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My Friend Tim

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My Friend Tim
When my wife and I moved into the senior mobile home park at Hollywood
Beach in Oxnard, I met a fellow by the name of Tim.
“Welcome to the park,” he said, extending his right hand.
“Name’s Rick,” I replied, as he nearly broke my fingers with a vise-like grip.
“You lived here long?”
“Bout a month.”
“Oh, so you’re a newcomer, too?” I asked.
“Right.” Tim pointed north up the coast. “Lived in Ventura before I moved
here. You?”
“Simi Valley for twenty-eight years. San Fernando Valley, before that.”
My new neighbor filled me in on other places he lived during his life. “I was
born in La Jolla. Attended UCLA. Served in the Navy in San Diego. Then ended up in Colorado
for thirty years, after I divorced my first wife in 1965.”
“My son lives in Colorado. He’s a fireman paramedic.”
“What part?”
“Aurora.”
Tim bragged, “I lived in Aspen. I was on the ski patrol until I retired.”
1
He looked to be in his late seventies, but was short, thin and muscular. Years of
working on the slopes had kept him in shape. After retirement he kept active building things with
his hands. A shock of steel gray hair thrived on top of his head. His sarcasm and wit made him
an interesting character.
As I got to know this guy, he was unusually frank sharing his past with me. “I
have a girlfriend by the name of Meg. She was also my girlfriend back when we were
teenagers.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
He grinned from ear to ear. “I met her when I was in ninth grade. We started
getting it on pretty regularly. My mom got wind of what was happening between us, then sent
me to the all-boys Midland School in Los Olivos, California, thirty minutes north of Santa
Barbara.”
“To keep from getting her pregnant, I suppose?”
“Right. I graduated after three years of supposed celibacy. That was during the
week, of course. On Saturdays and Sundays my boys and I enjoyed hitting Santa Barbara, and
occasionally, Montecito.”
He had me. I needed to know more. “And what about being with Meg now?”
“I looked her up when I returned to California. We’ve been seeing one another for
the last two years. Fifty plus years passed, we’re sleeping together again.”
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…
Not too long after I met Tim he announced, “I just beat cancer. I had an operation
last week to remove the malignant tissue.”
He lifted his t-shirt and turned his back to me. “Lift the bandage up and you can
see for
yourself.”
I did as he asked and saw a crusty yellow mess about the size of a dollar pancake.
“Pretty ugly, isn’t it?” Tim laughed. “They said they got all of the bad stuff out.
Can you
please take the bandage off? I can’t reach it.”
I tried not to touch the dried ooze in the gauze.
…
One day, I met Tim’s girlfriend as he disappeared into his place with his arms full of
groceries. “This is Meg, my gal.” he said. “The one I’ve told you so much about.”
I shook her hand, “I’m pleased to meet you.”
She pulled me close to her and whispered, “I’m not Tim’s girlfriend. He thinks I
am, but I’m not really.”
Over time, what she said didn’t make much sense to me. Meg stayed overnight
many times at Tim’s place, and he stayed every so often at her place in Orange County.
3
He took her out for many elaborate dinners at the local eateries in Oxnard and
always bought her a bouquet of flowers when she was in town. Tim even showed me his
bedroom and pointed, “My girlfriend likes to sleep on that side of the bed near the window
where she can see the garden.”
Every time I returned home from Tim’s house I shared a new story with my wife,
Debi. She questioned, “Why do you hang out with that guy? He’s a bit on the weird side, don’t
you think?”
My usual response was something like, “I feel sorry for the guy. I don’t think he
has
many friends. I’ve never met any of his relatives, if he has any. And his girlfriend claims she’s
not his girlfriend.”
…
Over many glasses of wine at his place, Tim shared his years living in the mountains. He
hung out with Aspen’s rich and those locals who worked two or three jobs to get by. He drank
beer with his fellow ski patrol buddies and sipped champagne with movie stars. Built homes to
make money during summers off. Tim got paid as a stuntman skiing down wild slopes in winter
when movie producers came to town.
