Thomas William McComb (April 3rd, 1954 - July 1st, 2020)

​I met him on an eventful spring day in 1972. He was already balding prematurely, smoked habitually and drove a Morris Minor “Woody” that he had restored himself. Whenever I would see him, he was either wearing a fraternity sweatshirt labeled UKE (Un Kappa Stubbe), or another that proclaimed his fictional employer to be none other than “Mkumba” Autobody. He had plenty of friends and obviously wielded a bit more influence at the ripe old age of 18 than I did and because of that, I just had to know him.
 
His name was Tom McComb and he passed away last week. He died in his sleep, most likely the effect of 50 years of accumulated tobacco smoke with the additional assistance of vast quantities of Rum and other assorted spirits. On a positive note regarding his smoking habit, the RJ Reynolds Tobacco Company had awarded Tom a plethora of colorful merchandise for his faithful patronage, all he was required to do was clip the labels from his hundreds of cartons of cigarettes. He was best man at my wedding and was a best friend for life. He was a chemist, a writer, a comedian, a doorman, and an adventurer. With him, I have roared down a perilous SW Portland hill in a Morris Minor with no brakes, witnessed the midnight dance of druids followed up with the stunning solar eclipse of 1979. I have even performed at the Spokane World’s Fair in one of his plays, The Scout and the Switchblade, to a crowd of thousands. Along with Alan Turner, we co-created one of Portland’s first improv and Sketch comedy troupes, No Prisoners. When I was hired as a field reporter for the television show Around Town and was asked to produce a story on a local travel guide who specializes in tracking Bigfoot, I invited Tom to come along as a special advisor. Frankly, I could not dream of someone more qualified.
 

​He was a hell of writer that did not write nearly enough but made the writers he worked with so much better. While with No Prisoners, he wrote some of the most funny and original sketches I had ever seen. The Fir Family (a sitcom featuring a family of trees), The I Heart Oregon Brigade (notable characters including General Eugene Springfield) and A Fourth for Toffit (game night taken to the extreme). In the early 90s, I had co-written a television situation comedy pilot with another great friend, comic mastermind Jerry Lambert. It was basically Barney Miller with Forest Rangers and the pilot had issues and needed some fleshing out. Obviously, I sought out Tom McComb. In one pass he managed to flesh out the characters, add a new one, an east-coast mobster who was in witness protection and voila, we were up and running. 
 
Sometime in the same hazy decade, I had been asked by a producer at Warner Brothers to come up with a story treatment for The Wild, Wild West. The project was being wrestled away from said producer and he needed something to prove ownership fast. Again, I sought out Tom McComb. In one week, we came up with a story that involved Cossacks, Jules Verne, Mark Twain, a volcano, a flying schooner and one atomic device. Sadly, Jon Peters won the day, and no one ever saw our version. You’ll just have to trust me on this, ours was much, much better. 
 
During the first comedy boom in Portland, Tom, while working his way through Portland State University toward a chemistry degree, became the celebrated doorman of not just one comedy venue, but two. Tuesday, it was the Leakey Roof Tavern open mic, and his rehearsed banter with one of the revolving emcees. On Friday and Saturdays, it was on to Reuben’s Five. His relationship with the local comedians never really ended. He hosted weekly poker games at his rented house behind the porno theatre, treating us to his infamous marijuana infused home brew while dealing treacherous hands of seven-card no peaky baseball (threes, nines and Jacks were wild).  Often times he’d drag his ancient Risk board down to Harvey’s Comedy Club for a quick match between shows and sets. 
 
Oh, and did I mention, he could get away with murder. I once witnessed him stop an entire ride at Disneyland by attempting to switch boats just so he could ride along with a couple of attractive women. He was socially awkward but always funny as hell. A few of us were at a costume party, all in civilian clothes when a comely woman approached Tom and asked about his costume. “Who are you supposed to be?” Without missing a beat Tom deadpanned, “I’m the Green River killer.” 
 
When I needed anything in the world, he was always there. All of my fictional works have a character named Doc, a nickname we gave Tommy during one of our weekly poker games. In my creative mind’s eye, he was everything from a disgruntled biker in my screenplay The Touristers to the prematurely balding colleague in my book Son of Ravage. He was just that memorable. He inspired others as well, ever seen the DVD cover of Return of the Killer Tomatoes? Tom was the model for the killer tomato.

​My wife and I last saw Tom while he in the process of moving to Kansas from Southern CA. He was overweight, had emphysema but on his stay with us limited his drinking to a few beers. It was great to see him. He announced he was writing a memoir about his experience writing and performing the play, The Scout and the Switchblade and asked if I would take a look. I had taken first looks at a lot of Tom McComb projects over the years, including a drunken, whoring Hemmingway-like travelogue chasing a solar eclipse across Northern Mexico (which was fantastic by the way), to a high-tech version of Gulliver’s Travels. Sadly, his accomplishments were great but generally totaled only a handful of pages. To the best of my knowledge, all his works remained unfinished. He had a problem finishing what he began. What can I say? He was just that good.

After his move to Kansas correspondence between the two of us sort of dried up. I would send an email and Tom would reply back with a brief sentence or two. When I finished a final draft of my manuscript, Son of Ravage, I sent it to Tom for critique. His response was typical Tom. “I’m not in enough pages,” he declared defiantly. “The character of Brain gets far more dialogue.”

​Rest in Peace, Tommy. I love you. We will never see your like again.