The Rumours are True, about Jimmy Blue, and What he Wants to Do to You...
Wow. In Vilnius’ veritable harem, Play, you’d better get yourself a hallpass, because there is something going on. If you do, and are also equipped with proper credentials such as no sense of shame and a bad set of sideburns, then clamber down the stairs, and let the show begin.
This is a story about a guy, if you can call an abominable creature a ‘guy’, I can claim to know, named Jimmy Blue.
Jimmy Blue is a late-night howler, who storms around the valleys of vice with a brainfull of mixed nuts.
Jimmy Blue walks, gawks and spaces out just like I do. But he is not me.
Jimmy Blue occupies the hours when I am sleeping, shelved away in the backroads of consciousness, where my jars of morals, routines and sensibilities stand collecting dust on the bedside table.
Jimmy Blue likes to smash these jars when I am not watching.
Jimmy Blue is a vandal.
The things which Jimmy Blue says and does cannot be repeated in the presence of God-fearing folks- so that’s why I need to tell you.
Jimmy Blue is a viper.
The only times I meet Jimmy Blue is when I awake with the headache he left me. Here we have crossed over; he passes the baton and expects I can carry on a productive day, after our rendezvous has levelled me to the mattress.
Jimmy Blue has a sickness which cannot, by means of medical science, be cured.
His symptoms are as such; a rising feeling of frenzy when guitar lines begin to grind. A loss of inhibitions, motor functions and wallet inhabitants once green lights start to lume. A giddy greed for sipping Sooey Ciders as the midnight moon dips into tomorrow.
Jimmy Blue is a masochist.
And Jimmy Blue likes to say, “The party’s jeeest getting started…”
Last night, Jimmy Blue went out walking underneath the neon rainbow. His jacket, leather, was zipped up to his dingo’s grin and his beady, iridescent eyeballs.
Jimmy slowed his pace- what was this sound he was hearing?
Bump, bump, bump.
Jimmy covered his mouth with his putrid palms. His sickness was coming on.
Bump, bump, bump.
The bassline was as heavy as a slave’s iron chains. Jimmy started to writhe and giggle.
Suddenly, the doors flew open! Out paraded a bevy of exquisite Baltic booties, all gung-ho on turning Jimmy’s mind to liquid.
His mortal enemies.
Jimmy knew fate was against him. His teeth were chattering.
He outstretched his quivering hand-
“Do you mind if I bum a cigarette?”
“Sure!” Her grape-lacquered fingernails were decorated with tiny fish.
Pulsating fantasies were swimming through Jimmy’s skull.
“And what do you do with yourself?” He managed to spit out in a moment of lucidity.
“I’m studying to be an interior designer.”
“Oh!” -started a shell-shocked Jimmy, doing his best to block himself from mentioning anything to do with designing her interior.
He hurried away from the subject.
“I like your earrings.”
“Thanks! My friend made them for me. See, one’s a boy, and this one’s a girl. They’re sheep!”
They were indeed, the shepherd’s boon themselves.
“Remarkable…” Jimmy Blue had transformed into an astro-physicist, so deeply was he entranced in studying the two sheep, and the quizzical blonde brow which lay pleasantly stretched between them.
Bump, bump, bump.
“Say, that sounds like my song!” -lied Jimmy Blue. “Shall we? Let’s go deck out this interior.” He held out his bony arm, breathing heavily.
“Okay!” She grabbed his outstretched appendage and guided him through the pinball machine maze of black stockings, knee-high boots and tank-tops, and in through the flapping door- a couple of moth monsters to the dance-floor flame.
Bump, bump, bump.
The door swung shut behind them, nearly smacking Jimmy’s arse as he entered- and the less said about what went on behind closed doors, the better.
All I know is this; Jimmy Blue stumbled outta there at dawn, dejected and depressed as his name suggests, and hobbled on up the long lonely hill home.
I haven’t caught a glimpse of him today, but if I do, I’ll beat the bedbugs outta him, for leaving me with this horrible hell of a hangover.
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