Jimmy and Jay

“Jimmy and Jay”
1) Letter Box Brawl
He bites down against the stretchy, sticky athletic tape and jerks his head backwards to extend the strip as much as possible. Jimmy wraps the tape around his chin-breaking knuckles. After he finishes wrapping the final wrap, Jimmy pounds his fists together and a crackling boom startles bats from the trees above. I’m Jay Connelly, and that is my best friend, Jimmy Punch.
“Hoods up fellas,” Jimmy commands.
Our homeboy from Five-Points, Marshawn asks, “Gats?”
Jimmy looks at him like he’s a fool and says, “Gats?” Jimmy pulls of the sleeve of his hoodie. “Jay, shine your phone on my arm.”
I turn on the flash of my camera phone. The light shows Jimmy’s arm wrapped in tattoos of four-leaf clover vines and colorful leprechauns.
“Across the creek…a brawl with the Cherries,” he says. “Tats only. No gats.”
A faint glare from Marshawn’s black eyes slides at me.
I look back at Marshawn, and I pull our Ashton Pride Letter Box.
Letterboxes are hidden geographical treasures in the Rocky Mountains. Boxes contain everything extra the town has to offer. Ashton’s Letterbox is an empty casket. All we have is our Lover’s Journal, a few scattered dollar bills, and a packet of cig sticks.
Jimmy lethally focuses on the minutes ahead.
I nudge him.
He doesn’t respond.
I smack him in the arm.
“Dammit, Jay. What?”
“Are you sure about this, Jimmy?” I flip through the pages and say, “Ashton doesn’t have much. The Lover’s Journal is our legacy. It’s all family history we have.”
“Pssh,” Jimmy scoffs.
“Family? What family? I’m a leave-behind just like those left-over wiener dogs at Blossom’s junkyard.”
Slick, a short boy, younger than we are, but built like a tiny brick, jumps from the forest and tackles Jimmy from behind. They wrestle for fun and laugh. They split from each other and stare into the night catching their breaths.
Slick says, “But you’re our ‘Leave-Behind.’ Nah, I get it man. The Cherry Letter Box has so much cash flowing in it, Ashton could survive for years off that noise.”
“It’s a risk Jimmy,” I say. “You know the Cherries are going to bring their best to get our journal. It’s all we have in Powder Valley.”
Marshawn asks, “I still don’t get it. Why is our journal so important?”
Jimmy hits my arm and shakes his head signaling me to shut up.
Marshawn says, “I aint joining a brawl in the snow if I don’t know what we be fighting for.”
Both Jimmy and Slick simultaneously light cig-sticks and exhale plumes of smoke together.
“Cherry Ridge doesn’t even want Ashton to exist in Powder Valley anymore.”
“So?” Marshawn sneers.
I look to Jimmy.
He checks is watch and says, “It’s time.”
“Just know Marshawn,” I stand and pull him up by the shoulders. As I brush off the dust from his hoodie I say, “The Lover’s Journal is Ashton’s only hope left in the Valley. That’s all you need to know.” I whisper in his ear, “Plus, Jimmy will take care of everything. He hasn’t lost fight in his entire life.”
Bus breaks screech. Our school bus pulls up to Blossom’s junkyard, a sparse parking lot of dead cars.
Slick says, “Damn, Jimmy. We’re taking the bus. I ain’t got no money.”
“I got you,” Jimmy says.
The bus doors swing open as we approach. Jimmy tosses a carton of cig-sticks to the bus driver. The driver catches the carton and hides the box underneath his seat. He checks around to make sure no one is around and waves for us to come in.
When we enter, the silence is chilling. The energy from the kids at school is absent. All the energy is compressed within Jimmy’s fists.
We follow Jimmy to his back seat. The doors shut. The lights shut off, and the engine rumbles. The bus driver turns away from Blossom’s junkyard and begins our drive to Cherry Ridge.
We approach the entrance to Powder Valley’s towering dam that separates Ashton from Cherry Ridge. The incline takes almost a minute, but once we reach the plateau, we escape the pits of Ashton and approach the electric, glistening community of Cherry Ridge.
