The Irish (a club of which I am a member) have always had good reason to think well of the Native Americans. During the Great Irish Famine (1845-1850), which dashed Ireland’s dream of having a population of over four million for the next two centuries, those Native Americans-who were under enough pressure as it was-sent over a large amount of a type of grain the imaginative Gaels called “Indian corn”. Sure, it was tougher than brimstone when raw, and if you ate it without cooking it first you cut your intestines to ribbons, but it saved a lot of people from dying of hunger. And in any case, it was the thought that counted.
And that random little anecdote leads us to the sad story of James “Jamie” Doxtator, an unlucky Native American boy who didn’t live to see his sixteenth birthday. Who do we thank for that? Yep, you’ve guessed it. Jeffrey Dahmer.
According to the popular version of events, Jamie, a West Allis boy, was loitering around a local gay bar called Club 219. The reason why he was loitering around it and not drinking inside it is because he was underage-at the trial they said fifteen, but most reports say fourteen. He was approached by Dahmer and offered fifty dollars to spend the night. (Another example of Jeff’s legendary social skills: he had to pay people to come home with him.) They went back to Dahmer’s grandmother’s house, where reports diverge as to what actually happened. Some say photographs were taken of the kid, but others say they had sex. Whatever. It doesn’t matter.
What does matter is the fact that Dahmer knocked Jamie out with a drugged drink. What does matter is that he then strangled him, keeping the child’s body in the wine cellar under a blanket. A week later, Dahmer “defleshed” the corpse with either acid or a knife, smashed the bones with a sledgehammer, packed the whole bloody mess into a couple of binbags and left them out for the garbage truck.
A few years later, when books on Dahmer began to be published, Jamie was often called a “prostitute” by the authors. One particularly ignorant idiot called him “a young white male prostitute”. (Intelligent readers will have noted that Jamie was not Caucasian. Of course, I could be wrong, but that photo up on top looks pretty genuine.) This, in my opinion, is a gross exaggeration of the truth.
Let’s just think about it there for a second. In newspaper reports, Jamie is reported to have been living with his mother, Debra Vega, at the time of his death (January 1988). Being a prostitute is kind of a time-consuming job if you want to make good money from it (which is usually the entire point). You have to be out walking the street at all hours of the night, and you also have to be willing to travel a bit. As well as that, you tend to get paid-as illustrated above-with large banknotes of the sort that young teenagers don’t usually carry in their wallets.
Wouldn’t that have seemed just the tiniest bit suspicious to his mother?
“Hey, Mom, I’m going out to an unspecified location for several hours. I’ll be back in the early hours of morning-if I’m back at all, that is-and I’ll try my damndest to sneak in without attracting your attention. In my possession will be several banknotes in the fifties-and-hundreds ballpark, which I couldn’t possibly have come across in the middle of the street. I may sport visible bruises and appear slightly traumatized, it depends. Oh, by the way, can you please wash my gym gear while I’m out? Bye!”
Now there’s an unlikely scenario if I ever saw one.
Here’s another thing: Jamie was a known presence around Club 219 and its ilk, but not because of prostitution. It appears that he tried to forge relationships with the patrons going in and out. (My source for that is “Love to Hate”, a book about America’s love of violence and prejudice.) With all this in mind, the probable truth about James Doxtator becomes readily apparent.
Jamie, judging from testimony at the trial, was indeed homosexual, but not that far into puberty either. This indicates that discovery of his sexuality was a recent event. Nowadays a youth finding himself to be gay would look amongst his peers for romance, but my understanding is that doing that in the eighties would leave one with a beautiful black eye and maybe a split lip. So, it’s only logical that the young teen would hang around outside gay bars, looking out for a potential partner.
The fact that Jeff slipped him fifty dollars to entice him back to his place doesn’t really have much to do with it, when you think about it. Dahmer paid all of his victims, which isn’t surprizing when you consider his less-than-average looks:
Jeff was famous for his emotioless stare and permanant frown. Women go nuts for that sort of thing, if his fangirls are anything to be judged by.
So, there’s what happened to Jamie Doxtator. He was probably a lovely kid, but his life was cut short by an emotionless psychopath who brought him home with the express interest of killing him, bringing heartbreak to his family and friends. His poor mother, Debra, when interviewed four years later, recited Jamie’s favorite verse from the Bible (the family was Lutheran)-‘Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do’-but added, “I cannot feel that way about Dahmer.”
I wonder why that was Jamie’s favorite verse. Maybe he was going through some tough times in his brief life. He might have just liked it as a verse.
No remains were ever found of him, but apparently they erected a memorial for him on the Stockbridge reservation in Wisconsin.
Rest in peace, James Doxtator. You poor, misfortunate kid.