fuck you, jimmy
There were duos of boys and girls spread around. But his own nest was singular. Him and not one more. That was Jimmy's style. Jimmy was nobody's. Jimmy, the skater, the shaggy hair, the slept in t- shirts, the megalomaniac smile. Jim, the party kid, the one who was high when everyone else was dry, the kid you approached at the sidewalk outside Jasper's for recognition, for the measly hope that he would flash you an entry into his knitted and knoted community of wanderers. Jimmy, presence seen, present tense. The kid that had always been around; the undisputed friend, the undisputed flavour. Jimmy Hawthorne; the boy, the legend.
But this morning things were too still for such measurements. No Jimmy comparisons to be made. No such cowerings or covers; right here stood James Eli Hawthorne: fatigue rendering him ugly and washed up, black circles under his blue eyes. He seemed paused, in a way. In the verge of punctuation. Jimmy had all the linger and vision, but he was yet to break any groundwork for his stereotype. His type: boys with intention. Young selfish blokes that tried to lead the world. So cashed up in themselves at times, that good intentions flew right past them. Another creature of sound. This morning he looked like anyone else, though, if not lower on the scales of mediocrity, pushing down. Jimmy looked and felt to the day like every other main key there had ever been; every other purebreed.
In fact he could have, at this point, been very much a nobody. Had this been another casual Sunday he would have woke at midday; sat down with Calvin or Dan and cracked open a beer or two. But there were no such things as casual Sundays in May. He felt in the manner of someone old and that had been doing this for a very long time; this morning he was sick of the routine and everything this atmosphere had ever offered him. He was starting to see. And it was a picture much clearer than anything he'd ever seen.