Method Prestige

I have this friend. Her role in my life was exclusively that of “childhood summer friend”. Me and my best friend would spend every day of the summer with her and her sister on the same beach. I wouldn’t see my own parents for months at a time during those summers and the girls’ mom would sort of become my de facto mom during those periods. To this day, she (apparently) refers to me as such—her “son”. We had those types of endless summers, taking it one summer at a time, although we knew that there was an expiration date on how many more we were gonna have. Our ages were staggered. People were gonna start going to university. At best, it was gonna be over when I’d go abroad for college.

It ended up being over slightly ahead of schedule, when my best friend started dating the younger of the sisters during one winter season—the off season where we would normally never see each other. I didn’t know it at the time but my friend had a codependency issue around always having a girlfriend. We’d always (endearingly) make fun of it in how since 4th grade he was single for 2 and a half weeks total. Looking back, it’s clear that he built his entire personality on “being a boyfriend” and that was behind his eventual downfall. And the younger of the sisters was just simply there: available, slightly younger (such that she was impressionable), lived close by—a guaranteed source of feeling “enough” for as long as he could muster certain things.

I wouldn’t say that he did something completely out-of-pocket and “ruined” the group dynamic or anything like that. I remember witnessing his attempts, out loud, at convincing himself that she is probably the one: “our moms are best friends, this is just perfect, it’s meant to be”. High-schoolers’ life projections are always so adorable—present company beyond included. Yet, at the same time, when my mom (just last year) made a passing reference to that sister as a hypothetical “more than a friend”, and my visceral reaction was a sudden and sharp feeling of revulsion. She’s not unattractive, but I clearly placed her in a position in my head that involuntarily triggered incestuous disgust.

A few years ago, I went for a weekend ski trip on my own where I intended to bang out two different mountains that were close by to each other. Me and the younger sister, who by now quit her corporate job and became a moderately successful artist in another country, decided to have a nice and proper catching-up session while I was at the hotel recovering from 2 hours of driving + 8 hours of skiing.

It was truly pleasant to tap into my childhood. The feeling is there, simply waiting for the right visual or verbal prompt by the right person. We talked non-stop for 3 hours. About a lot of stuff. I always appreciate it when there is a good rhythm when both people make space for each other in a natural alternating tempo. Nobody feels neglected, and everyone gets the opportunity to be there for the other person.

One of the things we talked about made a reference to certain special people who have that extra juice in life that is possibly beyond comprehension. She interjected excitedly and remarked:

“You know, I truly believe that some people have an otherworldly level to them. I actually know one such person. He is a serious person with a serious job—as a lawyer—, comes from a great family, has degrees from Oxford—but then he seems to have these supernatural powers…”

I interject and tell her a name and a last name.

“……….what?……..how? You know him?….wait, what?”

So if I’m gonna choose moments to not be humble and own up to any unique extra juice I have, it is these moments. Where I hear juuuust a few keywords, and then my brain does the rest inside of a second. Honestly, some of my best stories revolve around my pathologically pattern-seeking brain connecting dots all on its own and leading to a whole situation that would’ve never come up otherwise. All I had to hear was: “lawyer”, “Oxford”, and “powers”—and my brain did the rest.

I said: “alright, prepare your butts sister—it’s story time”.

“Woah”.

“So, he bends metal, right?”

“Yes, he does”.

“Well, spoiler for you homegirl from the get go—because that’s not even the most interesting part—he swallows iron powder daily, and tries to reduce and slow its absorption by smoking cigarettes all the time and drinking a lot of Coca Cola—which, actually, contrary to conventional wisdom among magicians, does literally nothing to offset the very serious and real health risks”.

“Shut the front door!”

“I know, right? Anyways, you tell me how exactly you know him first, then I’ll slam it home with the full story”.

So, apparently they match on Hinge, while they were living in the same city, and chat online for a bit. They are both lawyers, and there is a coincidence where he has to pick up some documents from her workplace (I’m sure he contrived this “serendipitous” situation). They talk briefly at the lobby of her office, of course in the all suited up, three-piece glory of “serious people with serious jobs”. Lawyering aside, he is the kind of person who starts every day as if he is a Truman who’s aware he is in a show. They go on a date soon after, go home together at the end of it, have themselves some sexy times, and conk out.

In the morning, when they wake up, the bed is straight up drenched under where he was sleeping. My friend is actually shocked by the mere sight of it. It is apparently that amount of sweat. He may have destroyed the bed but my friend is more fascinated that he appears to have full body pissed the bed. Of course, he immediately goes on storytelling mode and talks about how he has an unusual physiology that is capable of incredible feats—but that there is always a price to pay. He is a special boy, is able perform and demonstrate special feats others can’t, and when there is an audience who is reacting to his specialness, it becomes all the more real. Remember, if there is an observer who believes the lie you gaslit yourself into believing, it becomes real in your head if you have this particular type of brain. All you need is some social proof from a willing audience. That’s really all.

