At 17, he was working as a plumber’s apprentice when a friend who knew the captain of the Empress of Scotland got him signed on to work as a lowly “fourth sanitary engineer” aboard the passenger ship. He would earn his passage to Montreal fixing toilets for the equivalent of 12 cents a day, but who was complaining? He was going to live out West at last!
When the Empress docked in Canada, Dad added his 96 cents* in wages to the 20 dollars in life savings he had brought with him from Scotland. He took the first job offered, as a farmhand in Ontario.
*Wow, even we made more picking rocks.
The sour elderly couple that owned the farm worked Dad to the bone and fed him nothing but lettuce and tomatoes. He got up in time to milk the cows at 4 a.m. and finished the last of his chores around 9 p.m. The couple paid him 50 dollars a month, plus room and board. I never had the heart to ask him, but I’m assuming salad dressing was extra and there were no breadsticks.
During the fall harvest, when neighboring farmers pooled their labor, Dad learned from the other workers that the going wage for hired hands was actually 150 dollars a month—three times what he was earning. By then, the starvation diet, grueling hours, and sheer loneliness had worn Dad down. Canada was not what he had expected, and he was starting to seriously consider throwing in the towel and sailing back to Scotland. Instead, he took a winter job as a maintenance man for a hotel in Fort Erie, Ontario, where he soon befriended a guest who trained racehorses. Dad shared his frustration over not finding any jobs doing real cowboy work.
“Son, you’re in the wrong place,” the guest told him, “Alberta is where you need to be.” That was where all the big working ranches were. “You’ll do well there,” he added.
The guest ended up buying Dad a bus ticket, pressing a few extra dollars into his hand, and putting him aboard a Greyhound bound for Calgary. Dad eagerly headed to the employment office as soon as he arrived.
“I want to be a cowboy,” he announced.
Once they were done laughing, the clerks told him the ranchers did their hiring down at the bar of the Black Diamond Hotel.
Dad soon ended up exactly where he had always longed to be—on horseback all day long, roping cattle. Even better, he would later reminisce, the cattle were “wild as deer,” demanding expert riding skills and tricky rope work to bring them down from the craggy mountain passes where they often roamed. Dad lived in a bunkhouse with the other cowboys, and was fed well enough to put on the weight he’d lost working for the miserly old couple.
Come summer, Dad decided to join a friend who was leading horseback trips through the backcountry in Banff. It was there, at a party one night, that Dad looked around the room and spotted a pretty girl with long blond hair. He walked up to her, fell to one knee, and asked her to marry him.
Mom was Toronto-born but had grown up riding horses and dreaming of coming out West to be a cowgirl. She and a girlfriend had banked enough money baby-sitting their way through high school to get to Banff after graduation. Mom was just 17. In Banff, she quickly learned how to ride Western and got hired by a guest ranch. She had no shortage of flirting cowboys and resort workers vying for her attention at the party that night when Dad appeared and blew the competition out of the water. She turned down his proposal-at-first-sight, but the bold move resulted in two years of dating (or courting, as Dad puts it) before the two of them eloped.
Someday, the newlyweds promised themselves, they would own their own horse ranch in Alberta, and build their dream home there. But work in Banff was seasonal, so they set out for Vancouver, where the milder climate and bigger city offered better opportunities for a year-round income. When summer rolled around, they’d shift back to Banff for a couple of months to take advantage of the perfect weather in their slice of paradise. It was a pattern that continued well after having us kids, and it showed no sign of ending—even if we were begging and pleading for a little Disneyland action.
After Dad’s riding skills landed him a bit role in a movie, he forged a new career as a stunt man. Mom was working her way up the ladder as a paralegal for a law firm in downtown Vancouver. Even after JD was born 10 years into their marriage, Mom would still pack up the baby to go spend time with Dad when he had to be away on location for weeks or even months at a time. Drew and I put an end to his celluloid cowboy days when we came along. Three babies Jonathan on a movie set were too much to handle for even the mellowest parents.
We spent our childhood watching Mom and Dad pursue their lifelong dream and build the nest egg to make it reality, mostly from their savvy and sweat equity when it came to buying and selling the homes we lived in over the years. They’d always fix them up and make a nice profit. After they finally found the Alberta property they wanted, they turned their attention to the ranch house they wanted to build. And they did it themselves from the ground up, meticulously designing it down to the last doorknob.
When the time came to start construction, I agreed to change schools to spend the latter part of my tenth grade year in Alberta working alongside Dad on the place. My carpentry skills had expanded beyond the basics by then because I was constantly designing and building large illusions for my magic act. I could not only build the family a kitchen island, I could make it disappear, too.
My move to Alberta was the first time I had ever left Drew’s side for more than a few hours, though. We’ve always been best friends as well as brothers, and it felt weird not to have him right there 24/7, finishing my sentences or cracking the exact joke that had just crossed my mind, too.*
*Now I feel bad I didn’t mail you some sarcastic rebuts.
