IF YOU WEREN’T INFLUENCED BY PRIHODA, THEN YOU DIDN’T KNOW JACK




This column originally appeared on Wicked Local.

I woke up last Saturday morning to a text from an old friend, a co-worker at the Boston Marriott Copley Place.  “Did you hear about Jack?  Heart failure.  Does not sound good.” 

Jack Prihoda spent 33 years working at the Marriott Copley.  He became the Bellcaptain in 1990.  It was impossible to tell 27 years ago that the humble man who casually careened his well-worn car along the Jamaicaway every day on his way to work would become so pivotal in so many lives. 

I was 22 years old in 1990 and, at that point in my life, had already survived abbreviated soul-searching stays in Chicago and San Diego, collected a few random credits from Bridgewater State College, and had managed to save up enough money to complete one very expensive trimester at Northeastern University.  I was broke, carless, essentially homeless, and to a large degree hopeless about my future.  Then I met Jack.  In his typically understated way, he recognized and acted on a potential in me that I was unable to see for myself at the time.  Jack Prihoda completely altered the trajectory of my life and for this I am incredibly fortunate. 

All who came in contact with Jack were fortunate.  He transcended his role as our boss at the front door of the Marriott and became more of a father-figure to us all.  Jack had a way of accentuating the best in everyone and provided opportunity to those that he thought needed it the most.  He was able to make authentic connections with people, not because he considered them to be of some benefit to him, but because he truly had a curious place in his heart for people and their interests. 

Like Fagin from the Dickens novel Oliver Twist, Jack became the ring-leader of a band of young men and women whose potential he identified and took into the fold.  Most would one day move on and succeed beyond their wildest imaginations through his support, encouragement, and direction, while others would remain with him in the proverbial trenches.  But returning to Jack and those trenches would always mean returning home. 

In Jack’s world everyone earned a nickname.  I became known as Joke Boy, a name I got when I decided to switch Jack’s larger uniform with an impossible to fit into size 38 late one night, then keeping a surprisingly straight face the next morning as he attempted to squeeze into it.  After Jack uttered a few choice words, I was forced to leave the office laughing while listening to his reaction behind me, “Joke Boy!  I’m gonna’ whack you!”  As with everyone else’s creative name on Jack’s staff, my new name became permanent. 

Always willing to bring levity to any situation, Jack told stories of serving as the baker on the Coast Guard Cutter Chase in Vietnam where he would purposely get under the skin of his commanding officer by making loaves of bread shaped like whales.

I recently found a relatively random Philadelphia Phillies uniform jersey for cheap money in a second-hand store and sent it to Jack at the hotel.  I mailed it to the Marriott with the return address from Bake McBride, the somewhat enigmatic Phillies player from the 1970s.  There was absolutely no hint that the package had come from me, but several months later when I put a call through to Jack at the Marriott bellstand he answered the phone in true Jack fashion saying, “Who’s this?  Bake McBride?” 

Jack was a man who brought people together.  His funeral was a celebration of his life, bringing Jack’s family together with members of his staff past and present.  He was a devoted family man celebrating 43 years of marriage to his wife, Audrey, and he was proud beyond belief of his daughters, Sarah and Tracy.  He had predictably fallen quite easily into his latest role as Opa to his grandchildren, Kyra and Jack.  His oldest daughter, Sarah, delivered an emotionally powerful speech with her sister Tracy by her side reflecting on the life of their father.  Later, when it was suggested that stories be shared about Jack, it was his former bellmen that took the floor one after the other, all espousing mannerisms taken from Jack in some way and all echoing the same common sentiment - I don’t know where I would be today if it had not been for Jack.  We had not been together for years but it felt just like old times, sharing stories, poking fun at each other, and offering support to Jack’s family. 

Jack had once again brought us all together, and although he was there in spirit only, we were again with the man whose presence, humor and all, was very much apparent in the room if only for one last time.

It is impossible now for me to imagine the calm early morning in Copley Square without picturing Jack Prihoda ambling into the Boston Marriott Copley Place dressed in t-shirt and jeans whistling to himself on his way to work. 

Sometimes greatness is masked in standard attire. 

From all of us, thanks Jack. 

God only knows what we’d be without you.