Jimmy and his camera are like June bugs; they are the ephemera of a season. He pops into my life nearly every year just when the I’ve begun to forget him. He’s a hard traveler, a man following the music of what happens.
He’ll stay in my apartment, eat my frozen waffles, quaff my leftover Pinot, wear my sweaters, order countless pay-per-view movies and spend entirely too long in the shower singing Italian opera. But he brings something to my tired life that I’ve been missing: a laughing resistance to routine.
We visit Griffith Park to cope and lounge. “Come on, man, show me your good side,” he says, laughing. There’s a double-meaning in that plea, and Jimmy knows it.
But I don’t have a good side, at least not one I’ve been able to detect…unless Jimmy is around devouring my frozen waffles. He’ll be gone soon, and that’s exactly what I think, like a rusty deadbolt shutting again, while he snaps away with that camera.
Photo: Achi Raz