by Gabe Camozzi

Nine o’clock, and all is well in Ourtown. The busy air and rush of Sainte-Catherine is caught up in the lights of cars, neon signs, store displays and, this special night, in the light of Jimmy Fabuko’s jacket. He pushed his way along the sidewalk, people of every flag and faith moving all around him, some slower, some faster - different tempo, same rhythm. They’ve got only a few things in common, all these people; they are all dressed warmly for the autumn night air, they all have that need to get somewhere, and they are all checking out Jimmy Fabuko’s jacket.

The grease in his black hair reflects the light coming from his jacket; his tight black jeans warm up with a bit of the jacket’s white glow. Jimmy Fabuko strides confidently down the sidewalk among this crowd of other people, cruising, hands-in-pockets cool, chewing on a stick of cherry Trident, his teeth working the gum for the movement of the jaw and the taste. Jimmy says that chicks dig his powerful chin when it’s in action, pounding gum, talking, whatever. Most of Jimmy’s friends don’t think so.

The jacket is something else. Lord knows where Jimmy picked it up - it’s got to be one of a kind, no doubt about it. It’s made like a regular leather bomber jacket, except it glows. It glows this weird white light, not so bright that you can’t see the jacket, but bright enough to tell you that Jimmy Fabuko is walking down Sainte-Catherine with his jacket on. It’s kind of baggy, so it doesn’t show off Jimmy’s skinny build. He keeps it in perfect condition, hangs it up, brushes it down. Nobody can figure out how it works, if it’s lights or paint or whatever. If you do ask Jimmy about it, don’t tell him it’s radiated or that it’ll give him cancer or something. He punched out a guy named Mickey for saying that.

Jimmy has a pretty tight face, strong cheekbones, no fat on him. He’s got these two hazel eyes that always look tired, even around lunchtime. And he’s got this faded scar, reaching from his scalp, down across his forehead and leading to his left eyebrow, where it stops. At least, that’s the way Tony and Kino find him.

* * *

These boys are from the west, from the suburbs. They’re out for a walk on the town, enjoying the smokey, noise-polluted neon world of downtown Montreal. Tony’s a big goombah, football O-lineman; Kino is his friend and the archetypal Little Guy. Kino never makes much of his 5’6" height - he brushes away "Shorty" jokes and comments about proportions. Kino’s a peppy talker, lips moving like a machine gun.

"Awright, man," fired Kino, "this is it. We’re gonna SCORE tonight. Look at the SLICES around here, man! This is Kino’s lucky night, I can feel it in the air, Tony."

Tony was looking forward to meeting a few interesting people. "Sure, I’m up for slamming a few hot chicks."

"That’s the right attitude, my friend. The skirts don’t stand a fucking chance!"

To the untrained eye these two teens would look like real players, Sharks on St. Kit’s. To anyone who had passed grade six, they looked like what they are. They are suburban boys, out of their environment, trying to warm up to an urban fantasy. Finally, as they neared the Peel Metro, passing by the Chapters on the corner, they came across Jimmy Fabuko. The boys had walked behind the big store into a narrow alley, and Tony pulled out a joint. They each took a puff, celebrating their rebelliousness and all-around bad-assness.

"Oh shit, man."

Kino had spotted Jimmy. Fabuko was lying on his back, legs and arms sprawled out like a puppet off its strings. He had been knocked around quite a bit, from the look of it; his black hair was slick with blood, and a thread of red was oozing out of his scar. His mouth was slack-jawed open - a piece of cherry Trident was stuck to his upper palate and was flapping like a wet sock every time Fabuko weakly breathed out. The jacket was still glowing, not as brightly as before, but still burning like a white-hot ember.

"Jesus Christ," gasped Tony.

"Holy shit, man," shrieked Kino. "How long you think he’s been here? Think he’s.. like, dead?"

"Uh, I dunno, Kino. Look, look! He’s still bleeding - maybe that means this just happened or something, maybe he’s still alive!"

"Check out his jacket. That is one weird piece of suede."

"Kinda like a lightbulb."

"Oh, geez, maybe we should, like, get him to the hospital."

The two approached Jimmy, walking slowly for no reason. As Tony stooped down, rolling up his sleeves and squatting, a noise echoed through the alley. Kino looked over Tony’s shoulder. At the other end of the alleyway were six or seven mugs, all tall, dark shapes, almost shadows in the poor visibility of the night sky. Something metal flashed in the moonlight of the alley - studs or chains. The shades were walking in a tight group towards the body, some hundred feet down the alley, talking in low voices and sounding threatening to Kino, who at five-foot-six, had reason to be afraid. He promptly freaked out.

"Hey, Kino," Tony said, heaving the guy onto his shoulders, "where’re we gonna take him? I dunno any hospitals around here, and we’re gonna look kinda suspicious dragging..."

