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, black vest, pearl in my right ear, a pony tail, and my boonie hat, adorned with love beads, a First Cavalry patch, grenade pins, the word Cambodia inked on the brim. I didn’t talk much that first semester. “Who’s that guy?” the pretty coeds said behind my back. I later learned they thought I was strange.
Fascinated by Buddhism, I majored in Religious Studies. An average student, I had three exceptional friends. David had attended a private school and chose Seton Hall 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 and I often went camping, and David and I palled around, Wally and I, stoned on pot, played chess, and improvised comedy sketches. I’d play a few bars of music from a vinyl record, pitch an idea, record our efforts on a tape deck. Whatever the outcomes, we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
One afternoon, stoned, I played an arrangement of Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie, featured on an album by Blood, Sweat and Tears. As the sad limpid notes poured forth, “Think of something,” I said to Wally. His impersonation of a sad old woman 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.” I kept that flawless, unscripted ventriloquised five minute virtuoso monologue for quite some time.
One day Wally gave me a saki set—a porcelain carafe and two cups—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. That year, though in different units, we were both infantry. Later I learned that Walter had stepped on a booby trap which blew off his foot and ripped open his thigh. I can imagine the chaos, the deadly quiet aftermath, the thumping rotor blades of the approaching medevac. Maybe Walter was the link between Wally and me.
One Thanksgiving I invited Wally to my parent’s place for dinner. My father, paranoid and depressed, punned compulsively. My mother, a schizophrenic, served as his fall guy. As we ate her 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. What…what Hollywood actor could it be?” “Cluck,” said my father. “Cluck Gobble!” Wally chortled 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, grinning with satisfaction, 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 nearly the same height, had the same lanky build. Wally knew my address and phone number. He memorized my date of birth, gave me an artful smile, and proceeded up the spiraling staircase to where the photographer awaited. Ten minutes later Wally 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 upstairs. No long afterward, in triumph, he handed me the coat and tie, a copy of the photographer’s receipt. The photo proofs, he said, would be mailed in two months.
That April 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, B.A., Religious Studies.
For what would be his last performance at the university’s theater-in-the round, dressed as a waiter in a classy restaurant, holding aloft a circular tray, with style and flair Wally pranced across the stage, the audience mesmerized by his skilful flamboyance. Sadly, over time I saw less of him. I was told he had missed rehearsals. Dark rumors circulated, and one day, in 1976, Wally Hutton simply disappeared.
Ten years later I received a long distance phone call. Wally was desperate. 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 sat in a movie theater in Jersey City, NJ watching the film Stand and Deliver, based on the true story of a high school math teacher who inspired his Hispanic 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. Here was my college pal playing the part of Dr. Pearson, an educational testing official sent to investigate the students, whose unusually high test scores suggested cheating. Overjoyed at the sight of my old friend I attempted to locate Wally by contacting his folks, who I knew lived in Jersey. I made several tries but could not find them.
In 1992 it was my turn to disappear. I left the United States, for eight months backpacked Central America. In Todos Santos, a mountain village in Guatemala, as if on patrol, I spent hours trekking the well-used trails. The few gringos and villagers I knew thought I was strange. A year later I found work in New Zealand, saved money, backpacked Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Australia, Europe. For eight months I had many adventures, but many flashbacks too. Once home I spent an insufferable seven weeks at a VA PTSD ward in Montrose, NY.
In 2001, using the still new internet, I located Wally; he now called himself Riff. By phone Riff explained that he’d dropped out of Seton Hall to become a professional actor. In California, through dark times and menial jobs he auditioned at every chance he could. After four gruelling years he made it, with roles in commercials, movies, sitcoms, soap operas, voice overs. He’d gotten married too. A few weeks later Riff sent me a card. 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 the spring of 2026 I came across an article with a photo of Riff Hutton. “Doogie Howser, M.D. and General Hospital Star, Dies At 73,” it began. “Wally,” I gasped. A great sense of loss swept over me. Yet as I read of his many accomplishments, more than I imagined, I felt happy for him too, and grateful for having been his friend.
I located his widow in California, in a long letter recounted my college days with Riff, recollected our pot fuelled chess and comedy sketches, Walter and Vietnam and the saki set, the year book photo switch, Riff’s acting and sudden disappearance, and so on. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
Not long afterward I received an RSVP invitation to Riff’s memorial. Should I go? What to do? What? I had not seen Riff in more than 50 years, but still, I felt an irrepressible tug of loss, an enduring need to say farewell, such deep feelings that I could not explain. A follow up email stated that due to the overwhelming response, the service would now be held at a much larger venue in Malibu.
I began to rationalize. Due to war stress I do not travel well. A minor medical condition would be aggravated. Flying to California for one or two days was impulsive, irrational; the cost and logistics were unjustified.
“Sorry,” I wrote back. “Can’t make it.”
