God's Gettin' An Earful: R.I.P. Harvey Pekar

Only now, four days later, has Cleveland actually lost a true icon. Harvey Pekar, creator of the American Splendor comic book series, died this morning. I had what turned out to be my last of several encounters with Harvey less than two weeks ago. He came into the store all excited (it was a treat to see the usually curmudgeonly Harvey excited) because a friend had told him he was mentioned in Playboy magazine. He wasn't sure if it was the current July issue or next month's. Being polite, as he always was, Harvey asked if it were possible for me to remove the shrink wrap on a copy of the magazine so we could look for his name. Seeing that most people feel no qualms about ripping open a Playboy to look for anything but their own name, I had no problem doing the honors for him. Harvey was a little unclear as to where and in what context his name was mentioned, so I diligently paged through the issue, looking for any article that might mention him (at one point, as I turned the glossy pages, I told Harvey to shield his innocent eyes--those incredibly expressive eyes that looked as paranoid and suspicious as a trapped rat's, but also always seemed to be shyly looking for a hug; he looked at me like I was nuts; I wish I had thought to open the centerfold and check out the playmate's list of turn-ons, to see if that was where his name was mentioned--God only knows what gem of expression--verbal and physical--Harvey would have come up with then). I couldn't find his name, and Harvey said he'd go call his friend and find out more. I told him if he gave me his phone number, I'd call him when next month's issue came out, if it turned out to be that issue. "I'm in the phone book," he said casually. Well, a half hour later I answered the phone and it was Harvey, saying he had found out it was this month's issue in the Advisor column. I found the opened copy, found the Advisor column, and read him the bit where his name was mentioned. "I'm coming right back up," he said, almost sounding gleeful, of all things. So I put an unopened copy on hold for him with a post-it telling him what page, 28. I guess he complimented me to the cashier for the post-it note when he came in to buy it.

Over the years I had several of these little Harvey encounters, and I never got the feeling that he remembered me from one to the next, and alas, as much I tried to say something witty each time, I never did turn up in one of his strips. Oh well.

I first encountered him in 1987 in the lobby of the Hanna Theatre in downtown Cleveland before a Tom Waits concert. At the time Harvey was famous for his epic appearances on the Letterman show. I walked up to him and asked for his autograph. "You want mine?" he whined. Yes, I said. A true hipster piece of memorabilia: Harvey's autograph on a Tom Waits ticket stub.

A few years later I got to edit an article or two Harvey wrote for a magazine I was working on. I remember Harvey showing up in the office, looking hangdog as always, and going on forever about whatever obscure jazz figure he was writing about. I also remember trying to smooth things out with him over the phone a couple months later when he was still waiting for his check. Disembodied via the phone, his voice was even whinier but somehow more endearing. Even when angry, Harvey was oddly charming and engaging.

Soon after the movie American Splendor came out, Harvey was in the store one night. I asked him if he had gotten a writing credit, because I thought the movie was great and had hoped he'd be up for an Oscar. "Nah," he shooed me away with his arm. I wonder how many millions of times Harvey uttered that Job-like "nah" of his during his life.

My favorite Harvey encounter came a few years ago, right before Christmas. He came in the store early one morning, just after we opened, and asked where the knitting books were. Our manager had a field day with him in the section, helping him pick out a few Christmas presents for his wife. My God, what a real artist could have done with that tableau--Harvey Pekar shopping for knitting books. Later I was privileged to wrap the two or three books for him. As usual, he seemed suspicious, as if the offer of free gift-wrapping had to come with some awful catch. I asked Harvey which of the festive wraps he wanted for the books. "It doesn't matter," he said, like a death row inmate being asked whether he wants to be shot or hanged. I couldn't resist saying, when he politely if gruffly refused my offer of colorful bows, "She'll appreciate them even more if there are bows on them." "Nah." Now that he's gone, sadly, I can tell you he was the customer I wrote about who this past Christmas went the easy route--gift cards (read about that encounter here).

I am hardly a comic book or graphic novel fan, but I always liked American Splendor. Harvey's masterful depictions of the qoutidian, all-loose-ends nature of his life, our lives, have a genuine, almost mystical quality to them--not always getting what you're programmed to expect to "get," you keep turning the pages nonetheless and end up somehow happier and even wiser about life and living it. Art, I think it's called. The movie's great, but read the comics--they're the true Harvey legacy.

Fittingly, my co-worker Emily broke the news to me today about Harvey's passing. Emily in many ways is the anti-Harvey: positively bubbly and always enthusiastically happy. So I was surprised a couple years ago when Emily said that Harvey had written about her in one of his strips (surprised and even more jealous; for more than twenty years I had been desperately trying in my infrequent encounters with Harvey to say something profound or absurd enough to get me in his strip). Emily used to be a bank teller at Harvey's bank, where she quickly became his favorite and only teller. The eyes don't lie: I always thought there was something lovable and optimistic deep in Harvey's suspicious, pessimistic eyes. It just took someone like Emily and her natural good cheer to draw it out a little.

And fittingly, Harvey wound up in this month's (thank God it wasn't next month's) Playboy because a young college graduate had written the Advisor wanting a list of books he should read to make him a well-educated man. And there, at the very end of the list, included with some of the giants of all-time, was American Splendor, by Harvey Pekar.

Hey Cleveland, we've got some empty mural space on our hands. How about honoring a real Cleveland icon? This town could use a sixty-foot image of Harvey watching over us. But would it ever happen? Nah.





Jay McShann-T'ain't Nobody's Bizness (If I Do)