I don’t know Jimmy at all (Nov. 18, 1996)

November 18, 1996

  I decided I know nothing about Jimmy Garland. At least not what goes on inside his head. This feeling struck me more particularly when I saw him last Friday and we travelled through the mall, and later, a less hectic shopping area, in search of shoes. He nearly never changes, always acting out his life with the same sense of -- well, sardonic humor. So that when I try to sort through this to what he is really doing or saying, I can’t get any sense of the person, can’t separate him from his act.

 Garrick, who has known Jimmy longer than any of his friends, has theories about him, but these interpretations of Jimmy produce just as shallow character, someone -- according to Garrick -- who manipulates his way through life, grooving up to those who can provide him with what he needs or wants. This, of course, makes you wonder why Garrick maintains his friendship with Jimmy, if that’s all he sees.

 I suspect their friendship is based on stronger stuff, and that shallow aspects of Jimmy’s manipulative character is only the part that annoys Garrick. For the most part, Jimmy had maintained a very secretive life when it comes to his emotions. He rarely reacts openly in a display of hurt or joy, relying on his sardonic mask to serve as his universal expression. Even his anger comes across slightly artificial.

 On Friday, he chided me for my not having seen him in months, and then went on with his talk about the world, and his situation. He expressed his hopes for the library -- that he might slip in as director when his boss finally retires, that he might get an office at the relocated library (regardless of being named director or not), that he might find more opportunities for designing pages for the World Wide Web. Jimmy did not willingly speak about Ginger or her kids, or define his current relationship with them, and when I asked, he simply said: “Oh, she’s all right. You know.”

 Ginger did not preoccupy him nearly as much as acquiring a pair of shoes, and we went from store to store until we found a pair that looked exactly like the pair he was wearing, a brown loafer that looked like the string of shoes he’d always worn. Jimmy had largely avoided the move towards cheap sneakers that we and the rest of America adopted in the 1980s and 1990s. For all the bluster that surrounded Jimmy’s early life, and the assumption he would grow up to become the next Abbie Hoffman or Karl Marx, Jimmy has maintained a very conservative approach to life, living on the edge, but living there with comfort and access to the amenities. While he dislikes the Republican agenda, and routed for Bill Clinton during the 1992 campaign, Jimmy essentially believes in personal freedom, and the struggle of people to make it within a structured environment. He likes William Safire and admires other truly conservative thinkers.

 Few, however, see his essential conservativeness for the way he carries himself, his ponytail and mannerisms very typical of an aging hippie. In fact, people don’t know what to make of him, but they remain aware of him, scratching their heads over the messages he leaves and the apparent contradiction between lifestyle and core beliefs he seems to have become. As we traveled around on Friday, I found myself confused as well, struggling to sort through his conspiracy theory, his end of the world philosophy, and the sense of ease with which he carries himself through the real world. He loves the internet, and has become a premier web page creator, his library page now considered one of the marvels of the international web. He has designed pages for state senators, county organizations, and for his library. He seeks to do more. His own page, startles people, so full of humor and oddity, and yet so attractive, even the most conservative look upon it with awe, unable to find his agenda.

 How could any hope to find this after such a short time, when the rest of us can’t make him out, even after thirty years. Maybe dearly departed Frank now has a better view of him than most, an inside connection to that synapses organizing Jimmy’s thoughts. But for me, driving along with him, going from here to there for shoes, I am as confused now as I was the first time, when Jimmy told me he was Jesus Christ and would hear my confession now.