Too late I realized I had lost the opportunity to join with the many people whose lives Riff had touched. To hear them recollect the goodness of the man, the source of which I’ll never know, but whose memory gives me hope. I imagine raising a saki glass to both Hutton men. To Walter, killed in a needless war, and to Riff’s long and creative, honorable life.
___________
__________________
Top photo, Wally Hutton, The Galleon, 1975
Riff Hutton Wikipedia
Vimeo /Riff Hutton recollecting his friend Kirk Baily
Entertainment Weekly ‘Doogie Howser, M.D.’ And ‘General Hospital’ Star, Dies At 73
Walter Hutton, KIA 17 September 1970
He Stood and Delivered
Fascinated by Buddhism, I majored in Religious Studies. An average student, I had three exceptional friends. David had attended a private school and chose Seton Hall 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 and I often went camping, and David and I palled around, Wally and I, stoned on pot, played chess, and improvised comedy sketches. I’d play a few bars of music from a vinyl record, pitch an idea, record our efforts on a tape deck. Whatever the outcomes, we enjoyed ourselves immensely.
One afternoon, stoned, I played an arrangement of Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie,
featured on an album by Blood, Sweat and Tears. As the sad limpid notes poured forth, “Think of something,” I said to Wally. His impersonation of a sad old woman 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.” I kept that flawless, unscripted ventriloquised five minute virtuoso monologue for quite some time.
One day Wally gave me a saki set—a porcelain carafe and two cups—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. That year, though in different units, we were both infantry. Later I learned that Walter had stepped on a booby trap which blew off his foot and ripped open his thigh. I can imagine the chaos, the deadly quiet aftermath, the thumping rotor blades of the approaching medevac. Maybe Walter was the link between Wally and me.
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 nearly the same height, had the same lanky build. Wally knew my address and phone number. He memorized my date of birth, gave me an artful smile, and proceeded up the spiraling staircase to where the photographer awaited. Ten minutes later Wally 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 upstairs. No long afterward, in triumph, he handed me the coat and tie, a copy of the photographer’s receipt. The photo proofs, he said, would be mailed in two months.
That April 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, B.A., Religious Studies.
For what would be his last performance at the university’s theater-in-the round, dressed as a waiter in a classy restaurant, holding aloft a circular tray, with style and flair Wally pranced across the stage, the audience mesmerized by his skilful flamboyance. Sadly, over time I saw less of him. I was told he had missed rehearsals. Dark rumors circulated, and one day, in 1976, Wally Hutton simply disappeared.
Ten years later I received a long distance phone call. Wally was desperate. Could I lend him money? Of course. In those days one hundred dollars was a not immodest sum. I never heard back.
In 1992 it was my turn to disappear. I left the United States, for eight months backpacked Central America. In Todos Santos, a mountain village in Guatemala, as if on patrol, I spent hours trekking the well-used trails. The few gringos and villagers I knew thought I was strange. A year later I found work in New Zealand, saved money, backpacked Southeast Asia, Indonesia, Australia, Europe. For eight months I had many adventures, but many flashbacks too. Once home I spent an insufferable seven weeks at a VA PTSD ward in Montrose, NY.
In 2001, using the still new internet, I located Wally; he now called himself Riff. By phone Riff explained that he’d dropped out of Seton Hall to become a professional actor. In California, through dark times and menial jobs he auditioned at every chance he could. After four gruelling years he made it, with roles in commercials, movies, sitcoms, soap operas, voice overs. He’d gotten married too. A few weeks later Riff sent me a card. 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.
I located his widow in California, in a long letter recounted my college days with Riff, recollected our pot fuelled chess and comedy sketches, Walter and Vietnam and the saki set, the year book photo switch, Riff’s acting and sudden disappearance, and so on. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said.
Not long afterward I received an RSVP invitation to Riff’s memorial. Should I go? What to do? What? I had not seen Riff in more than 50 years, but still, I felt an irrepressible tug of loss, an enduring need to say farewell, such deep feelings that I could not explain. A follow up email stated that due to the overwhelming response, the service would now be held at a much larger venue in Malibu.
I began to rationalize. Due to war stress I do not travel well. A minor medical condition would be aggravated. Flying to California for one or two days was impulsive, irrational; the cost and logistics were unjustified.
“Sorry,” I wrote back. “Can’t make it.”
Too late I realized I had lost the opportunity to join with the many people whose lives Riff had touched. To hear them recollect the goodness of the man, the source of which I’ll never know, but whose memory gives me hope. I imagine raising a saki glass to both Hutton men. To Walter, killed in a needless war, and to Riff’s long and creative, honorable life.
___________
__________________
Top photo, Wally Hutton, The Galleon, 1975
Riff Hutton Wikipedia
Vimeo /Riff Hutton recollecting his friend Kirk Baily
Entertainment Weekly ‘Doogie Howser, M.D.’ And ‘General Hospital’ Star, Dies At 73
Walter Hutton, KIA 17 September 1970