He also claimed, “I was a good friend of eccentric newsman and novelist, Hunter S.
Thompson, who invented ‘Gonzo’ journalism.”
“I’ve heard of the guy,” I said. “What’s ‘Gonzo’?”
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“It’s a type of writing he developed as a reporter. He used a lot of sarcasm, exaggerated a
lot, and even used cuss words to get the reader’s attention.”
A light went off in my head. “Oh! I remember reading about him in a recent article about
the Hell’s Angels in the Ventura County Star. Thompson wrote a book about the gang in the
early sixties.”
Tim walked over to his refrigerator and pulled out two cans of Coors and handed me one.
“My favorite brand,” I said as I popped the top. “Tell me more about Thompson.”
“I campaigned for him when he ran for sheriff of Pitkin County in 1970. We drank a lot
and challenged one another to anything from climbing the highest mountains in the Rockies to
skiing down the most dangerous slopes in the range. We always brushed close to death
throughout most our friendship. It ended in 2005 when he shot himself.”
“Were you still living in Colorado at the time?”
Tim sighed, “No. I was living in Ventura when word of his death reached me. I flew back
to Colorado to attend his funeral. I wasn’t surprised how he died. He talked of suicide a lot
during the time I knew him.”
“So, I suppose Hunter’s buried in Aspen?”
“Sort of. The son-of-a bitch is spread out all over the place. He was cremated, and his
ashes were fired from a cannon during a private ceremony. One of his friends at the time, the
actor Johnny Depp, paid for his funeral.”
5
Tim pointed to a framed photograph on the wall. “There were other actors there, too.
Here’s Jack Nicholson. Bill Murray. And if you can believe it, those two are U.S. senators John
Kerry and George McGovern. Over two hundred guests in all.”
I took a big swallow of beer. “Sounds to me like old Hunter got around.”
“He did. Was one strange but likable cat.”
When I arrived home, I asked my wife Debi, a very prolific reader, “Have you heard of a
novelist by the name of Hunter Thompson?”
She replied, “No.”
I shared what Tim told me about the guy.
“He doesn’t sound like the type of author I’d read. I’m more into Stuart Woods. Sue
Grafton. Tom Clancy.”
I looked up Hunter Thompson on Wikipedia. “Geez, Debi. There are twenty-two pages
about the him. Under Funeral it describes how his ashes were shot out a cannon and red, white,
blue and green fireworks, all to the tune of Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky and Bob
Dylan’s Mr. Tambourine Man.”
Debi laughed. “This Hunter guy sounds weirder than your Colorado ski patrol friend.”
***
I learned Tim had married three times.
His first wife bore him two daughters and a son.
6
Meg continued to be in the picture, and she seemed more accepting that she was his
girlfriend based on her continued regular visits to his place, and he to hers’.
One day out of the blue, Tim brought up a new character from his past. He asked, “You
want to hear about Mr. Squibb?”
“Sure,” I said enthusiastically. “Shoot!”
“When Meg and I were screwing to the displeasure of my mother, she asked her sister to
find a school to send me to away from home. Aunt Betty knew private schools pretty well.
Especially girls’. She was also on the board of one after she retired from teaching.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Mr. Squibb has something to do with where your mom sent
you?”
“He did. He was related, by the way, to the pharmaceutical company of the same name.”
“He was an aspirin guy?”
“Check! Anyway, my aunt hears of this all boy’s school up in central California inland
from the coast. She goes to visit the campus and pulls up in the parking lot where an old man is
gardening. She asks the fellow, ‘Do you know where I can find the person who runs Midland
School. A Mr. Squibb?’ He answers, ‘I do indeed, ma’am. Let me get him for you.’ The guy
goes inside the main entrance as my aunt waits patiently outside. The gardener comes out
wearing a coat and tie and says, ‘I’m Mr. Squib, owner of this school. May I assist you?’”
“That’s classic,” I responded. “That guy must have been a real character?”
“He was, but during the two years I attended Midland, he taught me discipline and was
like a father figure to me more than my own.”
