by hope
Torres taught a student to do a short play while going through a trick. (Credit: Hope Zhu)
On a Sunday afternoon, in a borrowed classroom at Lehman College, Eddie Torres set a deck of cards on a folding table surrounded by 13 kids. He asked them to pick one while he looked away.
Eleven-year-old Ananya Banksous chose the four of clubs, flashed it around, and slid it back into the deck. Torres, a professional magician, turned away, shuffled, then revealed a five of diamonds.
“Is this your card?”
“No,” said Ananya, fluently.
Torres squinted, pretending to smoke. “No?” He threw the card high on the wall. “Look up.”
Thirteen heads snapped back. Four clubs were stuck, six feet up.
The room erupted. “How did you do it?” The children screamed.
Ananya folded her arms, unsure. “It’s science.”
“You’ll learn it,” Torres said with a knowing smile.
On Friday and Saturday nights, Torres, 42, works as a magician at a Jackson Heights bar called Mojito, twisting coins with his fingers and correctly naming cards a customer picks. On Sundays, however, he shepherds children through a similar practice at his alma mater, Layman College. In late December, he ends the 12-week free session with a magic show for their parents.
“Magic is making the impossible possible,” Torres said. For kids in the Bronx, who don’t see much opportunity, this is a good theme.
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For Torres, a Bronx native, magic is a form of performance art—like theater or dance—that takes years to master. In the Bronx, however, art is often out of reach: In the Bronx, a 2025 analysis by the New York City Independent Budget Office found that nearly one in five Bronx schools have no certified art teachers or city-funded local arts programs.
“In Manhattan, people see a lot of magic off the street,” said Torres, who teaches magic at a private school in upper Manhattan.
Torres grew up hooked on “weird and weird things” — sci-fi, superheroes, “Rick and Morty” — that let her imagination run wild. At age 14, his mother bought him a Marshall Brodien magic set, and he soon began checking out every magic book from her public library branch. He then began performing at his mother’s church in Queens. His favorite was the rope trick, which involved twisting the torres and pulling the rope until it changed length.
Shy by nature, Torres studied performing arts at Lehman, thinking that acting would provide “a structured way to interact with people”.
His first full-time magician job, spanning a grueling 12 years, was a theatrical turn at Ninja New York, a Japanese restaurant in Tribeca. Servers dressed in black will jump from hidden doors, or drop from ceilings to startle guests. Then Torres appeared, dressed head-to-toe in black except for a small white pocket with the word “RENT” sewn into the tips.
To begin his work, he opened his wallet, letting a flame burn from its folds. He then goes into a rapid-fire routine, channeling one of his idols, Harry “The Hat” Anderson. “Ninja is where I learned everything,” Torres said. “This is where I’ve seen people grow up, finish school, get employed, start families.”
Then came the epidemic. Ninja shut down overnight in March 2020. Torres’ father died in an assisted living facility, and his mother soon after. In 2023, her beloved cat Tiberius, “one of the greatest little creatures ever to walk this earth,” also died. Jobs, health insurance, loved ones, all gone one by one. Even his best tactics could not restore what he had lost.
Freed from damages, Torres admits that he was never a businessman; He was always chasing art. Now, he’s just looking for the next gig, trying to make a living out of thin air.
In 2024, the trick finally landed. During a job interview, after seeing Torres produce a potato from the bottom of an empty cup, Mojito’s owner hired him on the spot.
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During his recent commute to Mojito, Torres scanned 7 trains en route to Grand Central Station. The car was full. He shook his head. “I have to go to a place where I can sit,” he said.
It takes an hour and a half to get from a Holland Avenue apartment in the Bronx to the bar — two subway rides and a bus. He works Friday and Saturday nights from 7 to 11 p.m. and gets home after 1 a.m. He’s happy if he walks away with $80 to $90 a night. At Ninja, he took home $200 or more most nights.
The epidemic left its mark on Torres in the widening of his waistline and the thickening of his jawline. Frustrated, he stopped posting pictures of himself on Instagram. “I wasn’t who I am now,” he said. “It’s because of all the stress in my life.”
In Mojito, however, the wizard was alive and at work. This Halloween night, she made small sponge balls for customers celebrating an anniversary. The balls, actually pink hearts, fit the theme.
I was so shocked,” Louise Alex, a customer, said as the heart fell out of her hand. “It just blew up. Magic really does exist!
What makes Torres’ magic stand out, said Layman Stage Associate Director Henry Ovalles, who went to school and worked on the show with him, is that what he does is always “full of heart.”
“The audience leaves smiling when Eddie gets involved in the show,” Ovalles said. “When he does magic, it’s like a stand-up comedy magic-type show. But it’s never crazy, never angry, never hateful and never comedy that puts people down. It always lifts people up, makes people feel good. And there’s a sweetness to it.”
Torres also holds herself to a high standard. He usually fiddles with a coin or deck, even while gaming or watching TV, to improve his skills. He expects the same from the children in his workshop. When a trick worked, he would laugh and say, “Good. But next time, tell a story. Be dramatic. Keep them curious.”
“He talks to them like they’re his own age,” Ovalles said. “Kids are used to people using baby voices with them, but he shows them how things work and makes them feel on the same level as him.”
began to show. Ananya Bankusu’s mother, Sadio Jonas, said she noticed her daughter performing with more confidence, adding a line or two of her own. “It’s such a social skill,” he said. “Something he can use when he grows up.”
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Each day of the workshop ends with a short show time. Ananya took out a deck of cards and took a breath.
“Pick a card,” he told Torres.
He took two hearts, looked at them, then pushed them into the stack. Ananya cut the deck, then shuffled, eyes stuck behind her rose-tinted glasses.
“Misdirect me,” Torres reminded him.
“Your hands are soft,” Ananya said without looking up.
Torres laughed and swallowed.
Ananya showed him four spades. “Is this your card?”
“No,” Torres said.
Ananya pounded four spades on the desk; When he raised his hand, it turned into two hearts. “Is this your card?” he asked again.
“Yes. Well done!” Torres said. “Next time, when you misdirect me, tell me something about cards.”
A smile appeared on the girl’s face. His brother, Ansel, cracked up beside him. His version of the trick ended with a card pulled from his hoodie. Torres sends them off with a challenge: show the trick to at least three people outside of their family.
“There’s something about a kid really trying to learn,” Torres said. “You give them a little tip, and when it clicks, you see their eyes go ‘Oh.’ That moment—it’s so satisfying.”
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Previously published with columbiannewsservice Creative Commons License
Photo credit: Torres teaches a student to do a short play while going through a trick. (Credit: Hope Zhu)
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