Jimmy
Jimmy died in the truck. Flash fiction by Elijah Sparkman
Jimmy died in the truck, but I kept thinking about the little bugs in my bathroom sink. I didn’t think they could be bed bugs because I thought bed bugs were invisible. I thought they might be fruit flies, but where was the fruit? Jimmy died in the truck while I was cutting Mrs. Sampson’s house. Old woman always had her gardening gloves tucked into her khakis. A visor on her head, gray hair eking out the side like an octogenarian octopus. The last thing Jimmy said to me was: “I don’t feel so good.” I left him in the truck with the AC on and said we’d figure something out if he still felt that way when I was done. You have to give me a break. Jimmy said he didn’t feel good every day. And there was usually a Big Mac or a bad memory to blame for that. Now I’m signing his death certificate, as a witness. Everyone has one, or gets one eventually. It proves you're dead to the future. Now he’s going to the morgue. To keep cool. While they figure out who the people are who are supposed to be figuring out what to do with him next. Tucked between his legs was a fountain pop from 7-Eleven. By the time the cops got there it was beaded with sweat. Jimmy’s neck was cold and pulseless. Only people have death certificates. It makes me rethink the mornings when I squish those little bugs into the side of my sink. Their remains graffitied on the porcelain canvas where I clean myself. I lied: Jimmy’s last words were: “You always say that.” He said it like he believed it.
Elijah Sparkman is a writer based in Detroit. His writing has appeared in ANMLY, Sleepingfish, 3:AM Magazine, and X-R-A-Y. He is the Program and Volunteer Coordinator for 826michigan, a youth creative writing organization. He is a member-owner of the co-op bookstore Book Suey in Hamtramck, MI.
https://elijahsparkman.com | Instagram: @elijahsparkman20
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