Jim

If you’ve read Crazy Train or Recycling and Acid Trips, then you’ve had a glimpse of my friend Jim—just a glimpse. What those posts don’t tell you is how we met, how much he meant to me, or why those conversations still sit saved on my hard drive, opened up now and then like old letters from someone I still expect to hear from.

I first met Jim when he was working at San Manuel for BHP Billiton. He was being transferred to Pinto Valley for the restart. In the beginning, he just came up for a day or two, and I didn’t really get to know him. What I did notice was that he was loud, obnoxious, and constantly complaining about being married. I remember thinking, “This guy is an asshole.” And I couldn’t believe I had to share an office with him.

Then, one day, a couple of weeks in, I heard him on the phone with his wife.

OH. MY. GOD.

He was so sappy, I almost laughed out loud. That man absolutely loved his wife, and his daughter. That one moment flipped my whole perception of him. He wasn’t what I thought. Under the gruff, sarcastic surface was someone deeply loving and loyal. That realization opened the door to a friendship I still treasure.

Jim was one of the very few people I could talk to when I was upset about someone I love. Usually, I keep those feelings to myself. I know if I complain and someone agrees too much or says something harsh, I’ll get defensive. But with Jim, it was safe. He listened. He understood.

We shared an office for years. When we finally got moved to a new building and separate offices, I was distraught. But there were two rooms with a window between them, and we took those. That little window let the conversations continue.

Eventually, he left the company. Not long after, I did too. But we stayed connected. We had a consultant friend, Chuck, and the three of us would have these incredible discussions—part science, part philosophy, always a little sideways. Even after we scattered to different jobs, those conversations lived on in email threads. I saved them. I turned them into Word documents for the days I needed to revisit them.

In 2019 (I think), I found out from a mutual acquaintance that Jim was sick. I hadn’t heard it from him. I called, and he told me it was some strange leukemia, and he’d need a bone marrow transplant. But not long after, he said his heart wasn’t strong enough for the procedure.

I cried for days.

I drove from the northwest corner of Arizona to the Southeast corner to visit him and his wife Patty, to help them set up streaming devices on their TV. I expected to see someone frail and fading, but there he was, still Jim. Sharp, hilarious, full of life. We stayed in touch. I turned a couple of our old conversations into blog posts and sent them to him. His response brought me to tears. He was so moved. So appreciative.

With that image of him still strong in my mind I got comfortable. I let myself believe we had more time.

So when another friend (also named Jim) called to tell me he had passed, I was blindsided.

Jim was a truly great guy. He loved animals. His dog Rocky had his whole heart. He was the kind of person who surprised you, challenged you, and made you better just by being around.

I miss him. I miss our conversations. Two of them are still here:

• Crazy Train
• Recycling and Acid Trips

Sometimes, when I want to hear his voice again, I open them up and read. And for a moment, it feels like he’s still just on the other side of that window.