Alex is pretty sure that life sucks. He's broke, about to be out of a home, and all he has to show for his life is a mysterious tarot card that has no real value. But when an old tarot card expert tells Alex to keep the card in his sight, amazing things begin to happen.
Transported to another world, where magic reigns, Alex meets an man who
might just change his boring life. He's not sure if he can stay in his new lover's world, but just when all seems hopeless, Alex finds out that magic isn't dead, even in his own world.
Alex sank into his threadbare armchair and sorted through his mail with the flair of a card shark, flipping envelopes with uncanny precision into a wastepaper basket. Just as he was about to flick the envelope that was ominously marked “FINAL NOTICE” in stenciled, bright red letters into the trash along with the junk mail, the lights flickered. Wincing, he eyed the table lamp as though it were a traitor and grudgingly laid the envelope on the coffee table.
Wondering what he had left to hock that would generate enough cash to keep the electric company from shutting off his power, Alex’s hazel eyes wandered around the room.
There wasn’t much at all. The walls were bare except for a cheap print of Dali’s Persistence of Memory, mounted in an equally inexpensive frame. His television set, an ancient Magnavox, was crowned with a pair of antique rabbit ears and boasted a tiny thirteen-inch screen with a fourteen inch crack zigzagging across its casing. Aside from that, the only furnishings in Alex’s tiny studio apartment were his coffee table, armchair, lamp, chest of drawers, and tiny folding cot, all of which had been someone else’s discards that Alex had lifted from curbside before the garbage trucks had come along. The table and bureau were dull, scuffed, and older than Alex himself. The lamp’s cord was frayed and its pleated, orange-fringed shade was mildewed. In not much better condition, his cot and armchair were barely more than a collection of lethal springs covered with cheesy, cheap fabric. Everything else of value that Alex had owned had already been either sold or repossessed.
Perhaps he could sell his blood, Alex thought. He still owned that, although the doctor to whom he owed several hundred dollars in unpaid medical bills from bout with pneumonia six months earlier might disagree.
It had been an incredibly hard year for Alexander. In fact, it had been three long, difficult years since, fresh-faced and with the imprint of his mortarboard still visible across his forehead, he had stepped off the bus straight from the middle of the cornfields of Iowa and onto the Great White Way of New York City. Or rather, onto one of the dingy, garbage-strewn side streets that intersected the Great White Way. Alex had not made it to Broadway yet. The closest he’d come was a short-lived job delivering singing telegrams.
Besides the telegram gig, his résumé included busboy, waiter, bartender, cashier, and a short but memorable stint mucking out horse stalls near Central Park. He’d held every job to be had in the City for a man without a college degree it seemed, except for the one Alex most wanted – actor.
Talent wasn’t an issue, or so he’d thought. Alex had been the brightest star shining at St. Stanislaus’ High back in Cedar Creek, Iowa. His slender angelic looks and clear tenor voice had won him lead roles and the accolades of the student body and faculty alike. Alex had practically expected agents to fall at his feet and beg him to sign with them the instant he disembarked from his Greyhound bus at the Port Authority Bus Terminal.
Instead, it had turned out to be the other way around.