
It was the eighties. The non-specific, generic 1980s. Shoulders were padded, and coiffures were high. All the cool kids with cable were glued to bulbous 27" Trinatrons, where a temporary art form -- the music video -- could be enjoyed in heavy rotation. Reagan was in charge of the country. Or, rather, whoever was in charge of Reagan was in charge of the country.
I was working as a full-time graphic designer-slash-illustrator for an outsized former Green Beret medic with a modicum of talent and a soupson of patience. I enjoyed the work.
We were visiting the studio of a man named Hovis, who functioned in the advertising business in a capacity I no longer recall. I think we had produced a series of storyboards for his brother, Larry, who was in Houston to pitch a proposed syndicated game show to one of the network affiliates. I had never met Larry Hovis, although his brother was a reasonable facsimile.
For those who know Houston, the studio was in a converted three-story house, spitting distance from Baba Yega. Make up your own joke. I like Baba Yega.
The house was huge. And yellow. It might have been a boarding house in the twenties. In the eighties, however, it was a collection of small studios and offices sharing a pair of large restrooms on the second floor. It was in one of these restrooms that I met Larry Hovis.
When I entered the room, he was leaning over a stainless steel sink, rubbing wet paper towels over a dark blue ink stain on the pocket of his white shirt. He looked at me in the mirror, and his ears turned bright red. He smiled sheepishly, and shook his head. There was a nervous laugh.
A few minutes later I was at the adjacent sink, washing my hands. Hovis continued rubbing the stain, which seemed to only get bigger.
"I have a meeting," he said. Another nervous laugh.
"Maybe your brother will trade shirts with you."
This was when he realized I recognized him, and the redness in his ears spread to his face. He shook his head again, either to reject the suggestion or merely to dispel nervous energy. It really didn't matter. All he was really doing was making a stained shirt wet.
And, all I really knew about Larry Hovis was his role on Hogan's Heroes, and his first game show, Liar's Club. That, and the fact that my boss sometimes got work from his brother. But, I liked this flustered little guy at the sink, mechanically engaged in a hopeless pursuit. He reminded me of me.
"Anyway." I paused at the door. "Break a leg."
That suggestion seemed to calm him down.
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