It Takes Two

by Jonathan Scott

  My dream seemed so close, and the images of how cool the show would be were vivid in my mind. The ideas were there, and I knew I could do the magic, but I still needed more props and illusions for this once-in-a-lifetime moment. I couldn’t very well stand up there and do card tricks instead. I didn’t panic, though. I loved problem-solving and had discovered in life that there is ALWAYS a solution.

  Late that summer, I got a call from a stranger who introduced himself as a friend of one of my good friends. The caller was an escape artist who was expanding and getting into magic. He’d heard I had some props for sale and was very much interested in buying a few. I tried to get hold of our mutual friend to make sure this guy was legit, but every attempt failed. He was out of the country, and cell phones were just not commonplace at that time. Everything in my conversations with the escape artist seemed to check out, though. He had all the right answers and it really would be helpful to sell off these old props, so I agreed to fly to Calgary and show him the old pieces I had in storage.

  The escape artist turned up with a woman and small child in tow. He seemed sincere enough, and how sketchy could he be with a cute tot right there in his wife’s arms? He wanted to buy the entire lot of props I was selling and suggested we draft a payment plan. I felt leery of letting him take possession of anything before it was paid off, but he started talking about how this was his dream and how hard he’d worked to get this upcoming gig.

  “What if you damage something?” I asked.

  He assured me he would bear all responsibility. These props were vital to him, he added. In fact, he had another much bigger show he could book if there was a way he could use some of the props I wasn’t planning to sell, too. If he could just borrow those until after his big show, he’d be able to pay off the full balance due on the props he was buying from me. Against my better judgment, I decided to give him a break. He was part of the magic brotherhood, not to mention a friend of my friend.

  He seemed excited and grateful as he went off to make arrangements to come back with a truck and I headed back to Vancouver. He missed the first payment, then the next. I would call and ask for my money, but he would offer a bunch of excuses: His big show had been canceled; he just needed to do a few smaller ones, instead; the money was coming. I threatened to sue. Then he switched tactics: He claimed the props were all falling apart and unusable; he was going to countersue me for fraud.

  Now I was in a dire situation. I had even fewer props than before, no money to build new illusions, and on top of all that, now I needed to get a lawyer. He had essentially cleaned me out, and ruined any chance I had to do a tour. In looking out for somebody else’s dreams, I had inadvertently crushed my own.

  Monetarily, the loss was in the neighborhood of $80,000. But that didn’t even begin to account for the time, labor, and love that had gone into building the illusions. All those late nights drafting ideas, building in the barn, and choreographing routines were essentially now for nothing. A lifelong dream up in smoke.

  I was 20 years old and had worked nonstop since I was 7 to earn the money I needed to pursue my passion, and now all I had were the small effects I’d brought to Vancouver and the few pieces the escape artist didn’t take—that was barely enough to perform in intimate club venues, never mind a big theater. I was devastated.

  It turned out that the mutual friend whose name the con artist dropped had never referred him, and in fact considered him shady enough that he would have warned me away. He was a fringe player on the magic scene. The thief changed phone numbers and names the way other people change socks. I wasn’t the first—nor would I be the last person he ripped off. I managed to follow the trail of his various identities to eventually ferret out his real name and track him down.

  In the end, every effort to hold him accountable in court just met with more evasion, lies, stalling tactics, or brick walls. I was finally awarded a judgment, but the court didn’t understand what illusions were, so it only covered the cost of materials, which fell far short of covering the loss. And there was no way to recover my property, either: Turns out, the guy had sold my illusions as soon as he got his hands on them.

  I quickly learned that a judgment was only as valuable as your ability to collect on it. The con artist had no property in his name to put a lien against. In fact, all of his assets were in his children’s names so I couldn’t touch them. I remember thinking how successful someone who was that smart could be if he put his effort toward something legitimate instead.

  For the first time ever, I started having anxiety attacks. How on earth did I get myself here? I had invested every dime I had into my show. I had leased a truck, racked up my credit cards, and even taken out a loan to build a custom trailer. I was struggling. I had been so focused on putting my show together that I didn’t realize the risk I was opening myself up to. I knew it would take years to recover what I had lost. I was depressed and destitute.

  Not long after turning down the touring offer, I filed for bankruptcy.

  I was too stubborn, proud, and independent to tell my parents how badly I’d screwed up, what a big mistake I’d made. During the process of the bankruptcy, all I was doing was servicing the debt I had on my missing props, my big trailer, and the white pickup truck I’d purchased to pull it. I had nothing to perform big theater shows with and wouldn’t be able to dig myself out of the hole on my earnings from the “real” job I picked up as food/beverage supervisor at a local movie megaplex.

  Drew knew how defeated I felt and went out of his way to try and lift my spirits by finding fun, creative things to do. Or by taping magic specials and sending them to me with ideas for new illusions.* He had also started working as a flight attendant for an airline called WestJet and thought he could get me hired, too. He said the corporate culture was amazing, the travel benefits were insane, and the schedule was so light that we could still pursue other things. I applied immediately and was called in for an interview. The first question caught me off guard.

