Jamie

By J. Scott Sly

Let us just say, for the sake of argument, that I had a friend. And on top of that fact, (which is clearly expressed in the previous sentence), let us also make note that this friend’s name was Jamie. There is now a question that should arise in the mind of the astute reader (which may, for nearly all intents, and some purposes be in fact you) as to the specific gender of this friend. I will warn you dear reader that prying questions of this sort are best left to a time when we are better acquainted. For purposes of this story, however, I will dispense with the gender forthwith; male. This male Jamie (which if one must know is short for Jameson) was a very interesting sort. I hate to contradict myself so early in this expression, but perhaps interesting is a troublesome phrase. Jamie was (I apologize dear reader for one’s slipping into the use of embellished superlatives) the most interesting person in the world; and that is, be sure, no small feat.

The story of Jamie is, however, a rather short one. He was born, and, as you may have already guessed, he died. There is little question over these facts and there is little interest to those outside of his immediate family of the cosmic events that took place that allowed his birth, as the story is all-too-typical. Jamie himself found the story of his birth so commonplace that he has since stricken it from the self-explained record of his life. I shall explain it only because to one whose life is not extraordinary, even these commonplace events hold a modicum of wonder.

Jamie, like most men was born of the union of a man and woman (I will not go into details, but if an explanation is needed please seek the guidance of a practitioner of medicine). These particular people were quite common; the sort one passes on the street and does not give a second glance to. They were not poor, nor were they rich. They were pleasant looking, but not quite attractive, but they were certainly not ugly. These people carried on with their lives in the comfort of a small group of friends and relations and affected little in the world.
To this end, they could not truly be considered to be “good,” nor could they be considered “bad” by any sane person’s standards. The parents (as we will call them) were from what one could consider to be the very smallest of towns located in the Midlands of Wales, but they were not “bumpkins” as many would refer people of the region to be. Jamie’s father was to a degree, a learned man. He did not attend University, but had lived in a veil of old-world wisdom for his entire existence. He had travelled some, mainly to Cardiff to buy the more luxurious tobacco found in the city shops, as well as more tiresome travel as was a requirement of his job as an estate agent.
His mother had not been outside of their county for some time, but was born away from Wales, on the Isle of Man. To her, there was always a world waiting for her on the other side of the Channel or the Irish Sea. Jamie’s mother was a restless soul, who, perhaps to her folly read a few too many books about the world outside of their county. Though humble, this existence was far from painful. In fact, this small family had lived a rather fulfilling life up until the critical point wherein they found themselves wanting that certain something extra. What they felt was missing was the piercing cry of a child, as well as the astronomical debt accrued from the purchase of a larger home. Because they felt this void in their lives, they decided, as many do, to (please to be pardoning my use of a crude phrase) “have a child.”

Despite Jamie’s insistence that the story of his conception, and subsequent birth was, in his words, “quite simply the most depraved, yet strangely dull story that has ever been told,”* I (as the teller of this tale) insist that it was anything but dull. As previously mentioned, Jamie was born out of the union of his two parents, which in-turn led to a series of events that forever altered the make-up of this universe, and as far as one can tell, all universes. Though quite thoroughly and satisfactorily explained by modern science, the staggering amount of connections and consequences that are necessary to create life still manages to astound on occasion. Through all of these scientifically explained consequences there was born (once again my most valued reader, I do hate to over use the grammatical devise of the superlative, but in this case it is wholly necessary) the most interesting person in the world.

There is little known information about the childhood of Jamie. He himself never spoke adequately about this phase of his life, and, at least to date there is considerably little scholarship that focuses on any aspect of his early life. It is quite difficult to understand why there is little mention of his early years, but one can estimate that perhaps it is due to Jamie’s own insistence of the normalcy, and thus the commonality of his life.

The late-childhood and adolescence of Jamie is the beginning of what can be regarded as his rise to what, learned and securely tenured university professors deem “the origins of his pre-destined supremacy in the academic world.”** Much like the famed outsider Stephen Daedalus of James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Jamie lived a secluded life as a young man, choosing the printed word over human interaction. Jamie found himself wrapped in a world of adventure that made his own life seem completely and utterly boring. Within one afternoon, Jamie could travel through the deserts of Northern Africa, sail through the tropical waters of the Caribbean, roam the vastness of the American West, and contemplate the mysteries of existence.

