There was a time in my life when I'd called Jim Buckley friend. When he came to me in desperate need of help, I found a way to offer that help. I will admit it wasn't one-sided; the assistance I gave Jim was beneficial to some of the nearest and dearest people in my life. Me included. But Jim had taken advantage of the attempt to make things good for all involved in the effort, and there was a sad outcome to the whole debacle – I ran the man that used to be my friend out of town. It might not have been the best of solutions, but it solved the immediate problem.
Time passed; more time than I cared to admit. There had been encounters of one kind or another over the years, but we'd never truly recovered the relationship we had when we were younger. We tended to ignore what happened and act as if there was nothing wrong, but it was obvious there was still a large bone of contention between us. I married and started a family; Jim had a life of his own. I'd hear that he was here or there, doing this or that, but somehow we never seemed to run into each other save for one incident . . . and I've related that story in a different place and time.
And then, without warning, I heard something I didn't like and I couldn't abide. The story was that Dandy Jim Buckley . . . was dying. No one knew how or when it started, and no one seemed to know how or when it would end. But I knew I had to write my own ending to it, and not let fate create a scenario that I might regret the rest of my life. To that end I sent out the word that wherever Jim was, I needed to find him. And it had to be soon.