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.