7
“You’ve never mentioned you father until now, Tim.”
“That’s because I never liked the guy. Before he divorced my mother, he was always
trying to make a man out of me. He wanted me to play football and other team sports and forced
me to do things I didn’t want to do, like play golf.”
“Is he still around?” I asked.
“No. He died a long time ago. I rarely talk about him to anyone.”
I changed the subject. “Say, Tim. Did your buddy, Thompson, ever write about you?”
“He did. I was a character in several of his novels, but he didn’t use my real name.”
“Did you ever write anything yourself?” I asked.
“I did. Hunter and I were invited one night to watch a German butcher in Aspen dress a
pig.”
“Dress?”
Tim drew his right index finger across his throat. “Slaughter and prepare the whole
animal, including what’s done with the inedible parts. Anyway, Hunter and I go to see the blood
and guts, and he ends up getting drunk halfway through the ordeal and passes out. I took good
mental notes, and I ended up writing a story titled Dressing a Pig.”
“Did you do anything with it?”
“Sure did. Hunter thought it was worthy of publishing in The New Yorker, so I sent it in.”
“And?”
Tim threw up his arms. “They rejected it, of course. You want to read it?”
8
Tim gave me his only copy, which I took home and thoroughly enjoyed. Even my wife
found the piece to be well-written, though she commented, “It was a hard for me to imagine
killing a squealing little pig.”
***
12:00 midnight. My wife and I were asleep in our bedroom. Ring, ring, ring. Ring, ring,
ring. She jumped awake, turned on the light, and answered the phone. “Hello. Yes, this is Debi.
Rich? Here he is. It’s Tim, honey!”
“Hello, what’s up, chief?” I yawned.
My friend whispered, “You got to help me. There are people in my house who are trying
to hurt me. They pushed me down and they won’t leave. They’re in the other room.”
“Keep calm, Tim. I’ll be there as fast as I can. Did you call the police?”
“No. Hurry please, Rick!”
There’s was a group of my neighbors in front of Tim’s house when I arrived and a police
car. I asked, “What in the fuck is going on?”
The lady who lived across the street tried to reassure me. “It’s okay. The cops are inside
trying to calm him down.”
“Was he attacked?” I asked, my heart beating rapidly. “Where are the people he said
were inside his house?”
“There were no people. It was all in Tim’s head,” confirmed another neighbor. “He was
taking Ambien to sleep, and the pill caused him to hallucinate.”
9
“Can I see him? Go in his place?” I asked.
A policeman walked Tim out just as a paramedic van, lights flashing, pulled into the
park. The officer explained, “They’re taking him to the hospital to check on his injuries which
seem to be self-inflicted. He’s lost a bit of blood.”
I looked at Tim’s pajama bottoms. There were minor blood stains below the knee. His
right hand was wrapped in a towel.
“How you doing, chief?” I asked, patting my friend on his back.
“They’re gone,” he cried. “They tried to hurt me and steal things from me.”
The next morning I went to see if Tim was back home. He wasn’t. His front door was
unlocked. I entered his house and walked down the hall. where I saw a stream of dried blood on
the carpet between his bedroom and bathroom. There was a broken wine glass in the sink. His
cellphone was on the floor between the toilet and shower stall. Everything else in the house
seemed undisturbed. I accepted the fact Ambien was responsible for our late night unexpected
phone call.
When I saw Tim later in the afternoon, I didn’t mention what happened. He seemed
embarrassed, and I decided not to press him on the previous night’s scare.
***
Not too long after Tim told me he beat cancer, he announced, “It’s fucking back?”
“What’s fucking back?” I asked with a blank look.
“The Big C!”
10
“Cancer? I thought you said they got all of it.”
Tim threw his arms up in dismay. “So they did, but the mother fuckers at the V.A.
misdiagnosed some of my other tests and didn’t tell me about my prostate until yesterday.”
“I know very little about that type of cancer. How bad is it?”
“The doctor said I could live with it for a long time and die from something else.”
