My Friend Tom Fox

Tom getting wrecked by one of my kitties. Note the cigar and iced tea!

It was several years after the dog shooting/Self Defense for Real episode. 

A new guy moved in directly across the street.  I watched him like a hawk, and noticed some things.

He was shorter than me, but built like a brick shithouse.  A tremendous physique, and he was very proud of it.  When the weather was warm, he was always outside fucking around, and off came the shirt.  I thought, "Look at this muscle-headed, steroid-soaked mother fucker.  What a douche."

Jealousy?  Probably.

He had a German Shepherd.  I thought, "Great. Another large dog in the area I'm gonna have to keep an eye on.  I hope Hercules over there has enough common sense to keep the dog restrained, especially after the events of a few years ago."

New guy had a completely fenced-in backyard, but the chain link was only 4-5 feet high, and the dog was NEVER inside the house. The fucking shepherd easily jumped the fence and got loose a couple of times when new guy wasn't home.  

I have much experience with German shepherds, and the dog didn't appear to be aggressive...but I was taking no chances.  Neither I nor my family would be threatened ever again by a loose dog, but I learned a lesson.  I called animal control, and the dog was taken to the pound.  New guy paid a pretty penny to get the dog back, and soon after he installed a taller fence the dog couldn't clear.

A good sign...

It wasn't long before the new guy started on some serious home improvements.  The first one was to replace his gravel driveway with nice new concrete.  That was the last straw, and I saw it as my opportunity to finally meet this dude and introduce myself...and I was gonna do so in my own inimitable style.

Before I even got to his side of the street, my mouth was running.

"Oh, OK.  So I guess you think you're better than me 'cuz you got a cement driveway now and all I got is a shitty gravel one."

He replied with a shit-eating grin, "Exactly!"

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

His name was Tom Fox.  

He was the same age as me.  Recently divorced.  He was a certified master BMW mechanic, and had worked for the same independent, privately owned shop for decades.  

Prior to that, he was responsible for maintenance at a large apartment complex.

He knew his shit.

I met his dog.  His name was Mack, and he was a good boy.  I took him for walks around the neighborhood, and I wasn't afraid of him.  

Incidentally, I never told Tom I was the asshole who called the dog catcher.  What's the point?  Tom fixed the problem.  Why possibly ruin the good thing we got going?

Tom ended up being like a twin brother.  He was part of my family, and he touched our lives in innumerable ways.  I can look around at my home and property and see all kinds of things there that Tom actually touched.  It's amazing what impact this man had on me and my family.

When he saw me in my driveway struggling with an automotive repair, he'd waltz across the street without me asking and lend a hand.  It got to the point where I'd say, "Just point and advise and I'll do the work."

When he saw me carting out to the curb half of my household items ruined by a broken water pipe, he was the first guy to offer help.  Bathroom a gutted wreck? Tom's there.  Kitchen water damaged, totally destroyed?  Tom's there.

One day whilst I was mucking around on the intardweb, I got a call from Tom, but I was slow in answering and it went to voicemail.

When I got around to checking the voicemail, Tom's voice was low, quiet, and childlike.  "Zoomie...can you come over to my garage?  I need you for something."

I thought he was putting me on, but I got up from my desk and started walking across the street.  Just as I got to his side of the street I shouted, "Somebody better be dying!  There'd better be blood!"

As I went up his driveway, I stooped down and saw Tom laying on his back on the garage floor.  I picked up my leisurely walking pace at that point.

There was blood alright!  He had damned near cut a fingertip off with a table saw he was using to build his mom a birdhouse.

He hadn't lost a shit-ton of blood, but my limited knowledge of first aid from the Marine Corps told me he was going into shock!  He was pale, sweaty, and clammy, and not making much sense.

Stop the bleeding/Protect the wound-I wrapped it tight with paper towels and direct pressure.  Told him to hold it tight.

Treat for shock-elevated his legs. Put a blanket or a tarp on him.

Called 911.  An ambulance took him to hospital.  He didn't lose his fingertip.

I saved his life!  I was a fucking hero!  I made sure to remind him of those facts often!

Tom and I in my driveway, doing some incredibly important bullshit!

I learned a lot from this man.  There wasn't much he didn't know, that I did.  Except maybe for guns.  

He was a gun guy, and he knew about what he had, but when he acquired an AR15 from a work buddy, he knew who to ask.  It was new technology for him, but familiar like a well-worn baseball glove for me.  

I was able to give back, and I was happy and proud to do so.

Another way we gave back to Tom was to include him into our family circle.  Holiday dinners, birthdays, summer cookouts.  Tom was always invited, and was always the perfect guest.  He was polite, conversationally engaging, and interesting.

And generous?  

Jesus Christ the man never stopped, and it wasn't just his time, labor, and expertise.  

Christmas meant gifts for the entire family.  There didn't even have to BE an occasion.  He'd give me all kinds of cool shit he bought off the Snap-On tool truck at work...good quality shit that I would use for years afterwards.  

What we offered in return was a homey, family environment he could settle into like a comfy LazyBoy.  Get a nice home-cooked meal...and quality banter from me.

He interacted with my children and watched them grow up.  

My sons were especially fond of him, which made me happy.  It's always nice to have a positive male role model in the mix who is not family.  

The different perspectives can be important.

Tom drank iced tea, always, usually from a gas station fountain. Nothing else.  He didn't drink alcohol.  

I once told him he would be the perfect neighbor if he drank beer.

Tom smoked nasty Backwoods cigars constantly, and would toss the butts into my yard because he knew it irritated me.  I'd say, "Is that where that goes, asshole?"  He'd reply, "Today it is."  

Fuckhead.