Cherry Ridge is a dream of the wealthy. Laden with bustling, charged energy, million-dollar mansions spread across their part of the Valley. Most of the houses have pillars, massive trees, and lit-up sculpted gardens that are worth more than a car. Cherry Ridge is the home of the Snow Drop Mountain Resort. A plush, posh, hidden winter hideaway.
As we approach the Snow Drop Ski Resort, the houses turn from old school copies of the White House and become sculptures of millennium mountain homes. I hate it, but Cherry Ridge is an architect’s dream. Along the mountainside next to the snow slopes of the resort are personalized cabins. The cabins are not wooden, though. They’re new. They’re edges are modern and sharp. Gleaming metal glimmers from each cabin’s base. However, we’re not here for the lights and sights.
In fact, I’m about to be sick.
I spew out the window.
“Jesus, Jay. You alright, man,” Slick asks.
I answer him, “Screw Cherries, man. I hate doing this.”
Jimmy stares out the window cracking his knuckles.
Our bus rides through the resort up into the woods of Snow Drop Peak. The lights of Cherry Ridge succumb to the towering trees, and we feel at home in the darkness.
“Where now, Jimmy?” The bus driver asks.
“Just past those two trees that look like a field goal. Take the path through them. Drive up to a barn and farm. Park next to the barn.”
The bus rumbles and bumps over a rocky road towards a run-down old barn hidden in the depths of Snow Drop Peak. A moonlit hued pitch, half the size of a football field, rests in silence until the bus screeches.
We exit before Jimmy and climb out of the bus. Jimmy pats the driver on the shoulder and hands him a brown bag, probably hard liquor. Jimmy points a taped finger at the driver and makes him promise not to take a sip before we get back.
Jimmy hops off the bus. Before the Cherries can show up, we run to the nearest patch of trees to hide.
“Why are we hiding?” Marshawn asks. “Let’s man-up to those fools.”
Jimmy sniffs and drops a dip of tobacco into his bottom lip.
I say, “The Cherries will bring an army. We won’t get their box by just brawling. We have to be smart.”
“Smart?” Slick asks. “But Jimmy doesn’t even go to school.”
We can’t help not to laugh. Even Jimmy cracks a giggle.
I catch my breath and say, “Marshawn, you’re new. Five-Points may be a “gun ‘n’ run” world, but we don’t have anywhere to run. This is Cherry Ridge. Their home.”
Countless pairs of lights stream through the trees and the field is lit. Kids laugh and giggle when they exit their cars.
Lines and lines of Cherries sit on cars, or the back of trucks, even a few limousines show up for the affair.
“Limos?” Marshawn asks.
“Adults,” Slick says.
“Cops?” Marshawn asks.
Jimmy says, “Not between Cherries and Ashes. Hell… cops in the Powder Valley are Cherries anyways.”
“Marshawn,” I say. “Buckle up. There are no rules in a snow brawl. Just a winner. And this year…the winner get’s the loser’s Letter Box.”
Marshawn takes a step forward to exit to trees and enter the pitch, but I pull him back.
“What?” he asks.
“This is Jimmy’s fight,” I say. “Jimmy fights.”
I look and see a brand-new Mercedes SUV pull up to the middle of the pitch. A boy exits the driver side of the car.
“Well, look who it is Jimmy,” Slick says. “Our favorite Cherry, Blake Thorn.”
His hair is short, blonde, and dolled up with hair gel that makes it look like a miniature mohawk. The tips of his hair are scattered and highlighted in platinum white. His neck is crowded with countless colorful popped collars. It’s cold, so he cloaks himself in mink. The cost of his ensemble on this one night could feed the people of Ashton for a week.
Jimmy spits out his tobacco and places another dip into his bottom lip. He takes a deep breath, pounds his fists together three times, and exits the darkness towards Blake and the field of light.
Blake’s mid-pubescent voice cracks when he yells, “Jimmy…we’re waiting.”
Jimmy is a goliath. Oohs and ahs carry through the pitch as some of the Cherries get to see him for the first time. He wears a pitch-black hoodie with an Irish clover insignia on the back. His shoes are worn, and his jeans are torn.
The pitch is small. It only takes a few steps and Jimmy is towering over Blake like a grizzly over his prey.
