No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home

Jimmy Joe at the Video

The other day a man in the video store reminded me that we knew each other thirty years ago. His name was engraved on a small oval of polished brass attached to his belt near the buckle. The last time I saw Jimmy Joe his hair hung past his shoulders. He played guitar in the county’s only rock band, drove a red GTO, and had girlfriends galore.

“Since you left,” Jimmy Joe said, “I got married and divorced three times. Right now I want a wife that runs around on me. That way she ain’t bothering me at home.”

“My wife don’t bother me much.”

“See there, probably is running around.”

“Think I should ask her?” I said.

“You really want to know if she is?”

“Don’t reckon,” I said. “Long as she comes home, it’s her life, ain’t it.”

“Son, you always was smart.” Jimmy Joe lowered his voice, and glanced rapidly around to ensure privacy. “You want to burn one out back?”

“No,” I said. “Pot doesn’t do for me what I want done anymore.”

“That’s downheartening,” he said. “What is it you want done, Chris?”

“I don’t know. I tried everything and nothing did a good enough job. I quit all of it.”

“Maybe it’s you.”

“You’re pretty smart, too, Jimmy Joe. What are you up to these days? Still playing guitar? You were the best around.”

“Had to put it down, son. Just gave up on it. Went to barber school and moved to Lexington, but came back home.”

“How come?” I said.

“Too many heads to cut.” loo many:

“Yes, it’s a big town and I like to do the same thing over and over. Same job, same heads, same food. Shoot, I’m here renting the same movie for the hundredth time. I’d save money buying it off of them.”

“What movie?”

” Taxi Driver. Ever seen it?”

“It’s a good one,” I said. “You should get Mean Streets. Same guy made it. Same actor, too.”

“No, got to rent this one. I love that Bickle, T. That’s what it says on the back of his jacket you know — Bickle, T. I got it stenciled on one of mine. I tried to get people to start calling me that, but it didn’t work. You can’t pick your own nickname. That’s one of the rules. You ain’t got a cigarette do you?”

“No, I quit.”

“Me, too,” he said. “But I ran out of nerve pills and figured I might as well smoke.”

“You get nervous, Jimmy Joe?”

“As a cliff rat, son. As a cliff rat.”

“I never heard of that kind.”

“Me neither. But any rat that lives on a cliff would be nervous. See how my skin is kindly orange-colored?”

He pulled back his sleeve to show his arm, surprising me with its distinct orange hue. He turned his hands over.

“Palms, too,” he said. “That’s what normal skin is supposed to look like, son. It’s from taking a lot of carotene. That’s why they call carrots carrots, on account of the color. It’s supposed to calm you down.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“People are starting to get knowledged about it. You know, the Internet and whatnot.”

“You’re on the Internet?”

“Why, sure. Best thing that’s come in here since town water. That e-mail cooks with gas, don’t it.”

“It’s all right.”

“All right? I figured you’d be all over that.”

“Well,” I said. “It bugs me sometimes. It’s permanent as a letter, but spontaneous as a phone call. It’s good to exchange information, but not communication.”

“Son, you ain’t changed a bit.”

“Hey,” I said. “You seen Harley around?”

“That’s one old boy could use some carotene. I pity the world if Harley gets saved. He’ll dry a river out and wear the preacher down. I got to go, son, I can’t be dark getting home. Makes me nervous to drive at night.”

“All right,” I said. “See ya.”

He strode away clutching the video. I envied Jimmy Joe for knowing exactly what he wanted — the comfort of familiarity. You can drive five hundred miles in any direction and eat the same food, put the same gas in your car, sleep at the same hotel, watch the same TV show, and admire the same bland print screwed to the wall. Freedom is terrifying. Taxi Driver is soothing.