On June 29, a friend of mine from years ago died. We still
haven’t officially heard the cause of death, but his health was fragile, he was
living in a nursing home, and he knew he was at great risk.
James Bailey was only about eight months older than I am; he
died at age 44.
Let me be clear: this isn’t about me, my health or my
reminiscences. It’s about choices – the choices that we make, good and bad. It’s
about the choices made by Jimmy, or James, or J – as I called him in our last
few conversations.
I helped an avid RPG community in Jonesboro, Arkansas to
grow back in the late 80s, early 90s. And by RPG, I mean real dice-rolling,
sitting on couches eating greasy food and drinking Mountain Dew, 12-hour
marathon game sessions gaming. There was none of this online video gaming where
your best friends are folks you’ve never met from New Zealand and Buffalo.
These were people we invited into our homes.
I had my own circle
of friends I gamed with. Jimmy had his regular gaming friends – colloquially
called the Goon Squad. By and large, we mingled, but didn’t really mix. Jimmy
was the rare one who did. I often was the DM (or gamemaster), and I regularly
sought out people to play. After seeing how much he brought to a game, I
invited Jimmy to come join mine.
Jimmy was intelligent and artistic, a bit of an oddball who
sat cross-legged on the couch with his hands full of dice, waiting for a chance
to pounce physically or verbally into the game. He created “Victor” for our
AD&D – Advanced Dungeons & Dragons game – an ex-gladiator turned
refugee. He threw himself into gaming with gusto. He was friendly with
everyone, he took an active role, and he was a pleasure to have around – which
was surprising, given some of his issues.
Two things in particular stand out from that game campaign.
One time Our Heroes needed someone to cover their escape. Victor said, “I’ll do
it! I’m used to fighting a few guys at once!” Jimmy turned his character around
and ran directly at the pursuing hordes of Non-Player Character villains.
He didn’t have a weapon, but he attacked, all flying fists
and brawling. I allowed him about one round of heroic butt-whupping before I,
as the villains, had to pound the hell out of him. He barely survived, but the
other guys got away and regrouped.
On a second, more infamous occasion, the party found
themselves on an island floating a mile above the surface of the world. I
designed it so that a magical spear was powering it. I described how the spear
hovered in a beam of blue light, the chamber was at the center of the island,
and how it hummed spiritually as they gazed upon it. I’d planned the campaign so the island could be moved, and they
were going to pilot this thing to another location to fight a few huge battles.
Didn’t work. Victor decided he wanted the spear, so he took
it. I couldn’t stop it, so I sent the island plummeting to the surface, forcing
the rest of the characters to figure out how to get out or die. Yes, Jimmy actually sent an entire campaign
crashing down just because his character had an impulse problem.
In character and in real life, he would make up his mind and
there was nothing you could do to change it. It was noble in a way and tragic
in others.
Jimmy had diabetes when he died. It had gotten so bad that
he couldn’t walk. During a Facebook conversation, he told me that when the
diabetes had set in, he developed nerve trouble in his feet and stomped the
floor of his apartment in anger. This broke a blood vessel. He already could
barely move, and with the open wound on the bottom of his foot, he was afraid
of getting an infection. To avoid this, he chose to go into the nursing home
and get help.
Infection was a real fear. Jimmy had truly awful habits. He
would eat the greasiest, nastiest, sweetest chunks of lard-and-chocolate
flavored garbage he could get. His culinary habits were gross. His friends tried
to get him to eat something healthier – anything!
He ignored us. That was his choice. And yes, his cholesterol was sky-high at
the end.
Jimmy was also… unclean. He lived in the same apartment for
about twenty years that I know of.
And I doubt he cleaned it more than once or twice a year. It was filthy. But it wasn’t
just that; Jimmy didn’t like to bathe. People gave him grief about it. I had to start
telling him to get a shower before coming over to my games. He fussed, but
insisted on coming. He cleaned up and we were all astonished at how genuinely
handsome he was. I think those once-weekly showers were all he got.
