Smoke and Mirrors
by Jeremy Stelzner
They say that seeing is believing. Well, Kasam was a man who could make you see things that weren’t really there. As a theme park engineer, his prized creation was a ride called Escape from Dragon’s Cove. It was one of those 3D dark rides where you never went anywhere, but it felt like you did. Each nut, each bolt, each inch of suspension wire and gimble track, all of them were like little gifts to Kasam, each a tiny piece of a larger puzzle required to make the illusion work.
The best part of his job was getting to watch wobbly-kneed guests stumble from the exit. Decked out in overpriced park merch and on the verge of barfing, they’d gleefully probe one another, “How’d they do that?” Kasam got a kick out of listening to their unbridled theories like “It must have mirrors under the tracks” or “They’ve gotta be using magnets to pull open the dragon’s mouth.” Every now and then, a brave guest would approach and ask him about the mechanics of the magic. He’d get this wry smile on his lean face and say, “There’s not much to it, really. Just smoke and mirrors.”
The day it was all taken from Kasam was one of those scorching days at the park where the air seemed to sweat under the savage Southern sun. He sat alone on a bench in his starched park-issued baby blue polo, licking around the top of a melting ice cream cone, careful not to let any drip onto his park-issued pleated khakis. He licked away on the refreshing treat and took a moment for himself. Just one moment to delight in the wonder of the park.
Kasam was just a boy when his mother first brought him there. You’ve got to understand his family wasn’t like these families. These days, a family vacation to the park could cost as much as a new car. Kasam’s family could never afford such an extravagant trip. But his father had just died. His mother used some of the insurance money to take her only child to a place where he might forget, if only momentarily, the weight of such a loss.
It worked. Maybe that’s why they call the park The Fantastical Realm. It’s not just the rides, after all. Sure, they’re fun. Kasam saw to that. But it’s the meticulous detail engrained in every element of the park, from the turquoise and pink façade of The Great Fairy Castle to the fire engine red garbage cans that look like little rocket ships in Future World to the orange, green, and pink plastered Coral Reef Mountains of Wally the Whale’s Enchanted Tales Adventure. Such thoughtful features make guests feel as if the magic of this place is molecular. When Kasam first stepped through those iconic golden gates all those years ago, he breathed in that magic for the first time, and the remainder of his tragedy vanished into the ether, leaving the boy with nothing but lungs full of wonder.
Was it easy to get a job as a ride engineer at the park? Of course not. There were tens of thousands of applicants each year. But it wasn’t easy getting into MIT either. That took tens of thousands of hours at empty libraries where the only thing that kept him focused was the wafting aroma of dust jackets and dreams. Once he got the gig, Kasam worked even harder. First one in, last one out, and all that. When he’d leave the park late at night, long after the Phasmagorical Fireworks Show had ended and all the guests had gone to bed, he’d head home tired and hungry and happy.
“Kasam, you alive over there?”
Kasam snapped out of his trance and shielded his eyes from the harsh sun. The park administrator, Mr. Dolittle, was looking down on him. It seemed like whenever Kasam was around his pasty face would break out in tiny red spots from a volcanic fusion of rage and sun rash.
“Kasam, in this country, we work when we’re at work. We don’t sit around eating ice cream cones and daydreaming about nonsense!” Dolittle said, his prolific belly jiggling angrily after each infuriated exclamation. “Now, have you checked those hydraulic rotors yet?”
“Mr. Dolittle?”
“Earth to Kasam! You in there?” Mr. Dolittle asked, snapping his thick fingers in front of Kasam’s face.
“Of course. I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I took care of those rotors this morning.”
“Fine,” Dolittle said, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck, “Now we’re not paying you this well to sit on your ass and eat ice cream!” His triple chin wiggled as he yelled at Kasam. A slight emendation, it wasn’t exactly a yell. The exclamation possessed a volume just below a yell. As the park administrator, Mr. Dolittle knew how to walk that tightrope, balancing along the precipice of making a scene without actually making one. It was perhaps the man’s only talent.
“Sir, I’m sorry. Truly. I was just….”
“Kasam, I’ve had just about enough of you,” Dolittle said. Then he paused, looked around the park, and snapped his fingers again. “You know what? Swing by my office after closing. It’s time we had a chat.”
A chat? But he hadn’t done anything wrong. Before he had a chance to explain himself, Mr. Dolittle had started wobbling away. For some reason, Kasam had always imagined that those who ran the park would have a cursory knowledge of the ins and outs of the mechanisms needed to make guests fall under the spell. He’d imagined the administrators would be professional magicians like him or at least huckster illusionists like the Great and Powerful Oz. But the Great and Powerful Dolittle possessed no such skill. He was a talentless hack whose primary role was to squeeze as much magic from the magicians as he could for as little money as he could.
