My life of crime had started gradually, but it ended the second that fear pushed me to see who I’d really become. I wasn’t a clever kid using his powers to pull the wool over a couple of too-rich dealers anymore. I was a thief. A criminal. I was a bottom feeder, too.

I sold off the last of my stolen goods to finance a new apartment and start fresh. After all, I knew it would be easier to turn over a new leaf in style.

At these midnight markets, I still found it impossible to resist going for a score-that feeling of finding something only I could tell was valuable. The call of life’s secret treasures waiting to be reclaimed was too great, and as long as I was paying for the goods, it was all on the up and up.

These markets fueled a deeper need in me, an emotional one that appealed to the same part of my secret heart that loved design-on-a-dime TV shows. I was as excited as a club kid finding out about a late-night rave. Plus if I could discover the right hidden treasure, it meant I would finally be able to fill my fridge with something more edible than its current contents of baking soda, packets of mustard sauce, and a month-old chicken marinara that was on the verge of growing its own legs and leaving on its own accord.

For 4 a.m., the aisles were crowded with an interesting assortment of people. Euro trash, insomniacs, and a few better dressed New Yorkers like me. I recognized a few familiar faces working behind the tables at their crude little stands. Over the years, I’d grown to know some of these wandering salesmen well. Some, I might count as friends, but even those I knew best were probably mostly after my greenbacks. All of them, though, had told me how much they admired my impeccable taste. Little did they know.

I wandered for twenty minutes before coming to a table that I thought was abandoned until a chipped-tooth Native American forced his bulk out through the trailer door behind the table. I nodded politely and then put on my poker face to look through his merchandise, pretty sure that Chippy wouldn’t be hard to outnegotiate if I found something worthwhile. I needed my poker face. Some of these vendors were con artists, and I refused to get ripped off by overpaying for a Snoopy Sno-Cone Machine or a warped LP ofSing Along with Mitch!

Chip-tooth had two long tables sitting under his watchful eye. They were full of eclectic junk spread out cleverly without price tags. He wanted haggling room, which was fine by me. The smug look on the big guy’s face showed that he thought he had the art of the haggle down to a science, which was also fine by me. There was no way he was going to outhaggle a psychometric. As long as I could downplay any real finds, I’d get a bargain and he’d be none the wiser.

I picked one end of the table to start with, took off my gloves, and began to run my hands across everything he had on display. A pair of wedding flutes. Nothing. A Legion of Doom lunchbox. Cute, but nothing either. A hideous collection of early eighties fast-food glassware. They didn’t trigger my power, but I knew they were valuable because the paint on them had turned out to be toxic. Still nothing. My confidence started to waver. Had I picked the wrong table? It had felt so promising.

Chip-tooth watched me closely as if I might try to steal something. Clearly he hadn’t heard of my reputation from the other vendors. I didn’t blame him. Still, I found it frustrating. I was about to give up on his merchandise and go check out some of the Victorian furniture I had noticed two tables back, when my fingers touched a rectangular video game unit. The name Intellivision was printed across the top of it and the majority of the unit was plastered withStar Wars stickers. Two keypad controllers with circular push pads dangled lifelessly from tightly wound cords. Next to it was a pile of game boxes-twenty in all.

Instantly the electric snap of connection flowed up my arm and I fought to keep my poker face in place. I picked up the gaming console, and held it in front of my face as I pretended to examine it, but what I really hoped was that it hid my sudden look of interest. I closed my eyes and the market around me fell away.

In the vision, I was a young male, eleven or twelve years old. I focused quickly for clues to his name or location because if I didn’t figure out who he was or where he lived, it would be impossible to sell this long-lost property back to its original owner, a gambit of mine that’s proved incredibly lucrative over the years, especially with childhood memorabilia like this.

I was in a bedroom and the dйcor clearly indicated the late seventies or early eighties. From a hook on the back of the bedroom door hung bell-bottomed corduroys and a plaid cowboy shirt complete with pearl white snaps. It was the Farrah Fawcett poster, however, the one every boy in my middle-school class had drooled over, that convinced me of the time period. The Intellivision console was pristine back then and the boy was cutting up bubble gum stickers withStar Wars characters on them. He proceeded to tape the assembled clippings across the face of the console, carefully avoiding the controllers. May the Dork be with you. He then proceeded to add color-coded stickers to the corner of each game box, but I couldn’t make rhyme or reason as to what they meant.

The world of the vision shifted and fell out of focus. When it surged again, what I saw made me feel real sorry for the kid.

Time had passed in the room and now the kid’s mother was there. She had discovered the console and the stickered boxes, and with the ferocity of a feral cat, she tore aStar Wars sticker from the unit. Thankfully for me, she did what mothers who were pissed at their kids always did-she called the teen by his full name. Kevin Arnold Matthews. I had what I needed to try and find him, but I couldn’t escape the vision. Kevin begged for her to leave them alone, but the mother just ignored him.

The vision went blurry again. I knew time had passed because Kevin’s toys had all shifted place. He was standing there, watching and crying as his mother packed up the unit and games and, this time, threw them away. I felt the burn of his tears, his nose thick with snot.

Whatever caused this hateful display in this boy’s mother, I didn’t know. It was beyond my power. Only select glimpses were imprinted on items like the game console. I had to do a great deal of interpretation to figure out the whole story behind an item, and I constantly had to remind myself that I was human and therefore wrong sometimes.

But my interpretation of this vision so far was that the woman was a stone-hearted bitch for throwing the games out in front of Kevin. I felt compelled to return them to him, though, and I hoped they would help the guy reclaim a bit of his youthful idealism or happiness. If I was able to find him via the Internet. Sometimes I simply couldn’t track someone down if his name didn’t come to me in the vision and I’d end up selling the item back to another antiques dealer who simply thought I had a good eye. When everything fell in line, it felt great. It was those little victories that kept me going. Well, that and being able to pay my maintenance with the finder’s fee they hopefully felt compelled to cough up. Kevin Arnold Matthews, I repeated to myself over and over.

I heard a voice that called from outside the scene in my mind’s eye.

“You like George Plimpton, huh?”

I felt my concentration snap back to the real world. Being torn out of a vision prematurely was always disorienting. Like clockwork, my low blood sugar kicked in and I felt a little weak in the knees. I set the console back on the table gingerly and fished in my coat pocket for my Life Savers. They were the most portable and convenient source of quick sugar short of carrying a syringe full of pure glucose. Less pointy, too.

The chipped-tooth Indian was smiling. I knew I had blown my poker face. Damn.