These were all choices he made. If they didn’t kill him,
they certainly didn’t help him any in the long run.
I left Jonesboro in 1994. I’ve remained friends with some,
and close friends with many others. Jimmy was one of those I failed to keep up with. Last fall, after a couple of decades, I
wanted to check in on him. I’m in the process of rewriting a novel and wanted
to consider using his character, Victor. A mutual friend, J.T. Benton, told me
how Jimmy could be found and what had gone on in his life.
I reached out. We became FB friends and talked a few times.
He admitted to obsessing on RPGs so much that he pushed most of his friends
away, and he was aware that he was responsible for virtually all of his medical
problems.
Jimmy had lost touch with almost everyone. But during that
time, he made one huge defining decision. While he was sick and away from
everyone he knew, and under the care of the nursing home, he admitted to
himself he had a different identity.
Jasmine.
He said (and I’m quoting from our conversation here), “After
becoming a veritable hermit for a while, I've came out as a transgender woman,
but haven't gotten anywhere in my actual transition due to my doctor and
financial issues.” His body couldn’t have handled the medical changes, even if
he could’ve afforded them.
We talked about it. He knew no one in the LGBT community.
Though he never said so, it was clear that he had avoided telling most of his
friends about it. But he seemed to have opened up, and was okay with people
talking about it.
While I was chatting with Jasmine Bailey on Facebook, I
experienced a form of cognitive dissonance. I had no issue with his identity,
but the onscreen avatar he chose was of a doll. I find dolls hard to relate to,
and my memory of him was of a young man. I respected his decision, but needed
to stabilize that dissonance. He agreed to let me call him “J.”
There are things we’ll never know about J. He forced people
away from him and dropped below our horizons. I never asked him (sorry, I can’t
help but use that pronoun) if he was transgendered, or transgendered and gay,
or if he even knew how to define himself. I assumed he’d just tell us some day.
I don’t know now, but honestly, it doesn’t matter.
J… Jimmy… Jasmine… chose a life that led to its inevitable
end. But before that end, he chose to take on a new identity, to embrace a
gender role that he preferred. That is wonderful.
A few months ago, I told him that I was going to use Victor
in a book. I’d made up my mind that that character would bring something that
nobody else could. I was planning to mingle Victor with some of his own
characteristics – to create someone that was impulsive, odd, loyal, artistic, and
endearing.
When I told him, J responded, “I would be both flattered and
honored if you used Victor in a story, so please do.” No writer can ask for
better.
From what I’ve been told, J was mentally and psychologically
in a good place when he died. He was active in online gaming. He communicated
with people he knew. It appears that he simply began to feel sick and was sent from his
nursing home in Marked Tree to St. Bernard’s Hospital in Jonesboro.
He was buried directly in a cemetery just south of
Blytheville, Arkansas. There was no funeral, no service. J.T. Benton’s family
is paying for his grave marker.
Back when we were all friends, Jimmy seemed a simple kind of
guy. But on reflection, it’s clear that he was far more complex than we ever
would have guessed. It happens a lot, I’m afraid; those people we think we
know, we know only a part of. I’m happier knowing more about him now than I did
back then.
Though we were never close friends, I'll miss him. Despite
his faults, he was a genuinely good guy. Regardless of who he was when he died,
I will still think of him as that intelligent oddball who sat cross-legged on
the couch, dice in hand.
I never met Jasmine, never really had the time to get to
know her. But I got to see a shadow of her as J. I got to talk with her, and I’m
glad I did.
I suspect that some of his friends will be upset that I’ve written
this. That’s their choice. I can’t say I’d blame them. But J felt strongly
about his identity and talked openly about it. He lived with his choice, and he
had no problem with people knowing who he was.
I think he’d be happy that someone is writing about it – the
good, the bad, and the personal. For what it’s worth, that’s my choice.
