Jimmy
Ken Wuetcher

Jimmy was one of the cool kids:
smoked Marlboro cigarettes, had one of those rad
Zippo Brushed Chrome lighters,
never had a problem getting beer and whiskey.
Stories were told about his prowess, but not by him.
He never bragged about anything.
All of this happened in grade school.
Jimmy and the phat kids snuck
behind the gym at recess and smoked.
Sometimes I would go but I didn’t smoke.
I wanted to act like I was a bad ass too,
even though I wasn’t and they knew it.
It helped that I gave them answers to their homework.
Jimmy took long drags off his cigarette,
filled his lungs completely with smoke and held
it for what seemed like forever,
blew out a massive grayish white cloud.
Sometimes he formed his lips into an oval shape,
clicked his jaw and blew out smoke rings,
over and over.
Kids were envious.
Jimmy told stories in a slow deep voice, no emotion.
Olive skin, heavy set, and curly brown hair,
looked older than us, like an adult.
Kids hung on every word and I guess I did too.
Jimmy was underground.
He did his own thing, always.
Funny thing though he went to a Catholic high school.
The same school as me.
One time, Jimmy came up to me after my wrestling match
with a smile on his face.
Don’t remember him ever smiling.
He said I looked fit and wished he could get
into shape, play sports.
Two years later he died in a parked car in front of his house
of carbon monoxide poisoning on a cold night,
frigid wind chill.
The paper said that he fell asleep,
whispers of suicide spread.
His close friends laughed and said no way,
Jimmy loved to drink beer too much.