A friend of mine died this weekend. About 9 months ago or so he’d been diagnosed with stomach cancer. He’d opted out of treatment.
The last time I saw him, he had an eerie calm about him.
James was about the first person I met in Park City. He told me big stories about his past, some hair-raising tales about his time in the military, central America, scary covert stuff.
I never really knew how much to believe. One alcohol-soaked night, we were debating some obscure point. James reached out and in a flash clocked me in the chest. His stories may have been half truth and half bullshit, but I stumbled out of the No Name that night gasping for air.
Rock on, James.
