My cousin was born on Friday the 13th, an omen most would dismiss with good reason, but in his case, it seemed the universe might have been giving us a heads-up. Jim was born under a bad sign with a backstory fit for a serial killer movie: His father's lineage? A toxic parade of booze abusers and the kind of touchy-feely uncles no one talks about at family reunions. Toss in his mom’s heritage of schizophrenics and mood-swinging psychopaths, and you've got more than a spiked drink; it's a Molotov cocktail from the depths of Hades.
From day one, there was something off about Jim and his shadow, his younger brother Gene. But Jim? He had a sweet side, whereas his brother just didn't. Jim was the pied piper of our cadre of crazy cousins, the architect of our childhood adventures, setting up playtime game rules as if he were drafting a constitution for fun. Disputes? He squashed them with the finesse of a seasoned diplomat. Growing up, Jim didn't just play peacemaker; he thrived in the role. Picture this: a crowd of kids gathered on the school grounds, fists ready to fly, and Jim steps in, all cool and collected, saying, “Guys, seriously, let's not do this. No one wins in these situations. Let’s all be friends.”
His father's lineage? A toxic parade of booze abusers and the kind of touchy-feely uncles no one talks about at family reunions. Toss in his mom’s heritage of schizophrenics and mood-swinging psychopaths, and you've got more than a spiked drink; it's a Molotov cocktail from the depths of Hades.
Jim, with his devilish charm and a JFK-esque allure, grew to be our town’s secret Casanova. His jet-black hair, olive complexion, and deep brown eyes were like kryptonite to even the most frigid ice queens at Palo Alto High School; those untouchable dream girls we all desired were mere putty in his hands. And to be completely honest, he was a boastful, classic 'kiss-and-tell' type, but his tales were met with disbelief by his brethren. Impossible! They all said. Yet, I watched, wide-eyed, as not just the lovely ladies our age but hot and bothered housewives were drawn to him like swarms of ants to moistened sugar.
But then, in an instant, the Jim I knew was gone and replaced by an imposter, an eerie doppelgänger. He appeared at my door one day, his eyes glassy like cloudy marbles, reflecting everything but seeing nothing. I invited him in, but he was statue-still, not a blink or twitch. I tried again; nothing. It was like talking to a ghost wearing Jim's skin. Then he just turned, feet shuffling away like a real-life zombie. My first guess? Drugs, maybe too much LSD, sending him on a trip from which he’d eventually return someday. But it wasn't a temporary high; it stuck. It was permanent. Jim became a silent specter, wandering aimlessly for well over a year, stirring a maelstrom of chaos and bewilderment, stalking and peeping in young school girls’ windows before authorities finally had to confine him.
Jim, once inside, was devoured by the very institution designed to save him. His therapist, the one person there to help him heal, became his personal tormentor, exploiting him in the worst ways imaginable. The hospital was a hellish prison where he was routinely gang-raped by groups of men, an unspeakable weekly, if not daily at times, ordeal. Every gift sent from outside—a radio, clothes, shoes, even basic hygiene items—was pilfered by other inmates at the asylum. One year, when the holidays rolled around, they decided to release him for a day, a small mercy. Sitting down for Thanksgiving dinner, after his father said grace, Jim shattered the silence with a smile and a proclamation, “I like getting fucked up the ass now.” No one said a word. That moment revealed to me, in stark horror, just how bad things were for him.
I made it a point to drop by the hospital when I could, carrying some of my cartoons and telling him jokes in an attempt to reach him. Jim's responses? A chuckle here, a mumbled word there, like echoes from a distant planet. They tried integrating him back into the world, but trouble followed. He wound up at our grandmother’s house, shattering her rear window with his bare hands, and then pounding on her door until she let him in. He then proceeded to break a Coke bottle on her countertop and hold it to her throat. We didn’t see him again for another few years.
Out of the blue, my phone rings, and Jim is on the line, sounding like a voice from the past, fully himself again. I was practically knocked off my feet. He cheerfully informs me he's settled back into his childhood room, has his oil painting gear set up, and his old stereo is back in action. “Do you want to come over and listen to some music? I just found my original copy of "All Things Must Pass” by George Harrison. I haven’t listened to it in years!” I ditched whatever I was doing and made it to his place in record time.
