Jim didn't like anyone to call him James. James was his birth name, but he preferred Jim. It was Jim. Not James. Never Jimmy. It was Jim. Calling him by anything else would get you an evil stare, a cold gaze that let you know that for now you were safe, but things would all change if his fuse hit full ignition. And don't call him Jim Jr., either. There is a big difference between being the second and being a junior. Jim had the roman numerals after his name and made sure you knew it.

I met Jim in eighth grade gym class. Most of us had been at Ransom Middle School for two years, but this was Jim's first year out of home schooling. He was a different looking kid; kind of pudgy, hair wild and brushed straight back (later parted in the middle), cold dark eyes, neck and forehead full of acne. One glance at him was all it took to figure out he was weird, which is how eighth graders describe anything different and not necessarily better. He immediately was the target of ridicule. The cool kids called him a psycho, made fun of his name (who wants to be called Jim when they're 13?), and threatened to beat him up. Me, I did nothing. I stayed away. I didn't make fun, but I didn't help out. I did nothing.

Coach Jones had us hitting golf balls one morning. We'd line up, six of us at a time, simultaneously hitting our golf balls. Jim and his group went to the tees after my group. When they swung at their golf balls, Jim was the only one that missed. Some of the kids cracked up a bit in restrained ridicule. When Jim missed the second time, the laugher was relentless. I saw Jim's body tense up, his eyes bulging and his hands putting a death grip on the club. His third swing was a miss too, but this time it had more to do with Jim choosing to axe-chop his club into the ground. We all laughed at his incompetence. It was then that his neck and face went into tense spasm, his eyes rolled up almost into his head, he flung his face in our direction, and roared at the top of his lungs, "SHUT UPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!" Coach Jones, he told Jim to chill. The kids, we all got chills.

I still had no relationship with Jim until the end of eighth grade. I was an office messenger and had to deliver something to the band hall. Mr. Bertles was in his office, the band hall free of any authority. Kids were running rampant and throwing paper. I went into the back office, gave Mr. Bertles his note, and walked through the chaos that was the band hall. Near the door, Jim was on the floor, lying straight and staring up into space. When I got closer, I noticed the blood from his nose sliding down his cheeks. He let out one whimper of, "help me." It sounded so odd that I almost cracked up in confusion and fear. I returned to the office and told them what I saw. The kid who punched Jim was supsended for 10 days.

After that incident, I decided to be nice to Jim. It's not that I was mean to him before, but I wasn't kind either. I didn't defend him, and sometimes if the crowd was big enough, I'd join in on a good laugh about Jim. But I was gonna make an effort to be nice to him. We were both signed up to play trumpet in high school marching band, so we took freshmen summer school together. Since we played the same instrument, we always marched and played together. We were never friends, but we would talk once in a while. I'd ask him how he was doing, help him out on a musical run he couldn't get, show him how to do a left pivot, all sorts of mini-nerd-band-camp bonding.

On one of the last days of band summer school, Jim couldn't find his sunglasses. Liked he always did when he got mad, his eyes rolled upward and he yelled.

Where! Are! My! Sunglasses?!?

He romped around the band hall trying to find his sunglasses. He'd get right into kids' faces and ask for his glasses. When he got to my area, I told him to checked his band locker, that maybe he had accidentally stuck them in his trumpet case. He rushed into the locker room, and I continued practicing. That is, until Jim's hands were around my neck. He shook me in this chokehold and demanded his sunglasses. I threw his hands off my neck, and one of the seniors promptly grabbed Jim and led him away from me.

After the sunglasses incident, I knew I didn't want to be Jim's friend. I wouldn't be his enemy, but I'd never be his friend. He got most violent, most passionate, toward the people that were nice to him. I would be polite, but not nice. From that point, whenever Jim talked to me, I would acknowledge and greet him, but I drew the line at eliciting true conversation. This stance strengthened a few months later, when Jim once again attacked me, accusing me of pulling his chair out from under him when he fell from his own carelessness.

Jim was known as a weirdo throughout high school. Andrew (my best friend in high school, and a fellow trumpet player) and I could--- and often did--- tell an hour's worth of Jim stories at parties. Everyone knew about Jim's odd behavior. The time he picked up the little freshmen by his head and let him dangle. The times he would tell you with a stonecold face that his trumpet was worth more than your life. The time during a band competition that he threatened to ruin the show by running around the field. The time he yelled at the section leader and called him "the evil stepchild." The time he pinned a kid against the wall with his desk. The time he was caught talking to a wall.

Despite being the focus of ridicule, Jim wasn't miserable during high school. He had a small group of friends, most of which were just as different and mocked as he. Even if his sense of humor were odd, he did have one, and he smiled and laughed frequently. He truly enjoyed band and playing the trumpet, and he stayed for all four years. He enjoyed high school.

I haven't seen Jim since graduation night. I heard he joined the army, and his area of focus, as I was informed, was "to bomb down enemy planes." That didn't shock me at all. In fact, I would have expected nothing less. Periodically I get a second-hand update on Jim. Each one includes another odd story, but none surprising when considering the source. Finally today, he was able to surprise me. One of my friends bumped into him this afternoon, and Jim told her what he wants to do. Out of all the odd things Jim has said and done, I never would have expected this one.

All Jim wants to do is go back to high school.