With a quiet grin, he pulled me from all-fucked-up-ness just prior to my first few jumps. Tom brushed his thumb against his forefinger (like he was brandishing a few dollar bills) and rolled out the door as easily as some might roll out of bed. On those days, my jumps were “money”. On other days, I landed out beyond the fence and trudged back in with mud on my knees. Tom greeted me with the same easy smile, seemingly intent only on celebrating the sound of two brown glass bottles clanking together. Those jumps were money, too. That’s how I knew Tom. I feel for those that lost a friend, a housemate, a son.