“Well, if it isn’t Homecoming King Jimmy Punch,” Blake says.
“Blake,” Jimmy says.
“You know my title, brute. This is my part of Powder.”
Jimmy rolls his eyes and mumbles a forced, “Homecoming King Thorn.”
Blake looks past Jimmy and says, “That’s better. Now, let’s get this party started. Is it just you again? Are your little buddies hiding?”
Jimmy says, “You know the game.”
Blake smirks, “Geez, you’re no fun.” He snaps his fingers and two middle-school Cherries approach with the famous Cherry Letter Box. Guilded in white gold and pearled with rubies, the Cherry Ridge Letter Box is a treasure made for King Midas.
“Okay, now you,” Blake commands.
“Jay, get out here.”
I approach with Ashton’s Letter Box, which is basically a shoebox with a journal.
“Good,” Blake says. “Let’s get the rules straight.”
“Jay?” Blake asks me. “You’re the smart one.” He rubs his hands together like he’s preparing for a meal. “What do we have tonight?”
I say, “A typical snow brawl. Winner takes all. Both Boxes.”
Blake says, “Too easy. There’s like 100 Cherries. Are you two going to fight us all?”
Jimmy interrupts, “For Letterboxes? I’ll fight your best. Best of three fights wins.”
“Deal,” Blake says.
Our groups separate and as we walk back to the woods, Blake climbs in his Mercedes and reverses in front of a few cars for an up-front seat.
Jimmy enters the woods, and we huddle around him.
“What’s the word, Jimmy?” Marshawn asks. “This is sketchy. We got to pick up a few run ‘n’ gunners?”
Jimmy says, “Nah, I got this. You have our Letterbox, Jay?”
“Yes.”
“Give it here.”
I hold it in front of him and say, “Jimmy…last chance.”
He takes it from me and says, “You going out there with me? That’s what I thought. Give me the box.”
Jimmy grabs the box from my grip and breaks through the tree line. He stomps to the middle of the pitch, firmly places our box in front of him, and he pulls of his Irish hoodie. A torn, burnt, and blood-stained t-shirt stretches on top of Jimmy’s rippling back muscles. He cracks his neck and clenches his fists at his sides.
He waits.
We wait.
One honk comes from Blake’s Mercedes.
A lengthy kid, just as tall as Jimmy but half the size, appears from Blake’s car wearing a Karate-suit. The suit is royal blue with red stitching and his black belt is rimmed in a Marlboro red trim. He approaches Jimmy with respect. Within feet, the boy bows his head and then goes through some sort of show-off routine that ends with a video-game fighting stance.
Jimmy looks back at us and shrugs. He turns around, jacks the kid in the face, and knocks him out. It isn’t a fight. The first trial goes to Jimmy.
Slick says, “Well that was easy.”
“Shut it, Slick,” I say. “It’s Cherry Ridge. They always find ways to win.”
The younger Cherries run out from behind the cars and carry the knocked-out kid from the pitch. Once the pitch is clear, Jimmy waits.
Two honks blare from Blake’s car.
Two gigantic football players in full uniform, helmet, and all, present themselves in front of Jimmy.
Slick asks, “Jimmy can hit, man, but how is he going to hit through helmets?”
Marshawn pulls out gleaming brass-knuckles from his pocket and says, “Jimmy said, ‘No gats.’ He didn’t say anything about fist-fighting tools.”
Marshawn tosses the five-ringed piece of metal at Jimmy’s feet. Jimmy looks down to his right and places each finger through each hole of the brass-knuckles.
The two footballers charge. They burst like bulls towards Jimmy. Within yards, they duck their heads and a tuck their shoulders, shooting their bodies forward for impact. But Jimmy’s fists are too fast.
In a full-swinging, roundhouse of a punch, Jimmy cracks both helmets in one swing. The helmets shatter against each other and the bodies of the footballer Cherries go limp. Again, the young Cherries carry their loss back to the cars.
“That all you got!” Slick yells from the bushes.
Blake exits the car. He claps ever-so-slowly in arrogance and says, “Nice job, Brute.” He grabs his Letterbox from the Mercedes and approaches Jimmy. He says, “It’s all yours, Jimmy. All you have to do is beat…her.”
