Anchor Struck

In 1964 I started college so wet behind the ears that I could have irrigated the nearby cotton fields with my head.  Another freshman, street-wise Jim, volunteered to help me with my off-campus education.  Most of the classes were held at Mom’s Pool Hall and the Trianon Lounge.

That started a friendship that bounced from Monroe, Louisiana, to New Orleans to Southern California to Vietnam and back to the world.  We worked as editors on the college newspaper, then as reporters on the Monroe daily.

One night after extensive tutoring at the Trianon, we decided to hit the road in pursuit of Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassady.  En route, we staggered to the middle of a bridge in the middle of the night.  Realizing that the moment called for dramatic symbolism, Jim threw his wedding ring into the Ouachita River.  I threw my dorm key.

Further realizing that we needed some sleep and sobering up before we actually drove off into the sunset, Jim went home and I went back to my dorm, waking up my roommate to let me in.  Fighting off gargantuan hangovers the next day, we acknowledged that perhaps we hadn’t really thought things out.

When I joined the Marines in ’66, Jim joined a few months later.  For my 22nd birthday, I rode shotgun on a truck convoy just below North Vietnam so I could have a beer with him.  The Viet Cong honoured me that night with a mortar and rocket attack.  It was the most terrifying time of my life, but Jim got me through it.

About a year later, Jim shepherded me through another seminal event in my life, my first acid trip.  He had gone AWOL and I was a week away from being released from active duty.  We met up in Atlanta with another jarhead friend who had just gotten out.  He took us to a party in the large hippie community.

A seasoned psychonaut, Jim told me what to expect and guided me through it.  When I was well into my voyage and its infinite possibilities, I thought “so this is what it’s all about”.  I looked at Jim, who was sitting across the room.  He smiled and nodded.  It was fucking freaky.

Contact between us tapered off after that.  In 1994, I was in Shreveport, Louisiana, for my high school reunion when I learned that Jim was back in nearby Monroe.  I drove over to see him and his wonderful wife Dora.  He’d had a rough readjustment to civilian life and wasn’t in good health.

Ten or so years later, he got a liver transplant.  He was within a few hours of dying when a donor was found.  I don’t have any details yet, but I believe that his gift organ gave out.  About six months ago, doctors told him he had just a few months left.  With each call after that, I could tell he was letting go.

During one of them, he said that he wasn’t following LSU football or the New Orleans Saints anymore.  That is unheard of in any Louisiana male two years or older.

He died last Thursday.  Dora called and left a message in that unmistakeable timbre of voice.  I dropped the phone and sobbed.

Jim was not a model citizen.  He could even be a genuine SOB at times.  But I felt his pain and knew where it came from.  He was the dearest of friends.  If there is an afterlife, I’d wager he’s there sipping a brew at the ethereal version of the Trianon.