Jimmy Finlayson dies.
Jimmy Finlayson, who might have been sixty-six, or sixty-nine, or seventy-two, or seventy-four, because Jimmy Finlayson was too vain to admit his real age, or never really knew it; Jimmy Finlayson, who traded on a squint and a stuck-on mustache, and perfected a double-take so unique that no one could ever perform another without laboring in his shadow; Jimmy Finlayson, who had little hair and too few toes, yet once believed that stardom might be his; Jimmy Finlayson, who married a woman at least eleven years his junior, and divorced her soon after, but never once regretted all the times that he fucked her between; Jimmy Finlayson, who made a career out of playing himself, who was eccentric and dour but was the first to look on Babe and see the beauty within.
Jimmy Finlayson is no more.