Her?
A small girl, swallowed in a Cherry Ridge, white-sleeved, red, and blue trimmed letterman’s jacket approaches the middle of the pitch.
Jimmy says, “You can’t be serious, Blake.” He drops the brass knuckles off his hands to the ground. “She still has braces.”
Blake smirks. He turns away laughing and leaves Jimmy and the little girl…alone.
Jimmy turns back to us and yells, “I ain’t doing it fellas.” He turns back around and before he says anything the girl blasts him in the face. Then, she knocks him in the stomach.
Jimmy falls to his knees.
She throws one last uppercut punch through the side of Jimmy’s jaw and Jimmy’s tobacco flies upward into the air. Jimmy falls over. He’s out.
The Cherries jump and run towards the girl in jubilation. She is emotionless.
Blake walks over, picks up Ashton’s Letter Box, with our Lover’s Journal and kicks dirt in Jimmy’s face. He walks back to his Mercedes, honks his horn, and within seconds the crowded field is vast and empty. The only thing lit by moonlight is Jimmy’s limp body.
Slick, Marshawn, and I run out of the tree line towards Jimmy. When we reach him, he tries to push himself up, but drops to the ground.
“Help him up!” I yell.
The three of us grab Jimmy and it’s like lifting a bag of boulders.
Jimmy’s legs fall underneath him, but we catch him before he falls. He says, “Thanks fellas…what…what just happened?” Jimmy asks. “I feel sick…and tired.”
“Damn,” I say. “He’s concussed. Stay awake Jimmy. Don’t fall asleep.”
We get him to the bus and plop him in the first row. The bus driver knows not to ask questions and drives away from the woods of Snow Drop Peak. Even though we are illuminated by the electricity of Cherry Ridge, the bus is dark. Riding over the dam and watching Jimmy alone in the front seat feels different. Something has changed.
The bus drops us off at our hangout, a restaurant named The Bridge. Nestled in darkness at the base of the dam, a few scattered stained-glass windows from a couple decades ago protect us from the outside world. When we approach, the sounds of a bustling party explode through the walls.
We help Jimmy off the bus and carry him into the restaurant. Once we enter, the party stops. Ashtonians drop their drinks at the site of Jimmy and help assist us in carrying him to his reserved booth.
We settle down and the server/bartender Pinner, drops off some Cola and waters. Pinner is barely out of his teens. He’s a few years older than us, but still pokes around at the town drama. His shoulders are broad like Jimmy, and he is just as tall, but he’s a teddy bear. We trust him. He carries the secrets of Ashton. After he fills our table with drinks, he plops into the booth and asks, “Damn fellas. It didn’t go as planned?”
We respond by shaking our heads.
Jimmy finally starts to wake from his concussion and asks, “Did I just get my ass kicked by a girl?”
I say, “Yeah…sorry man. But she mashed you. Like two hits and you were down for the count.”
Jimmy brushes the side of his cheek, purple in recovery. He jokes, “She was kind of hot.”
The table laughs, and for a moment, the gravity of our loss is lightened. Pinner asks, “What about the Letter Box? Cherries get it?”
The laughter stops and we drop our heads. I say, “The snow brawl was winner take all. The Cherries won our Letter Box.”
“Damn man. You guys need to keep that under wraps. People have been asking about that box.”
Jimmy says, “Jay and I found it. We protect it. It’s ours. We’ll figure it out.”
Pinner leans forward and uses his thumb to point out an old drunk at the bar. The drunk has white hair that flows down to his shoulders. His beard is just as white and thick. He looks like a skinny Santa.
Pinner says, “That guy over there. That’s old man Powder. Valor Powder. This is his valley. And he has been asking about that box for weeks.” Pinner sits back to make sure no one is watching or listening. “He already knows you kids found the Letter Box. That’s when he started showing up.”
“I don’t get it,” I say.
Valor pushes himself off the bar and stumbles towards our booth. He nears us but turns a sharp right to the bathroom.
Pinner says, “You’re lucky he’s hammered and can’t be bothered, but he’ll be asking about that Letter Box for sure. Get it back. Now.”