I’m ready to drop bombs. For starters, Magician Esquire special boy here was college roommates with my ex-best friend/her high school boyfriend for most of college. They lived together. He practiced his magic tricks on the household (there were 4 people [and a cat]),and he annoyed them endlessly by committing religiously to his Alfred Borden method nonsense. The denizens of the apartment, despite really enjoying and being entertained by the magic tricks, did not appreciate being taken for a ride by the magic boy who demanded to be treated as if he actually has powers. During one card trick performance, one of the housemates asks “can you do that trick one more time, I think I may have an idea as to how you might be doing it”.

And he fucking explodes. He unloads onto all three roommates (his audience), stops talking to or even acknowledging them after that incidence, and leaves the house soon after. Not to be seen or heard from again for a year or two.

Now I’ve done two things on the two sides of this incident. One was a one-on-one hangout I did with this guy months before his explosion out of the apartment. Basically a ~7 hour conversation, almost until the morning. And the other is a brief Facebook DM conversation I had with him after he left.

The reason I was around these people a lot even though I didn’t go to their school is that I’d come home during winter breaks from college and just piggy back onto my best friend’s social circle for convenience. To be honest, that’s what I did our entire friendship. And not just that friendship, a lot of my close, best-friendships deep into adulthood. I would bring some other things to the table, while my bestie of choice usually would be the more social type who is good at keeping in touch with people and always has events and hangouts for me to tag along to. I always enjoyed the rhythms of my friendships or partnerships where we covered each other’s weaknesses and complemented the strengths. I think I stopped needing this dynamic about 3-4 years ago. Your boy is a self-sufficient adult by now.

I’d even stay at their apartment for a few days in a row (since the hangouts would always go deep into the night, and I become an immovable object when it starts approaching bedtime). The winter of my senior year in college, I actually have a fun ass Christmas break around these people. It’s one big continuous house party, people constantly coming and going, and I get to chill around some hilarious (and in most cases, uniquely smart) people.

I meet Magic Boy Esq. that winter and actually become fast friends. Partly because I too did magic stuff back in the day, and that the housemates have been telling him that their homeboy in the US also does this stuff and that we’d get along. “[He has] heard a lot about me”. Enchanted.

And the other part is that historically I have naturally been able to create a lot of space for people who want to talk about themselves. That availability allowed me to be comfortable in my career as psychotherapist down the line, while also attracting and getting saddled with the wrong people in my life from time to time. But still, I actually still really enjoy, for the most part, letting people settle into being present together and tell me their story.

One evening, everyone else disappears from the apartment. It’s just me and him left. He signals that he wants to get deeper and, ooooh, vulnerable! He wants to tell me his story. And while I actually genuinely like him, and have absolutely zero reason to dislike him, I know that he is Christian Bale’s Alfred Borden from Prestige in real life, and there is something creepy and unsettling about someone who commits that strongly and that diligently to a lie. However seemingly harmless and endearing he might be.

Hence, I decide that the best way to go about this experience is to simply “believe him” fully for the rest of the night.

He performs his metal bending tricks a bunch of times. Then feigns exhaustion due to using his powers too much and tells me how these mental feats deplete his glucose deposits and he needs to drink sugar heavy drinks to steady his body. He is actually “stumbling” and getting “headaches”. He is relieved once he downs a coke. He tells me about a mutual friend (that I went to high school with) who wants to do evaluations and measurements of his physiology at the lab he is a member of at the technical university he goes to. The story is, of course, more effective since someone I know personally is supposedly a “witness” and a “signatory” to his superpowers. More social proofing. I actually distinctly remember how excitedly he was emphasizing that I “knew” the other guy. Credibility is building.

The night goes off the rails. He is talking about how he was in France this one time and he was facing a shop window when something just came over him and he pushed his palm towards the glass in the air. A force apparently molded the glass, without shattering it, and his palm print was created on the shop window. He squints his eyes, trying to “remember” the feeling and the moment as he is telling the story. Then apparently, a man shows up, introduces himself and asks him to come to a cafe with him—intimating that he either saw what happened or that he knows about the “thing” inside him. And that he wants to guide him or some shit like that.

Around now I’m basically doing active listening and simply asking simple questions to move the story forward. I am noticing the small parts of the story that are missing and giving him opportunities to fill in the gaps. He is not at all able to hide the fact that he is making up those details on the spot. I distinctly remember asking if this mysterious figure that came to him was a Frenchman, and he thinks about for a second, and then opens his eyes wide open and says “He was Norwegian!”. I literally saw it in his face how he decided on the man’s nationality. Fucking fascinating.

