Saturday, June 29, 2013

Hey....Where's Perry?

I was reading the Detroit Free Press this morning, and learned that Jerry Abu El Hawa died suddenly earlier this week.

I didn't know Jerry personally, of course; there are a lot of people in Detroit I don't know.  But I've probably seen Jerry from time to time, given that he was a kind of permanent fixture at American Coney Island on Lafayette in Detroit; and I've been there a couple of times and probably saw him.

His picture looked friendly.

And it got me thinking about a guy named Perry Fezat.

When I was but a pup, making my way across the great world, I found myself in a strange land called Yooperland; and I made my way from wide eyed Freshman to closed eyed Senior in the theatre building at Northern Mitten University.

It was a good place to play, the Forest Roberts Theatre; a womb-like building that nursed and encouraged young artists, many who have gone on to Hollywood and Broadway careers....and one that became the guru of all things organizational.  There were people to look up to; people to fight with; people to compete with; and at the end of the day the flags were furled and the bar stools were occupied and the drink flowed as well as the mirth.

At the end of the day, we were all members of the last, lost tribe.  Or, if you're into cartoons, we were the sheepdog and the coyote at the end of the day, punching out and getting a drink together.

And there were constants through those years of change; Dr. P of the bouncing cigarette (he's long since given them up, of course) would in the same breath compliment and condemn you, but with the foreknowledge that he was fond of you....and would at your darkest hour appear with an invitation to dine; Vic of the scene shop who was easy to laugh and slow to anger and always made you work hard and rewarded that work with a kind of appreciation I've rarely felt since; and Ms. S, who was the first professorial type to make me cry....and she cried as she did it.

They're still there, by the way.  And they remember most of it.  And they're always surprised when I show up. 

Secretly, I think they're surprised I'm still alive.  But that's to be expected.

But one of the other constants was a guy named Perry Fezat. 

He was a big bear of a man, large of body, small of head, and bald as a gear shift lever.  I remember he had this somewhat strange voice, kind of gravelly, but once he saw you more than once, he knew your name and was as friendly as all get-out.

He was the custodian of the Fine Arts Department; he fixed it, he cleaned it, he polished it and he took care of it...and when necessary, he took care of the people IN the department as well.

There were many late nights in that building; rehearsals didn't have an expiration time; photo calls could go into the wee hours.  Preparing for juries had people staking out square feet of space all over the building, muttering monologues and perfecting dialect and singing to themselves like the inmates of a Hahahacienda.  And Perry was liberal with his access; allowing us into the theatre after hours, coming down into the catacombs late to make sure all was well.....and small snacks and cups of coffee magically appearing to bolster our artistic strengths....

Oh, but if you didn't belong there, he was adamant in his requests that you leave.

Everybody knew Perry; the Freshmen were invariably introduced to him by the Upper Classmen.  I remember meeting him; he shook my hand and I swear to GOD he powdered several of the smaller bones in the demonstration.  The next time we met, he called me by name....and my FIRST name, which pretty much never happened in those days.

The last time I saw Perry, he was in the catacombs below the stage, making sure my then-girlfriend was secure in the costume shop; we were about to open a play and it was "crunch time."  We said goodnight to Perry, and then to each other, and I went home to get some sleep for the week of techs and dress rehearsals and such.

The next morning, I was comforting the girl, for she had found Perry in the elevator later that early morning; he was in the elevator when that big heart of his just gave up. 

It was weird in the building for a couple of weeks after that.  It was an alien place for us that knew him.....and we learned so much about him after he was gone.  Apparently, he was a decorated soldier in WWII, who avoided the crowds welcoming back to town upon his discharge by getting off the train a stop early and walking the rest of the way.....and later, when the University awarded him a watch for thirty years of service, he didn't show up for the ceremony.

So....he was brave, and dedicated and above all, humble.  He didn't want a fuss made.

I'm assuming that passing away in such a public place must have been embarrassing for him.

But the story doesn't end there; does it ever?

According to a couple of websites, as well as a group at Northern Mitten University that specializes in Paranormal Activity....Perry is still around.  By several accounts, he closes doors and rattles trashcans and will unceremoniously push you out the door if you're not supposed to be there.  Several people have gotten into the habit of saying, "Hello, Perry" when entering the building.

By all accounts, he has never appeared in the elevator.

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