JIM VIOLATES HIS PAROLE

– January 21, 2012Posted in: poetry

Jim got into the 1966 black Chevrolet and asked where were going before he even got finished closing the door. “You’ll find out,” I smirked. The truth is I only had a vague idea but it involved going over to Smitty’s to get the guns. If we were going to do it right, Jim and me, we needed shotguns, and I knew Smitty had the right ones: those pump-action pieces, you know, the ones with those blue metallic barrels. But first we needed money, man, and getting it couldn’t involve using those babies. I mean, we couldn’t very well go to Smitty’s and ask him to borrow the guns like we were borrowing a cup of sugar from a neighbor or something, now could we?

I met Jim when we were both doing time at Pelican Bay. Jim had just got out. Going across the state line was a violation of his parole. I don’t know why I even mention this. I mean, if I pointed it out to Jim, he’d give me a look like I’d just asked him if he knew that the car ran on gasoline or something. Besides, the job we were about to pull made parole violation look like child’s play.

Jim didn’t talk about what he did before I met him a lot. I got the impression his upbringing had been rough, but whose hasn’t? Take me. We were from Oklahoma, and always poor, and my old man was always pissed that he was broke and I guess he took it out on my ma and the kids pretty good. I kinda lost touch with my sisters. I think Lynn is married and living in Oregon. Every once in a while I think about looking her up but then I think again because I don’t think she’d be too glad to hear from me.

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