In Chicago, it was just early August but the dog days of summer had arrived many weeks too soon, along with weather from a Louisiana swamp. Windless and hot, time dragged as slowly as the few molecules of air that blew across the city.
Among the rows of bungalows in Beverly, sprinklers were working hard; spraying comb-teeth waves of water across the browning grass. And, as afternoon inched forward, the shrill sounds of the cicadas would begin - a deafening backdrop of insect chatter from a million tiny voices that would mercifully drown out the sounds of the city - the sirens and traffic and planes.
This particular afternoon, it was hot. And boring.
So we sat inside Meg's bungalow on Bell Street, where it was quieter and cooler. My neice Eliza and my daughter Katie sat cross-legged in front of the sofa next to the coffee table. Eliza's Barbies were scattered out across the floor. Sponge Bob was talking to Gary in the background. The fan pointed up at the ceiling where someone had probably kicked it. So I curled up in front of it, near Eliza and Katie and the dolls.
Eliza knew about Elizabeth Freckly Dawn Ron, a Barbie from Katie's childhood that was legendary in the Simmerling family. Dawn Ron was a creation of our imagination, a pretend teenager that overcame her challenges to become an overconfident olympic skater who won the gold medal (under dubious circumstances).
"Why don't you guys play Barbies?" Meg asked, as Eliza stared in a zombie trance at the television.
"Me?" I asked, yawning.
"Yeah, you two can do a show or something," she said. Meg probably remembered the dance contests and skating events Katie and I held with Dawn Ron and her friends on our own living room carpeting. I was a grown man (I think), so it should have been kind of embarrassing. But Eliza was now snapped out of her trance and latched onto the Barbie idea.
"I don't know, I'm kind of tired from working for the Bobs all day and everything," I said, stretching out and closing my eyes.
"Please, uncle John?"
"Yeah dad, come on, it will be fun," Katie conspired.
So we gathered all the dolls together to get them ready for an organized event, which involved a lot of pulling pants up and dresses down, and un-matting wild hair. As we sat them in rows, stadium like, I wondered what we could come up with. I needed some coffee.
"How about a magic show?" I offered. That seemed interesting, in a David Blaine kind of way.
"Cool," Eliza agreed.
So, as the seating arrangements continued, I asked for the names of the dolls. While Katie had names for all of her Barbies growing up, Eliza's Barbies were virtually anonymous. So we had to come up with some stage names.The names were pulled from nowhere, but oddly they had a certain gypsy-caravan kind of feeling. And with the wild hair and outfits in the crowd, it seemed appropriate.
And with that, the Corkie and Yorkie magic show was born.
The early acts of the show featured a flashy trick called "The Magic Kimono", where an assistant would be made to disappear from under a large silk robe, but only after the audience was told to close their eyes because of the danger from powerful magical rays. The assistant would reappear after much backstage talking and arguing - but again only after the audience would obediently close their eyes.
There was also the popular fortune-telling act (also gypsy-like), where an assistant named "Miss Magic" would answer audience questions about their future. Unfortunately, the questions were too simple and the answers too vague.
"What kind of car will I get when I am older?"
"A fast car - thank you very much," Miss Magic would curtly answer.
That first afternoon, after the acts had developed, we went into the backyard and cut pieces from a cardboard box, which we used to make props for the show. As we cut and taped and painted, we laughed about the funny characters and the silly questions. We made a booth for Miss Magic, which included a sign that read, "Magic Tricks and Good Advice." Katie made a sign for the Barbie Minivan that said, "Going to the Corkie and Yorkie Magic Show."
The Magic Show was a hit. Eliza would do her best to re-create it for other family members, but Katie or I would need to add the bungling and innocent complexity (and humor) that made it so fun. More props were added, and daily showtimes were posted on the side of the kiosks.
Late one night, I received a text message from Meg, telling me that the audience was now camping out in her living room, waiting to get tickets for the next day's show. "All these teenagers are sleeping out in my living room," she wrote. "And I think I smell someone smoking," she added in a later text.
In daily conversations and texts, we would refer to the different Barbie characters, such as Brian, Chad, Miss Magic, Corkie, Yorkie, etc. They would be late for work, headed to Great America, in the backyard sitting on the picnic table and smoking, looking for jobs, off at Starbucks, and all the other things teenagers do.
We laughed about it late at night as we texted each other. In the mornings, we would discuss the previous night's misbehaviors - how the carnies and the groupies were a bad influence on each other. I'd drive over to the Gallery and Vicki would be laughing as I walked in - she'd ask for the latest on Corkie and the gang. If you were in on it, you'd have to help build the story. So the Magic Show misadventures were as creative as the show itself - and almost as funny.
Like the heat and humidty that hung over the city this summer, our emotions were pressed and twisted and tested in unpredictable ways every day. But we were lucky, we had each other. We relied upon each other, learned about each other, and I know we became closer than ever.
But during those summer days, Corkie and Yorkie also gave us something that we didn't know we needed - an escape.
An escape, like the deafening but welcome sound of the summer cicadas.
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