

“I'd appreciate that.”

“You scared to be sleeping in the mall by yourself?”

At the time Greg had thought that was a stupid question. But now, in the cube, exposed, and blinded by Marlon’s flashlight, he would admit... he was a little spooked.

“Marlon? Is that you?!”

“I know you said you didn’t want me bothering you. And I've stayed away.”

“Can you not aim the flashlight in my eyes?”

Marlon quickly aimed the light down.

“My bad, so sorry. How you doing in there?”

Greg adjusted to address Marlon, who was standing directly below him, right on the G of his name on the carpet.

“I'm okay. Counting tomorrow, I got sixteen days to go, and then I make my exit.”

“Sixteen days? Man, that seems like forever. Already seems like you've been in there forever. Crazy that it’s not even halfway yet until tomorrow.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“Yeah, of course. Right. Your concentration. That's my bad. I'm sorry. I just wanted to find you to tell you that I think somebody might be in the mall. I mean, besides me and you.”

“Somebody? Like who? Like a maintenance person or something?”

“Nah, they don’t come in till morning. Nobody is supposed to be in here right now. Just me and because you're in the cube...you. I saw on the monitors somebody walking down the corridor by Reginald’s Sporting Goods.”

Greg looked to the distant end of the mall, which was dark and ominous.

“Reginald’s? Okay, so did you go check it out?”

“I did. Couldn't find nothing. Which is weird. Because all the stores down that corridor are gated up. Bathroom doors are locked. I don't know where the person could have gone.”

“Well, you saw him on the cameras. Can't you just review the footage and see where he went?”

“Yeah, I tried that too. But that’s what's weird. On the cameras you can see the man walk down the corridor and then enter the photo booth kiosk right by the cellphone case kiosk. He opens the little curtain that lets people into the photo booth, goes inside, and shuts the curtain.”

“And?”

“And he never comes out. Like, I fast-forwarded and everything. So, I walked down that way. I come to the photo booth. I open the curtain... and dude is gone.”

“Well, he probably left when you were walking there.”

“I went back and watched the footage again. He never came out of the booth.”

“Well, that's impossible.”

“I'm just telling you what I saw.”

“So, this intruder is just roaming the mall?”

“I guess?”

“You guess? Come on, man. I’m stuck up here in this cube. I’m trying so hard not to get in my head, I don’t have the bandwidth to be worried about who is in this mall with me.”

“I know. It is kind of creepy, isn’t it? Like, who the hell is that? Who can just vanish into thin air like that?”

“It’s an illusion. Nobody vanished into thin air. What I’m more concerned with is why are they here?”

“Yeah, like is he a killer or something? Damn. You sure you want to stay up in there all by yourself?”

“What can anyone do to me way up here?”

“Well, I mean if they have a gun, they could easily shoot you in the head from down below. Or blow the glass out, and you'd drop to the ground twenty feet. That could kill you, especially if the shattered glass cuts an artery. Or you could break your back in the fall, and the intruder could just stand above you and do whatever he wanted.”

“Thanks a lot for all of that. I don’t want to be thinking about any of that while I'm stuck up here, come on.”

“You could just come down. I won't tell nobody.”

“No, I can’t do that. I can’t. Just, maybe you keep guard here for a while. Stay right below me. I can watch from up above here and let you know if I see anyone.”

“I can hang out here for a few minutes, but I usually gotta keep on the move during these night shifts or I get sleepy.”

Marlon hung around for a bit and then left to get a coffee. He said he would be back in ten minutes. But thirty minutes passed and still no Marlon. Then two hours, no sign of him. Greg’s eyes scanned the darkness for any signs of movement. Should he be worried? Probably not. Most likely Marlon was just mistaken about what he saw on that video. It was probably being blown out of proportion. Greg felt silly for getting all worked up about it. It was nothing. But where the fuck was Marlon?

15 days in

Morning came slowly, and Marlon never returned. The elderly walking group moved at a brisk pace below him, which Greg knew meant that it was 7 A.M. So weird, he thought, to just want to walk around the mall. Getting old must really make you want to do strange shit, stuff that would never have even crossed your mind when you were younger. Sure, kids walk around the mall, but that’s to hang out or hit a store. Not just for some kind of exercise. Why don't they just walk outside, it’s nice out. Strange.

What the fuck happened to Marlon last night?

After the stores opened, Melissa showed up with some fresh posters and balloons. The new posters read Halfway There!

“This is really great, Melissa.”

“Are you sure? You don’t seem impressed. I'm just following the outline you laid out. ‘Day 15: change out signage to reflect I am Halfway There. Spruce up decorations and get people's attention.’ I was just following your directions.”

“I know what I wrote, Melissa. I know every inch of this plan. I must. I'm not unimpressed, I promise. If there was one thing I'd give a note on...I wish you had gotten maybe silver balloons. The colorful balloons make it seem like this is maybe a bit clownish or gives a kids’ birthday party vibe. Silver or black balloons might have gone with the concept of the sleek cube better. But even that I don't really care about. I’m just a little distracted this morning.”

“Well, you better get focus. You have your interview this morning.”

“You got the news to show up?”

“I tried. They weren't interested. But I did get someone from the local college paper.”

“The local college? The community college?”

“The technical school.”

“And they have a newspaper?”

“Yep, and Marsha writes for them. She covers local events. She'll be doing the interview.”

“And you're sure you pitched this to the news the right way? I can’t understand why they wouldn’t want to cover my story. I'm doing the impossible right in their fucking backyard. A man is literally sitting in a cube suspended in the middle of the mall and they don't care at all? Not of interest to their viewers?”

“I guess not. And I tried the local radio station.”

“Good thinking. And what did they say?”

“They wanted to know how you would survive without food or water. When I explained to them that you would still be getting food and water, they weren't interested.”

“What is with people’s fucking fascination with someone starving themselves? That's not magic, okay? That's some sick obsession people have these days.”

“Well, I gotta split. I hope you really do like what I've done. Marsha from the paper will be here around lunch.”

“You're not going to stay and help make the introductions?”

“I got a busy week. Two weddings next weekend. But I'll be by tomorrow to swap the Halfway There! signs to general countdown signs.”

“Have you found a DJ yet?”

“DJ Cabana Vibez is who I use for most weddings. Should I see if he can do it?”

“Does he have a good voice? A good voice is almost more important to me than a playlist. I want to make sure his voice is deep enough to capture people's imaginations. You know, build the anticipation of the climax of my final escape.”

“I mean, I guess his voice is kind of deep.”

“Can you bring him by here so I can hear his voice? I'll be goddamned if I'm going to sit in this box for a month and have some DJ dummy with a fucked-up voice ruin it all.”

“I'll see if he can come by.”

“I appreciate that. Was there anything going on in the mall when you came in? Any commotion in the parking lot? Ambulances or cop cars or anything?”

“Not that I saw.”

“No, like, dead security guard strung up somewhere?”

“God, no!” she said, laughing. “Try to get some sleep.”

But Greg couldn't sleep. Everyone in the mall today just seemed loud, and he felt like he could hear every conversation everyone was having, their voices echoing off the insides of the cube. Bouncing around in his head. Every mundane, boring sentence uttered. He imagined screaming so loud that his voice shattered the cube and shards of glass exploded through the mall. Then: his body drops as the glass breaks underneath him, and just as he’s about to hit the floor, he levitates and floats. No one can believe their eyes. That would be so cool.

The interview with Marsha lasted ten minutes.

“So, Greg the Illusions, how I—”

“‘Illusionist.’ Not ‘Illusions.’”

“Oh, right. Okay. So, uh, how long have you been doing cubes and magical stuff?”

It was total bullshit. It wouldn’t even run in the paper until the next issue, which came out in three weeks, and he'd be done by then. This article would generate jack shit. A complete waste of time and precious energy.

He wondered what had happened to Marlon. Did he just forget to come back?

When Roy stopped by to swap out his waste bucket, he planned on telling him about Marlon and asking him what he thought. But then Greg caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the cube—wild hair, patchy beard, bloodshot eyes, dark circles. Roy would think he'd lost his fucking mind. And what was he expecting from Roy, anyway? Roy wouldn't have any answers. He never did.

Roy, wearing a KN95 mask and medical gloves, unhooked the sealed bucket that Greg lowered from the cube on a line. He swapped it with a fresh bucket and sent the new bucket back up the line. Greg reached through the small open hatch in the cube and accepted the fresh bucket. The new bucket was the most exciting part of his day now. A couple on a date watched the exchange curiously. Roy noticed them and gave them a friendly wave. They quickly looked away, as it dawned on them that he was holding a bucket of shit.

“Still having fun up there?” asked Roy.

“It's not supposed to be fun, Roy. That ain’t the point.”

“Bite my head off, jeez. Just trying to make conversation. What's up your ass?”

“I'm paying you to remove that waste bucket, not do little stand-up comedy bits at me. This is just really difficult. I’m not sleeping. And, and... it’s just a lot, dude. I'm sorry if I'm not roses and sunshines.”

“I'm not trying to get into fights, dude. You don't have to be roses and nothing on my behalf. You need anything else? If not, I'm gonna split.”

Don't go! he wanted to say. I'm feeling a little spooked and could use your help. Please. Stay. But he couldn't say that. He had never been weak in front of his brother.

“I don't need shit,” he said. “I'm fine.”

