Two years after leaving the Army I enrolled at Seton Hall University, a Catholic school which had recently gone co-ed. My new uniform consisted of blues jeans, a white shirt under a black vest, a pearl in my right ear, a pony tail, and my grimy boonie hat, adorned with love beads, Combat Medic Badge, Cav patch, grenade pins, the word Cambodia inked on the brim. I didn’t talk much that first semester. “Who’s that guy? Who is he?” the pretty coeds said behind my back. I later learned they thought I was strange.
For two years I took any course I liked. Fascinated by Buddhism, I majored in Religious Studies. I was an average student, fortunate to have three exceptional best friends. David had gone to a Marist Brothers school, where he learned Greek and Latin and excelled academically. He was kind, modest and brilliant. He chose Seton Hall simply to avoid the draft. John was a gifted athlete and anthropology student. Wally, an aspiring actor, pursued a degree in theater.
Where John and his girlfriend Sue and I often went camping, and David and I palled around, Wally and I spent hours playing chess while stoned on pot, or improvised and recorded comedy sketches on a reel to reel tape deck. Having cued up the tape, I’d play a few bars of music on a vinyl record, then pitch Wally an idea. We’d kick it around some. Wally would improvise one character, I’d do the other. Or Wally would invent a character for himself. In either case he would dip his head forward, concentrate, open his eyes, gave me a nod. I’d start the music, roll the tape. Some sketches were better than others but we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
One afternoon, while sharing a joint, I played a few notes of Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie on an album by Blood, Sweat and Tears. As the sad limpid notes poured forth, “Think of something,” I said. Wally’s impersonation of an old woman in exile was stunning. “Well son, here I am, sitting all by my lonesome, biding my time, feeling my years, here at the Hidden Embarrassment Old Folks Home.” And he kept going, a flawless unscripted ventriloquised five minute virtuoso monolog with a perfect beginning, middle and end. How did he do it? I kept those tapes for quite some time.
One day Wally gave me a saki set he’d shared with his brother. At the time I didn’t appreciate the depth of his gesture. Walter had been killed in Vietnam in 1970, the same year I’d been there. Maybe his ghost was a link between us.
One Thanksgiving I invited Wally to my parents place for dinner. My father, paranoid and depressed, punned compulsively. My mother was schizophrenic and served as his fall guy. As we ate the unappetizing meal, my father turned to Wally and asked: “What Hollywood actor does this turkey remind you of?” In his wonderfully theatrical voice, with perfect timing and pitch, Wally replied, “I…I don’t know, Mr. Levy. What…what Hollywood actor could it be?” “Cluck,” said my father. “Cluck Gobble!” Wally chuckled his throaty laugh, clutched his sides, fell from his chair, rolled on the carpeted floor, and continued to laugh hysterically. “Oh Max!” said my mother, playing her part. My father couldn’t have asked for a better audience.
In the spring of 1976, on the day I was to sit for my year book portrait at the student center, I removed my sport jacket and tie and handed them to Wally. We were about the same height, had the same lanky build. The jacket and shirt fit well. I helped with the tie. Wally knew my address and phone number. He memorized my date of birth, confidently gave me thumbs up, an artful smile, and marched up, up the spiraling staircase to the office where my picture would be taken. Ten minutes later he hurried down, a worried look on his handsome face. Breathless, “Marc, what’s your social security number?” The nine digits committed to memory, he hurried back to the photographer.
A few minutes later, descending the stairs, smiling triumphantly, Wally handed me the coat and tie, the carbon copies of receipts he’d signed and dated. The photo proofs, he said, would arrive in two months. We had a good laugh but would celebrate later. It was time for class.
When the proofs arrived I sent the yearbook company a fifty dollar check for one copy of the 1976 edition of The Galleon. On page 228, among the graduates, instead of my somewhat gaunt and serious Caucasian face, behold the lambent look of the kinky haired Afro American posing for the camera. Beneath the black and white portrait, my capitalized name and new credential, BA, Religious Studies.
