The upcoming turn of the millennium—the entire world
in a panic over the time clock situation. Will all the computers in the world
go back to the year 1900? People thought planes would crash banks would fail,
and God forbid, Ebay and Amazon would be unavailable. I made a decision of my own for the
millennium: I was never going to do
anything that I wasn’t one hundred percent committed to again. That meant no
more bullshit. Never again would I lie, cheat, or steal, if I could help it. I
knew I would never do another sales job, never sell insurance and unless Mr.
Whittemore gave me the raise he promised, I was going to have to quit my job at
the golf course. I already had enough material stored away in my mind and on
the mini-cassette recorder to begin my screenplay, Mulligan’s Tour, and I knew that was going to take a Herculean
effort to complete.
I didn’t get the raise, so I walked
off the course in the middle of June 1999. I had plenty on my plate—a new baby
boy and his two older siblings to help take care of, a screenplay to write,
and, thanks to the wonderful world of Ebay, I had guitars to buy and sell—an
honest job in my field of expertise. I was still playing out in the local clubs
trying to promote my new record, See You
Around, which was doing fairly well. I
was also making plans to begin a new record as soon as the bones of Mulligan’s Tour were in the books. What
did I know about writing a screenplay? Not much.
I knew what I wanted to do, but I had
no idea how to do it. I bought every book I could find: Robert Mckee’s Story, everything by Syd Field,
Screenwriting 434, by Lew Hunter, Linda Seger’s, Making a Good Script Great, you name it, I studied it. It wasn’t
until I joined a writer’s group, The Tennessee Screenwriter’s Association, did
I get face to face, hands on help with my work in progress. Every Wednesday
night I would drive up to Nashville and sit in a room with twenty to thirty
other writers of all abilities. The first time I had to read pages from my
story I was in a panic. I could get up in front of thousands of people and play
a song I had just written but a screenplay? I was a babe in the woods, but I
got through it relatively unscathed. A few people I gravitated towards knew a
lot more than I did. John Macy was one. He had a few scripts already sold and
was making plans to move back to Hollywood. I thought it was ironic that I
would move from Los Angeles to Nashville to pursue songwriting and now wanted
to write screenplays. I was regretting that decision (moving to Nashville).
Macy had some great comments, some that I agreed with, and some that I didn’t,
but I gave him the benefit of the doubt and my inexperience. I listened to it
all. Even though it was painful to find out some of my story wasn’t working, I
toughed it out and, after at least fifty drafts, I completed it a year later
staying sober the entire time.
The millennium came and went without
incident. My mom was still spending six months of the year in the guest room
and the other six months in Los Angeles with my sister. Her health was
deteriorating rapidly and I didn’t know how much longer she could keep up the
pace of shuffling back and forth. My finances were also taking a beating since
my decision of no more BS.
Mom made plans to build a guesthouse
in the rear part of the three -acre yard behind a grove of trees. I was all for
it. She would be five hundred yards away—not too close to get in our hair and
not too far, where we couldn’t help in an emergency. She had the idea of
getting a log cabin and we got all sorts of information on log homes. We
decided to go with Honest Abe Log Homes and got a price of $70,000 complete for
a 1500 square foot dwelling. Then the neighbors, sticking their noses in, got
in an uproar. They thought I was going to rent out the property and it went
before the zoning committee for a hearing. Some of my neighbors spoke up in my
defense, but others adamantly opposed. The judgment: the structure had to be
750 square feet or less. Not much of a choice. The day the bulldozers were
pulling up the driveway to lay the foundation she said, “You know Jimmy, when I
looked into the eyes of a cow and realized it was the only thing I can relate
to, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’ve changed my mind. I’m going back to
L.A.”
I couldn’t believe she was serious,
but she was. I made the best of the situation. I told the guy driving the
backhoe to dig up that tree in the middle of the yard and move it back to the
side. Oh and while you’re at it, could you dig me a bunker? Also lets grade the
area in the back…make it level…add a few undulations. It was going to be my
golf hole, putting green, and sand bunker. Why not? I had to pay them for their
time anyway. In the summer of 2001, my mom went back to L.A. for the last time.
As I mentioned in a previous story,
on September 10, 2001, I bit the proverbial bullet and got a job working in a
phone room for a company representing the Red Cross. My job was to solicit donations.
I hoped that it was on the level but found it very difficult to get back into
that sales frame of mind. I just wasn’t there anymore. After drawing a blank, I
drove home thinking I couldn’t hack it but decided to give it another try in
the morning. After all, it was the Red Cross—a worthwhile organization. I
wasn’t selling something people hoped they’d never have to use—like insurance.
