Connotation Press

By Charles Evered

When I tell people I see my late brother Dan everywhere, they naturally become a little concerned. Am I seeing his specter emerge out of the mist, or from dark corners— ala “Christmas Carol?” Or, like Hamlet’s father, does he appear to me shrouded in smoke and bearing onerous tidings? Nope, nothing like that. Still, there he is— seated at cafes, walking down crowded sidewalks, reading magazines on planes—-it doesn’t end. I think I see him, but I’m never quite sure. He’s there, and then he isn’t. Whenever I’m sure it’s him, he disappears altogether. I “pause” for a moment, but it doesn’t help. I “rewind,” but I can never tell for sure—-that is, until I came upon that scene in the film Breach, a spy thriller starring Chris Cooper and Ryan Phillippe, circa 2007. There’s a scene 23 minutes and 37 seconds into the film, when Chris Cooper is leading Ryan Phillippe onto an elevator, and they’re met by a stunning blonde. Standing to the left of the blonde and against the back of the elevator is a gentleman in a blue jacket and black turtleneck. That’s my older brother, Dan Evered, known professionally as Dan “Cole”—as among many other things, he was an extra in film and television productions shot in Toronto.
So I do see my brother seemingly everywhere. Perhaps I’m not as crazy as people think I am.
Dan let me know he was dying like someone might mention they’re dropping off dry cleaning on the way to work. He lived in Canada most of his life, and I lived—and still live, in either Princeton, New Jersey or Joshua Tree, California. I recall sending him a “check in” email the day before, asking whether he might be able to come down to see a screening of a film I directed called Adopt a Sailor, which was making the rounds at festivals, and telling him I hoped everything was “peachy up there.” The next day, he sent me an email back, with the subject line reading: “Not peachy around here.”
The first line of the body of the email read like a truncated haiku: “Seems my body is riddled with “C.” Days seriously numbered.”
He signed off with: “Luv ya man, Dan.”
I read the email over and over again in the parking lot of Princeton High School. My son, John, not yet ten, was inside attending a baseball clinic. I kept scanning the email’s minimal text, hoping I was missing something, that it was a sarcastic joke, or some kind of misunderstanding. Finally, I called and nervously (and jokingly) asked if by “C” he meant “cantaloupe,”— not cancer—and I recall him laughing. But, no such luck. I told him I’d like to come up and see him as soon as possible. He said I should come up“now.”
As I play that scene in Breach over and over again, I marvel at the fact that —even as extras go, Dan was a talented one. As someone who directs films, I’m well aware certain background players have a propensity for “hamming up” a little moment like that—even just standing in an elevator—trying to convey—during seven seconds of screen time, some little “intention” or “moment” that exists only in their own head. Dan however, just rode the elevator –like a human being would. You’d be surprised how complicated it can be for some people—-to act like people.
When I got up to Toronto, I noticed he was thinner—and pale. The first thing he did was pull his shirt up and show me—as he put it, what was “killing him.” There was a tumor in his chest, and unlike most cancers that tend to eat away at someone invisibly from within, there was grim proof positive right in front of me that something was actively killing my brother. It looked as though someone was pushing a fireplace poker through his back and emerging in the front of his chest was a large, raised flesh colored “bump”—about the size of a fist.
Dan and I had always had a good though sometimes complicated relationship. He was after all, a complicated person. As most interesting people are.
I wondered—-during one of my many subsequent viewings of the elevator scene, whether Chris Cooper had any idea that the extra standing behind him was a former hippie, merchant marine, cable guy, cruise ship entertainer, writer, standup comedian, self-taught magician and juggler and all around raconteur. I wondered whether Ryan Phillippe knew that that fellow in the far corner was known affectionately as “The Busker of the Beaches,” for the thousands of performances he had given on the scenic shores of Lake Ontario. I wondered whether either of those fine actors knew that Dan had entertained countless troops all over the world—- Canadian Forces, UN troops—anyone who needed a joke and some magic to take their minds off being far from home. And I wondered whether they knew what a brilliant father he was.
Dan was one of the first grownups to actually care that I was becoming a writer and director. He shared my early plays with legitimate theatre artists up in Toronto, and he encouraged me to keep at it. Still, on paper, we were as different as we were alike. Like brothers often are.
