In 1981, I was a student attending a small but respected* art school in Philadelphia. To help pay my tuition, I worked three evenings a week at my cousin’s health food restaurant. Each Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, I would sneak out of class a bit early and rush to the restaurant to get there in time to begin my 4:00 shift.
One afternoon, a tall, lanky guy with a thick beard and very long hair came in for an early dinner. Seeing a guy of this description was not unusual. The clientele of a health food restaurant — one with an exclusively vegetarian menu — was chock full of characters who looked like this guy. I greeted him as he approached the service counter and allowed him time to peruse the evening’s dinner offerings on display in a hot table behind protective glass (It was cafeteria-style.) He smiled and gave the various entrees the ol’ “once-over.” I noticed his bright orange t-shirt was emblazoned with the logo of up-and-coming rockabilly band The Stray Cats. I pointed to the logo and said, “That’s a pretty cool shirt. Where would one get a shirt like that?”
He glanced down at his chest and smiled. “This?,” he replied, “I got this where I work.” His voice was deep and commanding and mellifluous. I was surprised for a moment.
“Where do you work?,” I pressed. And then I answered my own question. “What a second! I know that voice! You’re Pierre! Pierre Robert!”
His smile widened. “You know me?,” he shyly asked.
“I sure do! I listen to you nearly every night when I’m up doing homework.,” I proudly explained. At the time, Pierre was doing the dreaded 2 AM to 6 AM overnight shift and I often found myself awake at ungodly hours drawing or painting some sort of class project that was due the following day. Pierre’s mix of rock and roll and homey commentary kept me awake and aware and able to finish my school assignments. Pierre was flattered that he was recognized. Genuinely flattered. He ordered something for dinner and, after I fixed him a heathy platter, he found a quiet corner of the small dining area to enjoy his meal. Pierre came in often and we always had a nice conversation and then I always allowed him go off and eat in peace.
In the summer of 1982, WMMR — the radio station where Pierre worked — was sponsoring an exclusive premiere of the teen comedy Fast Times at Ridgmont High. At any given time, a random caller would be selected to receive two passes to the film as well as a paperback copy of the book on which the film was based. In the middle of the night, I paused my work and called Pierre on the station’s request number. He answered the phone. “Hey, Pierre,” I began, “I sure would like to see Fast Times.” He chuckled and said he’d happily add my name to the “Winners List.” He told me I could pick up the tickets the next day.
Around the time I met Pierre, I also met the future Mrs. Pincus. After a whirlwind nine months of dating, I asked Mrs. P to marry me. I felt our friendship was at a level where I could invite Pierre to our up-coming engagement party. He graciously accepted. It was amusing to see Pierre nursing a Coca-Cola at a picnic table in my future in-law’s backyard while he carried on a conversation with my family and friends.
Over the years, I saw less and less of Pierre. I finished art school. I left my cousin’s restaurant and found employment elsewhere. And I even switched my radio listening loyalties to a station that would eventually employ my son. I would run into Pierre here and there, as he grew to be a beloved and accessible celebrity in the Philadelphia area. Each time our paths would cross I would do my best to refresh his memory as to how exactly we knew each other. He’d try to fill in the blanks and I was never convinced that he fully placed me correctly in his past. But, Pierre was friendly and everyone was Pierre’s friend. He greeted everyone with a smile and a comforting arm around your shoulder and his signature salutation of “Greetings, citizen!”
This past July, Mrs. P and I ventured out to see Rod Stewart on his final tour of large-scale arenas. At the show’s conclusion, I spotted Pierre among the crowd of folks making their way up the aisle. I waved and squeezed myself between the exiting concert-goers to say a quick “hello.”
“Hey Pierre!,” I announced.
“Greetings, citizen!,” he replied.
As I got closer to him, I explained who I was and how we knew each other. He sort of followed my explanation. He called me by my cousin’s name and I corrected him. His eyes darted around as he gathered bits of internally-stored information about events that transpired between us over 40 years prior. He got some details wrong, but I think it finally hit him as to who he was talking to. He gave me a warm handshake and a friendly pat on the shoulder. He waved to Mrs. Pincus and then disappeared into the crowd.
Pierre died on Thursday, October 30, 2025. He had just turned 70.
My art school has closed.
My cousin’s restaurant has closed.
And Pierre — a voice on Philadelphia radio for 44 years — has been silenced.
Rest in peace, citizen, from that guy behind the counter… from the restaurant… you remember.
* I like to tell myself this.