I hadn’t seen Jimmy in a while but I knew he’d still be there. Never strayed too far from the water for any amount of time. Last I had seen him, he was living in a rented house in Daytona a couple of blocks back from the water. I worried about that because it meant that he had to cross the street to reach the surf. Nothing bad about Jimmy, but I’ve seen roadkill that had more common sense around traffic than him.
Jimmy
and me went way back. Used to steal
hubcaps together in high school. I grew
up and went to college. Jimmy grew up
and, well, kept stealing hubcaps. Probably
would’ve wound up a career criminal were it not for a little thing called
aluminum rims. Jimmy never could figure
out how to steal those and as hubcaps phased out, so did Jimmy’s career as a
thief.
To pass
time after that he started a rock band called Smash the Infants. You’d be
pretty safe in assuming that you wouldn’t hear many STI tunes on your average easy listening station. But they were harmless. Just kids who knew how to really annoy the
hell out of everyone. The band broke up
years ago and Jimmy never really did much after that. Except surf.
And help me out from time to time.
I’ve
never been able to put a finger on what made Jimmy tick. In fact, further explanation at this point
would probably prove to be fruitless. Suffice
to say that Jimmy was a living example of the classic inner struggle of
intellectual well-being pitted against the respondent bipolar delusions of
psychotic terminal stress as physically manifested in both sub-linear quadrants of the upper cerebral cortex.
He was
fluent in one language and had heard portions of at least three others, a
couple of which he may have even been able to identify if given a hint and a
few guesses. He rarely wore underwear,
and when he did, it was always something unusual, often with a farm animal
motif.
I pulled
up to his house around 3 o’clock. What
Jimmy would refer to as “noon-ish”. The
yard looked as if it hadn’t been mown in weeks.
A VW bus that had seen better days sat in the weeds, with two spare
engines baking in the sun on the ground around it, both missing what appeared
to be some crucial parts. Trash cans on
the side of the house were empty, which meant that all of beer cans and pizza
boxes were still inside.
No doubt. He still lived here.
I left
my keys in the car and walked up to the porch.
I never worried about car theft. Anyone
who stole Dick Lassiter’s wheels was in for a world of hurt. Besides, not a big market for 72’ Impalas.
The
front door was open so I let myself in. Jimmy
was curled up on the couch, snoring softly.
To look at him, you might figure that he was the kind of guy who often
got lost in his own home and wound up peeing in the kitchen sink by mistake. To know him was to confirm that.
I took
off my shoe and clocked him in the head with it. This was fairly standard procedure. Jimmy lifted his head and tried to raise
himself to one elbow but lost his balance and slid over the side of the couch,
all in one graceful movement. He landed
on the floor with a gentle thud.
“Wha..?” he said, looking around the room dazed.
“Wake up
Jimmy, I need you. Preferably with a
pulse,” I said.
Jimmy
groped under the couch and found his sunglasses. After putting them on he surveyed the room
again.
“Are you
the pizza guy?” he said, looking in my
general direction. “How much do I owe
you?”
“Put a
cork in it Jimmy. It’s me. Dick.”
Jimmy
looked around the floor, presumably in an attempt to find a cork.
“Dick? Whoa, shit.
Hey man! What’s up? What are you doing here?”
Jimmy
staggered to his feet and gave me what I presume is a cool surfer hug. Hugs between grown men should be illegal. Jimmy didn’t have a problem with it though.
“Got
some business. Need some backup. Thought you might be interested,” I said.
“Yeah? Cool. Count
me in, dude.”
“I haven’t even told you what it is.”
“Well,
you know . . . hey,
whatever man. That’s cool too.”
Jimmy’s
life knew no warmth.
“Sit
down, I’ll get you a beer,” I said.
Jimmy’s
kitchen would give Martha Stewart cardiac arrest. Keeping the floor conveniently covered with
trash prevented the need to sweep. There
was a urine soaked TV in the sink instead of dirty dishes. Jimmy didn’t have dishes. All eating and drinking was performed with
the assistance of plastic, paper, and Styrofoam. Saved on Ajax.
The
fridge held three cases of Schlitz and a phone book. Jimmy liked Schlitz because he thought it was
imported. I grabbed two, waded back to
the other room, and threw one at him. He
caught it on a one hop. We popped tops
and drank, Jimmy after waiting momentarily for the geyser of foam to subside to
a slow trickle.
“So,” he said.
“How are the kids?”
“I don’t
have kids, Jimmy.”
“Oh.” Pause.
“Wife?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.”
An
uncomfortable silence closed in, so thick that for a moment we couldn’t see
each other.
“Um, how
about those Bears, huh?” Jimmy asked
hopefully.
“Jimmy,
let’s cut to the chase here, okay? I’m
alive, you’re alive, and I need your help on an assignment of global
importance.” Just to make sure I wasn’t
wrong I asked, “You are alive, aren’t you?”
He
checked for a pulse. “Yeah, dude.”
“Okay,
here’s the deal . . .” I
sat down on a foldable lawn chair and filled him in on my surprise visit from
Mr. Jackson Burroughs that morning,
paying particular care to go over all of the important parts at least twice. After half an hour I finished and leaned back. “So, what do you say? You in?”
“Let me
see if I got this straight. All we gotta
do is find this Burroughs character and let the KGB know where he is and we get
some free cereal? Nothing else?”
“No
Jimmy, we find the Moose.”
“Moose? What moose?”
“Nevermind. Just grab some things for an extended trip
and meet me out front.”
“Okay,
dude,” Jimmy said. “You know, I’m ready for a change anyway. The surf around here just ain’t what it used
to be you know? Pacific’s dead. Tell you the truth, I’ve been thinking about
moving out to the East Coast for a while.
Check out the surf there.”
“Jimmy,” I sighed, “
this is Daytona Beach. Florida.”
“What?”
“You’ve
been living on the East Coast for six years.”
“Whoa.” Bless his heart. He looked so lost. “That would explain a lot.”
Suddenly,
the door burst open and four mean looking guys burst in. None wore shirts. All of them had that “badass” look about them. They stared at me and Jimmy menacingly.
“Friends
of yours, Jimmy?”
“Nah,
shoulder hoppers.”
The room
erupted in motion and we had a big Kung Fu fight right there in the living room. When we finished beating up the shirtless
ones, I nodded to Jimmy and walked out the front door.
I leaned
on the hood of my car and lit a cigarette while I waited for Jimmy to pack. I had an eerie sense of déjà vu,
but I couldn’t quite place my finger on why.
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