Robert E. Brown. The 2 Street Chronicles

Jimmy the Cripple

There are always moments in our lives where we question humanity and our place in the universe. "How did I end up here?" isn't just a question of geography or decision making. It's a question that can be asked about our morality, about our soul. My time at the 2 street bar felt like a razor edged test study on my humanity. I'm still not sure if the results ever came in.

Jimmy the Cripple was the neighborhood gimp who needed two crutches to walk and talked with a slight palsy slur. He lived off disability and what ever small time hustles he could get into. When I first started walking to work I would see him hobbling up and down the street. It wasn't long before he discovered a new bartender had been hired and started coming in. I think most of us have the natural reflex to be nicer to a person with a disability. Jimmy would struggle up to the bar with his weirdo pimp mustache and giant tape rigged glasses and would eagerly wave at me with a dumb grin. "Hey there Wobert!" I would run up to him all smiles and warm chit chat while patting myself on the back.

The other night bartender did not share my enthusiasm.
"That crippled prick knows not to come around on my shift" Tommy told me. "If he comes in when I'm working, I'll beat him with his own crutches."
A few months before, Tommy jumped in the middle of a group of brawl hungry construction workers and ended up on the floor in a dog pile of angry energy. The gold chain around his neck tore off and and slid across the floor. As he was grasping out from under the pile of swinging fists to retrieve it, a crutch swooped down and scooped up the chain and from his floor angle view he watched Jimmy and his chain bound out the door.
Even with that information I wasn't having it. Jimmy was a sweet guy that had it bad, and I was a saint.

But sooner than you would expect, my social charity died in the face of my mercenary instincts. You see, Jimmy never tipped. Ever. My resentments grew as my saintly charming efforts to make nice with the neighborhood underdog were repeatedly met with nothing but an empty beer can and an ashtray full of dirty butts. At first I blew it off to his disabled impoverished state. But upon hearing that he lavished the day shift Puerto Rican hard body hottie with crisp twenties, my patience ended. The warm smiles died, the friendly chit chat died, soon my hearing died when the words "Wobert, hey Wob, I need anotha bubwiesa." echoed through the bar. Soon the can was slammed down in front of him and the back promptly turned. Then one night the shit went down.

The bar had cleared out. One of those strange moments a bartender encounters where everyone inexplicably leaves at the same time. The only ones left were Jimmy and Uncle Bob, a 75 year old permanent fixture at the bar. I stood at the end reading my paper. After a while I looked up and Jimmy was gone. I walked up and said "Bob, that crippled prick stiffed me again." and threw the half full budwieser in the trash. Bob went back to watching the Phillies, I went back to reading. A few moments went by and I heard "Wobert, what the fuck?" I didn't look up. "What the fuck Wob?" I sighed looking up and Jimmy was back. "Where's my fucking beer?"
"You left Jimmy. I threw it out."
"Fuck that I want my fucking beer."
The dispute escalated with voices raised. Finally I got tired of arguing and slammed a new can in front of him and it foamed out onto the bar.
"Here, drink your beer and then get the fuck out." I turned and started to walk away.
"Fuck you Wobert, you're the shittiest bartender in the neighborhood." he screamed at the top of his lungs, beet red with anger.
I turned back and grabbed his fresh can and winged it into the trash.
"You're through Jimmy. Get the fuck-"
A crutch came up over the bar and smacked me right upside the head.
I grabbed the crutch, yanked it from his grasp and flung it across the room. Jimmy dropped like an anchor, disappearing out of sight.
Bob sat unfazed. "You're not too smart Jimmy." He said without taking his eyes off the game.
There was a moment of stunned silence and suddenly Jimmy's left hand jutted up from bellow the bar and grasped at the railing as he strained to pull himself back up. I leaned over the bar, actually wondering why he was only using one hand and the second crutch came stabbing up over the rail and rammed me in the chest with the rubber tip.
I grabbed that crutch and flung it across the room. Again, Jimmy instantly dropped out of sight. The second drop roused Uncle Bob into good Samaritan action. He popped off his barstool and and shuffled up to jimmy in his plaid shorts and black socks and tried to use all of his 85 pounds of strength to lift up Jimmy's 95 pounds of dead weight. His little white knees wobbled and Uncle Bob collapsed on top of Jimmy.
"Jesus Christ, Bob's going to bust a hip." I thought and ran around the bar to untangle this pile of skin and bones. As I pulled Bob up I felt a sharp pain in my leg. Jimmy had grappled onto my calf and was trying to sink his teeth through my jeans into my ankle. I pulled back my leg and kicked him square in the stomach. He whimpered and rolled onto his back. I leaned down to pick him up and he swung up at me. I had had enough. "Let me know when you're ready to behave." I snapped walking back around the bar. Bob went back to watching the Phillies, I went back to reading. I could hear the muffled sounds of Jimmy crying and frustratedly banging his fists on the floor.

After a couple of minutes two neighborhood tough guys came in to buy a six pack. They stood at the bar with Jimmy at their feet. "Yo Jimmy, looking good." one giggled. The other looked at me and asked "You been playing hide the crutch from Jimmy? I love doin' that." and they both laughed as Jimmy moaned. "What fucking scumbags" I thought to myself as I bagged the beer. But you know what? I let him lay there for another 5 minutes. Sobbing and crying while Bob watched the Phillies and I read my paper.

Eventually I gathered the crutches, brushed Jimmy off and sent him on his way. Once I felt both of our spirits were adequately broken

The Sniveling Goat