As with many fuckups with the V.A. in recent years, the diagnosis Tim’s doctor gave him
regarding his prostate cancer was wrong. Two months after he announced his new illness to me,
he calmly stated, “I’m terminal. The doctor said I have less than a year to live.”
I spent more time visiting Tim and helping him with things like taking out the trash and
getting his mail. Occasionally, Debi would make enough potato salad, or bake an extra batch of
cookies, to share with my ailing friend. And a new thing happened. He started receiving visits
from family members. First, his eldest daughter showed up with her daughter and their beagle.
After several of their visits to bring food and do some minor housework, Tim’s sister, Millicent,
dropped by with some lamb chops and fine French camembert cheese from a Beverly Hills deli.
She came initially once a week, then twice a week.
One day in conversation, she surprised me when she announced, “I’m Buddhist.
Did Tim tell you?”
I said, “No, he didn’t. Why, is it important?”
“It’s not that it’s important, but it’s one the reasons Timmy is living here. There’s
a lady I chant with who lives in the park. When my brother thought of selling his place in
Ventura and downsizing, Ethel suggested he move in here.”
11
I laughed. “Heck, I know Ethel myself. She’s a realtor and sold Debi and me our
place. She’s a great gal!”
***
As the number of visits from relatives increased, Tim’s condition worsened. Debi made
sure there was always something left over from dinner to give to him. One time he requested she
make him a batch of her fried chicken, which lasted him for several days.
On a day when Tim seemed very fragile, he said, “I’m going to kill myself. When the
time comes that I’m shitting in my pants and can’t take a leak in the toilet, I’m going to take my
own life.”
I didn’t know how to respond and sat sipping a glass of claret.
Tim opened a small plastic pill box sitting on an end table next to where he was seated.
“I’ve got this tiny green capsule to do the job. I got it from Hunter. I’m surprised he didn’t take
one versus blowing his brains out.”
“How are you going to determine when the time comes?” I asked, figuring I needed to
say something.
“It’ll be subtle. You may be the only person who knows I’ve done it. You have to
promise you won’t tell anyone. Scout’s honor?”
“Scout’s honor. I promise.”
***
When a nurse’s aide began visiting Tim’s house to bathe him, and an RN started to drop
by check his vitals, I knew his time was short. Visits from Meg stopped, but he made phone
12
contact with her several times a week. He placed coffee cans several places in his mobile home
where he could urinate without peeing in his pants, because he could not reach the bathroom on
time. By now he was getting around with a walker. Several times I emptied receptacles of
brownish urine in the toilet, then placed them in their spots within range when Tim needed them.
By now his relatives were starting to piss me off. They continued to visit, but no one
stayed overnight with him. I thought it strange, but I surmised his family wasn’t normal, which
he made clear when he told me, “I don’t care for my youngest daughter, and I rarely see my son.
All my sister cares about is making money.”
His daughter, Alice, gave me her cell phone number in case of an emergency, and I
needed to get ahold of her. She called me several times when she couldn’t contact with her
father. Each time I found him asleep, or he’d misplaced his phone.
***
I grabbed Tim’s mail from the box and walked into his house. He was sitting in his easy
chair in the living room with a smile on his face. “I’m going to throw a dinner party. And you
and Debi are invited,” he announced. “Sort of a last hurrah.”
“What’s that mean?” I asked, shuddering to think his end might be near.
Tim handed me a piece of paper. “I just want to have a great seafood feast for you and
some of the others in the park, including my oldest daughter and my sister. The names of the
guests are written down and so is the menu.”
I read it out loud, “Scallops. Sauteed prawns. Steamed buttered asparagus. Caviar!”
Tim added, “And an avocado and crab salad and garlic bread. For dessert, creme brulee.”
13
“To drink?” I asked.
“Gordon’s gin martinis to start, followed my Moet champagne with the meal.”
“Where you having it and when, Tim?”
“Here, of course. No set date, yet. My daughter and sister are going to help me put it
together.”
