the gangsters in my head

"leave behind a trail of crumbs and hungry people will come".  that's what Jimmy the Bonnet always says.  "Bonnet" because he kept everything under wraps and "Jimmy" because his real name was Earl and everyone knew that Earl was no name for a gangster.  Jimmy likes to make the seemingly small and insignificant into something meaningful.  perhaps he is so obsessed with symbols and meaning because he, himself, isn't real.  he is, however, real enough to me, real enough to a kid who just spilt a large sum of crumbs from a crushed up granola bar on her desk, a kid who worries that worst than perhaps the Feds or other gangsters coming after you, there were ants to worry about.  "ants like moles" Jimmy would say with a smile pulling a small flask of whisky out from under his red, swollen and pock marked nose.  but there are no "real" gangsters in this kids life, in my life, no gangsters save the ones enlivened by symbol and metaphor.  and those are just the kind of gangsters i prefer anyway.  ones whose smoke i can feel and whose hot breath i can almost taste, almost, but don't have to.  i can enjoy the pleasantry of the image as an image.  the perfect image without side affects: smell, heat, sound, unpredictability.  the gangsters in my head are not mean.  they are simply take no crap from anybody kind of guys.  they like their whiskey and they like their smokes and they like to dress sharp.  and for some odd reason they like me.  a scrawny white kid in my mind wearing a baggy white t-shirt so thin my peach skin pokes through rendering the entire fabric a little rosy.  and i'm sitting at an old fashioned type writer.  why a typewriter?  why not?  and my shirt has skinny navy stripes on it.  and i'm still me.  my face is the same.  only now i'm in some attic or other high place posing for a picture before my typewriter.  Jimmy the Bonnet has his hand on my knee like an adoring father and several of the other "boys" (though all are large and hefty and hardly boys at all but men) are gathered around me.  they all have cigarettes drooping from their lips.  Jimmy and I are the only ones smiling.  something tells me this must be how the mind copes.  come up with your own imaginary possy when a real one doesn't exist.  no one would mess with this scrawny kid if they knew the company she held.  my mind grows giddy and bright.  i smile again.  the light flashes and the still frame is permanent in my mind.  just me and the guys.  me and the gangsters in my head.