What would Kasam do without this work? It was too painful to even consider. And to make matters worse, in the minute and a half that he spent spiraling downward into the abyss of his looming despair, the ice cream had melted all over his hand. The company had strict rules about employee cleanliness while in the park. No facial hair, no visible tattoos, and no unsanctioned hairstyles. He knew the execs up in Central Office wouldn’t look kindly on an engineer covered in melted ice cream, so Kasam scrambled to clean himself, washing off his hands in a nearby drinking fountain.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar almost yell on his walkie-talkie, “Kasam! Are you washing your hands in the water fountain?”
Kasam spun around, searching for a sign of Mr. Dolittle so he could explain himself.
“I can see you, Kasam!” Dolittle said. “For Christ’s sake, we have twenty-seven thousand cameras in the park. Now wash your hands in the restroom like a normal person! Remember. My office. Closing time!”
Kasam shut off his walkie. He was no dummy. For months, Mr. Dolittle opened their conversations with, “People like you, Kasam,” or “In this country, Kasam.” It didn’t take a degree from MIT, which Kasam had, to realize that man had it out for him. That man. That little angry man. Kasam had every reason to hate a man like Dolittle. But he didn’t. He didn’t hate anyone. Though he didn’t respect him either, which was about as close to hate as Kasam could get.
Kasam considered rebellion. He considered going to Janet in H.R. and reporting Mr. Dolittle for an imaginary crime, like calling him a racial slur or ogling a female guest. Kasam could never do something like that. Then he considered resetting the system-wide ride track timers to increase guest wait time by over 40%. He knew such an adjustment would unleash a hell storm of guest furor, and the park would descend into chaos. But such a petty vengeance taken upon innocent strangers would also erode the magic veil of this place for all of the children in the park, both young and old. No, Kasam could never do something like that either.
He could have spent his final hours in pensive anguish over his pending eviction. Instead, Kasam spent his final evening as an employee at the park wandering the imaginary landscape of the Fantastical Realm like a child lost in a dream. He strolled past Lightning Mountain and listened to the euphoric screams of the delighted riders. He walked by the Giant Panda Revelry Animatronic Showcase and whistled along to their country ditty. He moseyed along the Santa Fe Water Flume track and breathed in the delicious familiarity of chlorinated water and fried dough.
It was all so clean. It was all so safe. It was all so absent of tragedy.
Kasam was no sucker. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew it was all an illusion. He knew it was just smoke and mirrors. But he didn’t care.
The best part of his job was getting to watch wobbly-kneed guests stumble from the exit. Decked out in overpriced park merch and on the verge of barfing, they’d gleefully probe one another, “How’d they do that?” Kasam got a kick out of listening to their unbridled theories like “It must have mirrors under the tracks” or “They’ve gotta be using magnets to pull open the dragon’s mouth.” Every now and then, a brave guest would approach and ask him about the mechanics of the magic. He’d get this wry smile on his lean face and say, “There’s not much to it, really. Just smoke and mirrors.”
The day it was all taken from Kasam was one of those scorching days at the park where the air seemed to sweat under the savage Southern sun. He sat alone on a bench in his starched park-issued baby blue polo, licking around the top of a melting ice cream cone, careful not to let any drip onto his park-issued pleated khakis. He licked away on the refreshing treat and took a moment for himself. Just one moment to delight in the wonder of the park.
Kasam was just a boy when his mother first brought him there. You’ve got to understand his family wasn’t like these families. These days, a family vacation to the park could cost as much as a new car. Kasam’s family could never afford such an extravagant trip. But his father had just died. His mother used some of the insurance money to take her only child to a place where he might forget, if only momentarily, the weight of such a loss.
It worked. Maybe that’s why they call the park The Fantastical Realm. It’s not just the rides, after all. Sure, they’re fun. Kasam saw to that. But it’s the meticulous detail engrained in every element of the park, from the turquoise and pink façade of The Great Fairy Castle to the fire engine red garbage cans that look like little rocket ships in Future World to the orange, green, and pink plastered Coral Reef Mountains of Wally the Whale’s Enchanted Tales Adventure. Such thoughtful features make guests feel as if the magic of this place is molecular. When Kasam first stepped through those iconic golden gates all those years ago, he breathed in that magic for the first time, and the remainder of his tragedy vanished into the ether, leaving the boy with nothing but lungs full of wonder.
Was it easy to get a job as a ride engineer at the park? Of course not. There were tens of thousands of applicants each year. But it wasn’t easy getting into MIT either. That took tens of thousands of hours at empty libraries where the only thing that kept him focused was the wafting aroma of dust jackets and dreams. Once he got the gig, Kasam worked even harder. First one in, last one out, and all that. When he’d leave the park late at night, long after the Phasmagorical Fireworks Show had ended and all the guests had gone to bed, he’d head home tired and hungry and happy.
“Kasam, you alive over there?”
