I’m probably not giving up any deep, dark secrets when I tell you about my only experience as a magician’s plant.
I was at Six Flags Over Texas several years ago with my girfriend and her daughter, and we decided to see the magic show. We were one of the first to sit down on the bleachers at the open air amphitheatre. After a few minutes this guy sits next to me, casually leans over and asks, “Would you mind doing me a really big favor and volunteering for my magic show?”
With my girfriend egging me on (I’m sure he took this into account), I said sure. He asked me replace my wrist watch with a sad looking substitute that happened to have a velcro clasp instead of the usual buckle. Now, I’m no idiot, so I figured out pretty quick what my part was going to be. He then said that I was to “volunteer” when he asked for volunteers.
The show started about 15 minutes later with the introduction of my new friend, but now in a tux. Sure enough, about a third of the way through his act (pretty much your usual high school talent contest fare), he asked for volunteers, I raised my hand, and proceeded to the stage amongs much applause (well, as much applause as about 35 audience members can muster). I can’t remember his patter, but soon enough I felt his hand grappling with the wrist band of my new watch as he was waving his other arm about, then he triumphantly announced, “Is this your watch?”
I sheepishly admitted it was, and left the stage, again amongst much applause.
The cojones of that guy; I mean, he had to go on sheer trust to make sure I didn’t screw his act using any one of the multitude of ways I could have: Not volunteering, substituting his watch for mine, saying, “Nope, that’s not my watch,” demanding “my” watch back before I left the stage . . .
You just had to admire him.