In 1990, when I was first becoming obsessed with the curious art of magic, I asked an agent her opinion about who was the best kids’ magician in Los Angeles. She said, hands down, that Andrew Frost was. So, since I was an ambitious sonuvabitch, I set about to insinuate myself into Frost’s good graces.
At a party in the San Fernando Valley, I met Frost and Jackie, his girlfriend of more than a decade. Smalltalk was small and insignificant until I mentioned that I’d just spent the previous ten years as a full-time journalist for such national magazines as Esquire, Harper’s Bazaar, Mademoiselle, McCall’s, Psychology Today, and many others.
“Wow,” he said.
“Whoa,” Jackie said.
“See, I’m dyslexic,” Andrew said, “so being able to master words like that is, like, wow.”
It was an instant entree into his world. It was the beginning of something that sometimes resembled mentorship, sometimes resembled friendship, sometimes resembled dysfunction, and sometimes resembled a clown car soapbox derby.
Frost was not a polished character. In fact, he was immersed in a depth of chaos that I had never experienced before. He lived in the back unit of a house in Glendora. His living area was a mess, detritus scattered across the floors, many of it bits and pieces of magic tricks. It was like the room of a child whose mother had never made him clean it. If you looked, you might easily find a stray ace of hearts or even half a rubbed-banded deck, a dirty sleeping bag smushed into the corner, empty liters of Coke, the white caps tossed somewhere unknown, and a stack of bootleg VHS pornos that had fallen from a shelf and never been picked up. Plus, he never seemed to catch up on his dishes.
Outside his window, his rabbits and doves lived in a chicken-wire cage perched above the overgrown lawn to keep them away from predators. His house was nestled next to the San Bernardino foothills, and so mountain lions and other predators would sometimes cruise down in the dead of night. Once, a predator scared the animals so badly that a rabbit died of fright. Another time, he tried to breed rabbits and succeeded too well, and there were too many bunnies to fit in the cage. So he just let them run free, bunnies of various colors hopping everywhere.
“We don’t need ’em all,” he said. “Most of ’em’ll end up mountain lion food.”
What I remember about him most now was his voice, which was deep and slurred. It had something to do with his dyslexia, because he slurred his words even when I knew he wasn’t drinking. Every so often, a client would complain to a booking agent that the magician had showed up drunk, although they weren’t complaining about his behavior or any alcoholic aroma, only about his slurred speech. They didn’t much complain about his shows, either, because they were always entertaining.
“Wuzza somethin’ I said?” he would sometimes suddenly say.
Every so often in the middle of a conversation, he would drop that particular bomb. It took me days to unpack it. It was a phrase that implied that you were attacking him in some way, and your natural response was to back-pedal: Did I offend? What did I say? I didn’t mean to offend. In fact, it wasn’t about anything that you said, he was just determined to make you back-pedal, and for no other reason than to maintain his dominance.
One Monday after a weekend of kids’ shows, I was sitting with Andrew in his squalor talking tricks. Across the room, he was making a bootleg copy for me of an instructional magic videotape when suddenly, he jumped out of his chair.
“Oh my God,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
He didn’t answer, just ran out of the room and out to the garage. He walked up to one of the dove-vanishing boxes that he used during his kids’ magic shows. When he performed the effect, he would lift up the lid and suddenly, as if by magic, the bird inside had transformed into a rabbit. In fact, the bird had been safely transported to a secret compartment, which was narrow and dark. After the show, when the audience was safely out of sight, the magician would remove the bird from the secret compartment, but Andrew had forgotten. Andrew opened up the compartment, and sure enough, there was the dove. Thankfully, the bird was still alive.
I followed Andrew around like a poodle for one reason: He had the secrets. He had studied the secrets since he was 10, and now, at 27, possessed a bona fide repertoire. In magic, the secrets are golden, and can cost you thousands of dollars. I had no money, having spent the previous ten years writing for the top magazines in the country. That dove box alone cost $500, but even just simple instructional videos were expensive, as well, running $40 per. Books started at $40 and ran up to $300 for the most highly prized ones.
