A Letter to My Friend Dear Jimmy, It’s been 11 years since you left. I’m 37 now. I have gray whiskers in my beard. I still miss you. We lost the war in 1975. I still have mixed feelings about it. Remember the young gook I shot out of the tree? I hit him about 20 times, but he was still alive when he fell to the ground. He was trying to say something to me. He still is. I don’t have a bike anymore. The last one was the fastest. It was a Harley Sportster with a chrome moly frame and every speed part I could buy. I sold it to a dope smuggler in Miami. He got pilled up and drove it through the front of a country store. Your mom and dad seem to be doing OK. I hardly ever visit them because we always talk about you and I always want to start crying like a jerk. Remember, I cried all day when Nickerson and Smith got killed  all damn day. I couldn’t stop. I thought that would be the last time. After that I was numb. I saw Evans take a rifle grenade right in the chest. I didn’t feel a thing   just numbness. I’ve had a million jobs since you left. One time I was pumping septic tanks and got the truck stuck behind a convalescent home. Convalescent home septic tanks are the worst. Man, that was gross. Another time the pump blew up all over me. You woulda loved it. I drove a tractor trailer for a while. I guess I was trying to prove to myself that I was as tough as anybody. I never had your courage, pal. I’ve fooled a lot of people over the years, but the truth is, I’m more coward than not. At 37, it doesn’t seem as important as before. Whenever I get a job where they offer life insurance, I make your mom and dad the beneficiaries. My parents are fairly well set. Dad is 76 now. He and Mom are well. I never got married. I just can’t seem to do it. I’m hung up on this stupid image of being a playboy or something. Somehow I got brainwashed into thinking that success as a man is measured in how many women you can take to bed. I’m up to about 10 million, and each new one makes me feel a little more empty inside. Jack Bittman has a nice wife and beautiful kids. I have a dog and a cat with one eye. You were right about drugs. I laugh now at how I used to tell you all the dope pushers should be shot. What can I say? I was young and naive. One time, in a bar in Texas, you said to me, “If nobody was buying, nobody would be selling.” You’re in good company, Bro, Abe Ribicoff said, “You can’t legislate morality.” You and Abe know the truth, but we keep trying anyway. I wonder how old your daughter is now; must be early teens. I guess Jamie . . . I wonder if she’s much like you. If I ever get into some real bucks, I’ll make sure she goes to college. Right now I’m probably as helpless as she is. I don’t have many friends, Jim, but a lot of people seem to like me. It’s mostly because of things I learned from you   like being honest no matter what. I try to tell them about you, but everybody thinks his own best friend is the greatest. I tell them about the guy you saved in that ambush, and how the scumbag lieutenant got a medal for it. If I ever run across that dude, I’m gonna even the score a little. I live in a small apartment by myself. It’s nothing special, but the landlord’s a nice guy and it’s clean. Remember that burned out hotel we lived in in San Francisco? The place where the middle had been gutted and we had to walk across steel girders to get to the bathroom. I don’t do that kind of stuff anymore. I’m never gonna be Jack London, so it’s probably best just to stay warm and dry. One time I thought I heard you call me. It was the winter after you left. I was living in a rooming house with about six winos and a couple of loony tunes. I’d worked all day in the bitter cold and was too exhausted to go out to dinner. Suddenly I heard you call my name. For a long time I waited in silence. I could still hear the echo of your voice in the darkness. I waited for an hour, then I cried and went to sleep. Maybe you wanted me to do something. Maybe you were lonely too. In a way, I’m still waiting. I went down to the place where you had your accident, and I picked up every tiny piece of your bike. I found parts of the headlight and the cover from the regulator. I kept all the stuff in a shopping bag in my room, then finally took it out by a big pine tree and buried it. Am I weird or what? You should have stuck around, Jimmy. The world is running out of good examples. It’s real short of people who put sincerity before personal gain, and honor their parents more than their peers. There are too many talkers and not enough doers, too many good lines and not many good acts, too much wrong and only enough right for appearances. If you were still here, we could go down to New York like we used to. We could wander down 42nd Street and ride with the 3 a.m. winos on the Staten Island Ferry. We could shoot pool in rough bars and help your dad with the gas station. We could sit on our bikes and talk about life. Jimmy, if you were still here, we could still be friends.