It Takes Two

by Jonathan Scott

  Jonathan: Jail is a much better option than the crushing financial misstep of landing on your overdeveloped mega-monstrosities. Oh, and I should be able to rezone for a strip mall of bail bondsmen. And while we’re at it, what’s the point of Marvin having a garden if I can’t up the rent by adding on a sweet deck with a wood-burning pizza oven?

  Alleged Desperate Measures

  Drew: Hide cash in off-shore accounts. Baffle with complex negotiations that inevitably result in acceptance over mental exhaustion. Never turn down the opportunity to stash extra bills embezzled from another friend’s board.

  Jonathan: Create an open-concept jail by demo’ing exterior wall. Add tiny houses to trains on money-losing railroad and call them sleeper cars to collect more rent. Use magic skills to vanish a few of your archrival’s hotels. Or your archrival.

  Like a lot of kids, I fell under the spell of a superhero when I was small and still wondrously unaware of any border treaties between my imagination and day-to-day reality. I got my own cape and set about readying myself to someday become part of the fantastical realm where he reigned supreme. No plans to run away or anything drastic like that—I’d just commute, which wouldn’t be a problem since flying was one of my hero’s talents. Meanwhile, I read everything I could about him, glued myself to the television whenever he came on, and pored over photographs of all the unique things he was continually creating to enhance his special powers. I studied his every move and even began to mimic his mannerisms like some kind of oversized featherless parrot. I didn’t just admire him; I wanted to be him. Or at least a reasonable facsimile. I love Drew and all, but there had been a serious malfunction in the cosmic copy machine: I was meant to be David Copperfield’s clone.*

  *Umm, I got shortchanged worse in the cloning dept. Michael Jordan and I share way more in common!

  Thirty-two years after Copperfield first captivated me, I’m still a fan.

  And while I did fulfill my dream of becoming an entertainer, there’s a part of me that will always wish I became famous wielding a wand instead of a sledgehammer. Destiny’s little sleight of hand, I guess. Still, the career I’m thrilled to have and the one I thought I’d have are intertwined in curious and surprising ways.

  Magic became my “thing” at age 7, and I outgrew toy-aisle magic kits in no time. I was still in grade school when I began performing for an audience after Drew and I were hired as clowns for Parks and Rec. I would entertain kids at birthday parties with tricks like turning two lengths of rope into one without the benefit of knots, glue sticks, or used chewing gum. My biggest hit was a G-rated routine starring a pair of red sponge rabbits I called Mr. and Mrs. Bunny, who would magically reproduce twenty tiny baby sponge bunnies inside my volunteer’s closed hand. Let Mommy and Daddy explain that when the party is over.

  The constant honing of my craft on the home front didn’t always draw the same appreciative response I got with sponge bunnies at birthday parties. I had a habit of cutting up my parents’ newspapers every day—sometimes before they were done reading them—so I would have “ribbons” I could practice bonding together with a wave of my hand. I left a trail of shredded newspaper all over the place; it looked like a mini-tornado had touched down in a gerbil habitat. My mother likewise knew who to blame if her silk scarves, linen napkins, or company tablecloth went missing; her suspicions would be confirmed when I unveiled my newest routine at my weekly Friday night show for the family.

  Drew turned out to be the ideal chump to practice on because, on occasion, he could be as gullible as I was crafty, falling for the same trick again and again. My favorite was to flip a coin to see who got stuck mowing the lawn (and we’re talking acres here). Drew didn’t figure out I was using a double-headed nickel for over a year. What a fool, trusting me!* I could also cut cards in a way that—what astonishing luck!!!—favored me nearly every time. You’d think he would catch on and perhaps shuffle and deal on his own, but . . . no. (As long as you throw a few and let them win now and then, the chronically clueless won’t start to suspect your deck is loaded.)

  *Maybe I enjoyed spending that time in the beautiful outdoors!

  My self-education in the illusionary arts predated YouTube, and I relied heavily on the classic eight-volume Tarbell Lessons in Magic and its 3,000-plus illustrations to guide me from beginner to master, while also befriending local performers like David Wilson and Shawn Farquhar, who served as role models and sounding boards. Shawn was the magician’s magician, having won every major award in magic, yet he still made time to mentor a skinny little kid with big dreams, and we’ve since become friends.