“Cool. Then night-night, pudding.”

At closing, Greg looked up and down the mall from his perch for any sign of Marlon starting his shift. As the last of the retail workers locked up their gates, Greg noticed a security guard he hadn't seen before. He was tall and lean. Dark hair. Greg banged on the cube and waved to the new guard to get his attention. The new guard looked up at Greg and approached.

“You're that cube guy?”

“Greg the Illusionist. Are people referring to me as ‘the cube guy’? Is that happening in the outside world?”

“No, I haven't heard anyone refer to you. ‘Cube guy’ is just the way I think of you.”

“What happened to Marlon? Has he clocked in tonight?”

“He didn't show up for work. Actually, never clocked out last night either. Nobody has seen him. That's why they called me to come in.”

Greg felt his cheeks flush. His gut sank.

“Does anybody know what happened? Did something happen to him here in the mall?”

“I don't think so?”

“I saw Marlon last night. He was talking about seeing someone in the mall who wasn’t supposed to be here. He went to get a coffee and he never came back.”

“That's weird.”

“Yes, I was afraid to admit it, but I agree that it does seem rather odd. Maybe you should call your boss and put a few more men on duty tonight. I mean, until they know what happened? Hopefully Marlon is fine, and he just went home and slept for an entire day and hasn't picked up his phone when people are calling. Hopefully that’s what happened. But in case that it’s not, in case there is something more dangerous going on, the mall should be prepared.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think there’s a way to call in backup. Not for mall security. We just, like, work in shifts. Nobody is on call. I'm probably not going to even stay all night because I've got band practice. I'm just filling in for lockup.”

“And then you're leaving?”

“Yeah. I got band practice.”

The mall was empty again. The new dipshit security guard left hours ago. Greg's head was on a pivot. Back and forth, scanning the shadows below on high alert. His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the darkness, and he could see better than he remembered seeing last night. Maybe he was just paying better attention, or maybe his eyes were evolving, like how that fish had walked out of the water all those years ago.

When it came to hardcore escape tricks or tests of will, you had to push your body to do what others saw as impossible. You do this by having mastery over yourself. To control every little thing that your body is doing. Whether it’s regulating your breath, which would be used in a water escape; controlling your blood flow and internal temperature, which would be essential for any escapes involving frigid temperatures; or displacing pain by focusing on one tiny part of your body to accomplish something simple like coal walking, Greg’s mastery of his body was growing.

He thought about suing the mall. He was paying rent, so didn’t that mean the mall was kind of responsible for his well-being while inside the mall? The security guard for the night cannot just leave and go to fucking band practice. Band practice? What a joke. Like anybody in this town was going to go off and do something big with music. No fucking way. There was literally zero chance that band wasn't horrible. When you're young you really do think you can go anywhere, that you can achieve anything you want. Then adult life shows up and brings a shitload of responsibility that you never saw coming, never even signed up for. And the ideas you had, the dreams, the passions, most of it gets squat fucked by your obligations or maybe even the partner you chose. Had you really even chosen that partner? Or had it just kind of happened?

Growing up, Greg had put a lot of energy into doing magic. He performed at his church, and his card tricks were so good that some of the church members complained that it was inappropriate. They thought he was really tapping into some darkness. He'd always had a knack for it.

Once he got into high school, he went to a camp for kids that taught magic, but it was all bullshit. The magic teachers sucked and the other kids were idiots. None of them took it as seriously as he did. They were just there to fingerblast each other or because their parents dumped them there so they could go on a kid-free vacation. But Greg was there to learn. At the end of the week, when they had to perform for the entire camp, Greg knew his performance would blow the doors off the other kids. They were making sponge balls disappear from teacups. He was going to saw his fucking counselor in half.

His counselor, Heath, was a nice guy even though his magic was basicass. His self-proclaimed specialty was sleight-of-hand card tricks, but Greg could always see the hidden card behind Heath’s thumb. Greg remembered the look on Heath’s face when he asked if it would be alright if he performed a “sawing the assistant in half” trick for the performance.

“You know how to do that?”

“I believe so. I've read books. Practiced on some mannequins in my garage.”

“That's really advanced. It's going to be a lot more involved than the other kids. Most of them are doing card tricks and making the sponge ball disappear. I haven't even done something like that, sawing someone in half.”

“Exactly. That's why I want to do it.”

For the rest of that week, while the other kids were making out and furiously dry humping in canoes, Greg was working diligently. He built the box that Heath would lie in to be sawed in half. He painted the box yellow and red, and then down the middle he wrote his name in big bubble letters...Greg.

Greg studied his work. His name on its own looked funny, sad, insignificant. He needed something more. He stepped forward and added to his name...The Illusionist.

He remembered the feeling when he sawed the box in half. The kids in the crowd gasped. One actually yelped. None of them had seen any shit like that before. With a flourish of his hands, he separated the two halves of the box. The kids screamed as Heath's top half appeared to separate magically from his bottom half.

“Okay, Greg, now put me back together!” Heath was doing his part, but it was a little hammy. It didn’t matter. Greg knew he had his audience right where he wanted them.

“If you say so, Counselor Heath! Sim-sa-la-bim!” Greg slammed the two halves of the box back together. With a knock on the top, the sides of the box collapsed open to reveal Heath, once again whole.

All the kids were on their feet. Applauding, cheering. Greg knew for certain that his life was going to be amazing after that. He had done the impossible. In his glass cube, Greg could still remember how loud all the cheering was. It was the best feeling in the whole fucking world.

Back in the mall, it was deathly quiet. Greg shifted in the cube. He lay flat on his stomach and looked below, stretching his legs methodically. He looked at the red carpet Melissa had made for the staging area. Greg the Illusionist, written in cursive, was now dirty with some footprints.

Greg tried to imagine what it would be like when he finally left this cube. How many people would amass to watch him? What would his kids think? What would his friends think? Roy? Linda? He got excited when he tried to picture it through their eyes. The crane holding the cube would slowly begin to lower him. He would have music there this time, unlike his entrance. The DJ would hopefully be playing something like the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey. The entire mall would be watching, holding their breath in anticipation of his exit. A man who had attempted the impossible and survived.

The cube would touch down in the center of the mall where Santa's throne sat during Christmas. He had wanted to rig the cube so that the sides opened, so that he could just roll out for his exit. But Roy couldn't figure out how to do it and make it structurally sound. So, he went with the ends opening instead. What was dumb about that is Greg would now have to crawl out of the cube on his hands and knees. Not exactly the hero's exit he was hoping for, but it would have to do.

Greg pictured himself crawling out from the cube and then somersaulting and springing up onto his feet, fist raised in victory. The entire crowd cheering. Would he grab his kids and swoop them up into the adulation? Maybe that would be the moment? Yeah, he’d grab them both and hoist them up as the crowd cheered for him. Although he was picturing them as little kids, and now they were pretty big. He questioned whether he could still pick them both up. Max was a large twelve. Plus, he’d be so exhausted at that point. Okay, so no picking up the kids as the crowd cheered. He'd just hold their hands up in victory. Would they even appreciate it? They hadn't even come to see him once. What if they didn’t even come and he seemed like a dad who had no control over his kids? Jesus. Just as Greg was imagining the exit scenario without involving his children, he noticed someone quietly passing beneath him.

Greg froze. Did he really just see that? Yes he did. A man stood directly below him, but he couldn't see his features. Was it even a man? The figure stood before one of his signs. Were they reading it? Did they even see him? Greg remained perfectly still. Who the fuck was this? It didn’t llook like Marlon, or that other guard with the shitty band.

The figure walked to each of his signs and looked at them. Studying them, Greg imagined. Then he noticed the figure pull something out from his coat. A knife? The figure held the object up to the sign and began slashing. No. Not slashing. Scribbling? Oh, the figure was holding a marker. Greg watched as the figure graffitied the signs that he had spent good money on. Greg banged on the cube, cursing. The figure looked up, and the moonlight coming in from the skylights revealed that the figure was wearing a mask. All white. Only the eyes were showing, but Greg could tell it was a man. He was also wearing what looked to be a cape? A cloak? The masked man stepped forward and looked up at Greg in the cube.

Jesus, what was Greg thinking. He was a sitting duck up here. He should have just let the fucker draw on the posters and not made any commotion. They were the Halfway There! posters, so Melissa was going to swap them out tomorrow anyway. But now he'd revealed himself, the cardinal sin for any magician. The masked man stared at Greg.

“What do you think you're doing?!” yelled Greg.

But the man didn’t respond. He just tilted his head, studying Greg the way a dog does. Then, with a flourish of his hands, he pulled a canister out from his cloak and quickly set to work spray-painting over Greg's name on the red custom carpet. Greg, helpless, watched, banging on the cube walls. The cube began to sway on the crane. Shit! I better stop banging, he thought. I don’t need this thing swinging. As the cube slowed its pendulum swing, the man finished his spray-painting and, with another flourish of his hands, stepped behind the mall map kiosk.

Greg stared at the kiosk, waiting for the man to step out from behind it and reveal himself, but he never did. The man had simply disappeared. Greg looked down at the carpet below and read the message that the man had spray-painted over his name: Solomon.