So apparently they sat at a cafe the guy told him that he was special and he was meant for great things and mentored him on his powers a bit or something. Then I think his little brother becomes a part of the story too. I guess he was also in France during this and that the Norwegian man in a trench coat and a Dick Tracey hat (I’m not kidding) told him to also mentor and cultivate the powers of his brother. Then he starts talking about how smart his brother is and is aggrandizing the high school he goes to (it’s not a particularly good high school). I can’t relay too many details about this part of the story because even as it was happening it was very disjointed and it was only forming as long as I was asking questions about the details. But I did make a point of asking about the fate of the Norwegian Dick Tracy and am pleased to learn that he apparently takes off and disappears, promising that they’ll meet again in the future when the time is right.

Then he talks a bit about how shocked and fascinated people are by his powers after originally dismissing him, and that he is magnanimous towards them when that happens despite the initial dismissal. Apparently, one time he was at a shopping mall and went into a women’s make-up type of store and a shop assistant was dismissive of his presence. So he tells her that he is looking for a gift for his girlfriend, and the girl reluctantly shows him some hair ties or some shit. Then he proceeds to make a come hither motion to one of the hair ties hanging on the hooks and it moves, immediately fascinating the shopkeeper and tingling her ovaries. “The girl was in my bed the next night” he tells me. Wow, someone saw how special he was after initially not thinking much of him. What a beautiful comeback.

Now, I actually don’t doubt that he may have done this last one. He committed to ingesting iron powder, always—ALWAYS—kept his room locked in the aforementioned apartment with the roommates, and lived his life from one prestige to the next. His compulsive desire to feel special and convince the people around him on it, forcing everyone into being unwilling participants to the delusions he dedicated his life to gaslighting himself into. It allowed him to trick people like my childhood friend, getting girls to like him, then ejecting before the jig is up so there is a horde of people all over the place who believe he has superpowers. His explosion out of the roommate situation is the typical thing these types of delusional narcissists find themselves subconsciously doing when they start feeling the walls closing in, and realize that the jig might be up. Exposure imminent.

The funny thing is that initially I don’t know how he is bending the metals. I mean, I actually both know and don’t know. Because I have this feeling that it’s at the tip of my mind, but yet I just don’t quite have it. After spending that night in the “I’ll believe everything he says” mode, I eject myself out of it the next day to rejoin the mortals in the shared plane of existence. I watch some of the crazy magic trick videos he has put up online and am legitimately impressed and quite fascinated by the way he is living life. It’s, of course, practical effects (that make him levitate and whatnot), but I just don’t know how it’s done, so, part of me is still enjoying “believing it” in some ways.

One particular way that my brain works is that when I think very hard about something before going to bed, sometimes I have the answer in the morning. After taking ‘Sleep & Mental Health’ in grad school, and reading ‘When Brains Dream’ by Zadra & Stickgold, this actually checks out. It appears, one plausible explanation for the function of dreams is for the mind to consider extremely unlikely scenarios that your waking brain would never rationally consider towards problem solving.

It’s my last night in town before I fly back for my last semester of college. I’ve been thinking about this fucker for about week or so at this point. One piece of information shuffles around in my brain. Apparently, during one (slightly inebriated) late night, Magic Boy confides in my best friend that he is “doing something very harmful to himself to make all this possible“. I think about that as I’m falling asleep. When I wake up, I have the answer.

It was actually really cool. As I opened my eyes (in the slightly nervous energy of having a long flight very soon), I simply have the answer. My brain is saying: “self-harm”; “cigarettes”;……”IRON POWDER”.

I literally don’t have much time to do anything that morning. I frantically google some keywords around if nicotine blocks the reabsorption of metals or iron into the bloodstream. It turns out that’s a myth, but I see some information that confirms my hypothesis and I have my answer. The proof ultimately doesn’t really matter, other than giving me that sense of excitement at that moment. As actually the source of the information that my brain precipitates to the surface is more interesting. Also, you can literally find proof (even academic papers) that backs just about anything, including things that claim the opposite of one another.

When I was in 10th grade, my school opened a magic club led by a guy who owned a magic store in town who also did performances. Due to some bullshit reason, they canceled the club midyear, and I switched to the basketball club with my 6 foot 3 inch glory (I’m really slow, so I did not contribute all that much to winning). Also, sort of besides the point, but hilariously I was the only high school student in the magic club, while everyone else was a middle schooler. Seems literally all the high schoolers were “too cool” to write in the magic club as one of their 5 choices to be placed in: “I’ma go ahead and give no fucks”.

And while I spent some time in that guy’s shop, buying some materials and learning the rules of the trade, there is a passing comment by him in response to metal bending where he dismissively says “ugh, those people ingest iron powder, it’s nonsense. Whatever, moving on….”. That explodes in my head in that hypnogogic moment right before waking and boom—I got him.

