Hiawatha Johnson, JR.
January 2026 — Portland, ORE
Hiawatha Johnson, Jr., a mentor and friend died.
Summer 1985 — Magic Camp
Oakdale, Long Island
I’m 15.
He’s 30.
He wears a dashiki.
He uses a walking stick.
I’m prepubescent.
I listen to comedy cassettes on a Walkman.
I’m in awe.
✧✧✧
I perform a rather banal magic act that year — me narrating as multiple Eight of Hearts appear in more and more outlandish spots.
Hi is one of the judges.
A few hours later, in a hallway, he singsongs,
“Young Mister Mayer, I have something for you.”
He riffles through a bag and hands me an index card onto which he had written — regarding a poor choice of jokes with which I opened my act:
Brian,
You never get a second chance to make a first impression.
— Hiawatha Johnson, Jr.
✧✧✧
I like to pretend that event is the origin story of my collecting wisdom biscuits.
✧✧✧
Summer 1993 — Somerville, MA
Hi is the first person I call after I lose my virginity.
“Dude,” I say. “Mission accomplished.”
“And…?” he asks — sings — into the phone.
“Honest, Dude? I don’t know what all the fuss is about.”
He laughs hysterically.
He can’t stop.
Finally, between breaths, he assures me, before breaking again into laughter:
“It gets better. I promise.”
February 15, 1998 — Puck Building, NYC
Jane and I asked Hiawatha to stand at the front of our chuppah and bless our marriage with the blessing of creativity.
(Twenty-eight years of marriage to Jane as evidence, I’d say it worked.)
2004 — Los Angeles, CA & Lynchburg, VA
“Man,” he says to me, “you are coming to Lynchburg and doing a performance. It will be a variety show.”
He muses aloud on the word variety for a few sentences, then continues:
“A ballroom at the Sheraton. Meekah sings between pieces. Me on piano. A follow-spot and two mics. You’ll have a five-minute spot and a forty-five-second spot. In that order. Dig?”
I book flights.
Days later, realizing I have no idea what I’ve actually been asked to do, I call.
“Hi, um — I’m calling for some clarification about my five-minute and forty-five-second sets. What exactly do you think I should be doing during them?”
There is a silence before he responds:
“Man, don’t do that to me. You’re an artist. You figure it out.”
(I did.)
January 2026 — Portland, Oregon
My sweet prince.
Hiawatha Johnson, Jr.
My beloved mentor.
I thank you.
I thank you.
I thank you.
Your influence made me who I am today.
And yes — yes — you were right.
It got better.