16 days in

It wasn't until lunch that Melissa finally got to the mall. She swapped out the vandalized posters and replaced them with updated countdown posters. It turned out the vandalizer had put Xs over Greg's eyes in all of the signage. It looked like the drawing the man was working on when Greg had started banging the glass and cursing was going to be a penis going into Greg’s open eye, but he had only finished the sack and the top part of the mushroom tip. Greg watched as the college guys that Melissa brought to help rolled up the red carpet with the word Solomon spray-painted on it.

Melissa talked with Greg on the walkie-talkie he had instructed her to bring. He had her purchase them for herself, Roy, and his friends. He didn’t want to waste any more energy yelling down to them through the cube. Communicating like that was wiping him out, and at this point he needed to preserve his energy as best he could. He had Melissa email Linda to see if she wanted one too, but she hadn't responded. Figured.

“Who's Solomon?” asked Melissa.

Greg looked at his walkie, pressed the Talk button while holding it to his mouth, and whispered, “I have no fucking clue. But I'm going to find out who it is and he is going to pay. I spent a lot of money on these promotional materials, and I'll be goddamned if some punk-ass is going to come in here and desecrate my purchases. These are business expenses. This is serious. I bet I could put him in jail. I should sue the mall for their lax security.”

“Yeah, I don't really know how laws and that kind of stuff work. Does seem strange that somebody would care enough to come in here and mess with you. Especially after the mall is closed.”

“Well, we don’t know he was in here solely to fuck with me. He could have been some stoned teenager that was in here to do stealings and just so happened to mess with my stuff. Like a vandalism of convenience.”

“Well, it didn’t look like there was anything else messed with in the mall. Seems like it’s just your area.”

“You're saying I was targeted?”

“Seems like it to me.”

The mall was hopping today. Greg couldn't get out of his head. He knew Melissa was right, that the man had been here for him. Greg was being targeted. Solomon. Who the hell was that? Greg thought about how the man flourished his hands. It was really impressive, to be honest, something Greg had seen other magicians do onstage. A command of the viewer's eye. A final look over here before the trick is revealed. And Greg couldn't forget that the man then literally disappeared in front of his very eyes. It was super impressive, he had to admit.

Didn't Marlon say the man he saw disappeared as well? Stepped into the photo booth and then was gone?

A kid walking with his mother below waved at Greg. Greg rolled his eyes and turned the other way to ignore him. Could it be? Could Solomon be another magician? Greg's walkie squawked to life.

“Greg. Are you awake in there?”

Greg picked up the walkie and looked down to find Chip, Deon, and Wheeler seated below the cube, drinking smoothies from the Banana Bros kiosk. Greg told them what had happened the night before.

Chip spoke into the walkie: “And you think he’s a magician?”

“That's the running theory, based on some specific mannerisms I witnessed. And certain abilities he seems to possess.”

Deon took the walkie from Chip. “And you want us to wait around tonight and see if he comes back?”

“Look, I've invested heavily in this event, and I can't let some jealous possible magician rival try to ruin it. This dumb fucking mall isn’t going to do shit about it. Do you know what the manager said when I told her this morning? She said that I got off lucky, that sometimes people break in and steal stuff or take a dump for no reason at all in the middle of the store. She made it out like a man breaking into the mall to single me out, a paying tenant of this mall no less, was no big deal. I should just be grateful that he didn’t throw his own shit at my cube like a howler monkey. So now I'm supposed to just let it all go? No way. If you guys stay watch, I bet he won't show back up.”

“And what if he does? What are we supposed to do?”

“Just tell him to piss off. Stop him. I would do it but I'm in a fucking cube suspended in midair.”

“Like are you thinking lethal force?” asked Chip.

“I'm not doing that,” said Wheeler.

“Yeah, I can’t kill someone.”

“No one said ‘kill,, Deon. Stop saying stuff that no one is saying. I said

‘stop him’ is all. Deter him from doing any more bad stuff to my signs or area. There's three of you. One of him. He’s going to listen.”

—

As the crowd hustled below, Greg thought about the name Solomon. Did he know a Solomon? He didn’t think so. It was a good name, a strong name, an Old Testament name. Solomon. Definitely more impressive than Greg, he supposed. Seemed more ancient. Making people think that you're connected to ancient stuff is helpful when you're a magician. It makes it easier for people to believe that you might have secret knowledge from olden days.

Did he need to disclose to his friends that Marlon the security guard still hadn’t been seen? Probably not. Greg didn’t know if the two things were really connected anyway. Marlon could be sick at home, for all he knew. It was his own imagination that was connecting Marlon trying to stop Solomon from being in the mall and then something bad happening to Marlon. His friends would be fine. There were three of them. And...well, he was sure they would be fine.

An hour before closing, the mall was already pretty quiet. The janitors were buffing the floors beneath him. Roy stood down below changing out the mess bucket. He sent a fresh one up. Greg accepted it right as his walkie crackled into life.

“There you go, boy. A fresh bucket to shit in.”

“I have something I want to tell you,” said Greg.

“Me too. I got something I want to tell you as well. I spoke to Linda.”

“What? Why?”

“She was calling me to check on you. Said she’s worried about you.”

“Well, she knows where I am. She can come express those illogical thoughts to my face. Why does she even care? She's a dummy. And how dare you come down here on her behest. You’re my brother, Roy. Not hers.”

“I know that. Everybody is just worried about you. I'll be honest, you don't look good. Your beard is growing in all mangy and wild. You look like you're a damn prisoner of the Taliban or something. Are you eating enough?”

“Them buckets you're dumping are full, ain't they? Of course I’m eating. Food isn’t the main concern for me. I'm focused on the mental game, not the tummy wants. And if I look like shit, it’s because I'm not sleeping at night. Did you know I was assaulted last eve?”

“Assaulted? Somebody came up there and hit you?”

“No. Not up here. Somebody came into the mall and destroyed my decorations. He wrote stuff on them and tried to draw dicks going into my eyes but I stopped him. He put his name over mine on the carpet.”

“Well, that sucks. Who was it?”

“Not sure. Chip, Deon, and Wheeler are spending the night tonight to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“Say what now?”

“It's handled, Roy. Don’t worry about it.”

“Come down out of there, Greg. You don't have to do this.”

“Come down? You think it's that easy? I made a commitment, Roy. I'm going to see it through. Even if it kills me. I got just shy of two weeks and Till be in here till the very end.”

Roy shook his head. “I just wish you would stop pretending and come back to reality. You got big things to face, Greg. You need to man up and start tackling these things instead of hiding in a fucking cube.”

“It's a crystal-clear cube, Roy. Who's ‘hiding’? I'm doing the opposite of hiding. I'm out here for the entire world to see. I'm putting myself out here and it's hard. It’s wearing me down, and you know what I could use? I could use some support instead of people constantly trying to talk me out of it or treating me like I'm a retarded person or something.”

“Don't talk like that.”

“I know it’s bad to say that. But that’s how I feel, and I'm not sure how to express that feeling in a more appropriate way. You know what I'm saying, though.”

“You want to see your kids, participate in their lives? You gotta buck up. You gotta get a real job. You got to come down out of the cube and get to it. Judge isn’t going to be impressed by your escapist magician thing, trust me.”

“Oh, and you're an expert on judges now, Roy? How do you know the judge won't be impressed? You don’t know that. You’re guessing. But using my highly tuned powers of deductions that I have from my mentalism training, I understand that you are just exposing your own true feelings towards my craft. You think it's something to be ashamed of. You think it’s a joke, but you're wrong, Roy. I thought you were on my side. But it looks like you like Linda more than your own brother. Figures.”

“I don't like Linda, Greg.”

“It's fine if you do. She sucks. Take her. Marry her. I don’t care.”

“I'm not taking her. I got a wife, Greg. Linda asked me to come talk to you because she’s worried about you. I agreed to come speak to you... because I'm worried too.”

“Well, you and her are just a couple of worrywarts wasting your time. There's nothing to worry about.”

Just then Chip, Deon, and Wheeler arrived with spiked bats and chains. Chip held up his bat and tested the sharpness of a bent nail at the tip with his finger.

“We decided to bring some shit just in case.”

Roy looked to Greg. “Nothing to worry about?”

After the mall closed and the shoppers had all left, the security guard with the band did a quick stroll to make sure all the stores were locked before stopping by the cube. Chip, Deon, and Wheeler sat in foldout lawn chairs beneath Greg. As the guard approached, the three men stood up, each with their makeshift weapons. Bats with nails and billy clubs.

“Stand down, he works here,” said Greg.

The security guard eyed the men suspiciously.

Chip took a drag and eyeballed the Sunglass Hut.

“I bet if we had a long stick or something I could reach it through that sunglasses store gate and snag me a pair of Oakleys.”

“What the hell are you talking about? ‘Snag me a pair of Oakleys.’ What, do you think you're some kind of street-smart sassy kid from the city?” said Greg.

Deon and Wheeler started laughing. Chip scoffed at them.

“I didn’t say I was going to. I said I could. Not being a sassy kid from the city. How dare you say that.”

“I'm just fucking with you. Settle down,” said Greg.

“Settle down? Why do you think you can tell me what to do all the time, Greg? Just like asking us to come here. You just expect shit from people.”

“Uh, I'm turning to friends. I expect that in a time of need I can turn to friends. True or false, amigos?”

“True,” said Wheeler.

“Wheeler, stop kissing ass. You've said it yourself. Deon, you too,” barked Chip.

Deon and Wheeler looked down awkwardly. Greg watched them and shook his head.

