Another carpet layer bites the dust, the rank and file. Cannon fodder. The first one I remember was a guy name John. John Cometino was his name. Like many of his generation, he smoked. Burned out on the job. His heart ceased.
But Jim was an athlete. A grinder. A gravel bike competitor. An American Gladiator. Fit, strong of body. But something was wrong with his mind. I have an idea. A theory. But I don’t know.
I didn’t have the pleasure to know the man. We partied together one night only. I could tell he was troubled when his weakness was laid bare that night. But we were in Vegas, going at it hard. I put the alert out there to his friends.
On whose watch did he take his own life? Bobby Vee was supposed to be his friend. He was in charge with his blue blazer as he used to like to let people know. He was going places. Still does I imagine. He’s the one that said the Masters were an exclusive club. Admonished me for it
Where was he when his friend and fellow master put an end to his own life? If I ever see him again, that’s what I want to ask him.
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