  *If there’s one thing I knew would always cheer Jonathan up, it was talking about magic.

  “What’s a bizarre, unique talent you have?”

  “Magic,” I answered. The two women interviewing me lit up. They were both big fans of magic and wanted to know more. I performed a really simple vanish with their business cards, and they hired me on the spot.

  I fit right into the company’s fun, energetic culture. After all the stress I’d been under, it felt great to be surrounded by passionate, enthusiastic people who enjoyed what they were doing and cared about their jobs.

  Up to this point, both Drew and I had always considered real estate a little something on the side to make some extra money. We had only been doing one property at a time and definitely taking our time with them. With the flexibility of our schedules at WestJet, I saw real estate as an opportunity to get us on more stable ground. My goal was still to get back to magic, but for now, my biggest reveals would be the beat-up shacks we transformed into beautiful, livable spaces. I guess it was still a form of magic, just less smoke and more framed mirrors.

  First one year passed without me doing much magic, and then another slipped by, and another. Life was good, business was great, and I couldn’t say I was unhappy. Just incomplete. We became the Property Brothers, and every now and then, I would slip a little magic into a show, like making a piece of fruit disappear for the homeowner’s child or making a baby bunny appear out of thin air to be a friend for the pet angora rabbit that belonged to a client on Buying and Selling.*

  *If you could make unrealistic clients disappear and more buyers with big cash offers appear, then I’d really respect your craft!

  When we did Brother vs. Brother in Las Vegas one season, I shamelessly pitched that we make the reward for one challenge a tour of David Copperfield’s secret warehouse full of priceless magic memorabilia and illusions. It is not open to the public and was something I had always want
ed to do. There was no way Drew was going to win this one. I worked my butt off and claimed the reward.

  I’d met David many times since moving to Vegas. We have mutual friends in the magic community, and I’d taken in his show several times. Sitting in his theater as a grown-up, I was every bit as awestruck as I’d been at age 12, when I told him I wanted to do what he did someday.

  Copperfield’s International Museum and Library of Conjuring Arts holds the largest collection of magic artifacts on earth, with more than 80,000 pieces that he has collected and preserved. On top of that, he has 15,000 antiquarian books on magic, dating all the way back to the 16th century. There’s also an entire room devoted to the great Harry Houdini’s personal treasures, from his first magic wand to his infamous Water Torture Cell.

  In true Copperfield style, everything in the collection is meticulously positioned to tell a visual story and displayed like something straight out of a movie scene. Copperfield knows: Magic is about connection. There’s an intimacy to suspending disbelief and inhabiting that childlike sense of wonder where what you see defies all laws of physics and all logic of reality.

  David expressed to me his passion for fostering the art of magic and educating younger generations about how important the history of magic is. Not just to magicians, but to all of us. Magic has influenced the arts, cinema, literature, and in some obscure way, almost every facet of our modern world. The more stories he would tell me, the more I wanted to hear.

  Copperfield is such a quintessential performer both on and off stage. He had even set booby traps for me, taking hilariously juvenile pleasure at every prank that nearly sent me into cardiac arrest as he guided me through the warehouse.*

  *Karma at last. I hope there were fruit flies.

  Magician’s code. I can neither confirm nor deny.

  As we ventured deeper into the labyrinth to the far-reaching corner where Copperfield keeps his own illusions, that feeling of anticipation and awe I had as a little boy seeing his TV specials came flooding back. David had actually coordinated with Drew to find out which of his illusions were my favorites, and he had put them out on full display. Nothing could have been more perfect and as I stepped up onto his Heaven on the Seventh Floor illusion . . . I felt like I was stepping up in front of a packed auditorium. David hadn’t performed this illusion in years, and after I wrapped up my own little daydream, I mentioned how cool it was knowing that I’m the only person who’s graced this prop since he performed it masterfully so many years before.

  “Actually, Taylor Swift used it to appear at the ACMs a few years ago and did an amazing job,” David corrected me. Hey, I was still impressed with myself: If I had to come in third, it couldn’t be to two more accomplished entertainers.

  For weeks after visiting David’s museum, I kept pressing rewind in my mind to replay the tour. This was actually common for me whenever I had some kind of magic encounter. Even simply seeing a show. Often I still dream in illusions, then assemble them, piece by piece in my mind. Sometimes, I’ll hear a song and it will inspire me, and a story takes flight. That’s what happened when I heard the beautiful song “Any Other World” by Mika, with a haunting chorus line that reminded me of years past: Say good-bye to the world you thought you lived in.

