Jimmy Callander was held together by duct tape and his favorite aphrodisiac was the scent of crack cocaine being french kissed by a flame. He was built like a Christmas tree left standing until February, dry and brittle, begging to be watered or thrown into a bonfire. At this point in his life he’d take either. Ever since he lost Maggie to one of those super cancers from Ground Zero, his will to live had consistently diminished. Without the dwindling fragments of the Catholicism that was beaten into him as a boy at St. David’s, he would likely drink a liter of Georgi and take a swan dive off the George Washington Bridge - the thought often crossed his mind.

Flashes of his boyhood sometimes graced his booze-soaked brain, subduing the suicidal ideation and momentarily keeping it at bay. He was in arithmetic with JFK’s nephew Christopher on that fateful autumn day in ‘63, he always remembered the way the tears streamed down his classmate’s rosy cheeks, and how Mrs. Ryan screamed like it was her who had been shot, everything became slow motion, the scene was crystallized into his memory. Looking back it was then, at the age of seven, he subconsciously decided to dedicate his life to helping people.

You wouldn’t know it by looking at him, but that seven year old boy grew into a strapping young man with shiny accolades to match the charisma of a golden aura, but those days were long gone, strangled by the circumstantial hands of time.