When I started ninth grade at Kenmore Junior High the half year, or whatever they were called, class was abandoned and Martin Meyer joined my cohort. He was sitting across from me at lunch and collecting signatures on a petition to join the FLQ terrorists in Algeria. Its lettering anticipated the later psychedelic style of Avalon Ballroom posters. I found Marty to be quite engaging with a mad tinge and we became best of friends. He turned me on to many books and inspired my desire to write. He joined the group I walked to school with. His friends and my friends became a new entity. But I always questioned if this could continue since Marty had an unstable side. I still bare a faint scar from when he once knifed me.
Someone called in sick at my employer, Donovan’s Drug Store on Delaware Avenue, on my off day and I filled in, missing Marty with two Buffalo friends who came by for me in a Corvette. They went cruising and lost a dare, making the headline on that day’s Buffalo Evening News. While Marty was still in intensive care, we buried another participant in a teary hot rod funeral that marked my senior year experience.
Marty stayed in Buffalo and attended UB. After completing a BA in English he began a fast track doctoral program, but found the gay culture environment there unpleasant and told his academic advisor: Get me out of here with the best use of my credits. So with a few more classes Marty received a master’s in education and left UB. While an undergraduate he married a wonderful woman from North Tonawanda. They truly loved each other, but just weren’t right in other ways and finally divorced. His ex wife, Anita, and I remain friends and keep in touch.
While Marty did once teach an adult education class and published a short story in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, his education wasn’t a path to employment. He threw himself into different fields that each became a dead end for him despite usually excelling in each of them. When touring the Huntington Gardens in LA during a visit he pointed out a cactus he had hybridized while working in a greenhouse, but his boss took the credit. At a pipe factory he became a shop steward and lost whatever romantic attachment to the labor movement he may have had. He sold ads for the Pennysaver, but promotion was blocked by nepotism. This led him to a position with an entertainment weekly I remember being called Buffalo About Town. He sold real estate and managed a mall watch shop. There he developed an interest in timepieces and started a clock repair business from his house.
Being in business for himself seemed the answer, and it afforded the opportunity after his mother passed away to leave the city for a rural setting outside Gowanda. Over time he was doing half the clock repairs of Western New York and had as clients St. Paul’s Cathedral and the wealthy owners of Sportservice. But he never seemed to make a sufficient income.
Marty was the most brilliant person I know. On a visit he mastered my chainsaw and complex SLR camera, each in less than an hour. He had taught himself clock repair. Whenever we talked on the phone about current events we always shared the same awareness, but he always articulated it far better than I. And while I didn’t experience it directly anymore and it certainly affected his business productivity, his emotional roller coaster continued. Hair styles, spiritual beliefs, whatever had changed since the last conversation or visit. The last photo he sent me were his new tattoos.
We often talked about growing old together and watching the sunset from our rocking chairs. Whenever I went someplace new I carried on an imaginary dialogue with Marty about what I was seeing. He once told me that he did the same with me. We were always partners. He was also my news source about Kenmore and high school friends. Went he died I lost that contact.
The last time we talked on the phone Marty wasn’t himself. Whatever the cash flow of his business, he was trapped in it now. He relied on government medical care and was taking five psychoactive pharmaceuticals. They probably pushed him over the brink. His suicide was deliberate. He left a note about his cats and their food. A note on his front door told the mail carrier to call the county sheriff. I don’t know how he did it, but he had often joked about putting a gun to his head. A friend of his the rest of us didn’t know closed out his affairs. I suspect his remains were cremated.
Interesting read, Mark. I knew Marty through another friend from grade school, Dave Higner. He and Marty were pretty heavily into guns during high school. I was over at Marty's house one day with Dave and Marty had a 45 pistol he was showing off. It was, of course, the proverbial "unloaded gun". Luckily, when he pulled the trigger the gun was pointed at the ceiling in his bedroom amd that's where the slug ended up. That was enough for me and Dave and I left rather quickly...
I knew Marty well in high school and I would hate for anyone to remember him for guns. He was very bright, very sensitive, very interesting. He was into poetry and literature and folk music (and all that great music coming out at the time) as well as those alternative lifestyles many of us thought about or adopted during our high school or college years. And he was a good man - considerate and kind. Our paths went in different directions but I never forgot him.
Nobody's speaking ill of the dead by mentioning guns and that Marty had them. It doesn't mean he was bad; it's just a story that happened. A lot of us have guns today.
Mark Bennett's comments regarding the life and times of Martin Meyer were sensitive, thought provoking, and well written. Sometimes it seems that much of success in this life is random and beyond fortuitous. If we are lucky enough to be healthy, happy, and surrounded by those who love us and those whom we love, shouldn't we celebrate this great fortune each and every moment of every day? I know in my heart that Martin has found solace and happiness in his eternal existence. Rest in peace Marty!
