I met Our Jim at karaoke a little over a decade ago. I’d just come back from two weeks of training in Chicago for my first adult job. My friend Lonnie introduced us. I shook Our Jim’s hand and mentioned my recent career development. He asked what exactly I do and I launched into a convoluted explanation of technology consulting, one that I probably didn’t fully grasp myself. After listening for a couple minutes, he raised a finger and stopped me mid-sentence. With an arched eyebrow, he said, “This isn’t a job interview, you know.”
When the mild shock of his interruption wore off, I turned and walked away without a word.
He found me in the crowd a little bit later and apologized for being rude. I confessed that it was a good jibe. So, we began talking. Two things struck me instantly. First, his ridiculous good looks. Piercing blue eyes. Angular facial features. That killer smile. A swimmer’s frame. Second, and more importantly, his astonishing intellect. He spoke in complete, seemingly pre-written sentences. He recalled, verbatim, lines of dialogue from films he’d only seen once, many years earlier. He casually lobbed his signature, barbed wit in my direction and I struggled to keep up.
As the night wore on, I probed, asking about his interests, and discovered that our cultural loves overlapped. He too revered the Coen brothers, R.E.M., Bob Dylan, and the TV show Lost, just to name a few. It was a back-and-forth whirlwind of passions we shared fiercely. When the conversation turned to books, I mentioned wanting to read the latest novel by Denis Johnson. “Hold on,” he said. Our Jim then opened his bag and handed me a copy of Tree of Smoke, that very novel, which he’d, naturally, just finished. “It’s yours,” he said.
Hours later, the lights came on and we were kicked out. Standing with him on the sidewalk, I reeled from the encounter. “OK, it was nice meeting you,” he said offhandedly after we traded phone numbers. He turned to walk away. “Wait, is that it?” I asked with noticeable irritation. Then I pulled him in for our first kiss.
Our Jim had a tough life. Despite his wealth of brains, kindness, and verve, he got the short end of the physiological stick. His body betrayed him. Severe migraines dominated his twenties, denying him of many possible careers for which he was a natural. He could’ve been a superlative English teacher, with his love of kids and a fierce passion for literature. He could’ve been a whip-smart medical professional, one who schools a doctor with the results of an obscure scientific study. He was a talented writer, as his recent blog showed, and could’ve turned his personal experiences into a brilliant memoir. His brain, that extraordinary machine, hindered him further in life. Depression, what Winston Churchill once called “the Black Dog,” always nipped at his heels.
But Our Jim was a sprinter, outrunning that Black Dog until the end. He always sought to live and flourish. He researched therapeutic options with the diligence of an A-plus student and the persistence of a Fury. No matter how hard those treatments were on his body and mind, with his family’s help, he made them happen. A tragic accident took Our Jim from us. But before that, he was back on his feet, on the road to recovery. He’d been a full-time dog walker for the last few months. He adored those creatures and, in typical fashion, often left his clients quirky notes and bags of his homemade cookies. Unsurprisingly, Our Jim’s clients loved him.
Really, who couldn’t but?
I’m angry that Our Jim is gone. I’m angry that he’ll never see the new Incredibles movie with me. I’m angry that he’ll never know how Game of Thrones ends. I’m angry that he never had the chance to read Denis Johnson’s final short-story collection. These are just a few things he was looking forward to recently, small examples in the grand cosmic scheme, but the particulars of everyday life that have been taken away from him.
He, likewise, has been taken away from us. From Dave and Ann. From Rebekah and Josh. From Mark and Sabrina. From his beloved nephew Dean and niece Riley. From the extended family and close friends who are here to celebrate this amazing man. And I add, to be selfish, from me. I’m angry that Our Jim is gone, because the hole in our collective hearts is shaped the same.
Early in our relationship, Our Jim wanted to bring me here, to this beautiful lake house, where we all now stand and he’ll forever rest. It was his favorite place. I don’t know why I hesitated for as long as I did. Dumb. We eventually visited often with our dog Chloe. I became an immediate convert. If life had turned out differently, the two of us would’ve arrived here this very afternoon, pooch in tow. We planned on one last, weeklong hurrah at Lake Norman before the house is sold. Our Jim is here, and so am I, but not with Chloe. Instead we’re surrounded by family and friends for an unexpected reason.
From the start, Our Jim recounted how much he cherished Lake Norman. His pitch was perfect, and convincing: He told me, “At night I like to float in the lake, with a vodka tonic, looking at the stars.” This is how I’ll always remember him. Here, in these calm waters, atop an inner tube, drink in hand, peering upward, serene, at peace, and pondering the universe above.
Our Jim was a softy, but he was also a cynic. He never knew how much he was beloved. This great gathering in his honor, to him, would’ve seemed inconceivable. I can hear My Jim now, paraphrasing The Princess Bride: “I do not think that word means what you think it means.”
Jimbo, this time you’d be wrong. “Inconceivable” means “not capable of being imagined or grasped mentally; unbelievable.” Love is all around you right now. I hope you can see that, wherever you are.
Rest in peace, baby.
Jimbo, this time you’d be wrong. “Inconceivable” means “not capable of being imagined or grasped mentally; unbelievable.” Love is all around you right now. I hope you can see that, wherever you are.
Rest in peace, baby.