In the short time I spent with him that last trip, we talked practically about death and dying. He and I agreed we should deal in reality, in the here and now. And even then, I recognized my brother was on his way to dying a “good death.” No recrimination, no bitterness or regret, no unfinished business and most markedly, no self-pity. He was still so young, not even sixty yet, but the way he saw it—he had led “a good life”—as he put it. He had traveled the world. He had loved and been loved. And most importantly, he had guided his only child—a son, into adulthood, and that son had married a wonderful young woman.
On my last day there, he dressed up as a court jester, literally, and walked across the street to entertain some first graders at the elementary school his son had attended. It was a favor for a teacher he had kept in touch with there. And damn if he wasn’t as funny and as entertaining as he usually was. He was a great magician and juggler. I don’t think anyone in that room knew he was dying, certainly not the kids that laughed uproariously at his every joke and gag.
There are in this world, captains of industry, scholars of great works and heads of state—there are so called “celebrities” and sports stars and billionaires—and then, there are people who—even though they are in great pain and know they’re dying, will dress up in a thread bare court jester outfit with a tumor sticking out of their chest and walk across the street to make first graders laugh.
Our last moments together were as awkward as they were beautiful. I had to get back to the states and I knew I would never see him again. Still, I couldn’t acknowledge that honestly. I kept talking as if I would. I couldn’t really say goodbye. He was kind enough to play along with the idea that we’d have another “goodbye” at some point, maybe in a month or so. And so, the both of us sat there, alone, lying to each other while at the same time remaining fully aware that what we were saying had no basis in fact. He was never really “touchy feely,” my brother. Nor am I for that matter. I’d just as soon deflect painful moments with a joke, rather than fully feel or experience them. And so we ended with just that—-a few corny jokes. Then, just as I got up to go he grabbed my face and kissed me hard on the cheek, and the both of us hugged like a couple long lost siblings on Oprah. I felt—even during our embrace, that we were both embarrassed by it—but that since we were alone, it sort of canceled itself out as we both probably thought: “What the hell harm can it do?”
I remember thinking how beautiful the small white patch in his hair was. I had never seen it that color before—as he usually dyed it. But the color reminded me of my father’s white/grey hair, and Dan had in many ways, stood in for my father—whom I had lost as well—also from “C”—when I was fourteen. I was thankful then—and remain thankful now— for my brother’s kiss.
Just before I left his place, I lied to myself again, and I suppose to him, saying “I’ll see you again soon.” He smiled. I smiled. And then I left.
When he died, it was his brave son who called to tell me he was gone. It was a “good death,” I thought to myself—“because it had been a good life.”
Since that time, my other brother Robby has passed away, as well as my dear friend Lori Kaye, who was Godmother to my daughter Margaret. Then, just last month, another blow: my “brother from another mother,” Kevin O’Sullivan.
All of us experience loss, I know, but sometimes I find myself grabbing hold of something lately, even a counter, or the back of a chair, just to steady myself. “On we go” I tell myself. This life is a marvelous adventure. It’s a ride. We’re so fortunate to be living it. And as countless readings of The Little Prince have taught me, there’s a price to pay for loving someone.
So: on we go.
As for Dan—-I often hope that perhaps I wasn’t deluding myself. Maybe I didn’t “lie” to him after all. Haven’t I seen him again and again? In point of fact, don’t I see him everywhere—in quick snippets on the small and big screens? On computers, televisions, i Phones—on hotel TV’s?—tiny screens on cross country flights, via Netflix, Redbox, on cable or Video on Demand?”
And yes, there on that elevator. There he is, standing anonymously in that corner, totally unnoticed, except by those of us who knew him. “Background?” Yes. “Incidental.” No doubt. Even “adornment,” in a strange way,—but then at certain times in our lives— aren’t we all?
Blink, and you’ll miss him.
Blink—-and in the short amount of time we have on this earth—we miss each other.
When I think of Dan now, I think of him in flashes—as though in a flickering sequence of jagged, grainy film. I don’t presume to have known him as well as I should have—but I do know that I had the pleasure of his company. And that the world was a better place because he lived in it.
My brother Dan made first graders laugh.
It was a “good life” indeed.

Charles Evered’s new film, “A Thousand Cuts,” starring Academy Award nominee Michael O’Keefe, recently premiered at the Palm Springs International Film Festival.