The novelty has worn off.
There hasn't been a sighting in quite sometime and everyone seems to be quite okay with it.
Street Jimmy has been absent from Wieland Street.
Early in the summer he was told by members of the 18th District to scram out of Old Town or be arrested. Residents of the area had grown weary of Street Jimmy's rather aggressive demeanor as he would seek handouts from all who passed by. And it was the right thing to do. Even those with a high tolerance level for his antics were having their giving spirits numbed by his lack of appreciation and sense of entitlement. Eventually, Street Jimmy decided not to listen to the cops who were trying to keep him out of jail. He did a few months. The out of sight out of mind period changed a lot of attitudes toward Street Jimmy. It was rather pleasant not having to deal with him on the street and especially inside the bar.
Street Jimmy thought he deserved more than he received. Crack can have that affect on the mind. His thinking, while being rather askew to begin with when I met him, became intolerable. I started losing patience with him when he decided to pick and choose which jobs he would do for people. He certainly was ready to run to the store and fetch a Coke Zero or duck into Starbucks for a Grande Dirty Chai with two shots but when it came to shoveling a foot and a half of snow off the sidewalk Street Jimmy was nowhere to be found. He would show up to help move furniture only after the bulk of the work was done. The words he would use to describe himself as being "tired of being tired" were those of your typical addict - they were fiction. Winter offered him limitless opportunities to make money. Twenty bucks was too much when five would do.
People would listen to him talk. His monologue was delivered with emotion but truth wasn't part of the foundation. Street Jimmy's delivery was need based. Words words words always words and never any evidence to back up those words. His actions always moved him toward the dealers on Sedgwick Street rather than toward rehab or the shelter. This summer many people commented on how pleasant it was not having him around. When Gracie said it, it held the most weight with me. Her tolerance level of Street Jimmy was on "Mother Theresa" level. However, one can only take so much.
A few weeks ago he got out of jail. That was a fun day. We celebrated with him as he strode around the bar all smiles and health after amassing many days of 3 hots and a cot. He had just had his picture taken with former Chicago Bear Richard Dent and was rather pleasant to be around. I got him a few articles of clothing and Grace sent him on a run to grab us some lunch. He even confessed to hitting the pipe that same day, which we all shook our heads at and laughed about. Unfortunately, the good times were short lived. By day two the snarl was back when he wouldn't get the handouts he thought he should receive. That did it for me and maybe for some of the folks who wear blue and carry silver badges because he has not been seen in a few days. Nobody is at all upset about it...except for one person.
There is one person left who he can still get over on. This particular lady constantly stops by the bar and asks whomever is behind the bar to relay messages to Street Jimmy. She is worried about him because she thinks people set him up. Other miscreants ask Street Jimmy to hold their drugs for him and that is why he gets arrested. She did say that she thinks he "might" smoke a little marijuana and drink every once in a while. Yesterday she came him and asked me to tell Street Jimmy to come see her. I said I would, but I also had had my fill of this nonsense. I told her that said could probably find him on Sedgwick Street trying to purchase some crack. "Oh no, he doesn't do that!" she said storming out of the bar. That poor woman...
Nobody wishes any harm to come to Street Jimmy. Actually, some people do and it is hard to argue against that. He had a real good thing going around Wieland Street but his crack-addled mind lost him that territory. He was a watchdog, a wheelbarrow, and at times a worthy companion. Now he is a crack addict and nothing else. I hope there might be some humanity left in him and a Higher Power can yank it out of the fog in his soul because once upon a time there was a diminutive boy who had trouble saying certain words, in fact a lot of words. Said boy went trick or treating through a South Side neighborhood with his mother who held a gun in her hand to keep them safe. Now that boy is a machine who's level of survival rivals anything our Armed Forces can produce, but his existence is for a sole purpose in this life. How much more can he take? I have no idea and I don't care to think about it for another minute today.
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