Like his mother, however, Jamie was a restless soul. As soon as he had reached an appropriate age, he left home to pursue a life of learning. Jamie had been accepted to all of the best schools in Europe and the United Kingdom, but he instead choose to attend university in Queensland, Australia, in hopes of finding the adventure he had wished for his entire existence (which at this point had not added up to much in actual numbers). Upon arriving at university, however, he began to feel a dreadful unease. It was a feeling of dread that he could not quite contemplate, nor, in truth, did he truly wish to understand.

His time at Queensland was brief, as he felt quite bored with the rapidity of the lectures and the droning of his aged professors. What Jamie felt was needed was a change of scenery. At the first chance he had, he purchased a one-way aeroplane ticket to New Brunswick, Canada. Why he chose such a frozen, isolated, and provincial tundra is truly beyond my understanding, but given that his intellect is so vastly superior to mine, it is possible that New Brunswick is the most wonderful place to live.

Jamie lived in New Brunswick for roughly twelve years before I met him whilst in passing on a bustling high street in New York City. The circumstances of our meeting are once again owed to the power of coincidence; only this particular coincidence is not, at least to my knowledge satisfactorily explained by science. We met after attending a conference concerning the recent reissue of a collected works by a famous author whom I will not bore you, kind reader, with the unnecessary name of. We, though the power of coincidence that I (admittedly) insist on harping about ended up chatting about this new contribution to the vast catalogue of works by this particular, and for our purposes, unnamed author. Through the course of our conversation, there happened a small electrical charge that one may be familiar with when two acquaintances become friends. Therefore from our first meeting, we began a friendship that, I believed to be of the highest calibre both intellectually and simply on the level where two people of the (supposed) same species can have a bit of a laugh. As you may well have noticed given your (once again supposedly) unique skill of parsing one’s every word, I made a slight implication that Jamie and I were, per chance, not of the same species. I assure you, I am not implying that he is a super-human, or inversely that I am some sort of missing link between primitive man and the current, I am simply making clear that his mind was of a caste far superior to that of my own.

In the last paragraph I made mention to your own unique skill as a reader, I currently still hold that statement as a truthful one and would be willing (if you would be so kind as to allow), to make a guess that you are presently wondering what it is that made Jamie’s life so interesting? Well first, I complement you on your astute and warranted inquiry, second I would ask for your patience in my telling of what I believe to be an important story.

From the initial days of our friendship, I had learnt much of Jamie’s life in New Brunswick, but as established previously, considerably little was said about his formative years. In appearance, he was not particularly handsome. His brow was quite deep set, his eyes were perhaps a bit too close together (and tended to wander a bit), and his mouth was hard and unmoving. Jamie was a quiet man, who when asked any question, would answer in the most curt and unembellished way possible. There was wisdom behind his stoic demeanour, however, and I wished to further explore this hidden knowledge. Through much discussion (mostly from my side), Jamie and I had reached a conclusion that he should write a memoir of his most interesting life. We agreed that this work should be in full, vivid detail and represent, if possible, a modern telling of a Greek epic. We parted ways after reaching this conclusion, agreeing to meet again a year later to review the final draft of his work. Jamie had gone home to Wales to stay with his family, and I had gone back to Dublin to continue my professional career.

About a fortnight later, a courier delivered an envelope to my home at an unusually late hour. I opened the package (with, and I don’t mind telling you trusted reader, no small amount of trepidation) and removed the contents. Before I examined the pages that were contained within the envelope, I checked to see where this strange vessel had originated. To my surprise, there was no return address. With fear that this ominous package contained horrible news, I ventured to open the folded sheets of paper to attempt to read the words that, at this point seemed to hold any number of disturbing facts. Upon unfolding I noticed only a few words printed oddly in the middle of the page, these words I will recreate for you in facsimile:

I, Jameson, was born in a small village in Wales. I have both a mother and a father. I have been to both Australia and Canada. Thank you for reading.


With exhalant joy, my eyes poured over the words that sang out to me with the same comportment that would Keats or Tennyson. The base simplicity of the words reminded me of the animalistic nature of man, and the raw power which one can exude. Literature from this day forward would never be the same. Gone are the days of would-be “prose artists,” or so-called “poets” attempting to mimic Byron or Eliot. There is no need, as many scholars agree for the written word to even continue past this point of acute simplicity. Through his curt, yet moving memoir, Mr. Jameson proved with no doubt that he was truly the most interesting man that has ever lived.

*This quote is regretfully embellished due to the loss of his actual words over time. I seem to remember his words being similar, yet one cannot be absolutely sure.

**Stephens, Colin, The Incredible Mind, p.337-9.