Ten years ago today I was sitting down to dinner at a Mexican restaurant in Houston when I got a text from a friend’s husband “CALL ME ASAP”. My heart sank as I knew immediately what it meant – James was gone.
I first met James in 1998 when he was hired as a new consultant where I worked. He was short and balding, with glasses, and we needled him pretty hard, calling him “George” after George Constanza from Seinfeld. He didn’t let on but it really bothered him, to the point that he grew a beard to avoid the comparison.
We would later bond over our shared love of cigars. I knew a little bit about it, or thought I did, but James took it to another level. He taught me everything about cigars – their construction, what made a particular cigar good or bad, how to properly cut and light them, everything. There were some lines I couldn’t cross – I would never smoke in my car – but he could and did. I liked cigars, but James loved them.
James also loved guns and trucks, Booker’s bourbon, and World War II history. He also loved work more than I did; he had no problem hammering out SQL code while smoking late at night – more lines I would never cross.
He was loud and largely unapologetic, and he didn’t always have the best filter from his brain to his mouth, but if you were his friend he would do anything for you.
James had significant health problems for someone so young. In his last few years his health rapidly declined, to the point that he tried to get on an organ transplant list. That forced him to give up his cigars, which made him miserable.
He knew the end wasn’t far off. He put his affairs in order, and left instructions with friends for when the end came, which is how I got that text ten years ago. I left the Mexican restaurant that night and stopped in three or four nearby bars to see if any of them served Booker’s. I had to settle for a Maker’s Mark and toasted to his memory.
If there’s a heaven it has a cigar lounge, and James is there, laughing loudly.
Three years ago today I got a message from my friend’s sister – Shero was gone.
Shero was my closest friend growing up. We lived across the street from his family when we first moved to Plano in 1979. We played football in the front yard, and fired blasters at imaginary stormtroopers or Cylons who had invaded our street. In our high school years we played basketball and putt-putt, went to every Plano home football game, and caught whatever movies were cool at the time (Batman, The Naked Gun, Lethal Weapon 2, etc.)
He was smarter than me and a better studier. Every week our senior year I would call him and beg him to walk me through our calculus homework, which he unfailingly did. He loved natural sciences and ended up in Arizona, studying desert ecology for Arizona State.
We kept in touch over the years. He’d come back to Texas for reunions and we’d catch a Plano game while he was in town. We texted frequently but it was usually about sports or other non-important topics.
I didn’t realize until much later – too late in fact – how much he was struggling, and how much pain he was in.
Over the last couple years of his life his texts grew more infrequent and increasingly dark. At one point I was alarmed enough that I reached out to his sister, who said his friends in Arizona were trying to get him some help. I always thought I should go see him but I never did. I just didn’t know how to help him.
It doesn’t make sense and it never will. I’ll never understand what he was going through. I just know I miss my friend.
March 23 will always be a tough day. Two friends lost, both way before their time, both suffering more than good people deserve.
My annual tradition has become to celebrate them both in ways they would enjoy. For James, his favorite cigar – Padron Anniversario – and a Maker’s. For Shero, a nature walk followed by a beer while watching March Madness.
Here’s to you boys. I’ll see you both soon.
Ruminations & Cogitations 
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