Every now and then, I Google the names of my friends from high school and college. Most of the time, I never find anyone. But today, I found the name of my very best high school buddy, Jimmie M.*
I was elated when I saw his name, but I was saddened to discover that, three years ago, he was sentenced to a twenty-five year prison term for conspiring to deliver a controlled substance, a Class B felony. Although his name is common, I knew it was him. He was a small-time drug dealer in high school, our school's main supplier. Guess he never gave that up.
To this day, I don't know how I, the shiest — and probably the most timid — kid in high school, ended up best friends with one of the most notorious kids. But I was. In fact, it was Jimmie who gave me the nickname Devas T. (devastate-ing) that I use on this blog.
Jimmie was popular. Whatever the goings-on at school, Jimmie was at the center. If there was a fight, Jimmie was in it. The big story of the day, Jimmie was the subject. A rumor, it was about Jimmie. Everyone knew and loved him, and even though most of the student body was self-segregated racially, Jimmy was just as popular with the white kids as he was with the blacks. I wasn't popular. In the mornings and between classes, when Jimmie and the cool kids hung out in the hallways, I took the side stairwells and hid out in my art or photography classes.
Jimmie had a nice car. He leaned hard in a burnt, cherry red, '69 "Stang" with hot-rod rims and black leather, bucket, seats. Later, after his older brother died in a car accident, he inherited a large sum of money, and his parents let him buy a used Monte Carlo. He gangsta'd it out with gold-spoke rims and black tinted windows. His car was the talk of the school, and when I was in it, I leaned just as hard as he did (leaning was what you did to be cool -- lean down in the seat, on the arm rest, as far down as possible). When I wasn't riding shotgun in Jimmie's car, I drove an old Plymoth Duster that I purchased from a junkyard for $300. It ran off-and-on, occasionally.
Jimmie was a player, too. He had so many girl friends, he didn't know half their names. Girls would carry his books for him to classes, and oftentimes they would do his homework. He would throw his arms around a group of girls in the hallway, and call himself a pimp. He bragged to me about things he would do with them late at night, but since we usually hung out after school, and worked a burger joint together at night, I couldn't figure out when he had time to do all that stuff. I had a couple of girl friends, too, here and there. But never the harem that Jimmy had following him through the hallways.
We had nothing in common, really, but for whatever reason, we stuck together like tape our entire four years in high school (back then, high school was 9th through 12th grade).
When I think back to the situations I allowed myself to get into hanging with Jimmie, it scares me. It's only by grace that I didn't end up in jail myself in high school, or worse yet, dead.
After graduation, Jimmie and I went our separate ways. With his good grades and inheritance, he attended a big name, predominately, Black college in the south. I stayed home and went to a local community college, mostly on Pell Grants. He was in school less than a year before he dropped out. I was excited when I found out he had returned home, but disappointed when he didn't contact me. Turned out, he was hanging with a group of guys I'd have been much too scared to hang out with anyway.
When we finally did get together, I noticed something had changed in Jimmie. He had hardened. I don't know what kind of people — or substances — he had gotten himself mixed up with while away in college, but he wasn't the same person I'd known all those years.
It would be another 10 years before I crossed paths with Jimmie again. I was at the mall with my young daughter when I saw him from a distance. As he approached, I called out his name and waved to get his attention. I was ready to catch up, maybe even repair our friendship. But his eyes were like ice. Even though we were face to face, I wasn't sure if he saw me. He appeared to look right through me. I looked away and kept walking.
Excuse me for blogging off topic, but recalling my old friend and long-gone high school experiences, I think I may have found that bit of inspiration that's been lacking, that something I needed in order to pick up and resume working my novel (after I finish painting the Effa story).
*name changed, of course.