My Friend Jim

It occurs to me that I grieve in small, acceptable amounts, such that are befitting a man, or at least a certain type of man. Far be it from me to mourn big and deep like one who’s lost and helpless and, perhaps, desperate. No, not me. Instead, I bury my sadness away and take it out to acknowledge it from time to time; I examine it and appreciate it at arm's length, like I would an old family watch, or a photo in a dusty scrap book.

I'm not proud of my way, trust me, but it's all quite suitable for these masculine, ever-so-reserved emotions that I bear.

And I say this, because, shortly after the planes flew into the World Trade Center, my friend Jim lost all of his life; and while I didn't quite realize it at the time, I lost part of mine. I’ve been accepting this truth in tiny, tolerable doses ever since.

It just so happens that Jim was my best friend growing up, and so, just like childhood, memories of him will always be unveiled in vivid color and stunning detail. We were the Huck and the Finn of Cranbury, New Jersey. The Millstone River ran through my backyard, and if you didn't know this already, rivers and boys are just about as perfect a combination as you could ever want. And so, adventures on the river nurtured a deep friendship that flowed through grade school, meandered into junior high and rushed straight on into the rapids of high school.

Jim and I shared everything, like best friends do, and by everything I mean birthday parties and schemes and backyard forts and trouble. We ventured together into a certain coming of age, and challenged head-on that ever awkward teenage angst; we enjoyed a love of the outdoors, sports, girls and Springsteen concerts. He was with me for that first dance, that first beer, and, well, maybe not too far away from that first anything.

When college came for both of us, we went our separate ways and time and distance eventually caused the inevitable breaking away of a childhood bond. I was married early and became a father, but Jim believed in marrying a bit later, and so he was still dating and enjoying bachelorhood to the fullest while I was changing diapers.

Despite the difference of trajectory, we would still call each other on our birthdays and get caught up, usually at our respective jobs; his from some office up in the hundreds of the World Trade Center; me, from some not so high office in Indiana.

Jim was an analyst with Cantor Fitzgerald and so our conversations were often interrupted mid sentence for him to scream something unintelligible at people around him. He worked in some sort of a bond trading floor, and I later learned that these orders involved the buying or selling of millions of dollars with just one shout. He probably had another phone on his other ear, but he would return to the conversation casually, never missing a beat, multi-tasking his way through the latest on life with his friend living half way across the country. And so, the last time I spoke to Jim was on July 22nd, 2001. He turned 34 that day.

Jim was the oldest of five children and with his job at Cantor, he probably made more money in one year than I would ever make in twenty. He was one of the youngest limited partners in that company’s history, and yet, he drove a modest car and lived in a small apartment in New Jersey. He apparently devised other ways to spend his money, and so he helped with the graduate school tuition of his siblings because he believed strongly in their education. He often loaned his friends money and he doted on his nieces and nephews with abandon. Jim's generosity and loyalty to his family and friends became the prevailing theme of what was remembered of him at his memorial.

I wrote a letter to Jim’s parents after the terrorist’s attack, and I was honored when his father read part of it at Jim’s service:

“As most boys did, we often found ourselves in trouble. We were the masters of many schemes and Jimmy was the natural leader of them all. He was the brave one, often defending me against whatever bully I had provoked. I remember vividly a time when Jimmy confronted a growling dog that was sprinting toward us. He stood face to face with this dog -- unflinching -- while I cowered behind him. The dog met his match and walked away without harm to either of us. Jimmy had a strength that cannot be described. He possessed a natural courage that created a steady, unwavering way about him. I remember, even as a child knowing that he would always be a leader but at the same time a loyal and true friend."

Jim ran with the bulls in Spain and in the New York City Marathon, and he skied all over the world. He lived a large life and he challenged himself on a regular basis. He literally exploded outward, not wanting to miss anything with the time he had.

With my knowledge of Jim, and from what I’ve gathered after the fact, there may have been some time after the planes hit for people in his office to devise some type of escape plan. If one existed, Jim would have found it. But there would be no escape. All exits and paths downward were blocked, and moving upward was found early on to be for naught.

Jim was dating a girl from the office, and I remember seeing pictures later of a young professional couple jumping together from the smoke filled building. It made me wonder, because it wasn’t a stretch for me to imagine him saying: I’m not going out like this. I will not cower and fade away in the smoke. I will not wait for a rescue that’s never going to come.

And so, quite possibly, he grabbed the hand of the one he loved and he died the same way that he lived, exploding outward and experiencing what was left of his life to the fullest.

Literally hundreds of Cantor Fitzgerald employees perished that day. The only physical remainder given to Jim's parents after the debris was cleared was his charred driver’s license, which gets me every time, because how could that be all that's left of such a life?

I write this four and a half years later, because, well, I guess this is just the way I grieve. Moments have tumbled by, many with his memory caught up in the mix. And those memories are starting to catch up with me, and I suppose, overtake me at times. I need to start sorting them out because they're probably all bungled up and tangled now.

So, this piece, as you've noticed, has nothing to do with a new kind of church -- at least I don't think so anyway. I just wanted you to know something of my friend Jim.

It's a tribute that's been a long time coming.