It wasn’t just Drew I missed—it was JD, our best friend, Pedro, and our whole crazy crew. Pulling pranks just doesn’t deliver the same payoff if you have to play both perpetrator and victim. I’ve always been outgoing, though, and I figured I’d make new friends once I started school in High River, even if the pickings were a lot slimmer than I was used to. The town was barely a speck on the map—10,000 people, tops—and a lot sleepier than Maple Ridge. High River was about 30 miles and 50 light years south of Calgary, so my social life was about to get rural.
Still, I wasn’t particularly stressed about being the new kid since I’d changed high schools once before, when Drew and I transferred to a new “work at your own pace” college-like public school where we both had thrived. I was a strong student and a good athlete, with a sense of humor that had always made me popular enough with both my classmates and the teachers, even if I was never one of the “popular kids.” So what could possibly go wrong, right?
Not right.
To say my first day at Senator Riley High was a disaster would be like calling the Armageddon a mildly-warmer-than-average day with an elevated air-quality advisory. We’re not just talking subtle buzz kill here: This was total, scorched-earth, take-no-prisoners buzz annihilation.
We were living in a motel for the time being, but Dad had to be out at the construction site and couldn’t drop me at school that first day. Instead, he arranged for his buddy who owned the town taxi service to give me a ride. The taxi service consisted of one cab and a short white handicapped-accessible van. That morning, the cab was on a call, so Dad’s friend pulled up to the motel in what to my horror was now my private little school bus and told me to hop aboard. The van had been in a minor accident that rendered the passenger door inoperable, so I had to climb in via the wheelchair ramp. I could already see the odds of a Danny Zuko-esque first day appearance fading quickly.
“I’ll drop you off out front,” my oblivious driver cheerfully said as we turned onto the street where my new school awaited.
“No, no, you don’t have to do that. Just stop here, it’s fine,” I suggested a good block away.
“It’s no trouble at all! Your dad’s a friend!” he insisted. By then, we were pulling up to the curb right in front of all the students filing off their not-so-short buses. I could
feel everyone stop to stare as the ramp noisily lowered and I started to walk down it. I didn’t even make it to the sidewalk before the first flying Coke can hit me in the side of the head.
It was a harsh reminder that kids could be cruel, but I was determined to endure, and salvage what dignity I could. I picked up the can and made the long shot into the trash (this was a LONG time before recycling programs), then went inside. Within no time, I overheard some kids by my locker talking about magic. They had a pack of playing cards . . . and I was in.*
*Who knew–after years of harassing him for being a nerdy magician, it would actually save his reputation?
I would talk on the phone to Drew at least every other day. He would fill me in on everything I was missing out on, and I would paint the bitter picture of my isolation in High River. The school hadn’t been updated since students wrote on stone tablets and ate woolly mammoth burgers for lunch. It had none of the brand-new amenities or high-tech bells and whistles that Thomas Haney Secondary boasted back in Maple Ridge. Worst of all was the complete loss of autonomy. Adios, open schedules and independent learning plans. Gone, too, were the myriad extracurricular activities I was involved in, like theater and coaching, not to mention all the important offices* I held.
*You were president of the Crime Stoppers Club, you ran unopposed, and there was no crime to stop.
Exactly, I was that good.
The bottom line was that I had just transferred from Oz to Alcatraz.
My school day dragged out minute by dull minute for what felt like 17 hours until the final bell. It was deflating to sit in a cell-like classroom again and plod over material at a snail’s pace. Boredom had never been a factor for me before, but now, without enough juice to fully charge, my brain powered down like a phone on airplane mode. (Yeah, I know smartphones weren’t invented yet, but who wants to compare their brain to a Walkman on dead batteries?)
I felt like the life and lust for learning were being sucked right out of me. I went from straight-As to getting Ds for the first time in my life. What the HECK was happening? And how was I going to salvage my GPA when there was no option to make whimsical short films for extra credit? It would’ve taken a remake of Titanic and a Golden Globe nomination just to raise History to a measly C-plus.
At least the house was going well, though. Dad and I got it framed in good time despite the challenge of brutal prairie winds that blew me right off the scaffolding. I wasn’t hurt, and no flying monkeys showed up, but Drew and Pedro did (which was close enough), and just in time.
My classmates had stopped lobbing Coke cans at my head once I gained acceptance as the guy who could do cool magic tricks and deliver some good one-liners, but those new friendships couldn’t offer the kind of support I needed at the moment. That kind of reassurance only comes with friends who not only know your whole back story but also lived it with you.
Drew and Pedro weren’t there just to boost my sagging spirits, though. They were our free day laborers to do the grunt work while Dad and I handled the precision surgery, like gluing and nailing the knotty pine wood cladding on the vaulted ceilings in our living room.
Mind you, I’m not dissing either one of them here. Pedro was especially good with welding and any mechanical problems—his uncles owned an auto-repair shop where he had practically grown up, and he could rebuild an entire engine by himself in less than a day. And much as I like to tease him, Drew has an incredible work ethic and won’t stop until he’s mastered whatever is at hand.* He and Pedro made a great problem-solving team—no question there. It was the no-brainer stuff that tripped them up.
*Paid announcement
Digging a simple hole, for example. (Here is where I’m dissing them.)