"Fuck Tony," hissed Kino, ready to lose it. "There’s ten guys coming for us down the alley they’re gonna mug us or somethin we gotta get the fuck outta here!"

At this news, Tony looked behind him. Sure enough, the shapes continued to move towards them, not slowing or hesitating in their charge down the alley. Though his buff appearance usually inflated his courage, the thought of a twelve-on-one brawl quickly popped that balloon.

"Hey," yelled a mug, in a deep, growly voice, "those two punks are fucking with my jacket!"

You don’t know speed until you’ve seen men run for their lives. Mrs. Anita Diermo, a petite young woman who had big brown eyes and a baggy black trenchcoat on, was walking home from her job at Germinelli’s Auto Repair Shop when she saw a big kid and a tiny little guy sprinting out of the alley at close to mach speed, carrying either a very drunk or very injured greaser with a glowing jacket by the arms and legs, and running up towards De Maisonneuve. A few seconds later three men charged out of the alley, dressed in black leather, studs and patches. From what Mrs. Anita Diermo could see of them, they all looked to be young, shaven, and fairly tall. They stopped, looked around, and started screaming at each other. Finally, they all ran off in different directions, two going in opposite directions along Sainte-Catherine, the other heading down to René-Levesque. Mrs. Anita Diermo shook her head, started up Peel, and thought to herself how this would make an interesting story at the party next weekend at her mother’s house.

* * *

Tony and Kino had stopped to catch their breath. For all they knew, those goons in the alley could be anywhere. They had ducked into an alley up along Peel, the realization that a badly hurt guy wearing the fashion equivalent of a flare was much harder to conceal than they had originally thought. Jimmy "The Body" Fabuko was still knocked cold on the cold concrete, when Kino ventured an interrogatory.

"Why tha FUCK did you carry the fucking BODY, you fucking idiot?" he hissed.

"Because," panted Tony, "those guys would have... fucking.. killed all THREE of us!"

"Well, now WE’RE stuck with tha fucking BODY, cuz now there’s all those fucking people that saw US with HIM. Where do we take buddy here now, huh? We jus’ gonna leave him here? We’ll, like, get arrested or something, an’ then it’ll be on my fucking permanent RECORD or
something. Oh, Jeezus, man, we’re fucked, we’re dead meat, ohh shit man.."

"We’ll think of something."

"We can’t just fucking drag buddy around tha whole fucking city all night, looking for a hospital."

"Don’t call me ‘buddy’."

Tony and Kino aren’t usually very symmetrical together, but the way they both looked down at Jimmy Fabuko was damn near mathematically uniform. The jacket had a voice.

"Whoa, he’s alive, Tony!"

"Oh, jeezus Christ, guy, you gave us a fucking scare," sighed Tony, "We thought you were almost dead."

Jimmy Fabuko touched his forehead, turning his fingers red. He looked at Tony and Kino. He looked at his fingers. He looked at his jacket. He was two eyeballs to their four, but he locked their eyes on him like a constrictor chokes a pig. He ran his fingers through the wet hair, bringing more blood to his fingers. He stood up. Pulling a comb out of his pocket, he ran it through his still thickly greased hair.

"Who are you?"

Neither of them said anything. Then they both said their names at once.

* * *

"Okay, Tino," Jimmy pointed to Kino. "Tell me exactly what is going on here." Jimmy spoke with a voice that he called the Politician.

"Uh, well, man, we found you in an alley an’ we brought you here cuz some guys were gonna beat us up. And you. Well, maybe not you but whatever, an’ like I said, these..."

"Some guys?" Jimmy glared. "Were they all wearing yellow jackets? Or brown shoes?"

"Uh, they had studs an’ chains an’ stuff... you know, I didn’t..."

Jimmy cut him off with a motion of his hand. He stared into a neon light advertising assurance-vie at des prix incroyables across the street, eyes squinted, thinking, the jacket’s glow chasing the darkness from the alley. He didn’t look angry, just .. cool, taking in the warm breath of wind from the opening onto Peel. The two suburbanites were still staring at him, trying to figure out what he would do next. Then, he did something.

He combed his hair again. "You boys can split. Thanks for the lift."

The two boys walked out of the alley, looked at each other, then sprinted for a metro. Their evening was over.

The Jacket popped a piece of cherry gum. He was back into his tempo, sliding up the Main, hands-in-pockets cool. Jimmy’s evening had just begun.

Gabe Camozzi was born on December 19^th , 1983 to Daniel Camozzi and Kathleen O’Connor Camozzi in Montreal, Québec. He attended Cedar Park School, read a few novels, then went to Loyola High School and read a few more. He currently searches for depth of meaning at his job as a gas station attendant (pump monkey), and enjoys the frivolity of debating, acting, football, eating good food and lying down afterwards. He has previously been published in the First Fruits literary magazine, as well as Loyola’s homebrew publication Venture. He is also single.