For his last performance at the university’s theater-in-the round, in his brief but extraordinary part, dressed as waiter in a classy restaurant, holding aloft a circular tray with two wine glasses, Wally swirled across the round stage, the audience mesmerized by his skill and panache.
Over time I saw less of him on campus. I was told he had missed theater rehearsals. There were rumors, and one day in 1976 Wally Hutton simply disappeared.
Ten years later I received a long distance phone call. Wally was desperate. He didn’t explain why. Could I lend him money? Of course. In those days one hundred dollars was a not immodest sum. I never heard back.
In 1988 I bought a ticket to see the film Stand and Deliver, based on the true story of Hispanic students and their intrepid high school math teacher, who inspired his students to pass advanced calculus. Half way through the film in walked Wally. Not into the theater. Onto the screen. I nearly jumped from my seat. Wally had the role of Dr. Pearson, an educational testing official sent to investigate the students, whose inexplicably high test scores suggested cheating.
I attempted locate Wally by contacting his folks. He once told me they lived in New Jersey. I made several attempts but could not find them. Wally had found me, but I’d lost him again.
In 1992 it was my turn to disappear. I left the United States, for eight months backpacking Central America. In Todos Santos, a mountain village in Guatemala, I spent hours, as if on patrol, trekking the well used trails. The few gringos and villagers I knew thought I was strange. After drifting a year in Northampton I moved to New Zealand, where I found work and saved money to backpack Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Australia, Europe. I had many adventures, but many flashbacks too. Eight months later I spent an insufferable seven weeks at a VA PTSD ward in Montrose, NY. Between 1996 and 2000 I moved 12 times.
In 2001, using the still new internet, I located my old friend; he now called himself Riff. By phone Riff explained that he’d dropped out of Seton Hall to become an actor. In California, through dark times and menial jobs he kept at it, auditioning at every chance he could. After four grueling years he made it, with roles in commercials, movies, TV sitcoms, soap operas, voice overs. He gotten married too.
We choked up at saying good bye. A few weeks later I received a card in the mail. When I opened it a check for a thousand dollars fell to the floor. “Repayment,” the note said. I hadn’t mentioned the debt; he must have thought I’d forgotten. Riff also invited me out to his place in Marina Del Ray. I’ll always regret not visiting him.
One morning in April 2026 I came across a photo of Riff Hutton in an online magazine. “Doogie Howser, M.D. and General Hospital Star, Dies At 73,” it began. Wally, I gasped, and felt a great sense of loss, though reading of his many accomplishments, more than I imagined, I felt happy for him too, and grateful for having been his friend.
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__________________
Riff Hutton Wikipedia
Vimeo /Riff Hutton recollecting his friend Rick Baily
Entertainment Weekly ‘Doogie Howser, M.D.’ And ‘General Hospital’ Star, Dies At 73
He Stood and Delivered
For two years I took any course I liked. Fascinated by Buddhism, I majored in Religious Studies. I was an average student, fortunate to have three exceptional best friends. David had gone to a Marist Brothers school, where he learned Greek and Latin and excelled academically. He was kind, modest and brilliant. He chose Seton Hall simply to avoid the draft. John was a gifted athlete and anthropology student. Wally, an aspiring actor, pursued a degree in theater.
Where John and his girlfriend Sue and I often went camping, and David and I palled
around, Wally and I spent hours playing chess while stoned on pot, or improvised and recorded comedy sketches on a reel to reel tape deck. Having cued up the tape, I’d play a few bars of music on a vinyl record, then pitch Wally an idea. We’d kick it around some. Wally would improvise one character, I’d do the other. Or Wally would invent a character for himself. In either case he would dip his head forward, concentrate, open his eyes, gave me a nod. I’d start the music, roll the tape. Some sketches were better than others but we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
One afternoon, while sharing a joint, I played a few notes of Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie on an album by Blood, Sweat and Tears. As the sad limpid notes poured forth, “Think of something,” I said. Wally’s impersonation of an old woman in exile was stunning. “Well son, here I am, sitting all by my lonesome, biding my time, feeling my years, here at the Hidden Embarrassment Old Folks Home.” And he kept going, a flawless unscripted ventriloquised five minute virtuoso monolog with a perfect beginning, middle and end. How did he do it? I kept those tapes for quite some time.
