Ordering with this link is for items being mailed in the USA.
If you are ordering issues to be mailed to the U.K., go to the Down in the Dirt main page for U.K. shipping.
Jimmy Demarco and his family moved to Rye in 1972. It was a month or so after the school year had begun. The Demarcos moved into my friend Sal Tigli’s house down the street. Sal and his family had moved to Florida a few weeks before. Sal’s younger sister Sophia was the first girl whom I had ever kissed. Sophia was really cute. I was sorry to see them leave.
I was raking leaves in our yard a few days later when Jimmy came over to introduce himself. He was shorter than I was and heftier. He looked as if he had never missed a meal.
“I’m Jimmy Demarco,” he said. “Everyone calls me Jimmy Dee.” He held out his hand for me to shake. He had a strong grip.
“My name’s Dave.”
“You and I are gonna be friends, Dave,” my new neighbor told me. “Jimmy Dee’s a good friend to have.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said.
Jimmy Dee had been living in town for only a couple of weeks before he got into his first fight. The guy that he got into a fight with was named Charlie Banks. Charlie was even heavier than Jimmy Dee. He would eat anything. One time I saw him swig a mouthful of ketchup from a Hines bottle. I almost vomited. Charlie just beamed. Roughage, he said. It does a body good.
Charlie and Jimmy Dee got into it when they were in line at the cafeteria. Charlie accused Jimmy Dee of butting in front of him.
“Jimmy Dee ain’t no scab,” Jimmy Dee said. “Youse is wrong.”
Charlie corrected him. He was not subtle.
“Hey, stupid! I said you cut ahead of me,” were his exact words.
Whereupon Jimmy Dee decked Charlie with an uppercut to the nose.
“Jimmy Dee does his talkin’ with his fists,” Jimmy Dee said. He looked down at Charlie. “You wanna talk next time, see a priest.”
Jimmy Dee winked at me. “Nobody messes with Jimmy Dee,” he said. “Now, where’s my grub?”
The cafeteria line had stopped. Everybody was looking at Jimmy Dee. There was a lot of whispering. I shot a glance at Charlie. His shirt was caked with blood. So much for roughage, I thought.
Jimmy Dee motioned to one of the startled women behind the cafeteria counter.
“Hey, sis, how’s about an extra dose of mashed potatoes?” he said. “Plenty of gravy, too. Jimmy Dee likes his gravy.”
A few minutes later he was wiping his plate clean.
“Jimmy Dee loves his food,” he said. He looked at the saltines packages that were on my tray. “You gonna eat ‘dem?” he asked.
The principal and a security guard came to our table soon thereafter. They led both of us away. I was a witness.
“I know you won’t rat me out, Dave,” Jimmy Dee said, confidently. He took the packages of saltines from my tray and stuffed them in his sweatshirt pocket. “Okay, G-man,” he said to the principal. “Lock me up.”
They let me go within the hour. I had not done anything wrong, after all. Jimmy Dee got off with a stern reprimand.
“Jimmy Dee don’t suffer fools,” he told me that night. We were sitting on the curb in front of my house. My parents were sitting on the front porch. They were keeping an eye on us. My dad had told me earlier in the day that Jimmy Dee was trouble.
“That kid’s nuts,” he said. “Steer clear of him.”
“Oh, he’s just misunderstood,” my mother said.
“They said the same thing about Mussolini,” my father said.
Jimmy Dee was hauled into the principal’s office again six months later after the money from the class bake sale had disappeared under mysterious circumstances.
“Jimmy Dee earns his dough,” Jimmy Dee informed everyone present.
“By hook or by crook,” said the principal.
Jimmy Dee snickered. “That’s a good one, G-Man,” he said. “Youse should be on a stage, one leavin’ town real soon.”
Nobody laughed.
“What the hell’s a few weeks, anyway?” Jimmy Dee told me the next day. “A suspension ain’t forever.”
“What will you do in the meantime?” I asked.
“My cousin Chooch and me got some irons in the fire,” Jimmy Dee said. He rubbed his hands together. There was a big smile on his face. “Yes, sir, the dough’s gonna flow.”
That night at dinner my father told me that he didn’t want Jimmy Dee in the house ever again.
“I know you don’t hang around with him, Dave, but if he comes over here, just talk to him outside,” my father said. He shook his head. “That kid’s on his way to the Big House.”
“You sound like Jimmy Dee yourself,” my mother said.
We all laughed.
A few years later Jimmy Dee got caught breaking into someone’s house. Turns out that he had been robbing houses and stealing car stereos for years. He had to go stand before the judge. Jimmy Dee was 16-years-old.
“Young man, you have a choice,” Judge McCarty told him. “You can join the Navy, or go to jail.”
A hush fell over the courtroom. Or, so I heard.
Old McCarty paused a moment to let that sink in. He took off his spectacles and leaned forward.
“You see, it’s a simple matter, Jimmy me boy,” he said. “You get to choose between the cell or the sail. Now, what’ll it be?”
Jimmy Dee shipped out soon thereafter.
“Beats pumpin’ gas,” he told me the day he left town. We were standing on the sidewalk in front of the Demarco’s house. “Maybe they’ll make me a general.”
We shook hands good-bye. His grip was stronger than ever.
“You’re all right, Dave,” he said. “All these years youse never done Jimmy Dee no wrong no way no how.”
The last I heard Jimmy Dee was in Guam. It was two years after he had joined the Navy. Mr. Demarco showed me a postcard he had received from his son. The spelling and penmanship were abysmal.
Dull place, this here Guam, Jimmy Dee had written. It ain’t no Vegas. Not yet, anyway.
“James was never much of a student,” Mr. Demarco said. “He’s got a lot of street smarts, though.” He warmed to the idea. “That’s what he has. Street smarts.”
I told my dad that night about the postcard and what Mr. Demarco had said. We were sitting on the front porch watching television. The Yankees were beating the Red Sox 7-1. Bobby Murcer had just hit a homer.
“Jimmy Hoffa had street smarts, too,” my father said. “He shared his last ride with a spare tire.”
A wise man, my dad.
