James Thurber:
Most people remember their childhood friends as hazy figures with freckles, scraped knees, and a tendency to disappear after sixth grade. Mine, however, was different. Nick stuck around.
He was the kind of friend who didn’t flinch when I lost an eye to an arrow but instead offered to help me build a pirate ship out of bed sheets and a broken broom. He never once treated me like a half-blind tragedy or a future footnote in American humor. No, he treated me like a fully functioning disaster with potential—and that, dear reader, is true friendship.
When I failed out of ROTC at Ohio State because I couldn’t tell a sergeant from a lamp post, Nick reminded me I wasn’t meant for uniformed obedience. When I stared down the blank pages at The Columbus Dispatch, he challenged me to find humor in zoning board meetings and municipal squabbles. (Spoiler: There’s plenty.)
And when the New York skyline loomed over me like a judgmental librarian, he sent letters from Columbus reminding me that I was still just Jimmy—the boy who once made up fairy tales about dogs running for mayor.
Later, when my eyes gave up but my mind refused to, Nick became both scribe and sidekick. He took dictation, told bad jokes, and reminded me that a blurry world is sometimes the funniest of all.
So if any of this story makes you chuckle, weep, or write something ridiculous on a napkin—thank Nick. He was there through all five acts of this strange little play called My Life. And he never once asked for a curtain call.
(Note: This is an imaginary conversation, a creative exploration of an idea, and not a real speech or event.)
Childhood and Early Imagination (1894–1908)
Scene 1: The Arrow Incident and Gentle Comfort (Age 7)
Setting: Backyard, late summer, James's older brother accidentally shoots an arrow that hits James in the eye. You’re nearby when it happens.
You (rushing over): “Jimmy! Are you okay? What happened?”
James (whimpering, holding his eye): “It… it hurts… I can't see out of this one.”
You: (Grabbing his hand) “You're going to be alright, I promise. Come on, let’s get you inside. I’ll walk with you. I won’t leave you.”
James: (Barely able to nod, clinging to your shoulder)
Narration: That day, as James's life changed forever, your friendship became a quiet anchor. You stayed with him through the hospital visits, and later, when he lay in bed, you’d read him funny stories to make him laugh—planting the early seeds of humor as healing.
Scene 2: Imagination Games in the Attic (Age 9)
Setting: The dusty attic of the Thurber house, filled with forgotten trunks, cobwebs, and your secret clubhouse setup.
You: “Alright, Captain Thurber, your orders are to decode this alien message before Earth is invaded!”
James (squinting): “What if the aliens are just misunderstood philosophers trying to teach us how to make better hot chocolate?”
You (laughing): “That’s ridiculous.”
James: “No more ridiculous than fighting Martians with a wooden spoon.”
Narration: You didn’t realize it then, but those absurd, joyful adventures were training his comedic mind. You kept playing with him even as he struggled with his sight—never treating him as “broken,” just brilliant.
Scene 3: Drawing in the Dirt (Age 11)
Setting: School recess. The other boys are playing ball, but James is sitting near the fence, doodling in the dirt with a stick.
You (plopping down next to him): “What’s this? A dog with glasses?”
James: “No, it’s a professor who got turned into a dog. Now he teaches squirrels how to write essays.”
You (chuckling): “This belongs in a book someday.”
James: (Pauses, then softly) “You think people would want to read stuff like this?”
You: “Absolutely. They’ll laugh. And the world needs more laughter.”
Narration: That encouragement was quiet but monumental. James began sketching more, even though his sight made it tough. You gave him the belief that his quirky world had value.
The Ohio State University Years (1913–1918)
Scene 1: ROTC Blues and the Library Window
Setting: Ohio State University campus, mid-autumn. James is sitting on a bench outside the ROTC building, looking defeated.
You: “What’s going on, Jimmy? You look like someone just banned sarcasm.”
James: “I can’t pass ROTC. Can’t see well enough to shoot. Without it, I can’t graduate.”
