Every profession has its defining season. For accountants, it’s tax time. For retail workers, it’s Black Friday. And for magicians, it’s Halloween — a time when the world briefly remembers that we exist, right before drowning us in pumpkin spice and unsolicited requests to “do a trick.” Halloween is the high holy day of hocus pocus, the Super Bowl of sleight of hand — and for magicians like me, Alexander the OK, it’s a month-long fever dream of capes, chaos, and candy-coated despair.
Let me explain.
I. The Costume Paradox
Halloween is the one day of the year when I can’t wear my regular magician outfit without people assuming it’s ironic. “Oh, a magician costume! How fun!” they say, while I stand there in my $400 velvet jacket and handmade wand, fighting the urge to pull a dove from my sleeve and let it attack them. This isn’t a costume, Carol. This is my uniform. This is my livelihood. This cape has pockets.
The worst part is that no matter what I wear, people will assume I’m pretending. If I show up in jeans, they think I’m “off-duty David Blaine.” If I wear my stage clothes, I’m “budget Doctor Strange.” Halloween robs me of my identity and replaces it with dollar-store labels. It’s the magician’s version of a midlife crisis — except instead of buying a sports car, I buy glitter and emotional stability in bulk.
II. Performing for the Undead (and the Over-Served)
Performing magic on Halloween is a social experiment in human absurdity. The audience is always split between two types: the undead and the unhinged. Half the crowd is dressed like zombies who smell faintly of pumpkin ale, and the other half are drunken pirates who keep shouting “MAKE ME DISAPPEAR, BRO!” — a request I’d love to fulfill legally.
And then there’s always one person — always — dressed as a clown who insists on doing balloon animals during my show. Suddenly, we’re in a turf war. The audience is torn between my card trick and his latex giraffe. I’m sweating through my shirt, performing for people who think I’m part of a haunted house attraction. Somewhere, a child cries. Somewhere else, a parent whispers, “I think he’s serious.”
III. Candy and Card Tricks: A Sticky Tragedy
No one warns you that magic and Halloween candy are natural enemies. I’ve tried performing sleight of hand while covered in melted chocolate — it’s like juggling eels made of caramel. By the end of the night, my deck of cards looks like a dessert. Kids hand me half-eaten lollipops as “offerings for the magic.” My fingertips are coated in sugar and existential regret. I’m essentially a magician-shaped candy apple.
The worst part? My tricks actually start sticking together. I once accidentally performed two tricks at once because the cards refused to separate. The audience applauded wildly. I accepted the praise, sticky-fingered and emotionally hollow.
IV. Haunted Props and Psychological Warfare
Every Halloween, one of my props develops a demonic personality. The levitation gimmick moves on its own. My rubber chicken screams at midnight. My floating table once actually floated away in the wind. It was equal parts terrifying and validating. The audience thought it was part of the show. I thought I was about to be exorcised.
At this point, I’m 70% sure my wand is cursed. When I wave it, lights flicker, and small children cry. I tell people it’s “theatrical ambiance,” but deep down, I think it’s revenge from every trick I’ve ever botched.
V. The Haunted House Incident
One year, I performed in a haunted house. Never again. You cannot impress people when they are actively being chased by men with chainsaws. “Pick a card!” I yelled. “Pick a safe exit!” they screamed back. I made a deck of cards vanish, and three teenagers disappeared too. The police report said “miscommunication.” I said “abracadabra.”
VI. The Kyle Effect
Every Halloween, someone — usually named Kyle — decides they, too, are a magician. They pull a coin from behind someone’s ear and shout, “Hey, I can do magic too!” Oh really, Kyle? Can you make your self-esteem vanish mid-performance? Can you spend $75 on invisible thread you’ll never use because it snapped under your tears? Can you perform for an audience that’s only pretending to clap? Welcome to the craft, Kyle. Let’s suffer together.
VII. The Beautiful Madness of It All
Halloween is chaotic, exhausting, and deeply strange — and yet, it’s perfect. Because underneath the bad costumes and half-dissolved candy, Halloween is the only time of year where everyone believes, even if just a little, in magic. Kids gasp. Adults laugh. Someone accuses me of witchcraft. It’s a night where the impossible feels plausible and the ridiculous feels earned.
So yes, I’ll endure the sticky fingers, the drunk pirates, the clown rivalries, and the cursed props. Because when I make someone gasp — when I see that flicker of wonder cut through the chaos — it’s worth it.
I may be Alexander the OK, but on Halloween, for one brief, sugar-fueled, bat-infested moment…
I’m Alexander the Extraordinary.
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