The Game

and two dollars later, we were on our way again, crawling at fifty-five just to be safe. In short order, we were pulled over and told we were driving below the minimum speed. Wherever we were, it was the most corrupt country on earth.
    “I need to figure out my ninety-minute show. It will begin with a raven flying into the audience and landing on the stage. Then—boom—it will turn into me.”
    When we finally reached the border, two armed soldiers asked for our papers. We showed our Moldovan visas, and that was when we were told that we were no longer in Moldova. They showed us the local passport—an old Soviet document—and yelled something in Russian. Marko translated: They wanted us to drive back to the military checkpoint on the bridge we had crossed three police bribes ago and obtain the proper documents.
    “I will dress as Mystery, with platform boots and the works. I won’t wear suits anymore. I will be goth and club cool. I will tell the audience how as a child I’d play with my brother in the attic and dream about being a magician. Then I’ll go back in time and turn into a child.”
    When Marko told a border guard there was no way we were going back to the bridge, he pulled out his gun and pointed it at Marko. Then he asked for cigarettes.
    “Where are we?” Marko asked.
    With pride, the guard answered back, “Pridnestrovskaia.”
    If you’ve never have heard of Pridnestrovskaia (or Trans-Dniester, in English), don’t worry: neither had we. Trans-Dniester is neither recognized diplomatically nor mentioned in any of the guide books or maps we carried.But when there’s a border guard pressing a pistol into your waist, well, suddenly Pridnestrovskaia seems very real.
    “I’ll do a science experiment where I transport a lab technician over the Internet. Then the finale will be a bank heist and cage vanish. So I need a male kid, a raven, you, someone to play the lab technician, and a couple people to be bank guards.”
    Marko gave the guard his entire pack of Marlboros and started arguing with him. The guard didn’t lower his gun once. After a long exchange, Marko yelled something and thrust out his hands as if asking to be handcuffed. Instead, the guard turned and disappeared into an office. When Marko returned to the car, I asked him what he had said.
    “I said, ‘Listen, just arrest me. I’m not going back.’”
    This was getting ugly.
    Mystery thrust his head over the seat partition. “Imagine this. A poster of just my hands, with black nails, and the word Mystery at the bottom. How amazing would that be?”
    For the first time, I lost it with him. “Dude, this is not the fucking time. Open your eyes.”
    “Don’t tell me what to do,” he snapped.
    “We’re about to get thrown in jail. No one wants to hear your shit right now. Does nothing exist except for you and your fucking magic show?”
    “Listen, if you want to go at it, I’ll go at it,” he thundered. “I’ll take you down right now. Just step out of the fucking car, and I’ll deal with you.”
    The guy was a foot taller than me, and the border crossing was full of armed soldiers. There was no way I was going to tangle with him. But I was angry enough to consider it. Mystery had been dead weight this entire trip. Maybe Marko was right: Mystery wasn’t one of us. He hadn’t gone to the Latin School of Chicago.
    I took a deep breath and stared straight ahead, trying to contain my rage. The guy was a narcissist. He was a flower that bloomed with attentionbe it positive or negative—and wilted when ignored. Peacock theory wasn’t just to attract girls. It existed first and foremost to attract attention. Even picking a fight with me was just another plea for attention, because I’d been ignoring him for the past hundred miles.
    When I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw him pouting in the back seat with his hat pulled over his eyes, however, I actually began to feel bad for him. “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” I told him.
    “I don’t like it when someone tells me what to do. My dad used to tell me what to do. And I hate him.”
    “Well, I’m not your dad,” I said.
    “Thank God for that. He ruined my life and my mom’s life.” He pulled his hat up. Tears lay over his eyes like contact lenses, unable to escape on their own. “I used to lie in bed at night, thinking of ways to kill my dad. When I got really depressed, I’d imagine going to his bedroom with a shovel, smashing his head in, and then