When I make it to the States, I send my best friend a message telling him all this. He is pretty much relieved. These types of fuckers who exist as a lie in your life for a long time have this lingering effect sometimes. It exists as an “incomplete conversation” that vaguely annoys you.

A few months later, the explosion happens. My best friend tells me about it. I wait until he has left the house (just a few more weeks), and write to him, intending to build some genuine bridges.

I tell him that they are his friends, have been for a good few years at that point, and that they are good people. They don’t mean ill. They just wanted to be part of his desire to perform, but on their own terms—which includes them using their intelligence to solve the mechanics of your legitimately ingenious performances. That was all.

He responds with some vindictive nonsense about how they are out to get him or something. So I tell him:

“Well, if [best friend] really wanted to “get” you, embarrass you, or harm you, he would’ve told the rest of the housemates that you’ve been swallowing iron powder this whole time”.

^_______^

He mumbles some nonsense back over one last Facebook message. It’s even more disjointed than the time before. I guess he was marinating in the glory of having tricked me with his stories or magic and mayhem that night (for these types of people, the more “high level” their target of manipulation is, the bigger a sense of satisfaction they get). And now, the reality that I knew exactly what he was the whole time, on that night and beyond, and played dumb for a looong and jolly good time was exploding in his head. And the friend he was vindictively cursing out was compassionate enough to not expose his method acting was probably forming a full blown pit in his stomach. I learned many years later, while figuring out the ins and outs of being a psychotherapist, that you need to “believe” the story that crazy people tell you in order to be able to help them. Challenging them, at least right away, does nothing other than distress them, and make them push you away from a position of potential help for them. That way, at the very least, they feel a sense of relief during their therapeutic hour from a world that doesn’t understand or accept them as they’d like to believe they are.

I don’t know how much I had to do with mending at least that particular relationship (between Magic Boy and my best friend), but apparently a few years later he called my friend up after coming back from his military service. They broke bread and caught up. He told him about his snipering adventures during his conscription. The interesting thing is that this guy is actually uniquely talented in some certain ways for real. He has incredible eye-sight and hand-eye-coordination. He used to stand right in front of the TV (like, inches away) in a squatting position (squat in the air, imagine an invisible chair), and hit every sniper shot in Call of Duty back in the day. One time he messaged everyone and told them to turn on Eurosport, and there he was performing at the highest level in e-sports before e-sports was even a thing. He was also a really good goalkeeper. Great reaction time and fantastic anticipation. I too am a goalkeeper and I played against him, so I absolutely had respect for him on that.

And apparently these skills carried over to the real life. He was apparently one of the few people to hit a target from yay far during a military exercise. So his army superior increased the distance and made him try that. He banged it out on the first try. They increased the distance even further. Boom—first try again. Then they wrote down his name saying that if there is an actual war, he will be called upon to dole out headshots on some poor saps from another country somewhere. We both believe this story as it is told, including the first try shots.

And that is the unfortunate thing about these types of people. They are impressive enough in their own ways, sometimes amazingly so. But it is never enough. They always have to be good at everything. They need to be special. Even if the real story is a 9.5 out of 10, they can’t help themselves and tell a delusional story that is always 14 out of 10.

They get stuck in the surreal identities they have built in their developmental years, and live their adult lives inside that arrested development. At some point, the lie gets so big, so, SO, very big—and I’m not even talking about how they routinely gaslight themselves into the most recent version of the lie they uttered by clicking ‘save’ with each raconteurial performance—I’m talking about how the story takes a life of it’s own, popping up in the sex stories of my childhood friend when I’m catching up with her literally half a world away from where all this happened, literal decades after it happened. These people moonwalk their way out of situations and people upon getting exposed, abandoning friends effortlessly to avoid the shame of the compulsive lie that got way too out of control.

About a decade after college graduation, I decided to get on LinkedIn and added everyone that the platform suggested to me as connections. It was interesting to see a lot of these people after a long time not bothering to keep in touch with many people—at least “professionally”. This is where I got the data point about Oxford actually. He was very active in the early days of kool aid drinking contest of LinkedIn exhibitionism. Under one of his posts about some conference or workshop that he attended or led that was apparently amazing and rewarding and whatnot, I wrote:

“Hey, great to see you’re doing very cool things these days. Remember that Norwegian guy that you met while walking by that storefront that one time when you were in France? Did you ever see that guy again?”

“Thank you so much for your compliments and well wishes. And, no—I did not see him again”

Maybe none of us ever saw him again, but I’m sure he still exists somewhere, somehow. That is the magic of a story told exceptionally well, and an audience who also responsibly does their own part to that end.

Ah, stories—they are all we have….