A Death in the Family
Today, August 19, as we were sending the magazine to press, we learned that our close friend and former poetry editor Jimmy ("J.E.") Pitts died. He was forty-one. I got to know Jimmy after he approached me one night while I was clerking at Square Books. Because I was playing R.E.M., a band he loved, on the store sound system, he decided that we should be friends. I tried to deter him but he wouldn't have it.
We ended up being roommates and it was while living with him that I got the idea for starting this magazine. A generous impulse led Jimmy to having unbreakable faith in my ability to start the magazine and without his encouragement (we talked about the idea constantly), The OA would not have existed.
We could squabble pretty hard and there was a year where we didn't even speak to each other, but that's what brothers do.
A lot of Jimmy's life was hard. His adopted mother was cruel to him and he didn't even know he was adopted until he was in his thirties. It was only after his adopted mother had died that a half-sister got in touch with him. That's when he learned that "Jimmy Pitts" wasn't even his real name (I believe his true first name was Scott, but I forget the rest because it never sounded real to me-and he never used it). He learned that his real mother had died, been murdered, in a hotel room just a few months after he was born (and put up for adoption). When I saw a photograph of his real mother, and a newspaper clipping, there was no denying it; the resemblance was obvious. More recently, Jimmy got kicked around by a kidney failure that left him on dialysis and often in great pain and very weak and, at times, even skeletal. Somehow he beat it.
And now he's dead, unbelievably—the guy whose personality and spirit were irresistible and all-encompassing. He could find common ground with anyone—and he was more charitable than anyone I ever knew. After I moved out of our apartment, he immediately took in a homeless guy who had some kind of psychological disorder.
I have so many stories about Jimmy, many of them very funny. He left his very distinctive stamp on everything he did—he was a painter, a poet, a writer, and, most recently, a musician. But even more, he left his very distinctive stamp on everyone he met. He was true pals with the late Barry Hannah, the late Larry Brown, the late John Hester, and countless others.
Tomorrow, on my way to Alabama, I was going to stop in Oxford to have lunch with Jimmy. I can't yet process the magnitude of losing him but I know we who knew Jimmy were greater for it and now we are emptier without him.
Rest In Peace, Brother.
