The hatred of Jimmy Quinn:
Dean Oliver

I hated Jimmy Quinn.

There could be no other way to feel about him. He was to be hated.

He was ugly, stupid, and snivelling. He stank. He dressed like a hobo. He played no sports.

He was always in your face.

If you mentioned a movie, he mentioned the same one, right after you had, even when it was clear he'd not seen it. What a liar.

He walked home with us after school. The mothers would meet us at the school gate. Jimmy would race to my mom, grab her hand, and natter at her.

We'd go to his house first, three blocks away. He'd have eaten my afternoon treat ("You can have more at home...") and bragged about things he'd never done.

His own mother would yell at him from the step to stop bothering people and get inside.

My mother would give him a parting hug, and tell me to be nice.

I wasn't.

I wanted to punch him in his thick, taped up glasses.

Once, I even did.

I can still see the Quinns' corner yard, without fence, trees, or grass. Muddy, with an abandoned taxi stand at one end.

I see Jimmy Quinn's frayed shirts and soiled shoes. His dirty, upturned face.

I can hear the sheer joy in his voice, talking to my mom.

Somewhere, Jimmy Quinn hates the me that hated him.

I do too. Very much.