Dean seemed to thrive on dangerous stunts, and he used his motorcycle as his instrument more than once. I always refused to get on the back of it when he drove. “Why,” he would ask, “Yuh scared?”
"Yes, Jim, I’m scared," I once answered. "You take too many chances."
We were in front of my place, and he gunned the motor and took off. I would have stopped him and gotten my camera for some shots, but he was already zooming towards Park Avenue. I went inside. About fifteen minutes later my doorbell rang. I hadn’t heard any loud crashes, but was still relieved to see Jimmy when I opened the door.
"That was a short trip," I said and smiled. "Glad to see you back alive." He headed for the couch and settled in for an argument. He talked about the exhileration of taking chances and how great that felt. I am by nature more cautious, do our discussion was lively. We finally wound around to bullfighting and Hemingway’s Death in the Afternoon.
His eyes lit up and he leaned forward as he insisted that “Old Hemingway squeezed the juice out of life.”
"I’m not going to live past 30," he said, and smiled, looking intently at me.