“You guys got some issues with me? Been talking shit behind my back?”

“Not talking shit. Just discussing your situation and hoping for the best for you.”

“What's my situation? Please enlighten me, O seers. What are you worried about with me?”

“Your divorce, man. We know it’s broken you. That’s why you're doing this. You've lost your mind,” said Chip.

Greg laughed while his friends looked at each other, confused.

“You guys are fucking rich. You think my shit is bad? What about you three? At least I'm trying to do something. I've woken up from my slow march to death and am trying to take control. You three are sleepwalking into the abyss. Don’t be cocky about being married. It ain’t that great. All of you are just accepting what's easy. But by doing that, you've killed the dreamer in each of you. You have, and you know it.”

The men were all quiet.

Greg leaned his head back against the side of the cube, exhausted. “I just couldn't do it anymore. That's why I had to get out of there.”

“I thought Linda left you,” said Deon.

“She did. I'm just saying, I had my plans too.”

“You were planning on leaving her? You seemed pretty shell-shocked when she broke the news. You were crying and saying to us that you would never let her go.”

“At the time I did think that. Or I thought I thinked that. But now with time I realize that I didn't really think that. In fact, I was relieved.”

“Well, then that’s good for you, Greg. I'm glad this is what you wanted,” said Wheeler softly.

“I don't buy it.”

“Well, who cares what you buy, Chip? It’s not all about what you buy, dude. You think you're so great. You're a dullard. You're a complaining dullard who talks a lot of shit but is a pussy under it all. You talk like you're going to steal sunglasses. Homie, I've known you since seventh grade. No fucking way you are stealing sunglasses from a store. You know as well as I know. You're fronting.”

“Get it all off your chest, Greg. Didn't realize you had such a bone to pick with me.”

“Come on, now, Greg. We're all buddies here. No need to talk like that to each other,” said Deon.

“Deon, please stay out of this. When I want your opinion, I'll give it to you. You're a follower. I don’t need secret judgments from a weak follower type of person.”

“You know, I think you need to cool off and watch how you're speaking to maybe the only people in this world that give a shit about you.”

“Well, if this is being loved, then you can keep it. Feels like I'm dealing with hater shit. I got my life figured out. I'm heading to the top, and I gotta separate myself from those that wish to be toxic and try to stand in my way.”

“I'm out of here,” said Chip as he kicked over his chair and walked away.

He walked right to the sunglass store, extended his spiked bat, and stuck it between the gate. He strained and then carefully pulled the bat out from the gate, snagging a pair of Oakleys. He put them on, flipped Greg the bird, and walked away without ever looking back.

Deon and Wheeler were left below.

“Fine. Let him go. I don’t want him here anyway.”

“I drove, so I'm sure he’s going to need a ride, and since I'm just a follower, I guess I'll just go follow him,” said Deon as he got up to leave. Greg shook his head.

“Fine, Deon, follow. Don’t get mad at me for spitting the truth.” Greg looked down at Wheeler.

“You didn’t need to say those things to them. That was really not thoughtful of you,” said Wheeler. Greg shifted inside the cube, and let out a big exhale.

“Shit, I know. I just...do you guys even like me? Everything seems so weird from inside this cube. Like I can see the people from my life. But there's just...so much space between us. Like we're both in this mall. In the same place. But what I’m feeling and what you're feeling probably couldn't be more different. I am so fucking miserable.”

“I bet. That's why I don’t understand. Just come down. Nobody will think less of you. It’s not like the whole world is watching or nothing. Most people probably wouldn't even notice you ended early. From talking to people in town, most folks don’t even know you're doing this. You could come down and I bet it would be like it never even happened.”

“So, nobody is talking about this on the outside?”

“I'm sorry, buddy, but not really. Not at all, actually. Get some rest. Get healthy. And just get a new outlook on things. A positive outlook. You don't have to make yourself a prisoner for all to see.”

Greg took it in. “I appreciate you sharing this with me, but now it's more important than ever to complete the cube,” he said. “If people don't care and that makes me not care, then the not-caring people have won. Fuck the not-caring people. And fuck you, Wheeler. If you were doing something amazing and no one was giving you your proper due, I'd rattle the cages and make sure people were watching. I wouldn't just take notes and wait to drop it on you all at once and really hurt your feelings. Go with the others.”

Wheeler looked up at Greg, hurt.

“Leave, dude.”

Hours passed in the dark mall. Maybe they were right. Maybe it was time to come down, Greg thought as he finally started to fall asleep.

17 days in

Greg was bored for most of the day. He watched a handful of shoppers mill about, a kid get his cellphone fixed at a kiosk, a fat man sit in one of the massage recliners near all the bubble gum machines. Nothing interesting. Time was just creeping.

He watched a girl eat a pretzel from the Pretzel Palace. She dipped the buttery pretzel into a container of melted orange cheese, but only finished half of it before throwing the rest away. Fucking waste, Greg thought.

It did suck that nobody from Greg's family was really making any effort to come and help him out. Sure, Roy would show up and cart his waste away, but he was only doing it because he was getting paid. Greg would like a pretzel with some cheese. He'd like a drink of some sort, too, like a Frappuccino or something. How nice would it be if somebody who supposedly cared about him came by and brought him something special? He remembered when Linda first started getting in shape again. She'd signed up for a half marathon. He remembered so clearly getting up early, getting the kids ready, and all three of them waving and cheering as she crossed the finish line. He was supportive. He was kind. He was a good husband. He was a good man. He wasn't just focused on himself, lllike Linda loved to say. He went to her half marathon. That's not nothing.

Greg smiled to a woman below the cube who pointed up at him and laughed. She motioned to her friend who came over and read the sign stating what Greg was boldly doing. After reading, she looked up to Greg and shot him a thumbs-up. The woman held up her cellphone to take a photo of Greg in the cube. Greg smiled and talked to himself through a tight smile.

“Turn the flash off, bitch. The cube will just be one big reflection, dummy.”

The flash went off. The woman looked at her picture and frowned. Greg continued to smile, thinking she would take the photo again, but she didn’t. She just shrugged, put her phone away, and walked off with her friend.

Greg tossed and turned, trying to get comfortable like usual. Did nobody realize how hard it was to stay in this general position for this long? He'd like to see them try it. Strangely, his old boss Benzel’s voice crept into his mind.

“You enjoying yourself, kid?”

He could picture Benzel saying that as if he were right there in the cube with him. He remembered the conversation they had when Greg told Benzel about the cube.

“You're what?” said Benzel.

“I don’t need to justify it to you. It’s my calling. It's something I'm very passionate about. I'm taking the leap, and there's really nothing you can say other than good luck.”

“So you want to just leave work for a month?”

“That's how long I would be in the cube, so I would probably need a few days before the actual stunt begins to prepare, and then of course I will be in a pretty weakened state post my completion of the magic act. I'll probably need a good two weeks to get my fluids and stuff back up. Get my muscles working and my recovery going. So all in, let’s say two months, two and a half months to be safe.”

“You're out of your fucking mind.”

“Okay, fine. Two months. I'll be all stressed and rush my recovery, but sure. Fine. If that’s what it takes.”

“I'll give you a week off. That's it.”

“Well, a week isn’t enough time to do it. I've told you I'm staying in the cube for a mo—”

“Greg, I know you've had a rough few weeks with the stuff, you know, your divorce—”

“This has nothing to do with my divorce. So I'm not sure why you're even bringing that up.”

“Take a week off. Get your head screwed on straight, then come back to work.”

“I'm staying in the cube for a month.”

“I don't want to hear any more about the fucking cube. Do what I'm telling you. I'm your boss. You work for me. I'm putting a kibosh on your fucking cube thing-stunt-whatever-the-fuck.”

“You can't stand in my way, Benzel.”

“Uh, yeah, I can. You want to keep your job? Child support ain’t cheap. I bet she got a nice alimony payout, too. Divorce is a bitch. Especially if you're broke. I'm being nice. I'm being understanding. No more about the fucking cube.”

Everything his boss was saying was true. He was going to pay. He was going to lose so much. But he couldn't think about that. He had to focus on the goal. He had to focus on the cube. Greg stood up and smiled at Benzel.

“It's been a pleasure working for Lomax Industries. I wish you and this corporation nothing but the best. Come and see me in the mall while I make history. You can tell everyone you know that you knew me back when. I have a magic act to prepare for.”

“You think you're going to make history? Sitting in a box for a month at our local mall ain't magic. It’s fucking pathetic is what it is. It’s fucking cuckoo beans, buddy. So good luck to you!”

Greg watched as the last employee at the Shoe Depot closed the gate to the store. A teenager. Texting and walking with purpose. Greg remembered that feeling, of being young and getting off work. Of busting your ass all day doing something you don't give a fuck about so that you'd have a little money and the night could be yours. The sky was the limit back then. You had nothing to lose. Everything was possible.

As the Shoe Depot employee left the mall, the lights dimmed, leaving Greg once again in the shadows. He closed his eyes.

20 days in

Greg opened his eyes. He watched the elderly morning walking club doing their laps below. He yawned and did his morning stretches in the tight quarters.

Had he actually slept through the night?

No signs of any vandalism. Solomon continued to stay away. Was he toying with Greg or was that it? Had it just been some random act that didn’t mean anything?