The next morning I woke up early and
Donna was already in the kitchen watching the news. That’s when I saw the burning
building in New York. It was the World Trade Center and they said a plane had
crashed into the north tower. I couldn’t believe it. Was it pilot error or a
terrorist attack? Fifteen minutes later I saw the second plane hit the south
tower and I knew, as everyone else did, it was no accident. I stood in the
kitchen unable to move. Watching the twin towers collapse was the worst thing I
had ever witnessed. It was worse that the JFK assassination, worse that John
Lennon’s murder. I knew this country would never be the same again. I also knew
that I wasn’t going to go into work selling donations for the Red Cross,
especially since now people were giving hand over foot. They didn’t need my
help.
When Jonathan and Daniel came down to
get ready for school and saw the horrific scene on the TV, they thought it was
a movie. There was no easy way to tell them it wasn’t any movie. It was real.
There wasn’t going to be any school today and probably not the next day either.
By the end of the week, Donna and I felt that it would be all right for the
boys to get back to school and resume some semblance of normality. Like most of
the country, I kept my eyes glued to CNN and listened to Wolf Blitzer’s (his
real name) commentary on the gruesome events in Manhattan, Washington and
Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Nothing was ever going to be normal again.
Three weeks later, on October 2,
2001, Daniel’s fifth birthday, I thought I would take the Healey to Henry
Horton Golf Course and play eighteen holes. I had to be back by three to pick Daniel
up at school and Morgan at day care. Upon seeing a crowded parking lot, I knew
something was up. There was a tournament, and that meant I had to venture on, I
decided to go to Lewisburg, out in the sticks, and try Saddle Creek. I was a
stuck behind a cement truck going twenty-five mph for a few miles. I had
recently painted my Healey in the storage shed— a two tone blue and white. She
was running great and being stuck behind this hulking, fully loaded cement
truck was trying my patience. At the stop light on Highway 50, a mile from the
course, I passed the beast. I sped ahead and soon realized I’d better slow down
or I would miss the golf course entrance on the left, which I did. I drove on
to the next street and signaled to make a left. It was a two-lane road with no
shoulder, so I crept as close to the yellow line as possible. Unfortunately,
the turn signals on the Healey are small and hard to see. I guess that IMI
cement truck didn’t see it at all. As I waited for the oncoming traffic to
clear, I went into my turn. That when I heard a roaring from behind and before
I knew it, the 77,000 lb. cement truck was plowing into the driver’s side of my
precious Healey. It was a like bad dream, an altered reality where everything
is moving at half speed. Speakers flying in slow motion, wires floating in the
air like feathers, steel and glass buckling, radiator water and brake fluid
raining down, the battery catapulted from the trunk and sailed over my head
with golf clubs, balls, spiked shoes, and tees. I saw the front end of that
monster strike my door not more than two inches from my legs.
That’s it I’m dead, I thought, or at
best crippled for life. I was dragged forward a good three hundred yards and
when I finally came to a stop I ran out of the car towards the cement truck who
had pulled over in a field next to a drive-in movie theater. I was going to
kill the guy for destroying my beautiful little sports car, the same car I
shipped to Tennessee after fourteen years of traversing the back roads and
freeways of Los Angeles. I knew the car was never going to be the same no
matter how much bodywork or mechanical repair I did. With fist clenched, I
raced toward the driver. Then it hit me. Wait a minute; I just survived an
accident with a fully loaded cement truck. I’m alive! That’s a good thing. I
let go of my anger. I asked the driver what in the world he was thinking by
passing me on the right. He said, as I surmised, that he didn’t see my signal
and thought I was veering back to the median or was broken down. Cops came, got
the report that I was speeding from a witness in a Ford Excursion. Even though
I knew I wasn’t in the wrong, I was fucked. Here I was in redneck heaven in a
fancy British roadster out to play the rich man’s game of golf. I didn’t stand
a chance. Still, it was a miracle. I was not only walking, but no bones were
broken, no cuts or bruises, only a sore lower back. Was it karma? Payback for
the day I rear-ended my precious Healey in a fit of drunken anger? I think so.
When I got back home, the tow truck
unloaded the heap in my yard. I called the school to say I was late, did the
same with Morgan’s day care, and then called Donna with the news. She said she
would pick up the boys. I guess she was nervous, think I was in shock. One accident
was enough for one day. I called my friend Bruce Bradley. His father was a
lawyer. I met with him the next day and we put a case together. He said he
would know more after he got hold of the police report, which I knew wasn’t
going to be good. I went back to the scene of the crime with my camera and took
photos of the skid marks on the road, and every angle possible.
At my next meeting with the attorney,
he advised me to stay at home, see a doctor about my back, and for god sakes no
golf. They are spies working for the insurance companies that would love to see
you active and well. That would blow the case. When the police report came in,
it was worse than I thought. It read as if I was the one at fault. I decided
right there and then to drop the case. There was no way on earth I was going to
act like an invalid. Besides, no golf for a year? Forget it! I sold the Healey
for fifteen hundred bucks to a guy who had a body shop in North Carolina. I
watched in tears as the flatbed truck carrying my Healey, my baby, turned the
corner, and drove away. Gone—Karma is a bitch.
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