As days passed, arrangements were slow to develop. Every time I saw Tim, he got more
excited. I think the thought of the party was keeping him alive.
Several times he peed in front of me. One time he relieved himself in front of me and his
sister. She seemed to take it naturally and didn’t say a thing.
Close to the day of the last hurrah, Tim announced to me. “We’re going to have to delay
the fish feast. Alice is going to Uruguay with her husband for a family emergency.”
Tim’s sister confirmed this the next day when she came to visit. “She’ll be gone for four
days. Her father in law had a heart attack and her mother in law is in a home. She’s coming by
tomorrow before she heads to LAX to join her husband, who Tim can’t stand.”
In the morning, I went out for a walk. When I returned, I noticed Alice’s car in the
driveway, and Tim’s front door was open. I entered the house and greeted my ill friend, who was
sitting in his easy chair in the living room. “Hi, chief. How you doing?”
Alice called from the kitchen, “I’m putting away groceries, Rick. I’ll be there in a
minute.”
Just as I was about to ask Tim how he was doing a second time, he shouted, “Who are
you?”
14
I was suddenly shocked. A bit afraid. I looked toward the kitchen and warned, “Alice,
something’s wrong with your father. He doesn’t recognize me.”
She rushed beside me, and Tim shouted again, “Who in the hell is this guy?”
“He’s your friend, Daddy. Your neighbor, Rick.”
I cautioned, “I think you’d better call somebody, Alice. I think you father’s having some
sort of an episode. He obviously doesn’t know me.”
When Tim’s RN arrived, he was babbling away like he was out of his mind and stared
ahead like he was in another world. She took his vitals and told Alice, “I think your father is
going through what is called a transition. I think his life is nearing an end. I suggest you get a
hospital bed and a nurse’s aide to be with him and help you.”
“I can’t,” whispered Alice.
“What?” the nurse asked with a surprised look on her face.
With a tearful raised voice, Alice cried, “I can’t. I’m leaving this afternoon for Uruguay
with my husband. Maybe my aunt can help.”
After Tim’s daughter calmed down, she arranged for a hospital bed, a nurse’s aide, and
called Millicent. “My aunt will be here as soon as she can. She has to come from Beverly Hills.
I’ll stay until she gets here.”
“I’ll be around for both of you,” I said.
Alice gave me a warm, clinging hug. “Thank you, Rick. You’ve been a great help.”
15
“Give me a few minutes,” I said. “I’ve got to go home and let my wife know what’s
going on.”
The nurse removed a small opened plastic box from the end table next to where Tim was
seated and closed it. She asked Alice, “Are these your father’s pills?”
She nodded her head. “I think so. They were there when I got here this morning.”
Debi was sympathetic to Tim’s sudden change in behavior and physical condition. “If
there’s anything I can do to help, let me know, hon.” She caressed my face with her hands and
gave me a soft kiss on the lips.
I grabbed a glass and walked over to the pantry where I kept my booze. I poured a hefty
belt of vodka and gasped as it burned going down.
Back at Tim’s place, Millicent had arrived. A few minutes later, Alice kissed her father,
then she jetted off in her car. A van pulled up with a hospital bed, and a nurse’s aide joined the
RN to move Tim and make him comfortable. By now my friend was stoic and silent. He looked
like death before it came.
I stayed for an hour and walked through Tim’s house to his bedroom where he’d slept
with Meg. Checked out a makeshift Buddhist altar Millicent had constructed several days before
to usher her brother to wherever the hell he was going. I went home and drank more than usual.
I finally made it to bed just after midnight and fell asleep drunk.
Tim passed away at 6:00a.m., just as the sun was rising. I learned this from Millicent
when she called me and cried, “Rick, my precious brother, Timmy, has left this earthly life.”
16
When I entered his house to pay him my last respects, I noticed Tim’s pill box resting on
the kitchen counter. I remembered he’d what said about taking his own life and I opened it and
snuck a peak. The tiny green capsule was missing.
I looked at my dead friend, who was propped up in his hospital bed. His eyes were open,
and he had a slight smile on his face.
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