Drew and Pedro were assigned the task of shoveling an outhouse hole 5 feet deep and about 3 feet across. They dug away all afternoon. They were like possessed chipmunks. When they were done, they were very, very proud that they had dug the perfect hole. Yep, it was exactly the size it was supposed to be.
Too bad it was in the wrong place. Chip ’n’ Dale had dug a latrine where a fence post was supposed to go. This was why Dad always used to say, “This is more a Jon thing” when something broke around the house and Drew started jumping up and down begging him, “Let me fix it, Dad! I can fix it!”
With tenth grade at an end, I realized I was going to have to kick major butt to get my grades back up if I planned on earning a degree more advanced than my certificate from Parks and Rec clown college. And if I was going to win a scholarship, which I needed, I would have to earn straight As my junior and senior years. Returning to Maple Ridge and my old high school was my best shot at doing that. Dad would stay behind to finish the house, hiring help as needed. Mom would bring all three of us boys back to Alberta on school breaks to pitch in.
Just like our father with his cowboy aspirations, Drew and I had both been lucky enough to discover our calling early on. For Drew, that was acting and athletics.*
*While you mostly just acted athletic.
My all-consuming passion, of course, was for magic. I was maybe 12 years old when I met my first real magician at our city’s outdoor New Year’s Eve celebration. His name was David Wilson and he was going from person to person doing tricks and making people laugh. I was so mesmerized by his effects that I started trailing him around the party, watching intently and asking a million questions. I was totally hooked. I devoured every book, video, TV special, and live performance I could in a quest to become the next David Copperfield. Preferably by age 13.
As similar as we seem, Drew and I were actually polar opposites when it came to how we approached our shared love of performing. As an actor, what Drew wanted most was for people to see the truth he brought to each role. As a magician, my aim was to deliver thrills by deceiving the hell out of them. Even though our creative paths diverged, Drew and I still had the same destination: center stage.
We were also raised to understand that we’d never get there by just forging blindly ahead.
One of the advantages of doing most everything in tandem growing up is that practically nothing ever happened in a vacuum. We had to routinely consult, compromise, cooperate, and conspire with each other, so working out a plan became second nature. That’s not to say they were all good plans, but the habit wasn’t a bad one to have.*
*So your idea to rig the lottery by buying 10,000 tickets counts as one of your good plans, right?
Details, details.
Striking out on our own at 18, with different careers in mind, it didn’t occur to us to each just go our separate way and find our own success. The question at hand was how we could combine forces and create enough momentum to propel both of us to the top.
We both enrolled in the University of Calgary, which allowed us a little freedom while staying within reasonable striking distance of the ranch in case we needed some Mom and Dad time. I ended up getting a full academic scholarship, and declared a major in business with a minor in theater design. I wanted to be well prepared to run every aspect of my own touring show as a magician, from the finances and growth strategy to the staging requirements like lighting, rigging, and drafting. I even managed to turn a group project in one class into a conveniently self-serving blueprint for my future. We were supposed to choose a business, then create a plan, showing research, statistics, and everything else we’d need to work out to launch it. Other groups were doing things like a laundromat or coffee shop, but our team slayed with “The Magic of Jonathan Silver” touring show. I was so fixated on that goal, I could have converted “The Magic of Jonathan Silver” into credit in marine science if needed.
Jonathan: We are always on the same page. It’s like having that best friend who can finish your sentences, times 1,000. Drew can even START my sentences.
Drew: If I had a dollar for every crazy, ridiculous, absurd scheme Jonathan came up with . . .
I’d have a lot more money to invest in every one of them.
Drew was even more obsessed with basketball. Coming to Calgary with an athletic scholarship, he studied kinesiology so he could earn a living in sports beyond the career he hoped for on the court. He wanted to be a high school coach eventually, but in Canada, coaches don’t get paid: Teachers volunteer after school. Drew needed the kinesiology degree so he could teach health and phys ed. What he wanted in the immediate future, though, was to make U Calgary’s basketball team.
On top of our chosen fields, we were still keen to keep making our short indie films and immerse ourselves more in that creative world. We had made our first very short film in eleventh grade. It was called A Summer Affair, which was something our 16-year-old selves had zero direct knowledge of, but limitless interest in.
The film was a very greased-lightning type of production following a boy and girl in high school who were destined to fall in love but didn’t realize their passion for each other was mutual. Drew played the guy and I directed. Even though it was a tad cheesy, it was pretty hilarious. Or at least we thought so. It was filled with inside jokes that only our group of friends would really understand, but everyone else still laughed enough for us to deem it a success.
After college, we started shooting other short films on shoestring budgets. One of my favorites is Karma Inc., a dark comedy that stirred a lot of buzz in the independent scene. It’s about this otherworldly office that manages all the karma on earth. I played the head of the negative karma division, and Drew was of course head of the positive side. Another one, called A Better Me, played off of the typical stereotypes that you would find at the gym and questioned why some people are so obsessed with feeling better on the outside instead of diving deeper into the problems that exist on the inside.
It Takes Two Page 4