Kasam snapped out of his trance and shielded his eyes from the harsh sun. The park administrator, Mr. Dolittle, was looking down on him. It seemed like whenever Kasam was around his pasty face would break out in tiny red spots from a volcanic fusion of rage and sun rash.
“Kasam, in this country, we work when we’re at work. We don’t sit around eating ice cream cones and daydreaming about nonsense!” Dolittle said, his prolific belly jiggling angrily after each infuriated exclamation. “Now, have you checked those hydraulic rotors yet?”
“Mr. Dolittle?”
“Earth to Kasam! You in there?” Mr. Dolittle asked, snapping his thick fingers in front of Kasam’s face.
“Of course. I’m sorry, sir. Yes, I took care of those rotors this morning.”
“Fine,” Dolittle said, wiping the sweat off the back of his neck, “Now we’re not paying you this well to sit on your ass and eat ice cream!” His triple chin wiggled as he yelled at Kasam. A slight emendation, it wasn’t exactly a yell. The exclamation possessed a volume just below a yell. As the park administrator, Mr. Dolittle knew how to walk that tightrope, balancing along the precipice of making a scene without actually making one. It was perhaps the man’s only talent.
“Sir, I’m sorry. Truly. I was just….”
“Kasam, I’ve had just about enough of you,” Dolittle said. Then he paused, looked around the park, and snapped his fingers again. “You know what? Swing by my office after closing. It’s time we had a chat.”
A chat? But he hadn’t done anything wrong. Before he had a chance to explain himself, Mr. Dolittle had started wobbling away. For some reason, Kasam had always imagined that those who ran the park would have a cursory knowledge of the ins and outs of the mechanisms needed to make guests fall under the spell. He’d imagined the administrators would be professional magicians like him or at least huckster illusionists like the Great and Powerful Oz. But the Great and Powerful Dolittle possessed no such skill. He was a talentless hack whose primary role was to squeeze as much magic from the magicians as he could for as little money as he could.
What would Kasam do without this work? It was too painful to even consider. And to make matters worse, in the minute and a half that he spent spiraling downward into the abyss of his looming despair, the ice cream had melted all over his hand. The company had strict rules about employee cleanliness while in the park. No facial hair, no visible tattoos, and no unsanctioned hairstyles. He knew the execs up in Central Office wouldn’t look kindly on an engineer covered in melted ice cream, so Kasam scrambled to clean himself, washing off his hands in a nearby drinking fountain.
Suddenly, he heard a familiar almost yell on his walkie-talkie, “Kasam! Are you washing your hands in the water fountain?”
Kasam spun around, searching for a sign of Mr. Dolittle so he could explain himself.
“I can see you, Kasam!” Dolittle said. “For Christ’s sake, we have twenty-seven thousand cameras in the park. Now wash your hands in the restroom like a normal person! Remember. My office. Closing time!”
Kasam shut off his walkie. He was no dummy. For months, Mr. Dolittle opened their conversations with, “People like you, Kasam,” or “In this country, Kasam.” It didn’t take a degree from MIT, which Kasam had, to realize that man had it out for him. That man. That little angry man. Kasam had every reason to hate a man like Dolittle. But he didn’t. He didn’t hate anyone. Though he didn’t respect him either, which was about as close to hate as Kasam could get.
Kasam considered rebellion. He considered going to Janet in H.R. and reporting Mr. Dolittle for an imaginary crime, like calling him a racial slur or ogling a female guest. Kasam could never do something like that. Then he considered resetting the system-wide ride track timers to increase guest wait time by over 40%. He knew such an adjustment would unleash a hell storm of guest furor, and the park would descend into chaos. But such a petty vengeance taken upon innocent strangers would also erode the magic veil of this place for all of the children in the park, both young and old. No, Kasam could never do something like that either.
He could have spent his final hours in pensive anguish over his pending eviction. Instead, Kasam spent his final evening as an employee at the park wandering the imaginary landscape of the Fantastical Realm like a child lost in a dream. He strolled past Lightning Mountain and listened to the euphoric screams of the delighted riders. He walked by the Giant Panda Revelry Animatronic Showcase and whistled along to their country ditty. He moseyed along the Santa Fe Water Flume track and breathed in the delicious familiarity of chlorinated water and fried dough.
It was all so clean. It was all so safe. It was all so absent of tragedy.
Kasam was no sucker. He knew it wasn’t real. He knew it was all an illusion. He knew it was just smoke and mirrors. But he didn’t care.
Jeremy Stelzner’s stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines, journals, and anthologies, including the 2024 Coolest American Stories, Across the Margin Magazine, The Jewish Literary Journal, and The After Happy Hour Journal of Literature and Art. He was named runner-up for the 2024 Press 53 Award for Short Fiction. He is a graduate of the Creative Writing program at the Harvard Extension School and teaches literature. You can find his work at www.jastelzner.com or reach him by email at [email protected]