Ode to Ootie

My son bears a faint scar on his upper lip. This is his remembrance of Jim Oot. My son got it from Jim’s cat when he was no more than two. He got it on one of the innumerable nights I was fortunate enough to spend time with Jim and his future ex-wife Jill, back in the 1980’s. This particular night we were gathered at his cheesy apartment located across the street from Morristown Memorial Hospital, where my son was born.

            I am sure we were all up to no good, including my son, hence the scar. The apartment was unbelievably hot due to the antiquated heating system that included noisy radiators, and the second floor location. Outside sat Jim’s brand new BMW, a symbol of what was to be his future business success. My friend Dave Bayard, through his already relatively lucrative successful endeavor, provided the foundation and experience for Jim, and they both never looked back.

Dave, and his wife Heather, were almost always a part of the shenanigans we all, including my future ex-wife Darby, engaged in on any given weekend throughout this wonderful, fun, turbulent, tragic, and confusing period of my life. I will try to explain how this triumvirate of couples, each person from various social classes that never mattered to anyone, became a unit of untold joy for me.

Dave owned a house in Madison, New Jersey. Darby, who knew Dave from Madison, was a roommate. Jim and Dave knew each other from their time at Ohio State University. Jim met Jill while in Ohio. Jim and Jill came east so Jim could work for Dave. I started to date Darby. I moved in with Dave and Darby. Dave started to date Heather. Dave and Heather got married. Darby and I moved out. Jim and Jill got married in Syracuse, New York, where Jim hailed from. Dave, Heather, Darby, and I all drove up to the wedding together in Darby’s father’s Olds Cutlass Ciera. I behind the wheel. We almost didn’t make the wedding due to my inability to negotiate an exit ramp, but that’s a story for another blog. Later, Darby and I would marry. Jill was our waitress the night I proposed. It seemed appropriate to have a member of the gang witness. So that’s how it began.

Jim was normally our ring leader/social coordinator. Jim Oot was one of those rare individuals who truly was the life of the party. Jim was Jonah Hill before there was a Jonah Hill. No one that ever met Jim didn’t like him. I liked him from the first night I met him, and he had been friend’s with Darby’s previous boyfriend. Jim transferred his affection seamlessly, never ever judging me, or resenting me. At least that’s how I remembered it. He was that kind of guy. Jim was The Cat in the Hat, and Dave and I were Thing One and Thing Two. Even though Dave was Jim’s boss, the friendship came first, and Jim was one easy person to be friend’s with.

I frequently tell people if I have nothing, I’m giving you half. Jim was the same. Jim often would pick up the tab whether or not he was financially able. And it was hard to tell if he was or not, he never let on. It might diminish the fun that was being had, and Jim could never let that happen. We never got into trouble when we were engaged in some kind of Tom Foolery, but we could have. If Ronald Reagan was the Teflon President, or John Gotti was the Teflon Don, Jim was the Teflon Party Goer. Almost as if he wouldn’t let anything happen to any of us when we were with him.

The countless nights at The Dirt Club in Bloomfield hanging out with the owner, Johnny Dirt (the name he really went by). That’s where we all saw The Whyos for the first time, and later became acquainted with. No, they never made it big, but we loved them. So much so, that the working title for a book that’s a compilation of my blogs is, “Full Moon and an Empty Head,” a reworking of the Whyos, “Full Moon and an Empty Heart.” If memory serves me correctly, and who gives a shit if it doesn’t, I’m on a roll, we all saw The Stray Cats at The Fountain Casino, Joan Jett and The Blackhearts at The Meadowbrook, or was it the other way around? We all made the drive to the Atlantic City Convention Center to see Elvis Costello.

We all often went to dinner together before a night of clubbing. El Bandito was a favorite haunt, where, I suspect, no one who worked there had a green card.  To this day, it remains the best Mexican food I’ve ever tasted this side of Mexico.

Many great memories were made there. The pitchers of Margaritas. The farting afterward. The novelty of the neighborhood home it was situated in, or the not-so-nice-neighborhood. Hey, it was okay, we were with Jim. One night we all went and my father came along. Jim and my Dad hit it off enormously. My father spoke Spanish to anyone with whom he engaged. By the end of the night, Jim and my Dad acted as though they had known each other for years. Jim had that effect, and so did my Dad, so you can imagine.

When I had my motorcycle accident, Jim was not only there to support me, he often treated me as though nothing ever happened. For this I was grateful. When my marriage started to fall apart, Jim never took sides. He emphasized he was friends with both of us. When Darby left, it was Jim who talked me in off the edge amid my hysteria. Embarrassed by my unstable behavior, I fell out of touch. Jim seemed to know I needed to figure out who I was, and who I was to become, on my own. The last time I saw Jim it was 1990. I moved to Florida in 1993.

Social media allowed us to reconnect. I sent him my number, but never heard from him. A couple of years back Jim got sick. I followed his ordeal on social media. I saw the pictures. The horrific operation. I was sad that Jim had to go through this. Jim wouldn’t have allowed someone else to go through what he was enduring if he had any say in the matter.

We never had to go anywhere to have a good time with Jim, as the night of the Cat Scratch attests. Dave and Heather oddly were not there. We had been playing music, Jim and Jill sharing their new album purchases, and Darby and I had brought the newest additions to our collection to the apartment for Jim and Jill’s listening pleasure. My son Cory loved Jim and Jill’s cats. One of the cat’s did not reciprocate. When Cory casually strolled out of the master bedroom with blood pouring from his lip and all over the front of his clothes, we were all in a state of shock except of course Cory. Jim rose from the couch like he was shot from the proverbial cannon, slip-sliding in his stocking feet across the laminate wood floor, looking like some kind of spastic version of Randy Newman’s “Simon Smith the Amazing Dancing Bear.” Jim’s attempt to severely punish the cat went for naught. No body was the worse for wear, particularly Cory. All that remains today of that night is the faint scar.

Today, I have a scar. It isn’t visible. It is on my heart. Jim Oot passed away yesterday at the age of 62. Thankfully, my scar will heal. Thankfully, I’ll carry the great memories for the rest of my days. Yesterday, they came up from the recesses of brain, stored away for safe keeping these last 28 years. Thank you for letting share a few here.