You (sitting beside him): “You came here to write and think—not to march in step. Who cares about graduation if you're meant for something else?”
James: “But everyone else is moving forward.”
You: “You’re just taking a different route. And maybe—just maybe—that’s the one with the best stories.”
Narration: That conversation lifted his spirits. You reminded him that the path to greatness often starts with a detour.
Scene 2: Midnight Laughter at The Sundial
Setting: Student publication room, late night. You and James are editing an article for The Sundial, the campus humor magazine.
James: “What if we publish a fake ad for a course in Telepathic Chemistry?”
You (laughing): “Only if we list the professor as Dr. Y. Oughta Know.”
James: “Brilliant!”
Narration: You stayed up late with him many nights—bouncing ideas, sharpening jokes, and giving him someone to riff with. Your creative chemistry helped shape the irreverent tone that would later become his trademark.
Scene 3: The Eye Chart Prank
Setting: Campus infirmary. You and James are scheduled for eye exams. He’s nervous about being disqualified again.
You: “Hey, I have an idea.” (Pulls out a fake eye chart you made, where the letters spell a secret message: ‘Thurber Sees Through All Nonsense’.)
James (bursting into laughter): “I should show this to the Dean!”
You: “Do it. At least then you'll flunk with flair.”
Narration: That moment lightened a dark day. You turned pain into punchlines—just like he’d later do for the world.
The Columbus Dispatch Years (Post-College)
Scene 1: Typing in the Shadows
Setting: A dim corner of The Columbus Dispatch newsroom. The clacking of typewriters echoes as James stares at his blank page.
James: “They want me to cover a council meeting. Again. Nothing ever happens except coffee and confusion.”
You: “Then write it like a spy novel. Give the mayor a code name—maybe ‘Agent Moustache.’”
James (grinning): “You think they’d publish that?”
You: “Not the way you say it aloud. But slip the humor in where they least expect it.”
Narration: You helped him realize even the mundane could be magical if filtered through wit. He began hiding sly jokes in straight reports—practicing the art of satire in plain sight.
Scene 2: Sketches on Napkins at Walhalla Road Diner
Setting: A cozy local diner after work. James sketches with a pen on napkins while you sip coffee.
You: “That looks like a walrus doing taxes.”
James: “It’s a man who thinks he’s in charge of his life. Same thing, really.”
You (laughing): “You’ve got to send this to someone. The New Yorker? Or maybe keep them for a book?”
James (shrugging): “I don’t know if it’s good enough.”
You: “It’s better than good—it’s Thurber.”
Narration: You preserved a few of his early napkin sketches and mailed them to contacts you had in New York. That small act planted seeds for his artistic future.
Scene 3: The First Fan Letter
Setting: James’s desk at the Dispatch. You walk in holding an envelope, excited.
You: “Jimmy! You got a letter. From a reader!”
James (sarcastic): “Let me guess. A correction about zoning law terminology?”
You: “Nope. Listen to this: ‘Your column made me laugh out loud for the first time in weeks. Thank you for seeing the world the way you do.’”
James (quietly): “…They laughed?”
You: “Yes. You reached someone. That’s what matters.”
Narration: That letter stayed in his desk for years. You reminded him that making one person laugh was already a triumph.
Move to New York and Breakthrough at The New Yorker (Late 1920s)
Scene 1: Coffee and Courage Before the Train
Setting: Columbus train station café, early morning. James is nervous about his move to New York to chase a writing career.
James: “What if I get there and they realize I’m just a guy with half a working eye and too many dog metaphors?”
You (grinning): “Then you show them the half-eye sees twice as much nonsense—and the dogs are the smartest characters.”
James: “I’m scared.”
You: “Good. That means it matters. Go make them laugh, and send me your first cartoon. I’ll hang it up whether it makes sense or not.”
Narration: That last coffee, that nudge out the door—it meant the world. You didn’t push him; you gave him permission to leap.
