In the world of stage magic, things are exactly what they aren’t. The assistant floats in the air and then disappears. Coins vanish, reappear, and multiply. Silk scarves change size and color. The list is endless but the only thing they have in common is while we don’t know how they’re done, we do know they’re not actually happening.

But lately I’ve been thinking about its opposite, or what were we’re fond of calling reality. And what I’ve been thinking is while things in reality are supposed to be exactly what they are, all too often they’re not.

For example, take luck.

Good luck, as the name implies, should always be good for us, and bad luck should always be bad. But how often is that the exception rather than the rule?

People talk about winning the lottery, the ultimate feat of good fortune, as if it’d solve all their problems. But if you check the lottery winners’ stories, you’ll find a whole bunch who, rather than having their problems solved, ended up with a slew of new ones.

Some just flat out blew it. Houses, cars, uber-costly vacations, insanely expensive (and overpriced) jewelry … You name it, they bought it … till they had nothing left to buy anything with.

Others, because they never had any money, had no idea what to do with it once they did. Being the perfect target for every con artist rocking the title “Financial adviser,” they not only lost all their money, but ended up owing a buttload too.

Still others, incapable of thinking the well could ever run dry and being generous by nature, made sure everyone they loved, liked, or knew kinda-sorta, had houses, start-up businesses, vehicles, monster weddings — everything and anything — till they themselves had nothing … including peeps they loved, liked or knew kinda-sorta.

In another realm: In spite of all the malarky hustled by motivational speakers, success all too often depends less on skill and hard work than on the breaks. Having connections, being in the right place at the right time, slick self-promotion and bogus successes have put more incompetents in high places than you’d want to think about. Especially since at one time or another we’ve all worked for those jamokes.

Or how about this? Most of us think great looks are a great deal. But it seems almost no one — even beautiful peeps — is satisfied with their looks. And so the “corrective measures” industry abounds. There are tummy tucks, bum lifts, boob jobs, lip plumpings, thigh reductions, silicone here, botox there. And all too often the results are worse than they started with, if they’re not downright grotesque: A good-looking sexagenarian can, after a few sessions under the knife, emerge looking like a reject from a wax museum. Michael Jackson may be the most famous and egregious example, but he’s far from the only one.

So much for good luck always being good. How about bad luck always being bad?

–

Beatin’ the dress blues blues

–

I graduated from college in January ’69. Theoretically, we were withdrawing from Vietnam; in reality we had more troops there than ever. The draft was in full force and making sure a whole lot of boys weren’t hangin’ out on the streets. Once you were 1-A you had about a month before you got your greetings from everyone’s least-favorite uncle (Sam, if you didn’t know).

As I recall, about a month after I graduated, my draft status went from 2-S (full-time student) to 1-A (potential cannon fodder), and about a month after that, I was informed that in another month I’d be getting an all-expense-paid trip to Fort Dix.

Bad luck? No, just a fact of life. Besides, I’d planned on enlisting in the Navy before I graduated.

Now here’s the weird part: Before I graduated, I’d been offered a job teaching high school history in a small town in the St. Lawrence river valley. Along with the promise of me starring in my own version of The Dead Poets Society, the job came with another perk — a draft deferment. But there was no way I was going to take it. After studying my dupa off for a bunch of years, I didn’t want to become enslaved in the world of books and papers. Plus, to be brutally honest, I didn’t think I had the energy to do it anyway, so it was off to Great Lakes for Boot Dope.

Now, on the surface, losing that job would seem like a bad break. But was it?

OK, so boot camp pushed my tender psyche to extremes I’d never imagined, but it wasn’t all bad. For one thing, rising to the occasion gave me resolve I’d never had before. And for another thing, it was the healthiest environment I’d been in for years. Before I got to boot camp, I’d been living on a steady diet of coffee, cigarettes, sleeplessness; and stress. Once there, I started getting sleep, exercise, and excellent food, and got in the best shape I’d been in in my life. So, ultimately, it was a win-win.

The rest of my time in the Navy, while it had its low points, was on the whole an excellent experience. I liked the work I did; the senior NCO’s and officers, with a few notable exceptions, were solid; I got to travel around Europe; and my best friend from then is still my best friend. So while some folks might view my Navy experience as a waste of time (certainly, my job as a Morse Code operator didn’t give me any advantage in the civilian job market), I don’t view it as such.

–

The last word

–

A couple of weeks ago, thinking about my getting out of college and going in the Navy, something suddenly popped into my mind. On Dec. 1, 1969, the draft changed radically. No longer were local draft boards in charge of who went and who didn’t. Instead, a national lottery was held. Guys born between Jan. 1, 1944 and Dec. 1, 1950 were put in the hopper by their birthday. Then numbers were pulled out at random till the quota was filled and people were drafted. Those who didn’t get picked were home free.

Of course, that meant doodle to me, since when the lottery was introduced, I’d already been in the Navy eight months. But last week, just for kicks, I checked what my number would have been. It was 318, which meant before they would’ve drafted me, they’d have taken pre-school kids, little old ladies and Spanish American War vets.

And then I thought about What If? In this case, what if I’d taken that teaching job? Because if I’d had that job for just one year, I would’ve been forever draft-exampt. So on first glance, it looks like by not taking the job, I’d missed my Golden Opportunity. Which, upon closer examination, doesn’t stand up at all.

First, who’s to say just because I had the job, that I’d like it? Maybe the administrators were blazing incompetents. Maybe the students were thugs and druggies. Maybe the town’s only attractions were one redneck bar and a library whose most recent book was The Great Gatsby. Maybe if I’d taken that job, I would’ve been so downed out and disgusted, I would’ve quit teaching for good, and missed all the great times I did have teaching.

Maybe… maybe… maybe…

Of course, all this is hindsight. And the last word on hindsight I learned from someone I used to teach with.

He was born in the nineteen-teens, very formal and mildly stuffy, and perhaps the most cynical human being I ever knew. But his cynicism was more intellectual than personal — he was unfailingly pleasant to me and we always had good chats. And in one, the subject of which I’ve long forgotten, I mentioned something about hindsight.

“Well, you know what they say about hindsight,” he said.

“Sure,” I said. “That it’s always twenty-twenty.”

“Yes,” he said. “But that’s not the full expression.”

“Oh?” I said. “It’s not?”

I was confused, since I’d never known there was another part of the expression. And the reason I hadn’t known was because the expression was his and his alone.

“So what’s the full expression?” I asked.

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” he intoned, and then added, “… and not worth a damn.”