The bowling ball production costs $1,000.
This coin trick costs $1,000, too.
I once paid $90 for a book that explained a trick that I desperately wanted, but when I sat down with it, I discovered that the writing was hopeless and I have never performed it the way it’s explained in the book, so that was $90 down the drain. Here’s how I perform that trick today:
But more than the money, having perspective on those secrets is even more valuable. So I followed Andrew around and considered every word that proceedeth from his mouth to be a pearl. The pearl necklace that he eventually gave me consisted of both secrets and a philosophical approach to the secrets.
Here are some of the tricks that Andrew taught me, performed not by him, but by other people who had the secrets.
I was thrilled. The magic was starting to happen in my hands. At the same time, though, there was Andrew’s chaos to contend with. To me, the road to success was orderly. You learned things by applying yourself. You succeeded by putting things together in a logical manner. You memorized. You studied. You had Aha! moments in the shower and on the 405 freeway.
But to Andrew, order, logic, and studying were for chumps. As much as possible, he thought, you should try to get away with things. Don’t rehearse, just perform things on the fly and deal with the mistakes in the moment, the moment was everything. Don’t read instructions, just do it. Don’t memorize a script, because that would make your patter sound wooden and unspontaneous. Don’t write your own jokes, just steal them from others. Let your life fall apart and get your rocks off on the mess that lies around you.
I wondered if he was right. After all, Einstein never combed his hair. Jack Kerouac and the beatniks lived in squalor. So many legendary musicians–Charlie Parker, Bill Evans, Ginger Baker, James Taylor, Kurt Cobain–created great music out of heroin addiction. Andrew was a dyslexic, and I wondered if that, too, might be a source of genius.
At first, I tried to see how much disorder I could stand. I adopted Andrew’s priorities. Magic was on the highest shelf and cleaning didn’t even have a shelf. The inside of my car became a mess, and unless I had a date, I didn’t care. I started considering all the time we spend cleaning and arranging things as wasted time. Doing the dishes, picking up your clothes, making the bed, putting away the iron, sponging off the kitchen table, everything. I started to see my chaos as a whole new world. I felt that, in some ways, it opened up new intellectual vistas to me.
But at the same time, I had doubts. A voice deep within me told me that Andrew’s chaos was simply the result of family dysfunction.
I remember the day he confessed to me that he was cheating on Jackie, his girlfriend of 10 years, who was a lovely rebel who idolized him. He was now secretly sleeping with his landlady Jennifer, the woman who lived in the main house. Both Jackie and Jen worked as clowns, and were friends. On Mondays, after a weekend of kids’ shows, they would all pal around together in Andrew’s place, laughing and having fun. This continued even after Andrew started sleeping with Jen.
It became even more complicated one day when I came over and witnessed a strange scene. As usual, Andrew was sitting in the center of the dining room, the center of the vortex, while Jackie and Jennifer chatted amiably, talking about their weekend’s shows. Jackie, of course, was clueless about the infidelity, and Jen was playing dumb, hoping she would catch the big fish in the end. And all the while, the big fish, Andrew, was talking on the phone with another woman that he had secretly slept with a couple nights earlier. Everybody was screwing over everybody else, but Andrew was doing the most screwing of all.
One day, Andrew himself offered up a psychological self-diagnosis that rang a bell of recognition.
“You know, so many of the tricks that I choose to do involve tearing or cutting things,” he said. “I tear up a newspaper and restore it. I tear up a playing card and restore it. I cut up a rope and restore it. I just love destroying things!”
Here’s a video of one of those torn-and-restored tricks, performed by someone else.