Mark Bennett
When I started ninth grade at Kenmore Junior High the half year, or whatever they were called, class was abandoned and Martin Meyer joined my cohort. He was sitting across from me at lunch and collecting signatures on a petition to join the FLQ terrorists in Algeria. Its lettering anticipated the later psychedelic style of Avalon Ballroom posters. I found Marty to be quite engaging with a mad tinge and we became best of friends. He turned me on to many books and inspired my desire to write. He joined the group I walked to school with. His friends and my friends became a new entity. But I always questioned if this could continue since Marty had an unstable side. I still bare a faint scar from when he once knifed me.
Someone called in sick at my employer, Donovan’s Drug Store on Delaware Avenue, on my off day and I filled in, missing Marty with two Buffalo friends who came by for me in a Corvette. They went cruising and lost a dare, making the headline on that day’s Buffalo Evening News. While Marty was still in intensive care, we buried another participant in a teary hot rod funeral that marked my senior year experience.
Marty stayed in Buffalo and attended UB. After completing a BA in English he began a fast track doctoral program, but found the gay culture environment there unpleasant and told his academic advisor: Get me out of here with the best use of my credits. So with a few more classes Marty received a master’s in education and left UB. While an undergraduate he married a wonderful woman from North Tonawanda. They truly loved each other, but just weren’t right in other ways and finally divorced. His ex wife, Anita, and I remain friends and keep in touch.
While Marty did once teach an adult education class and published a short story in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, his education wasn’t a path to employment. He threw himself into different fields that each became a dead end for him despite usually excelling in each of them. When touring the Huntington Gardens in LA during a visit he pointed out a cactus he had hybridized while working in a greenhouse, but his boss took the credit. At a pipe factory he became a shop steward and lost whatever romantic attachment to the labor movement he may have had. He sold ads for the Pennysaver, but promotion was blocked by nepotism. This led him to a position with an entertainment weekly I remember being called Buffalo About Town. He sold real estate and managed a mall watch shop. There he developed an interest in timepieces and started a clock repair business from his house.
Being in business for himself seemed the answer, and it afforded the opportunity after his mother passed away to leave the city for a rural setting outside Gowanda. Over time he was doing half the clock repairs of Western New York and had as clients St. Paul’s Cathedral and the wealthy owners of Sportservice. But he never seemed to make a sufficient income.
Marty was the most brilliant person I know. On a visit he mastered my chainsaw and complex SLR camera, each in less than an hour. He had taught himself clock repair. Whenever we talked on the phone about current events we always shared the same awareness, but he always articulated it far better than I. And while I didn’t experience it directly anymore and it certainly affected his business productivity, his emotional roller coaster continued. Hair styles, spiritual beliefs, whatever had changed since the last conversation or visit. The last photo he sent me were his new tattoos.
We often talked about growing old together and watching the sunset from our rocking chairs. Whenever I went someplace new I carried on an imaginary dialogue with Marty about what I was seeing. He once told me that he did the same with me. We were always partners. He was also my news source about Kenmore and high school friends. Went he died I lost that contact.
The last time we talked on the phone Marty wasn’t himself. Whatever the cash flow of his business, he was trapped in it now. He relied on government medical care and was taking five psychoactive pharmaceuticals. They probably pushed him over the brink. His suicide was deliberate. He left a note about his cats and their food. A note on his front door told the mail carrier to call the county sheriff. I don’t know how he did it, but he had often joked about putting a gun to his head. A friend of his the rest of us didn’t know closed out his affairs. I suspect his remains were cremated.
Rest in peace Marty.
Mark Bennett, Pine Grove,California 6/6/15
William Nixon
Interesting read, Mark. I knew Marty through another friend from grade school, Dave Higner. He and Marty were pretty heavily into guns during high school. I was over at Marty's house one day with Dave and Marty had a 45 pistol he was showing off. It was, of course, the proverbial "unloaded gun". Luckily, when he pulled the trigger the gun was pointed at the ceiling in his bedroom amd that's where the slug ended up. That was enough for me and Dave and I left rather quickly...
Joanna Drzewieniecki
I knew Marty well in high school and I would hate for anyone to remember him for guns. He was very bright, very sensitive, very interesting. He was into poetry and literature and folk music (and all that great music coming out at the time) as well as those alternative lifestyles many of us thought about or adopted during our high school or college years. And he was a good man - considerate and kind. Our paths went in different directions but I never forgot him.
Lynn Dahlman (Ouellette)
De mortuis nihil nisi bonum . Speak no ill of the dead.
William Nixon
Nobody's speaking ill of the dead by mentioning guns and that Marty had them. It doesn't mean he was bad; it's just a story that happened. A lot of us have guns today.
Donald Greene MD
Mark Bennett's comments regarding the life and times of Martin Meyer were sensitive, thought provoking, and well written. Sometimes it seems that much of success in this life is random and beyond fortuitous. If we are lucky enough to be healthy, happy, and surrounded by those who love us and those whom we love, shouldn't we celebrate this great fortune each and every moment of every day? I know in my heart that Martin has found solace and happiness in his eternal existence. Rest in peace Marty!