Before the lunch rush things had been quiet. Greg's brain had finally settled down a bit. Maybe it was the sleep or maybe it was letting it rip on his friends, but things felt different this morning. He felt oddly more himself.

And then Linda showed up.

“I'm not going to talk to you up in there. Just come down so we can speak. Press pause on whatever this is.”

Greg took a breath. He could unleash on her, but after his spat with the fellas, he didn’t have any more of that kind of fight in him. He felt emotionally spent. So he answered calmly.

“I can't, Linda. Not for ten more days. I know you think this is strange. But I have to do it. We can talk after I'm out if talking like this makes you too uncomfortable. I'm not trying to fight with you. I'm trying to be accommodating.”

“Okay, so wait ten days? That's what you're telling me? Do you realize how dumb you're making yourself look? So, you know everyone thinks you're fucking crazy. Everyone does. Even your friends.”

“I know how you all see me. But that doesn’t mean any of you are right.”

“No, it means I'm right. Anybody who questions why I would leave, why I had to—now they can see for themselves.”

“I know you think you're winning the divorce. But you'll see. Everyone will see. Slow and steady wins the divorce race,” said Greg.

Linda laughed. “And that's what this is, this little floating square thing? This is your definition of ‘slow and steady’?”

Greg ignored her and closed his eyes as she walked away.

After lunch Melissa showed up with DJ Cabana Vibez, who was a sixfoot-five Puerto Rican man with curly hair and a massive belly.

“Hey, glass man! I'll play whatever you want,” he said to Greg.

“I'm not looking for Top 40 shit. I'm looking for music that is going to transport these people as they watch me leave the confines of the cube. I want it feeling epic as the cube lowers to the ground and the ends open. I'm going to be very weak from not using my legs for a solid month, so it might take me a moment to get out. At this point I'm going to want something that is still epic but also has a faster tempo. That way my crawl out will seem faster. So: slow, building, and epic as the cube lowers, and then break into epic and fast as I exit.”

“Got it. I got a heavy-duty soundtrack collection that nobody ever asks me to play. I can give you some shit from Apocalypse Now!, 2001, Indiana Jones, Last of the Mohicans, fucking Space Jam.”

“Wow. All good choices. Fantastic that you get it.” Greg looked to Melissa. “Great work, Melissa. DJ Cabin Vibez is hired.”

“It's Cabana Vibez.”

“It's what?”

“Cabana. Like at a pool.”

After Melissa and Cabana Vibez left, Greg chuckled to himself. How crazy was it that he didn’t have the support of his friends, his brother, his wife, anybody? People who had known him forever—none of them were in his corner. And yet here were Melissa and DJ Cabana Vibez, both willing to be there and help without any guff. Granted, he was paying them, but still. If there was ever an example of how he was being mistreated by those close to him, this was it. He looked forward to proving them wrong. Sitting in this fucking cube was his passion, and if they didn’t see it now, they would in the future, because it would be impossible for them not to. Especially if his exit hit as big as he imagined. These days the press was always slow to a good story, he thought. But they'd see too. Feature after feature, profile after profile. He could even see them doing think pieces about him. What would Linda say about that? A fucking think piece. Who was winning the divorce now?

His mind was so consumed with those thoughts that he barely even cared about Solomon anymore.

That night at closing, it was another different security guard, an old man who was still working for some reason. Jesus, Greg thought as the elderly security guard fiddled with his keys and very slowly checked every gate. His thin white hair was greased perfectly, like he was working at a high-paying desk job in the ‘50s. His name was Oscar, and even though he planned to work the entire night, Greg couldn't imagine what the hell Oscar could possibly do if the shit really hit the fan. The mall manager could have farted in a balloon and left it at the food court and it would have been more effective at stopping crime than this joker.

He doubted Solomon would return anyway. At this point it seemed like maybe Solomon was just a fluke, somebody fucking around. There was still the question of what had happened to Marlon, but Greg chalked it up to just one of those things that you never fully understand. Plus, he had to center his mind and start focusing on his eventual exit.

Greg was awoken by a piercing sound. He bolted up in the cube, confused, nearly hitting his head. It was the mall's fire alarm or security alarm, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it was unreasonably loud and unrelenting. Where the hell was Oscar? Greg looked out all sides of the cube for any sign of him. There was, of course, none. He was probably in his eighties. Emergency lights were strobing.

Suddenly, Greg saw a figure standing in front of the Sunglass Hut. The strobing lights made it hard to see, but yeah, there was a guy there. The figure began to walk. His face was revealed. As he came more clearly into Greg's field of vision, Greg could see that it was not a face at all but a mask. A white mask.

Solomon had returned.

Solomon took a step to his right and disappeared behind a kiosk. Greg looked around the entire area but could no longer see him. Then, like real magic, Solomon stepped out from behind a different kiosk, this one much closer to Greg.

“Okay, nice. Not sure how you did that. Are there two of you? Were you waiting behind there the whole time and it was a double that entered? I could do that too, if I wasn't in this cube.”

Solomon ignored him and approached the cube area. “What do you want?” screamed Greg. “You want to deface more property that doesn’t belong to you? Why?”

Solomon pointed up at Greg and then, while still pointing, roundhouse-karate-kicked Greg's new sign down.

“Goddammit! Don't do that!”

Greg pounded on the cube as Solomon moved to the next new sign, announcing the day count. He spin-kicked it to the ground and then stomped his foot through it. Greg watched helplessly as Solomon knocked over the other decorations that Melissa had placed for him. Solomon started heading for the crane.

“Don't you dare fuck with my crane, you piece of shit!” Greg screamed through the glass. But Solomon didn’t pay any attention. Greg leaned forward to watch in horror as Solomon took a seat in the cab of the crane and turned the machine on. The cube began to lower, and Greg watched the ground slowly getting closer and closer.

“Fucking stop, Solomon, what do you want, do you want money? I don't have any because my ex-wi—”

“Step out of the crane, sir. Do it now or I'll dust your ass right here in front of the Pretzel Palace. Try me.”

Greg looked to the left of the crane to see Oscar with a .357 Magnum pointed at Solomon's head. Solomon froze. Good old Oscar, thought Greg. He really came through.

“Turn that crane off and step out of there with your hands up, son. That's not your property.”

The machine noise petered out as Solomon shut off the crane, the cube now suspended just a few inches from the ground. Solomon slowly stepped out of the cab with his hands raised.

Greg clapped. “Yes! Fuck yes! Oscar! Thank you!” Oscar kept the gun trained on Solomon. “That's what I'm talking about! Justice, finally,” Greg said. It was the first time he'd felt actual joy in maybe decades, if he was being honest.

Solomon kept his hands raised as Oscar shouted orders at him, clear and concise. “Mall's closed. You're trespassing. How’s a few days in the slammer sound?” Oscar barked.

Solomon shook his head “No” and with a dazzling flourish of his hands, tossed a smoke bomb. The cloud quickly enveloped Solomon until he was completely obscured. Oscar coughed and waved the smoke out of his way. Greg couldn't see what was happening through the smoked-up glass, but he knew enough about magic to know that Solomon was gone. As the smoke cleared, Oscar looked to Greg, confused.

“He disappeared.”

Oscar got into the cab and hoisted the cube back up to its original height.

“He made us think he did. He used illusion at us. The cover of smoke hid his escape. I really wish you would have shot him. You had him dead to rights.”

“Well, technically he was only trespassing.”

“And doing vandalism. And he tried to lower my cube to the ground. If he would have lowered it too quick, I could have smashed hard against the ground. He could have killed me. I’m no lawyer, but that crane stuff seems like attempted murder.”

“I'll file a report with the police. If he comes back here again, he won't get away.”

“Of course he's going to come back again. He's hell-bent on ruining my event for some reason, doing martial arts on my signs and such. I just don’t know who the hell he is. Why does he have it out for me?”

“I don’t know much about magicians or sorcery or nothing. But do you magicians have rules about who can perform in what territory? Some trades have them kind of rules. Maybe you're on this guy’s turf?”

“‘Turf? I mean, I don't think so. I never even thought about other magicians even being here in this town. Kind of felt like I was the one who was all about magic in this town.”

“Well, by the looks of it, I'd have to disagree. Magic or no magic, if he comes back, I'll make sure we get him. I fought in ‘Nam. I've killed before. Shot a man in the head, and his brains exploded like a confetti popper. It was astounding. Wouldn't take much for me to do it again.”

“That's really good to hear, Oscar. I appreciate it. I wish more of your co-workers shared your get-it-done attitude.”

“It's that young generation. They'd rather talk about stuff or complain instead of just getting it done.” Oscar looked lovingly at his gun one more time before holstering it.

28 days in

After Oscar's official report, the mall finally wised up and put some men on the case. There were now three people working security each evening: Oscar, Janet, and Chris H. Janet was in her mid-forties and had a rough, leathery face. Chris H. was overweight but responsible and thorough. The extra manpower was working: there had been no sign of Solomon or anybody else trying to fuck around with Greg since that night where Oscar should have killed him.

Solomon wasn't the only one not showing up. Linda hadn't shown her face since her last visit. Which was fine, Greg figured. The way that conversation had ended, he wasn’t shocked she hadn't been back. He was a little annoyed that she hadn't even brought the kids by to see him, though. Man, seeing their faces could have really given him the burst of energy that he needed to get across the finish line. Or would it? Hell, maybe they would just come and be uninterested and that would make Greg sad. Probably make him second-guess. Greg wasn't trying to second-guess, not when the end was in sight.