One day Wally gave me a saki set he’d shared with his brother. At the time I didn’t appreciate the depth of his gesture. Walter had been killed in Vietnam in 1970, the same year I’d been there. Maybe his ghost was a link between us.
In the spring of 1976, on the day I was to sit for my year book portrait at the student center, I removed my sport jacket and tie and handed them to Wally. We were about the same height, had the same lanky build. The jacket and shirt fit well. I helped with the tie. Wally knew my address and phone number. He memorized my date of birth, confidently gave me thumbs up, an artful smile, and marched up, up the spiraling staircase to the office where my picture would be taken. Ten minutes later he hurried down, a worried look on his handsome face. Breathless, “Marc, what’s your social security number?” The nine digits committed to memory, he hurried back to the photographer.
A few minutes later, descending the stairs, smiling triumphantly, Wally handed me the coat and tie, the carbon copies of receipts he’d signed and dated. The photo proofs, he said, would arrive in two months. We had a good laugh but would celebrate later. It was time for class.
For his last performance at the university’s theater-in-the round, in his brief but extraordinary part, dressed as waiter in a classy restaurant, holding aloft a circular tray with two wine glasses, Wally swirled across the round stage, the audience mesmerized by his skill and panache.
Over time I saw less of him on campus. I was told he had missed theater rehearsals. There were rumors, and one day in 1976 Wally Hutton simply disappeared.
Ten years later I received a long distance phone call. Wally was desperate. He didn’t explain why. Could I lend him money? Of course. In those days one hundred dollars was a not immodest sum. I never heard back.
I attempted locate Wally by contacting his folks. He once told me they lived in New Jersey. I made several attempts but could not find them. Wally had found me, but I’d lost him again.
In 1992 it was my turn to disappear. I left the United States, for eight months backpacking Central America. In Todos Santos, a mountain village in Guatemala, I spent hours, as if on patrol, trekking the well used trails. The few gringos and villagers I knew thought I was strange. After drifting a year in Northampton I moved to New Zealand, where I found work and saved money to backpack Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Australia, Europe. I had many adventures, but many flashbacks too. Eight months later I spent an insufferable seven weeks at a VA PTSD ward in Montrose, NY. Between 1996 and 2000 I moved 12 times.
In 2001, using the still new internet, I located my old friend; he now called himself Riff.
By phone Riff explained that he’d dropped out of Seton Hall to become an actor. In California, through dark times and menial jobs he kept at it, auditioning at every chance he could. After four grueling years he made it, with roles in commercials, movies, TV sitcoms, soap operas, voice overs. He gotten married too.
We choked up at saying good bye. A few weeks later I received a card in the mail. When I opened it a check for a thousand dollars fell to the floor. “Repayment,” the note said. I hadn’t mentioned the debt; he must have thought I’d forgotten. Riff also invited me out to his place in Marina Del Ray. I’ll always regret not visiting him.
One morning in April 2026 I came across a photo of Riff Hutton in an online magazine. “Doogie Howser, M.D. and General Hospital Star, Dies At 73,” it began. Wally, I gasped, and felt a great sense of loss, though reading of his many accomplishments, more than I imagined, I felt happy for him too, and grateful for having been his friend.
___________
__________________
Riff Hutton Wikipedia
Vimeo /Riff Hutton recollecting his friend Rick Baily
Entertainment Weekly ‘Doogie Howser, M.D.’ And ‘General Hospital’ Star, Dies At 73