  I joined the Vancouver Magic Circle and the International Brotherhood of Magicians around eighth grade and religiously attended the Magic Circle’s monthly meetings, where magicians would spend a couple of hours swapping stories, holding mini-competitions, and performing for each other. Dad would drive me the 40 minutes each way and wait patiently in the car. He was my biggest fan when it came to magic. He would help me come up with ideas or gather materials to build my own illusions at home, and even began asking my advice on his own projects around the farm after I became adept at carpentry and metalworking.

  Once a month, Drew and I would go downtown with Mom to help do some filing at the law office where she worked. It was good pay. Good pay for buying magic supplies. Every penny I earned there did its own vanishing act when I discovered there was a fabulous Diagon Alley–esque place called Jacko’s Magic only five or six blocks from the law office. I would sneak off for extended lunch hours to pull books off the store shelves to thumb through, learn something, then put them back. The owner, Jacko, never kicked me out. He saw the passion I had and only wanted to foster it. Jacko displayed all the different effects in a long glass case. I would peer through the glass to study the coins, handcuffs, trick decks, cups and balls, and things that still to this day remain a mystery. If it was magic, it was in there, or on one of the twenty shelves that spanned all the way up to the 14-foot ceilings. I gladly spent my pay on beautiful silks for sleight of hand or playing cards with an extra-smooth finish so I could dabble in fancy flourishes.

  I was around 12 when I finally got to see David Copperfield on tour. My parents bought tickets for me and a friend for his appearance at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre in Vancouver. As I settled into my sixth-row seat, I could already feel the anticipation buzzing through the audience like a electrical current.

  Then the theater went dark, and billows of smoke swirled onstage like ground fog as music began to swell. An elegant, empty elevator appeared high above the stage and began its slow descent. I instantly recognized Copperfield’s dazzling Heaven on the Seventh Floor illusion, and even though I knew what was coming next, I felt my heart race as the silhouette of a man slowly began to take mystical shape inside the elevator, floor by floor, as it lowered to the stage to the bone-chilling beauty of Phil Collins’s song “Find a Way to My Heart.” The door opened and there stood Copperfield, confident as could be because he knew: It was awesome. He hopped down to thunderous applause.

  I spent the next couple of hours in a state of rapture.

  When he asked for volunteers from the audience for certain tricks, I somehow managed not to squirm and make monkey noises like a spazzed-out second-grader trying to the get the teacher’s attention with the answer. I sent him telepathic* commands instead: Choose me, choose me, choose me!!! He looked right in my direction YES, YES, ME!!! then beckoned someone two rows down. Oh, c’mon. You’ve got to be kidding!

  *More like tele-pathetic. LOL

  In my head, I started breaking apart his illusions to figure out how each worked, but the magic of Copperfield was about much more than the technicalities. I was drawn in by the showmanship, the music, the lighting, and especially the stories Copperfield told to build up his illusions. Magic wasn’t something he performed; it was something he embodied. His passion breathed fire and life into the art. I felt transporte
d, still exhilarated and almost giddy from the wild ride when I left the theater and spotted people lining up around the side of the theater, screaming the star’s name. Figuring it had to be the stage door, I threaded my way between all the elbows to a prime spot as Copperfield greeted fans on the way to his limo. When he approached my cluster of admirers to say hello, I managed to blurt out an introduction of sorts.

  “I’m a magician, too!” I said. “I want to do what you do.”

  “It takes a lot of work,” Copperfield replied with a warm smile.

  My superhero had just spoken to me. I nodded.

  It was settled, then. I’d do whatever it took.

  By high school, I had the skills, custom illusions, and props to book gigs at small venues or clubs and even hired a few professional dancers to join me onstage. All efforts to recruit Drew as my assistant failed.* It was a clear violation of the stunt-double-for-life clause in fine print on our birth certificates, but I let it slide.

  *Let’s see: Play basketball with the guys or get locked inside a trunk alone, wearing a sparkly bodysuit? I’ve had tougher choices.