Despite his pallid complexion, his words flowed clear and coherent. He opened up about the phantoms in his mind—the voices that whispered to him from the corners of the room, commanding his attention whenever the meds wore off. With a soft smile, he said how good it was to see me, voicing a fragile wish for his life to normalize. My throat tightened with emotion, but I held back the tears, clinging to that moment of hope and optimism.
Despite his pallid complexion, his words flowed clear and coherent. He opened up about the phantoms in his mind—the voices that whispered to him from the corners of the room, commanding his attention whenever the meds wore off. With a soft smile, he said how good it was to see me, voicing a fragile wish for his life to normalize.
I spent a good chunk of the day with Jim, and then dinner time rolled around. I wasn't on the guest list, which was perfectly fine by me. My uncle, his new spouse, and a couple of their affluent Palo Alto cronies were already tipsy on too much wine, and frankly, their friends were people I'd rather avoid. As they started eating, a hyena-like laugh pierced the air; it was the female guest, her voice grating like nails on a chalkboard. Curiosity got the best of me, I stepped closer in the hall, only to catch her venomous tirade: "So, Jim, what's your day like? Just you and your hand? Just yanking on your dick all day? Got nothing better to do, do ya hun? Just playing with your little stiffy every day, all day! What a waste, Jim. You know you're a complete embarrassment, right? And you were always such a handsome boy. Look at you now. It’s so pathetic."
I stood there, shell-shocked, hearing those vile words directed at Jim, stunned at how his father could absorb that cruelty without a flinch. The fury that surged within me was volcanic, so fierce it felt like it could consume me. In my mind, I was flipping tables, swinging chairs, and unleashing holy hell. I was beginning to scare myself, scared of what I might do. I was pacing like a caged animal until Jim passed me, his silence screaming louder than any words. I caught up to him in his room, my anger simmering as I told him, "Don’t listen to those fuckers, Jim. Don’t listen to them. They’re full of shit. They’re the ones who are fucked up, not you. You’re a good person. Those people are fucking evil." But then I caught myself, fearing I might fuel his despair instead of easing it. I scrambled for a lighter topic, but Jim had vanished inside himself again, and that time for good.
Come morning, Jim was shipped back to the confines of the clinic. From that day forward, I cut ties with my uncle and his piece-of-shit wife, their betrayal too deep a wound to ever forgive. Whenever our paths crossed, be it at the hospital during visits to Jim or at some inescapable family event, I'd offer them nothing more than a frosty nod, a silent declaration of my disgust, before I made a deliberate retreat in the opposite direction.
The situation deteriorated rapidly for Jim; an HIV diagnosis soon turned into full-blown AIDS, a death sentence during those times. At the AIDS ward, his new residence, a silent observer with a clipboard trailed him, documenting his decline. Jim didn't speak when I visited. I took his hands in mine. They were heavily scarred and damaged, as if he had chewed chunks out with his rotten teeth. I promised to send him a gift for his birthday, and for a brief second, his eyes met mine with a tiny flicker of joy.
I bought him a vintage Beatles poster and had it framed, hoping to bring a nostalgic light into his present darkness. Weeks later, my mother visited to find Jim reduced to mere skin and bones, a shadow clinging to life. Yet, he mustered the strength to mention his fondness for the poster, a small joy in his final hours. He left us that same day, on January 4, 1994, at the age of 35.
R.I.P. James Eric Kidder
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "I am an avid reader of mob and true crime novels. This is one of the best I have ever read." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ "What a page turner! This story is an amazing piece of investigative work—both compelling and heartbreaking." - Amazon review
⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ “I’d seen the author’s work in OZY but was blown away by this book. It’s SUCH a great read, written from the heart! Full of interest for those historians of the hippie generation, North Beach, corrupt cops, mobbed up pols, and San Francisco in general. Very well written and paced up to the last pages. Truth is indeed stranger than fiction. Buy this book now!" - Amazon review
Before the end of 1994, I launched my condom brand, Hot Rod Condoms, in an effort to help combat the HIV/AIDS crisis.