Greg's buddies hadn't shown up since they left their posts that night. He wished they would just cut him some slack and come back. Maybe he shouldn't have snapped at them the way he had. They were just trying to help, after all. But have some empathy, fellas, I’m in a fucking box, Greg thought. Love to see how any of them would operate if they were trapped for this long in a fucking glass cube. He hoped they would at least not be petty and come to his grand exit. That would be a great place to bury the hatchet. He knew his grand exit would be special, something he would never forget, and he wanted those in his life that mattered to him to witness it. To have that moment to share for the days to come.

Roy stopped by around lunchtime. Greg was happier to see him than he let on as Roy swapped out the bucket.

“Almost done. You doing okay?” said Roy.

“My legs are cramped as shit. My lower back has been aching for two weeks straight, do you know what that feels like? My hip bone is sore from this one part of the cube frame digging in when I try to sleep on my side. But yeah, pretty much hanging in there.”

“And what happens when you're done?”

“Well, I've organized an event. There will be a musical performance, some local press, and notable people from the community. Maybe get some slices of pizza from Sbarro’s in the food court. Still putting the pieces together.”

“I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about after all of this. Like in the big picture. When this, this...”

“Escape act.”

“Sure. Magic. After that’s over, what's your plan? You got a place to stay? Linda told me you moved out of that apartment.”

“Why are you talking to her so much? And why is she telling people about where I live? She needs to mind her own business.”

“Why‘d you get rid of the apartment? Where are you supposed to go?”

“I'll rent a new apartment, dude. Jesus. That's what people do. I'm in here for a fucking month. Not just gonna throw that money at some stupid apartment by the airport. That rent money was better spent on this.”

Roy shook his head. “Greg,” he said. “I'm really trying to get on board. I know you've had some tough days. I know you had a falling out with the fellas.”

“Oh, are they spilling tea too? Those guys all changed. They used to be good friends. That's the thing with longtime friends. Sometimes the friendship just gets put on autopilot, and years go by where the friendship isn’t really tested because it’s like second nature. But throw a motherfucker in some troubling times, some back-against-the-wall times, and the friendship is suddenly brought into the light. The real strength is suddenly tested. And unfortunately, with all of them, the friendship was too weak to survive. Probably the first thing I'll do when I get out of here is make some new fucking friends. Friends that will get another friend's back and support him instead of just telling secrets to people's brothers.”

“I'm not trying to fight with you, Greg. I guess there's nothing else really to say until this is done.”

“I think you're right. My focus needs to be on the task ahead. Are you going to come to the finale?”

“Sure. When is it?”

“Sunday at noon. I have less than forty-eight hours now.”

“Good.”

“If you don’t mind, can you tell the others I won't be mad at them anymore if they want to come to the finale. All will be forgiven for anybody I'm quarreling with if they show. Except for Linda. But if she’s not being too much of a bitch, would you see if she'd let you bring the kids? I want them to witness their father’s accomplishment.”

“You got it, Greg.”

Greg watched his brother walk away, and as much as Roy annoyed Greg, as different as they were, Greg couldn't help but feel a little grateful for him. He was the only one who came every day, even if he was being paid to do so. Greg banged on the cube. Roy turned.

“Hey, Roy? I just wanted to say, uh, you're doing a decent job being a brother.”

“Am I?” “You've been one of the only people that has stuck around. You've put up with a lot of my shit, and I'm not just talking about what's in those buckets. Like just in general, you've—”

“I get what you're saying. We're family. I'll be here for you no matter how big of a dick you are.”

That one comment moved Greg profoundly. He realized that nobody had really said anything nice to him in what felt like forever. “Thanks,” he said.

“Wow. Didn't know the word was in your vocabulary. But I'll take it. Get some rest, man. And shave if you can. Today you're looking like the kid from Into the Wild, after he ate the poisoned berries and was going to die. Just a gross beard and skinny face with sunken eyes. That's what you look like.”

That night, as the mall closed, Greg thought about the first time he met Linda. It was ‘80s trivia night at Clayburn’s steak and seafood. Greg was twenty-three, working there as a bartender. Linda was with some friends who were playing as a team.

When he saw Linda, something clicked in his brain and he felt a strong urge to talk to her. A pull. He saw her leave her table and go to the bathroom.

He stood outside the bathroom door pretending to straighten the sticky children’s high chairs that were stored in the breezeway leading back to the kitchen. He was meant to be right here. He was meant to act on his feelings. When she stepped out of the bathroom, he made his move.

“My name is Greg. What's your name?”

Linda, somewhat startled, said, “Were you waiting for me while I was in there?”

“Uh, well—yes.”

Then she smiled, and everything felt right.

The two talked for the rest of the night while her team played trivia without her. Numbers were exchanged, and the excitement about a connection was overflowing.

As she left with her friends, Greg folded her number in his pocket. He distinctly remembered taking the trash out that night at the end of his shift. He stepped out into the hot summer night, the windows of the bar fogging up behind him as the AC cranked inside. In the distance he could hear a train rattling down the tracks through the bad part of town. He’d felt like a million bucks taking out that trash. So pleased with the many possibilities that now lay before him. He slung the garbage into the dumpster.

There was Linda and Greg for a long time. And then Linda and Greg became Mr. and Mrs., then Mom and Dad, and then Mom and Dad again. But it all felt like it went by so fast. He had all these memories from when they first met that felt long and slow and right. But the more the years added up, the chapters started moving faster and faster. He felt like he could barely remember his own life.

It all scared Greg. The speed of it, how much had already passed. Once he knew the shape of the major events of his life, what else was left to look forward to? So he had developed some habits to compensate. He started buying camera after camera. Filming as much as he could. Taking photos of every fucking thing his kids did, like he was trying to catch as much of it as he could before it all flew away. It made him nostalgic for anything from his past; he started collecting comic books and tennis shoes and fancy video game systems, all the stuff he’d wanted when he was a kid. He pushed all of it on his kids, but none of it was a fit. He forced his son to play with G.I. Joes and got mad at Max when he was just half-assed playing with them. Greg remembered telling his son that he wished he'd had all those Joes when he was a kid. He couldn’t understand why Max didn’t want to play with them.

“I just don't get ‘em. They're like little dolls,” said Max.

“No, they're action figures, they were made for action.”

“And you just pretend they walk around and hold stuff?”

“No, you make them fight in battles and, like, shoot each other and stuff.”

“But they can't do that stuff. They just stand, and their legs bend.”

“Well, you must use your imagination. You have to pretend that he's killing somebody. Or saving his platoon or doing something daring to defeat Cobra or even any of the storm troopers or bad guys from the Star Wars universe. I gave you all those guys last Christmas. Joes and Star Wars guys can fight each other. They're the same size. The Joes’ knees bend but besides that it feels like they could be from the same world. Especially the droids and storm troopers. They almost look like Cobra guys.”

But he couldn't get Max into it. So he tried to get his daughter into Mad Libs, because he’d loved Mad Libs when he was a kid. He bought a stack of Mad Libs books—the old original ones, not the cheap reprints. He was constantly trying to get her to play along.

“Give me an adjective, Shanna. Come on. You know you want to. Let's do a Mad Libs.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don't feel like it. I've been at school all day. I don't want to think of words to say.”

“You don't want to think of words? What? It’s not hard. You just say whatever comes to your brain. You just spurt out what comes to mind. The deal with Mad Libs is that it's better if you don’t think about the answer. It's better if you just say the most random stuff. That’s when you get hilarious sentences that everybody cracks up on. That's what we're trying to do here.”

“It just doesn’t seem like fun. Just saying words to make sentences sound dumb?”

“Well, yeah. Sometimes it will end up saying something hilarious.”

“I guess I just don’t get it.”

“There's nothing to ‘get.’ It's simple. Just give me an adjective.”

“I don't want to.”

“It's simple.”

“Mom! Dad is trying to make me do Mad Libs again.”

“Greg, she doesn't like Mad Libs. She just got home from school.”

“Why is everyone acting like just getting home from school is somehow a logical excuse for not doing a fucking Mad Libs with your dad? I'm sorry I cussed. I'm just...I'm trying to make you like something that I really think you would like if you gave it a shot. I loved it when I was a kid.”

“Well, maybe I'm not like you, Dad.”

“Just give me a damn adjective!”

Greg closed his eyes inside the cube.

Linda talked to him about laying off the kids.

“I think you're just trying too hard to control what they like. They like what they like and that's okay, Greg. You probably didn't like all the stuff your dad liked. That's how things change and that’s okay.”

“It's more than that. They don't like the stuff that I try to get them to like on purpose.”

“Don't be silly.”

“It's true. You and them have like this secret language. I feel like you all got some running commentary about me behind my back.”

“Greg, I spend more time with the kids, so of course we have our own relationship. But we're not aligned against you. We love you.”

“Well, that’s how it feels sometimes, like you're aligned against me. Like anything I want to do or anything I suggest is stupid and worthy of an eye roll. And what stings the most is, the only reason I don't get to spend as much time with them as you do is because I have to work.”

“Raising kids isn’t work?”

“I'm not saying that. Come on, Linda, you know what I mean.”

How many nights had ended that way? It felt like all of them had. Greg rolled over in the cube. He looked at his watch: midnight.

