Real Men Solve Crimes

Jim Rockford was a laid-back TV detective who lived in a trailer on the beach… and helped those who needed help

“There ain’t been a lot of love in this rotten life. And I just found out how much I’ve been missing. Find her, Rockfish. Find her.”

— Isaac Hayes as Gandy Fitch from The Rockford Files

My man Jim Rockford helped me solve the mystery of what it means to be a man.

Fictional detectives have always been my thing. Whip-smart sleuths Hercule Poirot and Miss Marples were early boyhood heroes. Hard-boiled gumshoes like Sam Spade, Travis McGee, Easy Rawlins, Phillip Marlowe came later. And then there was The Rockford Files, which originally aired in the ’70s on NBC.

It was a show about a Los Angeles private investigator, Jim Rockford, who worked cases the LAPD wouldn’t handle and who asked all the right questions. He was portrayed with easy-listening macho grace by veteran actor James Garner, who never turned in a dishonest performance in six seasons.

The Rockford Files was sunlit noir set in Southern California. It was real estate scams and counterfeit money, fake jewelry, and crooked parole officers. My man Jim Rockford was all surf-and-sand meets easy sarcasm born from hard-earned cynicism.

I caught the show in syndication long after it first aired. A Black boy peering into the recent past, I used the episodes to make sense of the ’80s and to make sense of the motivations of adults, who never made sense to me. I saw how Rockford moved through the world skillfully, artfully, confidently, and with a twinkling-eyed charisma. That was my goal. But America makes this difficult for people of color.

When I was a black boy growing up in Georgia, a grand dragon of the Ku Klux Klan once called me a racial slur to my five-year-old face. My mother worked at a hospital and sometimes took me to work with her. One evening, I mistakenly walked into the grand dragon’s room. He was there for cancer treatment. He had no nose, just a hole in his face. His face shocked me, his unhinged racism even more so. At roughly that same time, I also encountered friendly-faced ice cream parlor employees, ones whose eyes thinned to a squint as they ignored me to go happily serve white families who just walked in. I saw my place in America. That mystery I solved on my own. Decency was a delicate lie used to sell products and obscure history. I learned that to expect real decency from white strangers was foolish, dangerous.

Then there was Jim Rockford. His decency and goodness wasn’t tied to his whiteness, it was in spite of it. Like Willie Nelson, there was no lie in his eyes. Rockford was somehow honest even when he fibbed to cops or clients. I learned to spot a man who lived by his own code. How to become one. He made me both more trusting and more skeptical. Rockford remains the best white man ever produced by American television. He’s also why I still wear blazers to the beach. That’s what Rockford did.

Rockford was an ex-convict, which also set him apart. He’d served a five-year stint in San Quentin on a false conviction. After the state pardoned him, he went to work helping people who the justice system was failing. Rockford was a man of the people, too. He loved hot dogs. Dodged bill collectors. His fashion style was discount casual. He talked plainly, and clearly. His house was a mobile home, set-up in a parking lot, right at the beach in Malibu. The trailer park was called Paradise Cove. It’s a real place, that still exists. One of my favorite tuck-away spots in Los Angeles.

The Rockford Files was part of what I call Peak California. It was a brief window of optimism that existed between Watergate and President Reagan. Mostly it was a feeling. In reality, America was trying to rediscover its innocence and its idealism after Nixon and Kissinger, Vietnam, the undisputed brutality of police violence in the Civil Rights era, and those long, hot summers when cities reliably burned with riots in the ’60s. Peak California was the advertised goodness that America wanted to believe it was or was about to be again. The Rockford Files exposed that gentle lie and did it with a sly grin.

And it was also a show that featured title cards like…

At the most basic level, watching Rockford reruns always felt good. Still does. The feeling starts with the show’s theme song. Back when people had ringtones, The Rockford Files theme song was mine. An instant mood-improver. The theme song is widely considered one of the best ever. It kicks to life with this semi-outer space dobro, then takes an unexpected turn and adds a blues harmonica. Few things in life make me as happy as the sound of that harmonica. Rockford’s theme song had soul, just like the show’s titular detective.

Rockford’s Rockfordness was in every episode. He was suspicious but kind. Principled, but stubborn. Lazy and loyal. He never believed anything on face value — which is always a good lesson, especially today with social media where appearances are curated to obscure truth, to present a good face. Rockford called it like he saw it, but preferred to keep his opinions to himself. He knew the angles, he spotted the scams. And he always seemed to know a woman to call for help or a favor. Rockford was what you might call a man’s man. He could take a punch. But he also showed they hurt. He preferred to avoid violence and hurting anyone else. He was a noncommittal pacifist.

“You’re a private investigator. Why don’t you carry a gun?”

“Because I don’t want to shoot anyone.”

Rockford wanted people to be themselves however they saw fit. As long as they didn’t hurt anyone else. Rockford never looked to exploit his advantages. He wasn’t angling “to get his.” He also wasn’t willing to look the other way or pretend he didn’t see what he saw just so he could get ahead. But he also never applauded his own progressiveness. He just was. Another good lesson for men. The Rockford Files stayed ahead of its time.

Rockford was close friends with a man named Gandolph Fitch, an inmate buddy from Rockford’s days in San Quentin and always called him by his prison nickname, Rockfish. Fitch, a recurring character, was played by soul music legend Isaac Hayes. In one episode, co-stars Isaac Hayes and Lou Gossett Jr. walk into a bar in the Valley where everyone inside is dressed like Nazis. There’s even a framed photo of Hitler behind the bar. After some words, Isaac Hayes beats up all the Nazis in the bar. Today, with fascism on the rise in America, people still debate if we should punch Nazis. The show was way ahead of the curve. The Rockford Files had different things to say about what matters when it comes to being a man in America. It showed me what real decency looks like.

The Rockford Golden Rule was simple: Treat others how you want to be treated when you need help.

He’d been unfairly hurt by the state. He lost five years of his life. Rather than become bitter, it made him compassionate. Jim Rockford knew that we’re all the walking wounded. Being hurt helped him identify with others. It’s why he always helped those in need, even when he didn’t want to. It’s why he protected those in danger. Rockford wasn’t a hero. He was a mensch. A human being. If you pricked him, he bled. Life is suffering, as they say, Rockford lessened the suffering of others, but as a professional who cost “two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses.” He was rarely paid on time, if ever.

What makes a man? There’s been a lot of debate about that, lately. It’s not his brain. It’s not his brawn. It’s not his suit. It’s not his dick. It’s neither his physicality nor his psychology. It’s his heart. Rockford had heart.

If you want to know what makes a man, watch The Rockford Files.