Some people can walk into a room full of strangers and, within an hour, everyone feels like they’ve known each other for years.
That was Neal.
I first met Neal E. Sapp and his roommate, Mark Lanham, while working my first job as an Art Director at a graphic design studio in Omaha. They walked in with an idea for a direct mail campaign for a men’s clothing store called Montage. At the time, I had no idea I was sitting across the table from two incredibly gifted creative people.
Neal was a writer. Mark was a creative director and designer. I was the young designer who somehow found himself in the middle of it.
Looking back, they could have taken that project almost anywhere. Instead, they chose to work with me.
They didn’t tell me what to do. They guided me.
They challenged my ideas, refined my layouts, encouraged me to think differently, and helped me understand that great design isn’t just about making something look good. It’s about making people feel something.
Together, we created a series of postcards for Montage that won several advertising awards. It was one of the first projects in my career where I realized what was possible when talented people trusted each other.
What started as a client relationship quickly became a friendship.
That friendship led to one of the most ridiculous experiences of my twenties.
Our design studio did a considerable amount of work for the Omaha Ballet, and someone decided it would be fun to put on a live murder mystery fundraiser. Imagine the board game Clue, except instead of Professor Plum and Colonel Mustard, the cast was made up of Disney characters.
There wasn’t much of a script.
There wasn’t much rehearsal.
Mostly, there was organized chaos.
Audience members wandered around the stage with us, trying to solve the mystery while we improvised our way through the evening.
Somehow, I was cast in two roles.
The first was Happy, one of the Seven Dwarfs.
Now, if you’ve read many of my stories, you know I’m six-foot-six.
Not exactly dwarf material.
To make things even funnier, I was paired with our friend Dino Coppi, a hairstylist who also happened to be the shortest person in the cast. There we stood in matching Robin Hood-green tights—one giant, one tiny—supposedly convincing everyone we belonged in the same fairy tale.
It was impossible to take ourselves seriously.
My second role was an elderly gentleman destined to become the evening’s murder victim.
I wore a white wig, a fake mustache, a smoking jacket, slacks, and spent most of the production rolling around the stage in a wheelchair.
At one point, another cast member, Stacy Dobry, dramatically screamed that the family’s priceless amulet had been stolen.
Without thinking, I answered in the oldest voice I could manage.
“An omelet?”
The room went quiet.
“I’ll have one. Denver, I think… the one with ham and peppers.”
For a split second, nobody moved.
Then the room exploded with laughter.
The missing amulet was forgotten for a moment.
The mystery stopped.
Even the actors lost it.
Needless to say, I never did get my omelet.
A few scenes later, I dramatically collapsed from my wheelchair and fulfilled my contractual obligation as the murder victim.
I honestly don’t remember how the mystery ended.
I don’t remember who solved it.
I don’t even remember who the murderer turned out to be.
What I remember is laughing until my sides hurt.
I remember Neal.
He had this remarkable ability to make every gathering feel effortless. Whether you had known him for ten years or ten minutes, he made you feel included. He remembered names. He remembered your kids. He remembered what mattered to you.
Some people are funny because they know how to tell jokes.
Neal was funny because he genuinely enjoyed making other people happy.
Looking back now, I realize those are the moments we never think to preserve.
We take photographs of birthdays, vacations, and holidays.
But nobody thinks to write down the story about the six-foot-six dwarf who wanted a Denver omelet in the middle of a murder mystery.
Until one day, it’s the memory that makes you smile the most.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