Almost fucking there.

29 days in

Oscar walked the halls of the mall, his flashlight scanning the locks on each gate. He enjoyed doing this because he liked walking. He liked the solitude. When he was younger, he loved being around people, being in the thick of it. But the older he got, the less he liked being around folks.

If he had his choice, he'd live in the middle of nowhere and see nobody most of the time. At this point, the solitude of the mall mattered more to him than the luxuries this second job afforded, like the NFL sports package on his cable plan or coffee that costs ten bucks when he could brew it just as easily in his own home. The time of luxuries was ending for Oscar, and he knew it, and he was glad. He'd seen nice things in his life. He'd had a few nice things. Nice things were nice, but that was about it.

In the long run he had gotten tired of nice things the same way he had gotten tired of not-nice things. Nobody was ever content. But solitude could feel like a gift. At age seventy-six, he shouldn't even be working, said his wife and his grown kids. But the nights at the mall belonged to him.

Then the magician guy set up that cube.

Oscar was fascinated by the fella. It was a pretty dumb thing he was trying to do, and truthfully, Oscar didn’t even think it was magic. He was still eating food and drinking water—anyone could do it. Nobody did because it was stupid. If he could stay in a sealed-off see-through coffin for a month without eating or drinking, now that would be magic. He'd overheard arguments the guy had gotten into with family and friends, and he could see the guy was in pain. And it didn’t seem to Oscar like anyone was even interested. Not even passersby. Sad, really.

When Oscar got to pull his gun on the intruder who used magic and tried to ruin the other man’s magic trick in the mall, he hadn't hesitated for a moment. He had pulled his gun like it was second nature and, for the first time in ages, Oscar felt like Oscar used to feel. In charge.

“Step out of the crane, sir. Do it now or I'll dust your ass right here in front of the Pretzel Palace. Try me.”

And that intruder had listened. He got the hell out of that crane.

But it was the next part that Oscar hadn't been able to stop thinking about.

He had the gun trained on the fella and was guiding him away from the crane, and then in a flourish so quick that the man’s hands became a blur, he saw something fly and then smoke was everywhere and the intruder...was gone. Oscar had looked behind pillars and up and down the mall, but the guy had truly vanished into thin air. It really did seem like magic.

When Oscar went home, he told his wife about it.

“Oh my God, Oscar. You need to be careful. I can't believe you didn’t just call the police and hide somewhere.”

“You think I would hide?” Who did she think he was?

Oscar couldn't stop thinking about the man who vanished. That was the power of magic. He had never used a computer himself, so he called his son and asked for his assistance.

“I need you to look up on your computer men who disappear.”

“What's that, now?”

“Look it up. Find out if there is anything about men being able to make themselves disappear. Have people seen this before?”

“Uh, why do you want me to look that up, Dad?”

He explained what had happened and his son didn't get it. He said the same thing his wife said.

“Why didn't you call the cops? You're too old to do this stuff. You need to relax. Spend time with Mom. You don't have to do anything now.

You've earned that.”

That’s when Oscar knew he was going to have to crack this case himself.

The last several days Oscar had been sleeping at the mall, combing it during his usual day shift and then volunteering to stand guard during the night. He even convinced his boss to put two more guards on duty.

“We need more guards.”

“See if Mom Janet can do it. And maybe that fat fuck Chris H.”

Oscar felt alive. He was dialed in and focused and he was leading the charge on something. For whatever reason someone was trying to sabotage the sad man in the cube. Somebody was out to ruin what the man in the cube was working toward, and Oscar didn’t like that. Whether it was magic or not, and Oscar thought it wasn't, that man deserved to finish what he'd started. Oscar would make sure that the pitiful cube man could execute his escape trick thing. He’d protect the man in the cube from anybody who would choose to thwart the man’s ambitions. Oscar knew what it was like to have big dreams and have those around you try and keep you down. He wouldn't let it happen here, not on his watch.

Oscar rounded the corner by the Shoe Depot. The store was dark, and the gate was closed, but Oscar could feel a breeze on his face. He looked both ways, up and down the hall. At the end of the corridor was a row of glass doors leading to the parking lot, which all appeared closed, but Oscar could feel the air from outside. He could smell the parking lot.

Trouble was afoot.

As he approached, he shined his light across the glass doors, then stopped on the second-to-last one. He stepped toward it, reached out to touch the glass, and his hand went right through. There was no glass. Someone had completely removed it, with stunning precision. Oscar looked over his shoulder back into the mall.

Greg lay in the box humming to himself when suddenly, with a rumble, the cube started to descend. Greg bolted up, almost hitting his head, and looked to the crane, knowing what he would see: Solomon had returned. Masked, he sat behind the controls to the crane, fiddling with them.

Greg banged on the cube as it continued to lower to the ground.

“Knock it off. Get out of there, right now!”

Greg looked down as the cube hit the floor.

The glass beneath Greg started to show thin spider cracks as it settled on the ground. Where were the fucking guards?

Greg couldn't get out of the cube. If he did, the whole thing would be for nothing. He simply would not step out early. He didn’t care if Solomon killed him. This asshole wanted him to get out of the cube, and Greg wasn't going to give that to him.

Greg looked to the crane cab, but Solomon was gone. Greg scanned everywhere, no sign of him. Everything looked so different from this perspective, his cube sitting on the ground.

“Still don’t recognize me?”

Startled, Greg turned to see Solomon standing right behind him, only the glass pane of the cube separating them. He was no longer wearing the mask. Solomon's face still wasn't familiar to Greg. There was not a single thing striking about him. He was just some guy.

“I don't have a clue who the fuck you are, but I'll tell you this. If you don't stop this sabotage right now, you're gonna be sitting in a jail cell, buddy. I promise you that.”

Solomon laughed. “You don’t know what the fuck you're talking about. In a jail cell for what?”

“Uh, trying to assault me and doing vandalism to stuff that doesn’t belong to you. And lowering this cube when you're not supposed to.”

“You think I would go to jail for that?”

“And whatever you did to Marlon, the security guard that disappeared after he went to check on you. He's black. He’s a black man. You did something to him.”

“I don't have beef with anybody except for you.”

“What the hell did I do to you? I don’t even know who you are.”

“You really don’t know who the fuck I am?” Solomon was growing angry.

Sensing this, Greg lowered his tone. “No, I'm sorry. I don't.”

Solomon Chambers was furious that Greg didn’t recognize him. It was the ultimate insult. This fucker called himself an illusionist and he really didn't know Solomon fucking Chambers? It wasn't like Solomon was just some guy. He had dazzled children at birthday parties in this region for years, floored businessmen at corporate events, and stupefied drunks at the state fair. He had even done the halftime show at the Tech game. He had left everyone in the area in various states of awe and wonder. If you needed a mind blown, you called Solomon Chambers. He was by far the most famous magician in these parts and had been for years. Nobody was servicing magic in northern Virginia the way that Solomon had been doing for more than twenty years now. Two fucking decades.

And then this asshole, “Greg the Illusionist,” came in, out of nowhere, having never even done one kids’ party before, doing some sort of escape trick that wasn't even an escape trick at all, the more Solomon had learned about it. He was putting himself in a cube suspended in the air for a month, but he could still eat and drink. What was so fucking special about that? That wasn’t magic. Where was the wonder? The shock? The reveal? That was just a test of perseverance, and not even a good one. But homeboy was billing it as “magic.” Homeboy was trying to cut in on his domain. Greg the Illusionist trying to perform a cube escape act in the middle of the mall in the middle of the town where Solomon lived was unacceptable. Solomon had taken it as a direct insult when he started seeing signs that said: “Greg the Illusionist Attempts the Impossible.” He saw it as a clear and present danger to his livelihood. To his magicianship.

“You don't recognize me? Maybe you recognize me now?”

Solomon pulled out a mask and slid it over his head, the lifelike latex sticking to his skin. He struggled to pull it onto his head completely, but finally got it down over his chin and pulled the mask on tight.

Greg couldn't believe his eyes. It was Marlon.

“How about now, dickhead?”

“You're Marlon?”

“Marlon’s me. I was scoping you out. Trying to figure out what you were working with.” Marlon disappeared and turned back into Solomon as he ripped the mask off and caught his breath. “Who the fuck do you think you are, Greg?”

“Me? Who the fuck do you think you are? Wrecking my signs. Lowering my crane. Pretending to be somebody you ain't. I was worried about Marlon.”

“Yeah, well, you're a dummy. Marlon ain't a real person. He's me.”

Solomon was piping hot now. The way Greg was just looking at him in that cube, like he really had no idea who Solomon was. Really? You're into magic, and you don't even look into who else is doing it in your area? You don't take a moment to respect your fucking elders?

“What do you want?” Greg asked from inside the cube.

“You're not finishing your little escape thing. Whatever you want to call this little bullshit thing you're doing. It's stepping on my toes. It’s trying to steal my thunder, and I won't have it. I'm the fucking magician in this town, and in the immediately surrounding towns, for that matter, so get out of the fucking cube right now. It’s over.”

There, he had said it. Goddamn, that felt good. He had leaned on the fucker and said exactly what needed to be said.

“I said get out of the cube, dude.”

“No,” said Greg. “What you're doing is against magician code. You don't have the right to tell people where and when they can do magic. This is my passion. I can do it wherever I want. I paid for a fucking spot here at the mall. There wasn't one thing that was illegal.”

