On Tom Hyde

Aside from his W2, a smattering of investments and his Blockbuster card, Tom was a tough trail. For the most part he was off the grid. I think he had a landline, because it’s even hard to image someone in the mid-90s without one. But, I’m certain he had no answering machine. It’s unclear how long he worked in Corporate America and in what capacity, but he did well enough to give that whole scene an Irish goodbye with enough cash stocked away to make it a true one.

I first met Tom Hyde behind the counter at Bobick’s Golf Shop, tucked away in the back of a suburban strip mall on the eastside of Cleveland. He wasn’t working there for the salary, just the health care coverage. At first glance, he looked like the lone survivor of the 1970s. He was 6’1” or 6’2”, athletically slender with a curly salt and pepper mop and the kind of eyeglasses people wore before there were stores to give you options for different frames. Tom was an incredible storyteller. Though often he paused halfway through, slowly rubbing his greying 5 o’clock shadow and starring out the window for what seemed like an inordinate amount of time. Then he’d snap out of his private tangent and pick up again as if that two-and-a-half-minutes never happened. I’ve never dropped acid, but I have to say hanging out with Tom certainly piqued my interest.

Tom was a stick. Like all of us he grew up slinging doubles at the closest country club and playing as many holes as he could on Mondays. But, unlike a lot of low-handicappers, Tom eschewed technology. It was very on-brand. He’d walk up to the first tee with an ancient leather bag on one shoulder and forged Walter Hagen blade irons clanking together in time with every step. Then he’d casually beat you by a dozen strokes flushing pure irons off a clubface that was barely bigger than the ball it was hitting.

From 1994 to 1997, I spent about 15 hours a week with Tom closing the shop down after school. On paper, he should have hated me. I was a pimply Catholic school kid with a myopic world view and pressed khakis. In retrospect, I’m not too fond of that kid either. Yet somehow we found common ground the way being trapped at work with someone for 15 hours a week forces you to do.

We’d sell a few 18-packs of rock-hard Pinnacles to local duffers, but the majority of our time together was spent listening to The Doors in an empty shop. Tom loved The Doors.

He spoke of Morrison’s tortured genius in a way only a fellow tortured genius could truly appreciate. We’d listen and then he’d quote a line that just passed — slowly enough for me to comprehend the magnitude of the words. To soak in the poetry.

Tom wasn’t a sentimental guy. That quality would be in major conflict with his general ethos. But, for some reason he walked into the shop one day just before I was set to leave for college with a cardboard tube under his arm. He laid it down on the counter where he perched in a half-seated position for most of the evening. As we were closing the register that night he reached over and popped the plastic cap off the end of the tube. The reason I got this…John…was because it was the only poster I ever saw that was just Jim. He slowly unrolled it on the counter. Look at it. We both did in silence. It’s just Jim. It’s not Jim, the American Poet. It’s not Jim the sex symbol. It’s not Jim the frontman of the greatest band ever. It’s just Jim. We both starred at the poster. Anyway, it’s yours.

I have no idea what happened to Tom Hyde. I hope he’s still alive. I don’t have a picture of him because our friendship existed in a time before photo albums lived in our pockets. But, when I dug this poster out of our attic I could see him as clear as day.