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It was stormy and dark the night of Jim’s birth. The wind howled out of the western plains, and tree branches flailed like enraged birds against the windows of the small Missouri hospital.
“My God,” his father said when the nurse handed his infant son to him for the first time. His hands trembled and his voice was tinged with apprehension. In the next room, Jim’s mother sobbed softly, her body convulsed with pain. “Do you suppose that baby’s normal?”
At Princeton, Jim was an erratic student, easily bored, who spent his time daydreaming and arguing with his professors. Nevertheless, he is now quite unsympathetic to those students who act the same way he did, seeing them as lazy and unfocused.
Jim’s few remaining friends believe he is well-organized and compulsive, but in truth Jim leads a chaotic life devoid of self-discipline. He prefers hanging out with buddies, swilling margaritas, and watching Airplane on Netflix to grown-up dinner parties with napkin rings and assigned table seating. This preference was a source of great concern to his ex-wife.
Today Jim lives on 110 cactus-ridden acres in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with three dogs, six chickens, a very tolerant spouse, and a friendly courtyard bullsnake named Beatrice.
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