My friend died today. His name is Ken Howard. He has been president of the newly merged SAG/AFTRA actor’s union. I met him in 1966 when I was a page (usher) at the NBC studios at 30 Rock. He was a young, unemployed actor, but not for long. Within two years, he was starring on Broadway in Neil Simon’s Promises, Promises.
He had been in poor health for quite some time and the cancer countdown had begun at least a year ago. Other than our page time, we saw each other once a number of years later at a TV industry function. Around six years ago, we reconnected and have had a solid connection since.
Last night, I got a call from Linda, his wife and she shared that he had been in hospice care for a while now and was likely in his last sleep and would be gone soon. I was in my car at the time in a parking lot. I made a sound I don’t look forward to hearing again. It was the sound of grief coming from a cracked open body.
I hurried home and all I could think to do was write him a letter. He loved my writing and was my champion. His health has been fragile for many years and he got a vicarious charge out of some of my adventures.
I took out my motorcycle this morning because I wanted to bring Ken on a ride. I rode the Kipu bypass and worked on our new relationship. I will keep trying my hand at writing, my way of honoring our wonderful friendship.
Ken has had a wonderful career as an always-working actor. His greatest role was likely his last. He oversaw the merger of the two actor’s unions, SAG and AFTRA. This was immensely challenging and we talked about it often. This guy loved acting and he loved actors and he fought passionately for the merger, his legacy.
I wrote this last night, after the call from Linda:
March 22, 2016
Dear Ken
I have been trying to reach you for a number of days. Left some emails and phones, but should have known something wasn’t right when Linda didn’t return an email with a photo of my grandson, Shane. She has been such a wonderful “fan” of my sweet, little grandson, always sending back lovely compliments. When nothing came back after a couple of days, I didn’t have a good feeling.
Yesterday, I went online to see if you were dead and didn’t find anything, but that is where my head has been recently. You know, as much as you try to be Jewish, your inner WASP has shown through. A Jew would want to make as many people as possible sad for as long as possible. You, my very white friend, have chosen to go quietly, starring in your own “based on a true story” film and showing such magnificent courage in the lead role.
I am writing to you within minutes of getting a call from Linda, letting me know you are already on the train and it is slowly leaving. I love you, man. Please pack my love and take it with you. I am going to ask Linda if you could take this letter with you and I hope she doesn’t mind. For reasons that only you know, our relationship is extremely important to you. As for me, at this moment, I have a huge, gaping hole that hasn’t had time to find the words. I am crying, but you know I am an easy cry.
You always had a great memory and could recall dates and conversations and back-story with ease. This ability came up in our second friendship incarnation and I will wait a bit for that piece. However, you are not here to correct me, so I can make up the details of our initial meeting at NBC, when I was a page and you a tour guide.
I was living at home and going to Queens College. An opportunity came up to work the Johnson/Goldwater election at NBC in ’64. I jumped at the chance to get coffee for Huntley and Brinkley. Begged for a job as a page and got one in the spring of ’65. A longstanding joke between us was my becoming a White Key. The only other person rising to such a high rank in pagedom was likely Gregory Peck, before he killed the mockingbird.
I could never get the damn dates straight about when our time at NBC overlapped, but you had it down. Something occurred between us that felt special to me, but I had no idea about its impact on you until we reconnected. You weren’t at NBC very long, but I think we enjoyed each other’s company and I know I always felt incredibly comedic around you.
One day, for reasons long gone, we went to the small studio with a black and white screen, set up for visitors to see themselves on camera. You were at least one person taller than myself, so we put the camera down on me, while you sang off camera. Christ, I wish I could remember what the fuck you sang? What was it? We did a lip synch and I hammed it up to your vocals. You asked me if I thought you had talent, or something to that effect. While you can remember the entire dialogue, I am left with the memory of an incredibly positive feeling. I knew you had it and you were already wearing it. I am so thrilled that our little exchange loomed so large in your closet of memories. It was some kind of affection between us, manifested by the joy of connection.
Your star exploded early in your trajectory, gifting you with an incredible arc of a career in show business. You left me behind in the ashes and I was forced to struggle in the broadcast advertising business. A handful of years later, we met up at a CBS new season introduction. You were a star for some reason or other. We had a great conversation that night, both of us extremely comfortable.
You will have to tell the next part of how we reconnected for good this last time. Shit, I don’t remember and under the circumstances, who cares? What I do know is that from the first conversation until the last, we really enjoyed speaking to each other. With you, it was one artist talking to another because you recognized that side of me.
I want to tell you and anyone else who will listen, how supportive you were of my writing efforts. When I wrote my book and shared it with you, I can’t even begin to tell you what your reaction meant to me. You had such high praise; it is embarrassing to even think about. You put me in the same breath as some true comedic geniuses. Now, if I mentioned names, someone is likely to think I am looking for an agent.
What a world you lived in, my friend. What I also know is that it is no more unbelievable than my own, something you would quickly point out.
I think it would make you happy to know that I will keep writing. My beloved friend, I have you to thank for your unbelievable friendship and support. You are the best audience I ever had. You know, there are going to be tributes and eulogies, each one more embarrassing than the next.
You possessed an intellect and ethical sensibility that cast you in your best fucken role ever. We talked more than anyone will know about the intricacies of the union and your personal struggles with it all. We could do that because all I wanted was to help you stay on course, close to your heart. I hope the constituents of your union take the goddamn time to appreciate what you have done for them. In many ways, you were the consummate actor, passionate about your craft and compassionate for your fellow actors.
I am mourning your departure and feeling a forever-empty space where our conversations lived. I don’t get to talk to you again. My heart is broken and you know you can count on me to be the emotional one.
I will carry the flag for both of us. I know it delighted you to see me out there and it sometimes felt like I was doing some of my things just to share with you. My recent motorcycle journey was a great time we shared. I know you enjoyed reading my posts and it thrilled me every time you responded.
I could yell at the top of my lungs and you can’t hear me now. No, it is not just because I am 2,500 hundred miles away and that is not funny. Like you, I don’t hold too many people close and to lose one is devastating. I am crushed.
I have decided that the only thing I can do is write, always considering whether you will like it or not. The moment I finished a piece, I would send it to you, whether it was completed or not. I got to be an artist with you and it has meant the world to me.
I know you will be leaving soon. Please take our friendship with you.
Love
Larry