Timothy John Johnson was TJ to me, though the world might know him as the son of George Johnson from New York State. There are only a few times we’re called by our full name: the early hours when we’re named, those moments when our mothers wield it with that disapproving tone only they master, and when news of our death ripples out. I’m writing this on April 23, 2025, piecing together this memorial, still raw from losing TJ in February. Online, he was “the.tkjohnny” on Facebook, a handle that captured his wit and charm. That profile, likely private or now memorialized, holds pieces of him I hope others will share to keep his spirit alive.
Correction: TJ known to me as Timothy “Kyle” Johnson. He is Timothy John Johnson, born in 1977. Thank you, George, for the correction.
I knew Timothy John Johnson as Kyle when we were in college, a name from a freer time. Years later, he became TJ, a nickname that stuck like BBQ sauce on fingers. He also carved out a digital self as “the.tkjohnny” on Facebook, where he’d post quips and dreams that echoed his English professor vibe. News of his passing hit me in February 2025, and as I write this in April, I’m still gutted. The last time we messaged was February 15, 2025, a quick exchange about nothing and everything. To those handling his affairs, he’s Timothy John Johnson, son of George. To me, he’ll always be TJ, the guy who lit up my phone and my life.
He Kindly Stopped for Me
Death punches a hole in the fabric of the universe. It is a tear that rips through the lives of those left behind. It’s been two months since I got the news, and I’ve been shivering from the loss of my friend ever since. I’ll be ok. Losing TJ hit me harder than losing my parents. This one is rough.
TJ had his Master’s Degree in English. In honor of that, quoted below, is Emily Dickenson’s “Because I could not stop for death, he kindly stopped for me.”
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –Or rather – He passed Us –
The Dews drew quivering and Chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
Those ‘Sposed To’s
TJ was my brother in every way but blood. He was there for the big moments—like when my son’s Mom became a naturalized citizen, cheering louder than anyone in the room. He was my ride or die for our cross-country BBQ quests, chasing the perfect brisket from Nashville to Richmond. Those tourist death marches? All TJ. He’d drag me through one more shop, grinning as I groaned, knowing I’d follow him anywhere. We’d trade “sposed to’s” like barbs—what I should do, what he oughta quit—laughing through the tough love.
Our bond lived in the stories we swapped, often over ribs or on late-night drives. TJ had a knack for turning a pit stop into a saga, his English prof wit shining through. He’d post snippets of those tales as “the.tkjohnny” on Facebook, sparking threads that lit up my feed. Those moments—greasy fingers, shared dreams, his stubborn hope—kept us tight. Losing him in February 2025 left a hole no BBQ joint can fill. I still hear his voice, telling me what I’m sposed to do next. I’m listening, TJ.
About Some Windfall
But this post is about TJ, no? It is. This post is about TJ. He inherited some money from his aunt and his Mom, enough to make him financially free. He didn’t have to work if he didn’t want to. He wanted to, so he taught English at a two-year college near his Tennessee home. It wasn’t enough purpose, though. He wanted more impact. So the idea of Balzac Press was born. He would publish writers rejected by NY publishing houses, believing their work was dismissed for being outside the mainstream, not because it lacked merit. Starting a publishing house needs people—literary agents, editors, printers—and money. Being a simple millionaire won’t do it. TJ believed, and for a while, that was enough.
Starting a publishing house needs people. Literary agents picking manuscripts to invest in, editors to get the work into publishable form, and a printing company who will do the actual publishing. None of this is cheap. Being a simple millionaire won’t do it. TJ believed and that should be enough.
NYC No
Maybe in the magical realist world of Inger’s Finger. Maybe sometimes IRL. For TJ and I? No. We have wishes but those can’t be fried up and served with ketchup. This reality has bills that need tending to. Millionaire sounds nice but it’s not much of a startup fund.
TJ presented himself as the realist. He liked rules where I am seduced by whims. The sirens singing to him that he could be the hero for downtrodden writers struggling to break free of the chains of NYC publishing houses were too much for him. He ran to them. It was a good time for him while it lasted.
Then . . . the rabbis of Maoism pounced. He wrote something to a student that was apostate. He was all the things, all the adjectives, preying on a hapless, nubile, young girl who was just trying to make her way through the swampy poisonous ichor of white men. PIG! they shouted. In their fantasy, straight from OnlyFans, he had misogynist dreams about her. So the college fired him. Once accused, forever guilty.
When We Were Young
One more thing. Health. For at least a decade or more he chose gluttony. Taste and see all that the first world had to offer. Exercise? Eat Right? Fah! Never! Fries with the brisket plate? Definitely. A shot of moonshine with that? Absolutely! Two is even better.
So . . . that, and his nose plugged up. He couldn’t breathe through his nose. Then he couldn’t breathe. Listening to him sleep was agonizing. I’d spend the night worried that tonight I’d be calling the paramedics and performing CPR.
Sleep Apnea can be a killer. It also can be cured if the sufferer is willing to get medical help and reteach themselves to breathe through their nose. One possible result is heart disease. TJ was consistent in his messages to me about doctor visits. His heart was fine, his breathing normal. Ok, TJ.
Relentless Entropy
Entropy is an ignorable fact of life until it isn’t. For TJ, the impact of entropy on his life began to escalate in his mid-thirties. Things that he used to be able to muscle through became difficult. He could sleep on his side on my couch until he couldn’t. Then he’d try to sleep riding shotgun on our road trips. His body, once a reliable ally, started betraying him, and the weight of it shadowed his days. I suspect depression crept in too. He left his career as a Commercial First Officer because of it, feeling trapped in a rat’s wheel of life on the road. I can’t say if he suffered from depression with any authority, but it felt that way.
Then . . . it all stopped. Sometime in the middle of the night on February 18, 2025 his time with us ended. I imagine he made himself ready to sleep in his easy chair on the 17th as he had done for years. He was filled with plans for the week and thoughts of his morning routine. Sleep came and death came for him in the night.
I had some good times with TJ. We traveled, saw and tasted what this first world life offers. He liked to shop. So on our travels I’d tail him as he cruised one more store contemplating the wares. I’d complain about it and stay with him as he browsed the merch. We ate in some awesome places.
Is There BBQ in Heaven?
Mostly BBQ. Highlights include Scott’s B-B-Q in Hemingway, SC, tons of places in Nashville, TN, and Ronnie’s here in Richmond, VA. My favorite is ZZQ in Scott’s Addition and Rudy’s in Denton, TX. TJ and I ate at ZZQ more than once.
A lifetime of friendship is more than 1500 words, and TJ’s story spills beyond this page. There’s more of him in the smoky haze of ZZQ, in the comments under “the.tkjohnny” posts, and in the stories you might share on worldofwebb.net. I’m holding onto every memory, from our BBQ binges to his stubborn dreams. I’ll never forget him, and I hope you won’t either.
Last thing, and an edit from the original post. I knew TJ as tkjohnny. His father, George, tells me his full name is Timothy John Johnson. I’ve made that edit here. Last, last thing. He was annodomininow on Substack, Antidem on WordPress and also on YouTube.