Jimmy the Drunk said, "I bet you didn't know I was a fucking millionaire, eh?" His grey suit looked tailored despite, as he told me later, having stolen it from an unlocked car.
"Where's your sock?" I pointed at his bare, sunburned ankle.
"Ah, for Christ's sake." He squinted like Popeye as he put a lit cigarette in his mouth, slipped off his shoe and pulled up his pant leg. A worn and dirty sock hung from his calf, its toe ending in a blackened hole like an exploded cartoon cigar. He pulled the sock down over his heel and returned his shoe. "Flat tire. Ever since I found this suit, I can do anything. I've been getting free drinks, hitting on the girls. I'm like a fucking Brooks Brothers super hero. You here for some shopping?"
I nodded.
"Let's go."
I walked beside him as he swaggered along Main street's sidewalk of downtown Sarasota, Florida. The flow of business people in grey and the tourists in pastels parted before him. He ignored them all.
Jimmy the Drunk was the name he used when I met him last year. He haunted the alleys and dumpsters behind the shining glass condos that peered over the bay and the flat, green Gulf of Mexico. Whenever I was downtown I sought him out to say hello or, like tonight, to buy me wine.
We passed the stores as they closed and the bars and restaurants as they opened, the changing of the guard. In a few hours these palm-lined streets would fill with the tinny sound of cover bands and the laughter of the over-thirties getting drunk, partying and pretending it's the same as when they were my age.
I have a theory that because Florida has no seasons, there is no sense of time passing. It's easy for people to believe the illusion of an eternal last summer of high school, like the one I'm approaching. You see these guys -- and they're mostly guys -- at house parties. They think they're popular because they can buy beer. They ignore, for as long as they can, the bald spot, maybe by growing their hair long. They spoil their eighteen year old girlfriends with handbags and rides in their boat. They do this until even the free beer and the convertible no longer attracts even the fat junior that plays the clarinet in the marching band. Then they move on to the bar scene and start hitting on desperate and lonely twenty something medical receptionists or, if they still have their looks, a titty bar dancer.
Maybe you think I'm being harsh, trading in stereotypes. That's Florida. Appearances are Florida's stock in trade. There's no room for depth. Dig a few feet and you hit sea water. If your greatest desire is good weather and fresh seafood, feel free to pull up a sun lounger; you can have mine. If you want culture or discussion, ask the New York tourists, the ones that come down like locusts, if they have any to spare. They'll be happy to unload it. After all, these are the Northerners who just want nice even tans and plates of snow crab claws.
Come downtown any night of the week, you'll see the guys I'm talking about. He'll be staring with his drunken watery eyes at the fake tits of a woman. Her skin sagged leathered from the endless sun, cigarette smoke and Lite beer. Fuck me, if that's what's in store after high school. No wonder I prefer the company of hobos.
"Gavin, man. Where have you been?" Jimmy asked as we headed towards the liquor store.
"Spring break. I was visiting family in Texas. I have an aunt and uncle out there."
"Eighteen and feeling mean. Sounds good."
"How are you?" I asked.
"Can't complain." He said and then he complained about some guy named Fuzzy who'd had ripped him off and then about a bartender who'd kicked him out of a bottle club. Mid-diatribe his attention flew past my shoulder. "Watch this. Everyone trusts a suit."
He jumped over and stood on the sidewalk like Superman ‒ wide stance, fists on his hips ‒ and shouted at a woman trying to parallel park. He motioned to her.
She shouted, "Thanks, hon," and started backing up.
He kept motioning; she hesitated.
"Keep coming. You got miles," he said.
She looked unsure, but reversed again. Her head jerked as she hit the other car.
"Perfect," he said and gave her a thumbs up.
"Asshole!"
"Come on," he said and we jogged the next few blocks. "Okay. What do you need tonight?"
"Here's twenty. Can you get me five bottles of whatever's cheapest? The rest is yours."
"You’re a good'un, kid. You know the drill. I'll be right back."
"My car is over there."
This was my last year of high school. One of many lasts in preparation for a lot of firsts. Soon it would be the last day of high school, the last day in Sarasota, last time I see a lot of people I grew up with and, in a few months after that, it will be a lot of firsts: the first day in a new town, my first apartment, my first day at college. Tonight was the last party before the last spring break was over, and it wasn't the time to think about those uncertain firsts.
Jimmy returned and knocked on the passenger side window. He got in and put the brown paper bag in his lap. He drew out the familiar red-and-gold labeled bottle of Thunderbird. He cracked it open and took a long drink of the syrupy yellow liquid.
"How's the wine?" I asked.
"Just fine. These were on sale." He showed me one of the bottles of Wild Irish Rose before putting them under his seat.
"My mom wanted me to take some stuff to Goodwill. You want to have a look?"
"Any of her panties in there?"
"Shut the fuck up," I said, laughing.
"Ah well. No. I'm good." We shook hands and he said, "See you around, buddy."
"We might be back downtown later," I said before he shut the car door and I drove off.