Jimmy

I liked Jimmy.

He was the older kid who lived behind our apartment. I didn’t know where he lived exactly because I wasn’t allowed outside the courtyard in front of our porch. He visited once in a while, though.

This was Kentucky in the ’90s.

Jimmy had a mullet. With lightening bolts shaved into the sides of his head.

One day, when another friend offered me a cookie or something, I turned him down. I said, “No, thanks. I don’t want one.”

Jimmy grabbed me by the shirt collar and pulled me up to his face.

“Around here, we take what we get,” he said.

I didn’t like Jimmy as much after that.

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