When Jim told me he had cancer, it didn’t much worry me. It was in his fingertip. They amputated the digit at the joint, threw his cancer in the trash. Good riddance. His finger stump was intriguing; even cool in that weird “lemme see your scar” kind of way.
Turned out, that wasn’t the all of it. The cancer popped up in places that couldn’t be lopped off. But for a while the chemos worked fine, the tumors shrunk like magic. It was looking good, till last winter. Last winter, when the Dark rose with a vengeance and everybody’s shit hit the fan. Jim called to say things weren’t looking so good, anymore. His situation wasn’t hopeless, the docs still had plenty treatments to try. But as I listened to the sad news with one ear, Jim’s obit tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in the other, “I’m yours to write.”
Yeah, well, I don’t work at no newspaper. I don’t write obits ahead of time, don’t update them to keep them current. Damned if I’d devote any brain cells to the announcement of his death while the man was still alive.
Jim died last Tuesday.
I never dreamed the Jim-obit would be so hard to write. Never dreamed I’d need so much help to get it done. It’s not grief blocking me, or denial. I’m not reticent to let him go. The problem is, my eulogy for Jim is all about me.
I met James Killus in 1970-something… maybe ’74… at a Mythopoeic Society meeting where young fantasy fans met to wax eloquent on the works of Tolkien, and sometimes about Lewis’ books, and, very occasionally, about the stuff Williams wrote. James was witty, James was wry, James was opinionated to the max, and every opinion he held was backed by acerbic, insightful logic.
I’m not a group kind of gal. I didn’t stick with the Mythopoeic thing long. Years passed. Lots of ‘em. I graduated, worked, traveled, lived with my sister in the Rockies, with my honey in LA, got married, had kids, moved again, wrote a fantasy novel. The book got me into a writer’s group — the Melville Nine.
Jim recognized me before I recognized him. I just thought that bearded guy with the cap sure looked familiar. Jim now had an exotic wife. Amy wasn’t a writer, but she came to all the meetings and gave people back rubs. At some point, I realized Jim and Amy were always together unless circumstances forced them apart. They simply adored each other. They were happier in each other’s company than alone. When I was with Jim and Amy, I was in the presence of true love.
In its heyday, there were more than nine writers in the Melville Nine. Only a handful of them gave constructive critiques. Jim often came at a piece from a surprising angle — which was useful in itself — and his critical faculties were finely honed, his comments invaluable. The Melville Nine went the way of all things, but I never stopped asking Jim to read my stuff and critique it.
Jim has been my best, closest and usually only writer-friend for 13+ years. If you’re a writer, you know what that means. If you’re not, no words can explain it.
Important things to know about Jim that won’t be in the official obit: he was an expert on Bat Masterson, he had a bloody Engineering degree from RPI (the guy was smart), and he loved Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Jim was a better friend to me than I ever was to him. If too much time went by, he’d call to check in, to give news and get it, to share his writer triumphs and disappointments and inquire about mine. He and Amy would come up to Sonoma sometimes. We’d hang out, do dinner, get loaded, watch a flick, stay up, talk till all hours. I virtually never returned the favor, almost never dropped in on them. But Jim didn’t love me less because I’m a wanna-be recluse. I never had to guard my tongue or mind my manners with him, never had to be less abrasive or more congenial, never had to try to act like someone I’m not. With Jim, I didn’t have to feel bad about being tactless, unreasonable and odd.
Thanks, James, for being always and unconditionally my friend.
Jim Killus wrote tons of great stuff. He longed for more response to his essays (at http://unintentional-irony.blogspot.com/). It’s not too late; his wife Amy would love to hear what you think. And do yourself a favor. His two Ed Honlin novels (serialized on his website http://www.sff.net/people/james-killus/) are exceptionally good “noir.” Give them a read.
Hi, Dave. Thanks for stopping by to read this one. And yes, of course I know how the hermit thing goes. One of the reasons I love you so, is that the vanishing act is ok with with you — we can both or either disappear without notice and for however long with no guilt and no blame.
Eliot teaches physical theatre in the Theatre Dept. at SRJC, where I teach stage management. I see him, not often, but at least a couple times a semester. He’s lost several hours with the budget cuts… let’s invite him along to our coffee/tea sometime??
I was so surprised, at the dojo memorial, to realize you’d known James before I invited you into the Melville Nine. I’m glad he and Amy continued to pop by, and not turn hermit like me. I hope you know I didn’t vanish into the woodwork out of choice, but mostly out of laziness. That, and the issue that seeing any of the Melville Nine outside of a meeting reminds me that we don’t HAVE the meetings anymore, and that sense of loss is painful.
Speaking of old writing group colleagues, I’ve twice run into Eliot Fintushel this month. Sometimes I think he never spends any time indoors, I see him by chance around Santa Rosa so much.
Dave
Not being a writer, I can only wish to write as eloquently as the author. But our remembrances and sentiments are the same. Jim and Amy, Amy and Jim. If ever there were two who glowed in the presence of the other, it is these two. Jim also was a better friend to me than I to him. Yet I loved him in a way that is so special to me. I know I will never experience it again. I know I will long for it for the rest of my life. He was there through my “Perils of Pauline” decade. As a fellow scientist we could speak of atoms and philosophy, me hoping the entire time he didn’t know how inept I felt. I will write more because I will need to. The loss is too deep not to continue. He gave and gave and gave. He saved my life. Literally. Thank you Jim. I know you disagree, but I know that there is a string where our paths will cross again. And all I will be able to say is, “Told you so” and “Thanks for being my friend for 50 years”. And caring.