Armed with a leather flask, teeth gripped tightly against a skinny cigar, Smelly Jimmy positioned himself at the end of the train where people began to ignore the aura that he was flickering off, both feet stabilized as the train ran along the rails. Around this point in time, I had finished school, so I took a break from reading in general to discover any music that might be of interest to me In actuality, it was boiled down to Marty Robbins and his western ballads, but the hit song from Jimmy Buffett, Margaritaville, was circling my head as I gazed upon this intricate creature. I lowered my volume in hopes that I would pick up any dialogue from him and his shadowed mate who sat in the one seat where you can only see the back of their head. But he rarely moved his lips. That is, for two exceptions, to agree or maybe disagree something, or fiddle around with the vices that he is so proud to show off with. But Jimmy didn't do any harm, not at all. He wore a dark green Hawaiian shirt that was properly fitted, splendid jeans and boots, and black sunglasses that gave him that mysterious and hangover vibe that says, "Yeah man, I'm just doing me in the ol' city." The stench of whiskey suddenly invaded my space. It was quite heavy, to have even reach my area of the train, which was a little more than halfway across from Jimmy. It was at this time, about two stops away from home, that he lit the cigar, forcing two passengers to annoyingly walk away to the opposite side of the train and creating a stream of blue smoke that began to fill his corner. Instead of staying for the action of what would come next in terms of CTA security or Jimmy finally coming to his blurry senses, I decided to hop off early and wait for the next train, as is with some other folks who probably thought the same.
I wish I could say more on Smelly Jimmy, but that final glance toward his general direction played like a slow-motion sequence in an old western flick, the bandit looking as the brim of his hat shadows his glare upon those who wander in his path, only to be disturbed if disturbed - a wanderer, of sorts. And I swear, he gave me this look as I strolled through the saloon doors and into town, unaware of each other's journeys and challenges, but standing under the same sun and moon as the hard steel guitar echoes in the dust.