  At 16, I won 3rd Best Stage Performer in the Pacific Coast Association of Magicians magic competition. That’s right: I was officially an Olympian of magic. Well, in my head, at least. I had also gained some local recognition with appearances on morning talk shows. I grew my hair out and started wearing a puffy leather bomber jacket and fitted black jeans like David Copperfield.*

  *We once heard him say, “Do you know who I am?” to the bouncer turning us away from some dive.

  That must have been some other pleather pant–sporting conjurer.

  I did think my alternate persona needed a flashier name, though. As I started performing more and more, I started imagining the sound of an announcer’s voice, bringing me to the stage. “THE MAGIC OF JOHN SCOTT” fell flat. Even “Jonathan Scott” didn’t seem to have the right ring to it, but I liked how “Jonathan” sounded. I remember sitting in the living room with Dad, tossing ideas for a stage name back and forth but nothing really grabbed us. Then Dad’s face lit up. “I’ve got it!” he practically shouted. “You’re Scottish and proud of it. Go with . . .” He drew out the announcement, waiting for a drum roll, knowing the suspense was killing me—and enjoying every second.

  “. . . JONATHAN THE LIONHEARTED!”

  There was silence as I tried not to show the whole-body cringe on my face. Of all the amazing ideas my dad had come up with to date, this was not one of them. I mean, it would be a cool name if I were a knight, but missed the mark for a magician. I hurried past the awkwardness by explaining to Dad that I might have uncovered a secret tie among some of the greatest magicians of all time: They all seemed to have an element or color in their names. David COPPERfield. Harry BLACKstone, and even Harry BLACKstone Jr. What about . . . Silver? Nobody was using Silver. Jonathan Silver? “THE MAGIC OF JONATHAN SILVER.” Holy smokes—that sounded amazing. It sounded like one of those names that you KNOW must belong to a famous person. With dad’s hesitant approval (after all, it was no Lionhearted), it was official. That was the first day of the rest of my magic life.

  I worked with a local artist in High River to come up with a caricature of me to put on business cards that offered the services of Jonathan Silver, International Illusionist, for TV, film, and corporate events. No need for it to mention that I was in the tenth grade.

  Everybody just started calling me Jonathan, onstage and off, and I eventually had my name legally changed as an adult from John Ian Scott to Jonathan Silver Scott. I didn’t change my last name because, Lionhearted or not, I am proud of my Scottish heritage. Plus it would be strange for identical twin brothers to have different surnames. (And, frankly, I thought my dad would disown me if I did.)

  In my late teens, I got approached about auditioning for a TV movie where they needed a magician to be the hands of the lead character. My agent asked me if I could roll a coin across my knuckles the way gamblers do. “Yeah, of course,” I answered nonchalantly, making it sound like it was some nervous tic I couldn’t stop doing even if I tried. Fact was, I had never rolled a coin across my knuckles in my life. It takes a ridiculous amount of coordination and concentration, not to mention tons of practice. There should be finger gyms or workout videos. I thought I had perfectly nimble magician hands, but my fingers had not been trained by Cirque du Soleil. My fingers were confused.

  They say if you want to become expert at anything, you have to do it 10,000 times. Walking a quarter down my knuckles must have taken 100,000 tries. I started doing it everywhere to squeeze in the practice where I could. In the car, at dinner, in bed. It took about thirty hours of solid practice over several days before I finally nailed it. I went to the audition, performed the trick without a hitch, and never heard from them again. Since I knew my quarter-roll was spot on, I was left to wonder why my hands didn’t get a callback. Were my thumbs stubby?*

  *Wow, I’ve heard of a face for radio, but not even hands for TV?

  I really preferred creating tricks of my own, anyway. Most magic builders and inventors aren’t performers, but I liked being able to design and build exactly what I wanted, tailored to my specific vision. I would even dream of performing an illusion and, the second I woke up, begin drawing it. Nothing was more gratifying than starting with the glimmer of an idea and coaxing it to life, from sketches on a piece of paper to months of rough drafting, meticulous measuring, sawing, welding, and adjusting until that moment when I was actually using my new effect onstage.

