Mark A. Ward, a local landmark and my best friend for more than 50 years, passed away peacefully on November 15 at Cottage Hospital, a place he had worked as a security officer until just a few weeks prior.
Mark and I became friends because of a shared interest in comedy and radio. We were members of the early ’70s comedy troupe The Fabulous DeLuxe Brothers, along with Richard Procter and Duff Kennedy.
Here’s a fun fact about Mark Ward. He worked for Needles Police Department in the late ’60s. During his days off, he kept his phone in the refrigerator so that if he was summoned to fill in, he wouldn’t hear the call.
Mark was a man of prodigious appetite and the metabolism of a hummingbird. We were playing a gig in San Francisco in the ’70s, and my mother took all of us out to a nice dinner. Mark ordered two appetizers, two entrees, and two desserts and ate every last bite. My mom told the story for years.
Mark’s DeLuxe Brother’s name was Sluggo because he was a big, bad copper. And he could be tough. But not with critters. He always had dogs and cats, but his love for creatures also extended to insects. Visiting him in Lompoc one summer, the house was abuzz with flies. “Where’s your flyswatter?” I asked. “No need.” He opened the sliding-glass door to the living room, grabbed two album covers, and moved toward it, flagging his arms. “What the hell is that?” I said. “Fly herding,” he replied.
For a guy who never stopped talking, Mark was surprisingly observant. Back in the ’80s, I remember hanging out at his place, him telling cop stories, a TV playing The Adventures of Robin Hood in the background. Later on, we repaired to Maggie McFly’s saloon.
Ward liked to test you, to see if you’d been paying attention. When our martinis arrived, he removed the little plastic sword that skewered the olives, cleaned it off, and said, “En garde.” I grabbed my sword and faced him. We fenced vigorously as Mark assumed the role of the sheriff. “You have come to Nottingham once too often, my friend.”
I was now Robin Hood and required to deliver the dramatic punchline. If I could remember it. I could!
“After this … I shan’t have to come … again!” I said, lunging forward to deliver the coup de grace. This became one of our many rituals.
As an always-on comedian, Mark’s jokes sometimes wore thin. If I had a buck for every time he said, about a comely young woman, “There goes the new Mrs. Ward,” I’d be Elon Musk. And when walking down the street with him, he’d say to perfect strangers, “Watch out for this guy, he’s a stone killer.” Or, “He’s a disreputable character!”
On a recent visit, I said to one of the strangers, “I don’t know why I’ve put up with this guy for so long.”
“Fifty years!” said Mark with a goofy grin that made the stranger laugh. And that was why.
I called Mark at Cottage Hospital two days before his death. He had seemed upbeat during our conversation the day before. But then he had a dreadful night. “Change of plans,” he said when I asked how things were going. “I’m going home.”
I knew what “home” meant and muttered, “Oh, Jesus.”
Without missing a beat, Mark Ward said, “You don’t have to call me that. ‘Mark’ is fine.”