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The Escape Artist

The journey

Freedom and Survival

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Re-invention, separation, salvation; the very idea of escape means different things to different people. For Ian Jarvis, leaving New Jersey and his ‘Nice Jewish boy' roots was only the beginning. At nineteen, he quit Georgetown University to cross the country in a Chevy truck, did some plum work as a drug dealer, escaped half a dozen FBI agents at an airport, and lived eight years as a federal fugitive in Paris, London, Ibiza, Corsica, and Morocco. Turning thirty, he broke out of exile in Europe and returned to the US to face the mess he left behind. Ian spends his first night in America inside Philadelphia’s, Roundhouse jail, beats a seven-year prison sentence, becomes a single parent to his estranged, eight-year-old daughter, and makes his way back on the rails of the American dream.

The tree will give you it's fruit if you give the tree sunlight and water.
Embrace the journey with a blend of luck and courage. Keep moving forward, step by step, Don't fixate on the end result. Honor the process instead, and in time, you’ll find your way. Trust that each effort brings you closer to your destination.

Really, Dad? A maybe music scholarship is why I ended up goose-stepping across the football field at halftime in a royal blue tunic with gold buttons, red stripes, and a white plumed, stovepipe hat? The fucking marching band? Your son was meant to leave that field bloody and bruised, steel cleats scraping the locker room in victory or defeat. I was born to bind my wounds among men, snatch forty-yard passes while the enemy tried to crush me. I had the hands and speed to earn a PHS football jacket. I was sixteen. Nothing mattered more.

Vermont’s finest trampled the evidence, then marched me from the scene of my crime. Minutes later, I was in the terminal. No lining up at customs for Ian, no casual flip through my passport by a highly trained agent trying to stay awake. I was in the express lane, suspect’s highway, open for business. It only took a few minutes to paw through the knapsack and sleeping bag. No kilos there. Adjusting horizons, they turned out my pockets, wallet, and sneakers. Fingers were slow, walked up my pants and shirt until they had, at least in my mind, looked everywhere. Then someone snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

“You’re not gonna do that,” I said.“

Bend over, kid. Put your hands on the desk.”