But that diagnosis only told me what, not why. That all-important why wasn’t explained until Andrew started talking about his father. It was a sad story. The man used to earn six figures as a computer programmer, but had lost his job due to drug use. Every so often, I had seen Andrew’s father. This sad white-haired man would drive over when he was low on money, shuffle up the driveway, ask for money, and Andrew could never say no.
“This is a loan, all right?” Andrew said, handing over five C notes.
“Oh yeah, I’ll pay you next Friday.”
Next Friday would come and go, and the next time Andrew saw him, his father was broke and would need more money. And Andrew would give it to him, over and over again. His girlfriend Jackie told me that the old man was into him to the tune of 10k.
“He drove up with bald tires on his car,” Andrew said in his defense. “What could I do? I don’t want him to have a blowout on the freeway because of me.”
Eventually, Andrew realized what everyone else knew, that repayment of the money wasn’t coming at all, so he started asking for repayment in kind. Since his father had worked in the tech field, he repaid him in computers. To Andrew, it was almost as good as money.
One day, I came over to Andrew’s house and found him huddled over one of those computers with intense interest.
“You gotta see this,” Andrew said, a solemn tone to his voice.
In one of the computers, Andrew had discovered a personal journal that his father had kept. It recounted his exploits with prostitutes in the San Fernando Valley in suburban Los Angeles. He had documented in great detail how he had picked up prostitutes, what acts they had performed on him, and how much it had cost. There were dozens of girls. It was like reading the unexpurgated diary of an addict. And suddenly, he realized: That was where all his money had been going.
One encounter particularly riveted us. It involved a 15-year-old prostitute he had picked up on a Sunday morning. At this point, Andrew’s father had to be in his sixties. She had taken him to her parents’ house. While they were away at church, they had engaged in various sexual acts described in copious detail, all the time worrying whether her parents were going to come home. Then he paid her and fled the scene.
Andrew was devastated, to say the least. He was disappointed in his father’s reprehensible behavior. He was disappointed in so many things. And as we talked it out, Andrew’s emotions hanging in the air like ozone, everything suddenly fell into place. It was absolutely clear. I knew exactly from whence Andrew’s dysfunction had derived.
Very soon, my accomplishments grew in the art of magic. I started following another magician around like a poodle, and this one was the bona fide world champion who had high standards for his life. My stage repertoire grew, as did my abilities to manipulate a crowd. I started wrapping street audiences on the Third Street Promenade around my little finger, holding out my hat and collecting dollar bills. I started performing at corporate parties for adults, not just children. I began reading minds. I wrote a magic book about the street–Be a Street Magician!: A How-To Guide–and published it. I began traveling around the world lecturing on the subject of magic, first to the Midwest (Colorado, Kansas, Missouri, Oklahoma), then to the South (the Carolinas, Georgia, Alabama, Louisiana, Texas), then to the East Coast (D.C., New York, Massachusetts, Connecticut), and then overseas (Hong Kong, Sydney, Melbourne, Dublin).
My knowledge grew, as well, until I possessed a closeup repertoire that stretched to several hours and a stage repertoire nearing two hours.
And as my abilities grew, Andrew mysteriously began to make himself scarce, almost in an inverse proportion. He would rarely return calls. He would make an appointment to get together and then not show. It was like he wanted to keep me in the subordinate position that I no longer occupied. The more I chased him, the more he fled from me.
Once, we were booked at an event together, and afterwards, we talked. By that time, he was no longer working full-time as a magician, but had landed a regular job as a tech advisor for some widget company, doing magic only on the weekends. By that time, he had been with Jennifer for nearly 10 years and they owned a house together, although not a wedding ring. He was a kind stepfather, too, although the kids weren’t turning out too well.
“Show me some magic,” I said, trying to conjure up old times.
Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and showed me a photograph. It was of a young female employee of his. The woman was nude, her tongue out and an erotic expression on her face. Then he showed me pictures of another young woman, also cheesecaking it up for the camera. He no longer had any magic to show, only this.
[All names in this article have been changed.]