Scene 2: Letters from the City
Setting: Your front porch in Columbus. You’re reading one of James’s letters aloud to a small group of friends:
James’s Letter:
"Dear Old Pal, I finally got one in. They printed my cartoon—a seal balancing a broom while a man applauds like it’s a new law. E.B. White thinks it’s funny, which either means I’m good… or he’s deeply confused. Either way, I’m still broke but more hopeful."
You (laughing): “He’s doing it. He’s really doing it.”
Narration: You cheered him on from afar—his anchor back in Columbus, keeping him connected to his roots and reminding him of who he was before the fame.
Scene 3: The Telegram Before The Male Animal
Setting: You receive a telegram late one night, just before James co-writes The Male Animal, his Broadway hit.
Telegram Text:
“Writing a play. Don’t know what I’m doing. Stop. You always said I overthink. Stop. Would you come see it if it ever makes it to stage? Stop.”
You (smiling, scribbling your reply):
“Only if you promise to write in a professor who fights for grammar and love at the same time. Start.”
Narration: You were his reminder that success didn’t have to mean seriousness. You gave him the courage to blend wit with heart—and the faith that someone back home would always be in the audience.
Later Years Struggling with Health and Fame (1940s–1961)
Scene 1: Dictation by Lamplight
Setting: Thurber’s home study, evening. He’s nearly blind now, dictating ideas for a new essay. You sit beside him with a notebook, pen in hand.
James: “Write this down: ‘The problem with the world is that it keeps trying to make sense… when it’s much funnier without it.’”
You (writing): “Got it. Want to add a talking walrus?”
James (grinning faintly): “You’ve always known my style too well.”
Narration: With his eyesight nearly gone, you became his hands and eyes. You didn’t just transcribe—you reminded him he still had his voice. And it still mattered.
Scene 2: A Walk Down Memory Lane (Literally)
Setting: You’re pushing Thurber’s wheelchair through Goodale Park in Columbus during a rare visit home.
James: “Remember when we tried to build a time machine out of a soapbox and some library books?”
You: “We almost made it to 1892. But the squirrels mutinied.”
James (laughing deeply): “You always were the historian in our friendship.”
You: “And you were always the chaos.”
Narration: In that moment, the years fell away. Your shared memories weren’t just nostalgia—they were proof that even amid frailty, joy still lived in the present.
Scene 3: The Final Letter
Setting: After James’s passing, you find a letter he’d written for you, tucked inside a first edition of My Life and Hard Times.
James’s Letter:
“Old friend,
If you’re reading this, I assume I’ve finally been outwitted by time. But if laughter is immortality—and I believe it is—then you’ve been my guardian angel with a punchline. Thanks for helping me see, even when I couldn’t.
Yours absurdly,
James”
Narration: You close the book and smile through the tears. His wit endured, and so did the bond between two oddball boys from Columbus who never stopped laughing together.
Final Thoughts by James Thurber
If I’ve learned anything from this life—other than never to trust a lawn dart—it’s that humor and friendship are the only things sharp enough to cut through the absurdity of existence.
Nick was the one friend who never asked me to be someone else. Not a good soldier, not a proper journalist, not even a clean-shaven cartoonist. He just let me be James—the anxious, myopic boy with too many thoughts and too little coordination.
They say every great writer owes their career to one good editor. I think every half-decent human being owes their soul to one good friend. Someone who knows your flaws and files them under ‘character.’ Someone who hears your ramblings and calls them ‘style.’ Someone who stays, when the spotlight fades and the room grows quiet.
Nick was that someone for me. Through laughter, letters, lost vision, and last pages, he reminded me—gently, persistently—that I still had a voice. Even if I sometimes needed help finding the pen.
So if you’re lucky enough to have a friend like that, don’t let them go. Or better yet—write them into your story. Make them the hero. I did.
Short Bios:
James Thurber: Partially blind from childhood, James Thurber used wit and imagination to become one of America’s greatest humorists.
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