My Friend Jim

I used to have a good friend, Jim.  He came from a wealthy family and was spoiled rotten.  I think his life began going downhill once he began smoking weed.  His parents allowed him endless cash for whatever he wanted, and inevitably he spent it on pot.  Jim smoked way more than I did.  He even rigged up a bong in his car in which a rubber hose was attached to a homemade water pipe he built into the space between the front seats.  He’d roam around, nothing to do, and puff at his leisure.

I lost contact with Jim around college.  I can’t remember the specific circumstance—I basically bailed on all of my friends after I, myself, became victim to drug abuse—specifically, a life-alteringly bad acid trip.  That is the only reason I can think of why we stopped hanging out.  Or maybe I was just too cool for him (During high school, many of us hung out with him for his food and video games and musical instruments).

Jim had an addictive personality.  His desire to get high knew no limits and none of us suggested he slow down, take a break.   You just don’t get between a man and his drugs.  Although I don’t know whether he ever tripped acid, I do know he dabbled in crystal meth.  That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.  It was a rare moment when I revisited some mutual friends of ours that I heard what was happening with Jim:

The first that I heard of Jim going off the deep end began with tales of the meth he’d gotten into.  At some point, he’d broken into our friends’ apartment and stole a pound of weed.  No one pressed charges (no one could, really), but everyone knew it was Jim that did the dirty work.  He’d gotten away with some pot, but he’d lost some friends and seemed to be losing his mind.  I don’t think those mutual friends really had any sympathy for Jim’s condition.  I did and was worried.

Later, I learned he’d holed up in a motel near West Omaha and was generally avoiding everybody including his parents.  He was obviously paranoid someone would come after him for the pot he stole, but his paranoia had grown by leaps and bounds, stretching out to include family, friends and strangers. 

I visited Jim while he lived in this motel.  He had everything he needed to get by—electronics, video game consoles, a cd player, cable tv, and, I think, some meth.  When I met him he was drinking ice water and chatting rather wildly.

Jim’s parents continued to take care of him financially, figuring that he needed to be away from the house he grew up in, and that, inevitably, he would come home when he was ready.  That’s what the money they gave him said.  I think, internally, Jim’s parents were very worried and confused about what to do.  Jim was accepting the money, but avoiding his parents who he saw as a threat.

About a week later, things went from bad to worse.  While meeting with his parents at their house, Jim and his father, Jerome, got into an argument.  I can only presume that Jerome was worried and was trying to help his son, but what Jim understood by his father’s hysteria was that Jerome wanted him dead.

Jim rushed out to his car and threw it into reverse.  His father, obviously desperate to keep his son safe, leapt onto the hood of Jim’s car, holding on for nearly a block until he fell off into a tumble, landing at the edge of the street. Jerome found a brick and immediately chucked it at Jim’s car smashing his back window in a last ditch effort to get his son to stop the car and come to his senses.

Around the time all this was happening, I was going through my own mental anguish.  I’d smashed my car into a tree on purpose and ended up in the local Omaha mental asylum with a diagnosis of paranoid schizophrenic.  I’m uncertain as to how long I spent in the hospital, but I do remember being forced to go to this shitty outpatient program during my days while living at my dad’s apartment in North-West Omaha.  It was during that time I visited Jim, post-hospital.

Jim was living alone in an apartment at the time not far from where I was staying.  He looked fatter than I remembered and mentioned that they’d put him on a large dose of Depakote on a daily basis.  Around his apartment were the usual trappings—tv, video game systems, musical instruments, cd player.  His parents were again paying for everything.  I like to think he had a part time job that was helping occupy the time, but I was so fucked up in my own head then that I am not able to remember many specifics.  Due to my own anguish about the shit I was going through, I may have colored Jim’s situation a shade darker than was actual, but I couldn’t help but portend hopelessness in his situation.  Sure, he could talk.  He could sound normal.  But something wasn’t right.  Jim wasn’t right.  And I guess, if I couldn’t see my own hope, I certainly couldn’t see Jim’s.

Months passed without another visit to see Jim.  I ended up back in the hospital, this time for the long haul, a stint that only ended—5 months later—with a leave to visit my father.  It was then I escaped to Durango where I spent 3 years free of most symptoms until my most recent breakdown, which took place around the spring of ’05.  It was in the Denver hospital that I had a dream about Jim that horrified me:

Along a stale, grey road, I witnessed the trio of neighborhood friends I grew up with.  There was Mike and Dan and of course, Jim.  They were approaching me, but it wasn’t really them.  They were mere specters of their former selves, absent of joy, absent of possibility, absent of those bonds that friends who’ve known each other since the very seed of their youth share with each other.  They were, in a word, hopeless.  I was so shook by the dream I knew I’d never forget it.

As I’ve slowly recovered from my own prolonged disorder, I’ve often looked back over my shoulder at where Jim and I left off.  I’ve hoped—prayed—that Jim got better, that he’s back living with his family, that he’s had the courage and wherewithal to continue onward through life despite the harsh turn it took in his early twenties.  I’ve hoped, but I can’t help fearing the worst.

I’ve searched for Jim on Facebook and Myspace.  I’ve sought friends of friends and hoped he’d pop up in their friends’ list.  I’ve Googled Jim S_______ and Omaha World Herald.  The only thing I’ve stopped short of is Googling the words, “Jim S______ “ and “Suicide”.

Since my father died, I have no reason to go back to Omaha.  And even if he were alive, I don’t know that I’d have the courage to seek out the truth about Jim.  I’d probably just let it go, like smoke to the wind.  And I guess that would allow me to keep hoping.