by Robert E. A. Lee

     His full name was John P. Kelly but to me and most of his close friends he is lovingly remembered as Pegues (pronounced peg-EES).

     He was one of my flying buddies in our U.S. Navy seaplane squadron in World War II out in the Pacific. I felt close to most of the aviators in patrol-bombing, Coronado-flying, VPB-13, but with Pegues I discovered a special affinity. He was in the war only incidentally as a pilot, as I was. Neither of us felt born to fly. We would ask each other why in the world we, unlikely candidates, selected this way to serve our country. To me, he was first of all a musician.

     He had a marvelous talent as a jazz pianist. On board our ship, the large seaplane tender U.S.S. Kenneth Whiting, someone had once smuggled aboard an old, beat-up, out-of-tune, upright instrument. We found it nestled among boxes and crates below decks in one of the storage areas. Pegues tickled the keys and evoked delightful chords, rhythms, arpeggios and could perform from his memory any pop tune I called out to him from my memory. I loved to sing and he would back me up with the most professional accompaniment I could have wanted. And later, in officers’ clubs and lounges, I enjoyed more of the same.

     When I got a new job almost a decade after the war I moved with my family from Minneapolis to New York, I discovered Pegues was working as a musician in Manhattan. I’ll never forget stopping by a 52nd street bistro to hear him perform his show tunes as he serenaded the diners. I was very impressed when he showed me a photo of himself as he accompanied Judy Garland. He already knew my wife Elaine from San Diego where we were living while the squadron was based there between our Pacific assignments. As a pianist herself, she was hooked by his talent and charming personality. Years later we would sometimes join him in the city or have him out to our place on Long Island.

     During those days I discovered that Pegues was a “loner”. He didn’t always receive phone calls or return messages. Letters or cards by mail came seldom, but every now and he sent a love-and-kisses valentine for Elaine or a Christmas greeting, often with a little musical signature.

     I knew he taught piano to earn his bread and when we were seeking a teacher for our son Paul, who then had some interest in the keyboard, I contacted Pegues. He was happy to take Paul as a student and for each lesson Paul would take the train into the city and the subway up to Pegues’ apartment on 3rd Avenue on the East side of town. I don’t remember why the lessons didn’t continue as long as I would have hoped, but our son seemed to have lost interest, reflecting a lack of commitment in the first place -- maybe because it was his father’s idea rather than his own. I recall that when Pegues came out to our home one time, Paul recorded his teacher’s playing our piano.

     Pegues confided in me that he had recognized a problem with his drinking and had begun attending AA meetings. I wondered whether his life as a café musician, getting frequent tips in the form of cocktails, might have promoted the excess he was fighting. On reflection I now perceive that his dependency was more likely due to his psyche hurting and his soul feeling conflicted.

     He carried his Southern Comfort with him in other ways, too. He had a soothing drawl and would entertain us with his Cajun flavored proverbs and superstitious-laden traditions. “Don’t hand someone the salt. Always set it down first.” I also learned from him that a lagniappe was a little extra something added to a gift or a gesture. He talked often of his mother but very little of his father. He had a girl friend he would talk mention and write to during our war years, but I sensed later that she married someone else.

     One time he accepted an invitation to a preview screening of one of the films I had produced and we chatted together at the reception afterwards and he introduced me to the woman he brought with him. There was no follow-up to what was probably our last face-to-face meeting.

     Suddenly I discovered he had moved out of Manhattan and had found a residence down on the New Jersey shore. Soon after the war, he had played at some night spots in that touristy area, but his new home was not in a setting like that. He wrote to explain that he had found a home among a Methodist-dominated shore community where the founders had decreed that no alcoholic beverages would be allowed. I was pleased to learn of his enthusiasm about the large church there where he worshipped.

     Then, it seemed, there was only silence. I phoned. I wrote both to his former Manhattan address and his New Jersey place, thinking that perhaps he was spending winters in the city and summers on the shore. Whenever we had reunions of our Navy squadron in Nevada or Texas or California or Florida I would always try to contact him and urge him to attend. But I never had a response. I was sad that I seemed to have lost a friend. Pegues, where are you?

     Today I heard, third or fourth hand by forwarded emails, that my friend had died. Not recently, but almost a year ago. I wish I had been able to reach him one last time to thank him for his friendship. He had many, many friends, I know, and each of us had felt close and had bonded with him – and yet he always kept us distanced from him. He was a private person. A loner. Who of us wouldn’t have wanted to do more for him? Now, we all miss him, I know.

     But we remember. We can never forget our Pegues.

Page last modified by Richard Lee on 19 March 2005