A Piece of Work

Adam Hocherman was “a piece of work.” Libby Skala reminds me that’s the harshest thing he ever said about another human being.

Whenever I ranted and raved about those who drove me insane, Adam shook his head up and down and agreed, “He’s a piece of work,” and “She’s a piece of work,” and “They’re a piece of work.”

Adam was a piece of work. He was a piece of work who drove me crazy when he couldn’t get it right onstage, and he was a piece of work when he wrote brilliant words and performed them better than anyone else could have. He was the most awkward actor I have ever seen onstage, but when he got it right he was elegant.

Adam Hocherman wrote about his time in the Israeli Army. He wrote about the grief of an Arab mother for her dead son. He wrote about he and his fellows carrying a wounded soldier above their heads through the war torn desert. He wrote about the sense of humor of those who faced death at every moment.

Adam’s first day in the Israeli Army he told the officer in charge that he had come from America to serve. Adam thought the officer was going to praise his commitment.

Officer: You mean you were living in America and chose to come back here and serve in the Israeli army?

Adam: Yes.

Captain: Let me ask you something… are you retarded?

Adam was a piece of work when he ran full speed through the Port Authority Bus Terminal carrying my fifty pound suitcase so we wouldn’t miss the bus back to Hoboken.

And when I left the chocolate mint patty on his kitchen table after we returned from a restaurant where they give those candies out, and he mailed it to me in LA, he was a piece of work. I mailed it back of course and as the patty crossed a continent over and over again it became a gooey substance in deteriorating green tinfoil. We mailed it to co-conspirators who delivered it by hand to the two of us.

Adam left me phone messages whenever he found a New York bar that served my favorite beer on tap. “Widmer sighting. Widmer sighting. The corner of 72nd and Amsterdam. The bar is O’Hannigans. Widmer sighting. Widmer sighting.”

We had this bit we did too many times to be funny to anyone but ourselves. Adam might say on a hot day, “It’s hot out. You have to admit it.” And I would dead pan, “I don’t have to admit it,” or vice versa. And we would stare at each other for a moment and then go back to what we were doing in silence. We did this in private but it was most fun in public when we would speak loud enough for strangers to hear.

Adam learned my language and spoke it with eloquence. “It was a fahoy on the faheizen.” “You know exactly what you mean.” “You know what you’re saying.” “Do you see your point?” “Who would you be if you weren’t who you are?”

I introduced Adam to the music of the brilliant Texas songwriter and certified nut Kinky Friedman. We sat on his couches many a drunken night listening to Kinky and Guy Clark and Townes Van Zandt and Lyle Lovett and Iris Dement and Merle Haggard and Waylon Jennings and Nanci Griffith and Kris Kristofferson and Robert Earl Keen and Emmy Lou and Willie and Cash and all the rest of the modern day cowboys and cowgirls. I have only two or three other friends who would have listened to that music with me. Adam went to a Kinky concert recently, and to hear him talk about it you would think he wanted to run Kinky for president.

“Kinky’s off the charts.”

Adam loved dogs, as I do. I guess he never met a dog he didn’t like. We talked dogs and I always encouraged him to get one. Adam sent me this email a few weeks ago.

“There is someone in my cast who is a foster parent for dogs. She brought in a dog to rehearsal that I fell in love with immediately. Unfortunately it was just adopted 8 hours before. She put me on her list for her next dog. I also have been dealing with some health issues (blood pressure). I am on the mend though.
Miss You Lots Gary”

We hadn’t seen each other for nearly a year. I used to go to New York nine or ten times a year, and Adam visited us in LaLaLand. My stem cell transplant slowed me down for a time and I had to stay close to my doctors.

Adam taught me about war and about the relationship of Jews to Arabs in the promised land. He referred to Arabs as his “cousins.” He taught me about rising on thermals when he hang-glided on air. He taught me about committing to one’s passion and sticking it out, even when one is alone.

He taught me not to judge. I learned the lesson in my rational mind but I’ve never stopped judging. I can’t always be kind enough to say, “He’s a piece of work” when the crime seems unforgiveable.

When I told Matt Cartsonis about Adam’s death, he said, “Adam was without guile.” Yes, he was an innocent who just wanted to do the things he wanted to do. There was no desire to compete or showcase himself. He would take the small role for no pay and invite everyone to see the show.

Adam had dreams which he pursued with the naivete of a child and the fight of a warrior. Adam was a writer when I met him. He discovered acting and improvisation. He wrote and he acted and he improvised with as much intensity as anyone I’ve ever known… and with love for the craft of the theatre. We did shows and workshops and we improvised on and offstage and we went to the theatre and we watched the best. And we were fortunate to “drink” with the best, both the known and the unknown.

Adam offered to share his apartment in Hoboken with Wenndy and me the weekend before he died. We stayed in the city instead. It was a casual choice. It sure seems like a momentous decision in retrospect.

Adam was one of the truest friends I have had in my life.

The last email I got from Adam ended with, “You have to admit it.” I wrote back, “I don’t have to admit it.”

Adam lives on.

I have to admit it.

He was a piece of work. I keep thinking of giving him a call to say something stupid knowing he will have a stupid response, and then I cry once again.

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