  The illusion I set to that music takes place in an old attic. There’s dusty furniture tossed about, and an old piano with a dingy white cloth draped over half of it. I’m up in the attic reminiscing about a love no longer with me. I see a framed portrait of her on the piano, snatch it up, and spin to center stage with it clutched to my chest. I then hold it up, facing away from the audience, only to see a life-size version of it illuminate at the back of the stage. I rush to it as the music builds. I grab a cloth from the floor in front of the massive painting and raise it as high as I can. There’s a flash, and when the cloth drops, the girl has vanished from the painting and is standing—alive—next to me. The whole stage comes to life as crooked furniture straightens itself, and a tipped-over vase stands upright, full of fresh flowers. Our joy fills the entire attic with life and energy. We dance around the stage and make our way to the piano, playing side by side, bumping shoulders, laughing and giggling like children. I step up onto the piano and pull her up to wrap in an embrace when the cloth around us shoots like a ghost back to the painting, where my love reappears in 2D. She is gone from me again and the hurt is just too much. The music swells, and I grab another sheet from the piano. I raise it high above my head and instantly with a loud bang, I vanish from atop the piano and appear across the stage inside the painting with her.

  I’ve turned out the lights in my living room many times to pace out how I will do the illusion. I’ve mentally constructed everything I need, and know exactly what color flowers and what shape the vase will be. I know how many steps, how many seconds, between the piano and the painting.

  My life is filled with a different kind of magic now, an abundance of it, really, and I’m happy and grateful. I still feel a bittersweet twinge whenever I see a great performance onstage—every light, every gesture, every prop, every step, every single note of music coming together with such exquisite perfection.

  I never did say good-bye to that world I thought I would live in, or to Jonathan Silver, International Illusionist, because the truth is, they never really left me, after all.

  You might want to keep your eye on the Eiffel Tower.

  Jonathan

  The entire effect is sold in the performance. You show your audience a regular coin and proclaim it has no hidden trap doors or secret strings. You may also let the volunteer test the coin—because for some reason they think that proves you’re not cheating them. Oh, how wrong they are.

  Hold the coin between your middle finger and thumb and turn your hand upside down. (Fig A)

  Extend your arm forward with your palm elevated, so it is not in the way of a clear path for the coin to enter your sleeve. (Fig B)

  With very little practice you will be able to snap the coin directly up your sleeve, and with a fancy flourish of spirit fingers, wave both hands back and forth, showing the coin has in fact disappeared. (Fig C)

  For a little misdirection, tell the volunteer the coin has appeared in their back pocket. Before they think you stuck your hand where you shouldn’t have, lower your arm, and the coin will naturally fall back into your hand. (Fig D) Joke off how that would have got you smacked.

  Then reach up and magically pull the coin from behind the volunteer’s ear. (Fig E) Suggest they wash more, and take your bow. You are now a master coin manipulator.

  Warning: Do not perform in regions that may burn witches at the stake.

  I was home for the holidays at the family ranch in Alberta when the Ghost of Christmas Future came calling one night. Figuratively, not literally. No phantoms looming at the foot of the bed—just a nagging voice that sounded a lot like my own inside my head, insisting that it was time to take stock. Twenty-seven seemed a little young for the full-life evaluation, but clearly my subconscious was trying to send a message, and I needed to figure out what that was.

  It was the end of 2005, the first year that Jonathan and I had committed to doing real estate full-time instead of using it as an ATM on the side. Once we decided to go all-in, there was no holding back. Why wear water wings to do cannonballs off the high dive? We had thrown ourselves into the property game not merely to build a business, but a brand. People would recognize the Scott Brothers and know what we stood for—hard work, integrity, and always putting the customer first. (And, thanks to Jonathan’s obsessive Photoshopping of our advertising material, teeth so white they looked radioactive.)* We thought potential customers would take one look at us and think BOGO, two for the price of one, and in case they didn’t get it, we underscored what a deal we were with our edgy slogan: “Get our team to work for you . . . you’ll be glad you did.” Clients were especially glad when we started throwing in a free moving truck, a bonus w
e had to discontinue because they thought we would be helping them physically pack and move their stuff, too. Umm . . . no. And you wouldn’t want Jonathan to bring boxes, anyway, because he’d just make whatever you put inside turn into a rabbit. Or twenty. But our real stroke of genius (not) was when we shelled out a small fortune to have every theater in the city flash those ads with our glow-in-the-dark grins across every screen before every movie for an entire month. And it worked: The phone never stopped ringing. Teenagers would prank call us every time a movie let out. I’m assuming our faces came under heavy Sour Patch and Skittle fire, too. Was it worth it? No. After a month of running and a boatload of cash, we didn’t close a single additional deal because of it. KHAN!

  *At least they distracted from the matching outfits we wore.

  Needless to say, there was a big learning curve for us when it came to figuring out the whole self-promotion game.

  But we’re quick learners, and Scott Real Estate was doing well as our first all-in year came to a close. I mentally marked that as a “win” on the invisible scorecard and hurried to tally the rest of my accomplishments:

  My car was paid off, and I had no debt. I had a college education, a real-estate license, and money in the bank. That all added up to success, right?