During college, I took a job at McDonald’s. There was a loud know-it-all working in the kitchen who gave the impression that he’d been working there for years. I would come to find out that we were the same age. He just took a lot of pride in his work and didn’t have time for slackers. We got to know each other when we ended up working the closing shift together. For some reason he liked to call me Jimmy. No one had ever called me by that nickname before. One day it hit me that his given name was the same as mine—”James.” I decided that if he called me Jimmy, I would call him the same. That started the running joke that would last 30 years. Every time I answered the phone and heard “Jimmy!”, I knew that on the other end of the line was James Wesley Cox.
Jimmy died on Monday from a heart attack. His body was already weakened from an earlier heart attack. He didn’t stand a chance this time. The last few times I saw him, his health was failing. He could barely work, which was hard for a workaholic like him. For him, the pain is over. For us, the world is a quieter, more lonely place.
At his funeral he was described as an artist. At the moment, it wouldn’t have occurred to me to use that description, but as soon as I heard it, I knew it was perfect. I have drawings around my office he sent me over the years. Most of his subjects were the custom cars, especially low riders, that he planned to own someday. He probably could have had a career in graphic design, but his life took a different path. “Artist” also perfectly describes his career remodeling houses. When I would stop by to see him at a job site, he always wanted to show me his new idea for the perfect touch to add to the house. He took as much pride in working on people’s homes as he did serving people those hamburgers.
Another way I would describe him was as a “people person.” He never met a stranger. He was never at a loss for words. If he met you for the first time, he was as polite as he could be. If you became friends, you were used to his teasing and joking. That personality led him to make friends with everyone—from doctors and CEOs to homeless addicts.
Anyone with his skills and his huge personality would have been living in a big house with multiple custom cars by now. For better or worse, he would never charge what his skills were worth. He never wanted anyone to think he was taking advantage of them. And if someone needed something fixed but didn’t have the money, well it was going to be fixed whether he was ever paid or not. These traits prevented him from ever building the low riders he spent those years drawing.
His habit of giving didn’t end there. Whether it was hiring parolees to work for him, picking up hitchhikers, or feeding the homeless, he was always looking out for everyone. His family was always the most important. After his dad had a stroke, he worried about him non-stop. Making plans to spend time with him and worrying about his health were things he mentioned regularly. He made sure that he did all he could for his mom, sister, niece, and nephews. I know he and his sister drove each other crazy, but that’s what little brothers are for. I’m sure his nephews didn’t like his drill sergeant approach to being an uncle, but I know he was trying to teach them to be men. It looks like he succeeded.
Then, he became a dad. “Proud papa” doesn’t begin to describe the way he acted. They were everything to him. When they had to move out of town with their mom, he was heartbroken. All he talked about were plans to spend time with them. I know it was never enough time for him.
I don’t want to give the impression that he was perfect. He made plenty of big mistakes in his life. Most he wouldn’t shy away from talking about. Those mistakes would frustrate me at times, but I knew him long enough to know his heart. I also don’t want to say that I knew him best. There were times that our lives were busy, and we couldn’t keep in touch. What I do know is what I learned from him: how to properly make a Big Mac, how to install a toilet, and most importantly, how to love people who have nothing to offer you in return.
Rest in peace Jimmy.