While working on Dylan’s motorcycle on Monday evening Kyle and the gang were approached by a man on a beach cruiser.
“You know where Jimmy’s house is?”
No. They didn’t even know of a Jimmy on our block.
“Man, I gotta make it to Jimmy’s tonight.”
He rode off only to circle the block a couple more times, in search of the elusive Jimmy.
Later that evening, as Kyle and our friend Chuck regaled in their story of beach cruiser man and his search for Jimmy’s party, we heard some rather loud (but good) music coming from a couple blocks east.
It must be Jimmy’s.
We finished eating and headed east, first to get some ice cream and then to wander around, hoping to stumble upon the now legendary Jimmy. He didn’t disappoint.
Walking up a dark alley way, somewhere around 12th Street, music (and maybe a little pot smoke) filled the air, and we knew we were close. The glow of stringed lights hanging in a garage grew brighter, the smell of beer strong enough to notice two houses away.
A band called the Rub was nailing a Zeppelin song as we settled in toward the back of the 50+ people filling up the tiny back yard. People played pool in the garage and a girl in white danced alone in the middle of the herd.
“He does this every year,” a random dude filled us in, yelling but barely audible.
Just one song later the band announced they were shutting down, the 10 p.m. noise curfew had hit.
“Who’s coming to the Iron Horse?!” some guy yelled. A few people cheered and others began clearing out for the evening.
Beers in hand, we moseyed through the alley heading home after a gloriously random Monday night.
I don’t know who Jimmy is, but he throws one heck of a party.