One day Tom and I were fucking around...I don't even remember what we were doing. 

I was a little tired and cranky that day, and Tom said something I thought was either stupid or irritating. I don't even remember what he said. 

My reply to him was short, snotty, to-the-point, dumb, and probably not very nice. 

I don't even remember what I said. 

His reply was short and sweet, but not hateful. I don't even remember what it was. 

I just remember his physical reaction. 

He turned and walked across the street back to his house and went inside. 

I went about my day for an hour or two afterwards, and then it hit me like a good snort of scotch: "Holy fuck! I just destroyed a valued friendship by running my fucking mouth without any prior thought!" 

I started to tear up, then I acted. 

I went across the street and knocked on his door. 

He invited me in saying, "What's up?" 

I said with trembling voice and tears in my eyes, "I love you, man, and I value your friendship. I shouldn't have spoken to you the way I did. You didn't deserve that, and I apologize. The way you turned and walked away from me...I knew I pissed you off. I'm sorry." 

His reply? "What the fuck are you talking about? I had to poop!" 

Motherfucker!!! 

From then on, whenever either one of us temporarily parted ways, instead of "later dude," we said "gotta go poop now!"

One time Tom related to me an incident at his place of employment...the BMW shop.  Music was playing in the background, and he said a Stevie Ray Vaughan (SRV) song came on.  Tom said one of his co-workers, out of the blue, mumbled, "Stupid helicopters."

(SRV died in a helicopter crash)

From that day on, whenever an SRV song came on and Tom and I were together, we'd say, "Stupid helicopters."

It was legend. 

This kinda thing went on for years, and Tom was officially a member of the unofficial "4th Avenue Mafia." (4AM) 

The 4AM was a cadre of neighborhood men who helped one another and the entire neighborhood.  We looked after each others' properties when away on vacations, and we all had each other's cell phone numbers...and backs.  

If an elderly neighbor needed help, we're there.  

A tree fall down during a storm? 

There'd be three or four guys there with revving chainsaws to clear the mess even before the rain stopped falling.

Snow needed removed from a senior citizen's property?  We're on it.

A stranger acting a fool, driving recklessly? He's getting eyeballed and stink-eyed and the cops called on him if he's REALLY stoopid.

This went on for years, and it was awesome.  We were a team.  The sense of community was palpable, and Tom was a big part of it.

Then, his life changed.  Somehow he got reacquainted with his ex-wife. I won't go into details, but he had always told me that he didn't want the divorce, but I still found it strange he was rebuilding a relationship with her.

Tom was seeing more of her, and less of the 4AM, which is fine...he's a grown up...but one day I flat out asked him, "Are you sure you want to do this?  Do you want to get your heart broken again?"

He said he was sure.  He never stopped loving her.  He wanted to spend the rest of his life with her.  He wanted to walk off into the sunset with her.  She made him happy.  He made her happy, they were rebuilding what was once a broken wreck.

And to me, that's all that mattered.  Tom was genuinely happy.

Life goes on.

And sometimes, it doesn't...

Two or three years later, Tom is diagnosed with stage 4 pancreatic cancer. 

Bad news.  Extremely bad news.

He would not walk off into the sunset with his beloved.

He was given about six months to live, and the prognosis was frighteningly accurate.

I watched him turn yellow with jaundice and basically dissolve in front of my eyes.  

It was the most horrifying and heartbreaking thing I ever witnessed.  

I'd walk across the street to visit him when he wasn't in hospital, and I couldn't keep my shit together.

He said, "I sure as fuck never saw THIS coming."

I told him I loved him.  He told me he loved me.

He told me, "There's a couple of my things I want you to have."

With tears in my eyes I said, "I don't want your shit. I want you."

That was our last conversation.  He died about a week later.

There was a huge hole in my life and the 4AM now that would never be refilled.

To make things even more painful, my employer would not give me a day off to attend Tom's funeral...saying, "He's not family."

The fuck he wasn't...

My youngest son went instead to represent the family.

I was pissed.

Later...I helped his wife clear out some of Tom's stuff.  

I was especially concerned about all of Tom's firearms.  

I knew he kept most of them loaded all the time, and I also knew I was the only one amongst our group who could competently make the guns safe to handle without somebody getting hurt.

I communicated this to all the remaining members of the 4AM, "Please don't touch the guns.  Let me clear them and make them safe.  I don't want to lose any more of you."

Tears flowed as I cleared all the guns in Tom's living room and in his gun safe in his bedroom. 

I hugged his wife multiple times.  She was a wreck, and in shock, but she handled it like a trooper.

Tom's house went up for sale, and it was over a year before it sold.  

A young single guy bought it.  

The 4AM have given the new guy their seal of approval, but I haven't been able to force myself to make an introduction yet.

I'm told he's a truck driver, therefore he's probably a no good rotten filthy bastard!

###

So yesterday I'm out in the driveway in front of my garage, putting spark plugs and wires in my piece of shit 2002 Ford Ranger.  Walkman hardwired into an ancient DeWalt boom box, and a Stevie Ray Vaughan song comes on. "Stoopid helicopters...," I say out loud to myself like a freak.

While doing the plug/wire swap on this sunny Sunday afternoon yesterday, I was thinking, "This is exactly the time Tom would saunter across the street, iced tea in hand and a Backwoods cigar in his pie-hole, and say, "Watcha doin'?" ...when it was fucking obvious what I was doing. 

And I say, "Oh, just playin' cards."...which is an Animal House reference he would clearly understand.

I kept looking for him to walk up my driveway again.

It never happened.

Goddammit, I miss that guy something fierce.

The 4th Avenue Mafia, doing what they do.