so long, jimmy : 2

[...] Amazed and at a loss for words, I smiled back and gestured towards my half-empty glass.
“I’m good, thanks.” I said, but he wouldn’t have any of that.
“Wha’d’you want?” He didn’t wait for an answer and ordered another pint of FourX. Alright, it would be horse-piss then tonight, fine with me. I grabbed a stool and sat down next to him.
“Th’Crooners are fucking brilliant,” he stated. Obviously, he was not expecting this statement to be debatable. The bar staff handed over the lager and he thanked him with a broad smile. Shoving it in my direction, he continued, “It’s their riffs, you know. The guitarist really got it down, though I have to say their performance today is a little hampered by that frigging moron at the tables who can’t handle his equipment. Fuckers. Did you notice how they switch from B flat minor to A major in the refrain? That’s ace, man. Wha’d’you think?” He eyed me quizzically and went straight on, “You reckon they gonna play ‘Dead Chicken Run On’? They’re very Velvet Underground with a tad of Iggy Pop, don’t you think?”
Suspiciously, I looked him in the face, but couldn’t tell whether he was taking the piss. I opted for an indecisive shrug and explained, “You know, I think they’re just the Crooners and utterly pissed, but yeah, it definitely has that Velvet Underground feeling. Though of course their music’s different. You seen Pink Grease play over the Collie last week?”
“Fuck man, I wouldn’t miss that in a thousand years. Very classy. I liked the way he got the girls going. You know.” Not knowing what exactly I was supposed to know, I just nodded. Jimmy sat on his stool and granted the room a pleased smile. Afraid that he might be looking for someone else to talk to, I said, “By the way, I’m Mark.” I tried to sound casual, but I think I failed miserably. Jimmy was very smooth, though. He signalled the barman to fill up his drink and replied, “Nice to meet you, Mark. It’s a pleasure.” He gave me an indefinable smile. “My parents call me James… but to you I’m Jimmy.” I felt bewildered, but smiled back. His grin broadened, and again I noticed how stunning he was. I furtively examined his clothes while he paid for his pint. Tight blue jeans, worn-out black Converse All Stars, a wine-red t-shirt – ‘He Doesn’t Like Chocolate’ – and a brown corduroy jacket with three badges on the lapel. The Faint, The Arcade Fire, Interpol. He was completely relaxed, perfectly unaware of his perplexingly beautiful face. His hair looked dishevelled, but that may have been on purpose. I noticed he was quietly observing me, so I made a point of studying his badges. Jimmy, however, did not seem to mind and continued his chatter. He somehow managed to put me at ease, although I tend to be rather shy when in public. We ended up going through our record collections and discussing music – “Did you know he only topped himself after…?” “Have you noticed how they…?” – the whole evening. Shortly before curfew, we went to an off-license to grab a pack of lager and strolled to the canal basin where we’d spend the rest of the night. It was warm and the air smelled of wild reeds, grass and the stale water down by our feet. I cannot remember ever feeling this alive as I have that night.
After the gig, I didn’t see him for a while. It was not until the beginning of term that I ran into him at the coffee shop. Skipping class to escape from the numbing sterility of the campus, I had come there to hang out a little. The place is usually frequented by a lot of drop-outs and madmen hoping to strike up a conversation and to grab a free coffee. I come to read a book and enjoy the meaningless chatter without getting involved. That day, the shop was empty but for Anne, who is completely nuts and tries to hook up with absolutely anyone who faintly resembles a male exemplar of the human species. She is only thirty, but looks a lot older. She hit on me once, making rather discomforting allusions as to me ‘having a member of the working class’. Her puns are terrible.
When I came in, she was disclosing the intricacies of her medication to the barman. I sat down at the other end of the counter, but knew that ultimately even this would be to no avail. Anne finished her coffee, then packed her stuff and remarked that she was ‘gonna split now.’ She shuffled over and hoisted herself onto the stool next to mine. I flinched. Then ordered a coffee and a gun. The barman smiled wryly.
“I’m afraid we’ve run out of the latter.” He had been enduring her for hours already. She’s usually first in and last out.
“A rope would be just as well. In fact, anything will do.”
Anne ignored our conversation and made a show of rummaging her pockets for small change. Occasionally, she gave me an impatient side-glance. I pretended not to notice and quietly began sipping my coffee. Some minutes later, the door opened. He must have seen me from outside – I was sitting by the window – and come in to say hello. A questioning look in my direction, then he raised his eyebrows and gave Anne a condescending smile.