“I didn't say there was something illegal, you did. You haven't gone against the law. You've gone against me. I've worked too hard and done too much in this region to let some new Johnny-come-lately do his thing and think he’s all of a sudden gonna show up and be the big magical dick. No fucking way, José.”

Solomon felt alive for the first time in a very long while. The excitement he used to feel after a big performance. That lingering buzz of adrenaline. The pride he’d have when he would think, I did that. I performed in front of those people and dazzled their asses.

Confidence, that was what it equated to. He hadn't felt confident in forever. Of course he hadn't. If he had, he wouldn't have felt so threatened by some obvious fucking amateur doing some bullshit in a mall where nobody even shops anymore because of Amazon. Solomon with confidence was a top-notch fella. Solomon with confidence could do anything, Solomon with confidence was a big deal. A mover and shaker of town.

Then Covid came and people weren't trying to fuck with magic shows anymore. Give people enough time off from something and they learn to live without it. The illusion is shattered, the habit broken. He could barely pack a Shriners’ hall now, and Shriners’ halls had always been layups for him. His family noticed. His kids never asked to go to any of his shows. Even when he said they could invite a friend, they’d politely pass. It felt like instead of being proud of him, they were ashamed. When did that happen? Covid had really ratfucked his whole life, he thought.

The more he tried to turn it around, the more he'd struggled. He was throwing everything he could at the wall, and nothing was getting people back into seeing his magic shows. And then this fuck suspends himself in a cube in the middle of the mall. Not an original idea, an obvious and, he thought, probably illegal rip-off of David Blaine’s forty-four days in a glass cube above the Thames, but still...somebody else was trying to do something. If Solomon was wired different, maybe he would have befriended this new magician. Maybe together they could've created a whole burgeoning magician scene in town, like someone had somehow done with escape rooms. But instead, Solomon had felt threatened, and Solomon couldn't take that. Not if he considered himself a man.

It was already occurring to Solomon that he may have overestimated people’s potential response to the whole event. Nobody seemed to care. But it didn’t matter. This had become personal for Solomon. He was going to see it through. He'd stop this tit from completing his magical escape.

“I said crawl out of the cube. Now, bucko. This isn’t a game.”

Greg just shook his head and remained in the cube. What the fuck was this guy doing, thought Solomon. He was going to have to rip him out of there. He was prepared for that. If that was what this—

A sudden, extremely loud bang rang out and echoed down the halls of the mall like a runaway thunderclap.

Solomon looked down at a spot of red on his chest that began to grow with terrifying speed before his very eyes. In the cube, Greg's eyes were so wide it looked like they were taped open. Behind Solomon stood Oscar, his Magnum smoking.

“You're under arrest,” said Oscar.

Solomon looked back at Oscar, confused. “You're not even a cop.”

“That's true, but when they get here, they'll do the arrest to you. Trust me.”

Solomon dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Greg was in shock. “I think he’s dying,” he said. “You may have killed him, Oscar.”

“He was an intruder. I'm allowed to do that, right?”

“I'm not sure. You shot him in the back so, not sure. Let’s not go dark and get in our heads about it.”

Oscar walked to Solomon's body and leaned down, listening closely.

“He's still breathing. It don’t sound great, but he’s in there.”

“We should call an ambulance. Do you know CPR?” asked Greg.

“Is that to do with computers? I'm afraid my knowledge is limited in that realm. I rely on my son.”

“Fuck. He's going to die. This is totally going to overshadow my exit tomorrow.”

Oscar called 911 and told them a man had just been shot. By the time he hung up the phone, the other guards—Mom Janet and Fat Chris H.— had finally arrived, but they were useless. They all just stood there repeating, “Oh my God, oh my gracious,” at various speeds and rhythms.

Greg looked at the dying Solomon, his color draining. Who the hell was this guy? Did he really think this town belonged to him? Greg had never even heard of him. How big could he be?

“Is he still breathing, Oscar?”

Oscar checked. “Barely.” Oscar began to cry. “Shit, I've killed a man. I said I'd never do that again, and here I've gone and done it. I'm so stupid.”

Greg knew that Solomon would be dead before the ambulance could reach them. They were deep in the mall. Even once they got here, they'd have to hustle to the mall center, load him up, and then still get back to their vehicle. And that would depend on which entrance they came in. If they came in the side by the old JCPenney’s, they’d have to cut through the food court and that could add another five minutes or so. There wasn't time for that.

Greg had learned CPR when he was a kid training to be a lifeguard. He could save Solomon, or at least try to keep him alive until the ambulance got here. But he'd have to leave the cube.

He imagined his kids’ faces, smiling and proud as he made his triumphant exit to the DJ Cabana Vibez playlist.

Fuck it.

Greg hit the black button on the inside of the cube labeled Exit. The ends of the cube opened slowly as he started loudly humming the theme song from 2001. Greg rolled over onto his belly like an ancient Labrador and then, on all fours, crawled backward out of the cube, slowly and awkwardly. Oscar wiped the tears from his eyes and watched as Greg struggled to stand up, his legs weak and shaky.

“You've left the cube?”

“I have. And I think my legs are fucked up. I'm going to fall.”

Greg fell face-first, flat on the mall floor. Oscar got his act together and sprang back into action, helping Greg back up. Greg knelt beside Solomon. The blood was flowing mightily out of the wound, pooling around his soaked shirt. Greg put his hands over the wound to stop the bleeding.

“Here, Oscar, put your hands where mine are,” said Greg.

Oscar put his hands over the wound as instructed. Greg was in control. Oscar shuddered as the blood gushed through his fingers when he pressed down, but Greg told him to push hard and keep the pressure on. Greg then leaned over Solomon and gave him mouth-to-mouth. In the distance they could hear the sounds of approaching sirens.

27 days out

Greg, clean-shaven, sat in a booth at a restaurant by himself. He looked over the menu briefly and then set it down, taking a long sip from his cold water. As he finished, Max and Shanna sat down across from him.

“Your mom didn’t want to come in?”

“Nah, she just dropped us off,” said Max.

“Is she going to wait in the car for you?”

“I think she had some errands to run. She said she would be back before long,” said Shanna.

Greg wanted to say something, to get in a dig at Linda in front of the kids, but he thought better of it. He picked up the menu again.

“I haven't been to this spot before, but I bet this mac and cheese is good. They make it with bacon. That's crazy.”

“It does look good,” said Max.

“Not to me it don't. I'm getting the tenders,” said Shanna.

“You two get whatever you want. I know none of this has been easy for you all. With your mom and I, you know—”

“Yeah, we know,” said Max.

“I just don’t want you to think that we can't still have good times. Yeah, things didn’t work out how any of us would have liked, but we're going to be okay. I really believe that. In fact, I'm sure of it.”

Neither of the kids said anything in response, but that’s alright, thought Greg. Even if they didn’t believe him right then, sitting there, they’d end up seeing it on their own. Greg believed that too. For the first time since the divorce, he felt sure that things were going to be okay. He'd never imagined himself being divorced, but here he was. Just like he'd never imagined being hailed as some sort of hero for saving a man’s life in the middle of the mall. But here he was. The waitress came to take their orders and menus, and then they were alone again, together.

“Hey, let's make a rule. Nobody knows the way to do this. I certainly don't. So, if you ever want to talk about anything, about what you're afraid of or how something will work out concerning this whole separation thing, don’t be afraid to ask. You can ask me anything you want, okay? I hope you all know that.”

“I'd like to ask something.”

Max and Greg looked to Shanna. “Go ahead, Shanna. Anything you want.”

“Were you scared when that man got shot?”

“Don't ask about that, Shanna,” Max said. “He's talking about family stuff, not that stuff.”

“He said ask anything.”

“No, your sister is right. I did say anything.” Greg unrolled his silverware and gently placed his napkin on his lap. “Was I scared? I was terrified.”

It replayed in his mind again in a flash: Pumping Solomon's chest on the floor of the mall. Greg’s face with Solomon's blood all over it. Oscar sobbing as he pressed on the wound as hard as he could. Then the medics ran in and pushed Greg and Oscar out of the way. Oscar tried to explain what had happened, but the medics weren't listening. They dove right into attending to Solomon.

Greg couldn't stop looking at Solomon's eyes, rolled back with just the whites showing. Then the police showed up, and for some reason the fire department too. It was cherries and berries in the mall parking lot with all the red and blue lights spinning, thought Greg.

The medics quickly wheeled Solomon out on a stretcher. Two officers took statements from Greg and Oscar.

“And you didn’t know him?” asked the young officer.

Greg shook his head. “No. I didn’t. I guess he thought I had stepped in on his territory.”

“Territory for what?”

“For doing magic. I was going to escape out of this cube after being in there for thirty days. And Solomon didn't like that. Thirty da—”

“Solomon? Like Solomon the Sorcerer? He played my kid’s birthday once. He was pretty good.”

“I guess. I hadn't ever heard of him. Anyway, the thirty days were almost up.”

“Thirty days? You stayed in that thing for a month?”

They looked at the cube sitting on the ground.

“No. Twenty-nine days. Tomorrow would have been a full month. But I”

“You saved that fella’s life is what you did,” said Oscar.

“And twenty-nine days is still a good run,” said the older officer. “Crazy to go that long without any food or water.”

Greg smiled. “Yeah. I guess it really was something.”