  When I was helping my dad build our big ranch house in Alberta, he suggested we build a three-car garage with a vaulted ceiling so I could practice my illusions. I knew it was a ploy to get me to come home for weekends from the University of Calgary, and I was totally cool with that. Free food, laundry, AND a big space of my own? What’s not to love? Whenever I went down to the ranch, I’d head straight for the garage, where I would get so lost in my work, I didn’t even notice night falling or hear the winter winds howling outside. Magic consumed me. I ended up expanding my operation to the barn for manufacturing and kept the garage strictly for practice, rehearsing in front of big mirrors salvaged from a department store that closed.

  Once I had worked out all the kinks with an illusion, I would deem it officially ready to perform. The feeling of using one of my illusions onstage was equal parts thrilling and terrifying. Thrilling to see a vision that had existed solely in my head become something real that others could enjoy. Terrifying because I’m an over-analyzer and there were SOOO many things that could go wrong. I typically worked out in advance a Plan A, B, C, D . . . all the way to Z. What if a caster breaks off mid-performance? You need to ensure the prop doesn’t tip over. What if a door jams halfway through? You need to make certain it’s a break-away. What if a lion escapes and comes after me? You need to remind yourself you don’t have lions in your act. Still, you never know! Consider adding an emergency lion trap door. In the end, I overbuilt the illusions to the point where they’d rarely break down. But MAN, were they heavy.

  Even when it’s DIY, large illusions like mine didn’t come cheap. Drew and I had launched our first house-flipping venture soon after we got to U Calgary, though, and we were off to a strong start. The profits I didn’t funnel directly back into real estate I’d invest into developing and building enough illusions to someday have my own touring show. At the same time, my years of immersion in magic fed my success with flipping: I loved the challenge of figuring out how to make something work, and how to dream up something beautiful and bring it to life.

  Building the illusions was only half the challenge, though: These were massive pieces—some 10 feet tall and hundreds of pounds—that couldn’t be hauled around in the bed of a pickup truck. I saved enough money to have a big trailer built with all the bells and whistles to safely haul all my props and gear. But I needed to build more of a name for myself before I could count on filling the
seats for a multi-city tour.

  I decided to give Vancouver another try—the city offered a lot more opportunities for aspiring entertainers, and we had just finished our latest flip. I left most of my props behind in storage in Alberta, along with some old illusions I planned to sell. Some I’d made, and others I’d bought. If I did book a gig, I would simply ship what I needed to Vancouver. Otherwise, I had enough magical supplies with me to cover any smaller performances. But my touring dream was still very much alive, and I managed to line up meetings with various touring companies and agents to discuss the possibilities. I could tell their wheels were turning and they were interested in working with me. One of the secret superpowers I do possess is the ability to sell myself when meeting people face to face. As always, I kept inventing new illusions in my head. They could take months or even years to realize. Some, like my scheme to vanish the Eiffel Tower in broad daylight, were wonderful puzzles that I enjoyed working on for years.

  Out of the blue one morning, I got a call from one of the touring companies I had met, and they wanted to work out a deal with me. If I had my show, ready to go and fully self-contained, they were willing to put together a tour. I was beside myself and absolutely wanted to make it happen. The problem was, I may have “oversold” how ready my show was: I didn’t quite have enough illusions to do a full show. But much like the knuckle coin-roll incident from years earlier, it wasn’t anything a little extra effort couldn’t fix. I just needed to free up some cash so I could build the final couple of illusions I needed to complete my new show. Jonathan Silver was going on the road!

  I went into overdrive thinking of ways to complete the show and about how incredible it would be. I had pitched the idea of a grand illusion show that would fuse magic with iconic movies and their famous scores. For example, I would wheel out a 15-foot translucent box on stage, which would start rotating as I was talking to the audience and demonstrating that it was empty before I closed its panels one at a time. Jurassic Park’s famous score would boom from the sound system, with smoke pouring out of the box as the music reached a crescendo, when the shadow of a giant T. Rex would appear inside the box and let out a mighty roar. The box would then explode open and expose a regular-size person in a dinosaur costume. The dino would hop out and pull off its mask, revealing yours truly, of course.