I do not own American Horror Story: Freak Show.
But it will always be near and dear to my heart.
And Baby Makes Four
Jimmy Walker, This is Your Life
Life was getting better.
"Higher, Ma-Da! Higher, Ma-Ba!"
Back to normal.
"Much higher and you'll tip over, honey!"
Back to routine.
"No, I'll fly!"
Day by day.
". . . day, isn't it, Gail?"
"It's definitely that, Dot. How's Annabel?"
"Oh goodness, just as precocious as ever, isn't she Bette?"
"More, sister."
Which was good.
"Well, you girls seem to be feeling better."
"We certainly are, Jimmy. Now you better get going before you're late!"
"I thought I just did!"
Because life can only be lived . . .
"Lucy, we were wondering if you would be willing to paint something for us for Kathy's birthday."
"Sure! What were you thinking?"
. . . once.
It had been a road back for Jimmy too in his own way.
The store being ransacked had dealt him an emotional blow he had not so easily shook off.
As well as Annabel's near removal from their home and family.
The old Jimmy had tried to rear his ugly, angry head.
And the ones who cared about him . . .
"Where were you, darling? We were worried."
"Oh, nowhere. Just taking a walk."
. . . had been a little concerned.
"Would you like to sit down and watch Hawaii-Five-Oh with us?"
"Sure."
The Walker family did their best to take care of each other.
"More toast, Jimmy?"
"No thanks. 'S good though."
Keep their heads down . . .
"Hang on . . . damn hands . . ."
"Here. Let us help you, Jimmy."
. . . and watch other people . . .
"Book 'em, Danno!"
. . . live much bigger lives than they.
And it was okay, it was good, the quiet life.
The one where nobody cut off their hands or sold them to be girlie companions for spoiled, murderous rich boy-men.
But still, sometimes . . .
"Nice bike."
"Thanks. 1942 Harley. Fully restored."
"I used to have one like that."
"What happened?"
"Eh, can't motor without hands."
"Shame. 'Nam? Korea?"
"Logging."
"Hell, man, that's a bummer."
"Yeah. Well, have a good day."
"You too, man."
. . . nostalgia whispered sweet nothings into timeworn ears.
Freedom.
The open road.
The wandering life of a freak show gypsy.
"Where we off to now, Elsa?"
"Rome, darling. Where do you think?"
"Kentucky?"
"Bingo."
He wasn't crazy.
He didn't have amnesia.
He didn't miss the backbreaking manual labor, the frequent hunger, or the brutal ostracism of the public at large.
He just missed . . .
"Gunsmoke?"
"Sure."
. . . the possibilities of the world.
Out there.
"Jimmy? You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm good."
And he was.
For the most part.
The Beatles broke up.
While the rest of the world continued to burn.
The Women's Lib skewered men left and right.
While the Black Panthers preached violence to end injustice.
Jimmy Hendrix, Cambodian and Vietnamese inhabitants, and American soldiers died in droves.
Kent State soaked in blood and Richard Nixon stood seemingly helpless to stop the world from coming apart at the seams with rioting, underground gorilla factions.
And a good dose of blind consumerism to distract the human conditions from their edge of tomorrow disasters.
Financially abler people than the Walkers stylishly and sensibly outfitted fallout shelters underneath their homes.
While Charles Mason geared up to parade about the U.S. Justice System as a dangerously deranged, charismatically hypnotizing, homicidal peacock.
In smaller news, Brandon, Florida attempted to remain as unnoticed in all these events as much as possible.
The Walkers were grateful, supremely grateful to keep their heads down and remained unnoticed.
Annabelle traipsed on through fourth grade and straight through fifth.
". . . okay, I guess. The teacher smells like beans but . . ."
Continued taking her piano classes from Miss Wall.
". . . Pink Panther TV show. It's fun!"
Helped a kindergartner learn to read.
". . . at the end of the day and I said as long as she doesn't pee on me . . ."
And generally lived the life of a middle class American . . .
"Ma-da, what's a cheese weasel?"
. . . child.
". . . two moms too but I'm not supposed to tell he said that . . ."
Mostly.
Bette and Dot went about their daily lives . .
What a lovely day to hang the wash, Sister!
Well, I wouldn't go that far, Bette.
. . . with customary panache.
". . . school October Fair on Wednesday, Lucy?"
"Yes. We need to be in the gym at four."
For the most part.
Oh sister, we're going to have to take this dress in if we keep baking much longer.
But, Bette, we have to taste test!
Which left only . . .
"Okay that'll be fourteen sixty-seven."
. . . Jimmy.
"Good day, Jimmy?"
There was nowhere to flee to.
"Yeah. Yeah. It was good."
And even if there had been . . .
"Damn . . . thing . . ."
"Here, darling. Let us help you with that."
"Thanks."
. . . he was firmly grounded in small, unassuming life and . . .
"Jimmy, we need to get the lawn mowed this week."
. . . by his responsibility to his family.
"Daddy, will you help me with my math?"
Not that he didn't love them.
"Jimmy, where is the milk you were going to bring home from the store?"
It was just . . .
"Daddy, how many 'r's in reservoir?"
. . . that he had been born a carnie and . . .
"Jimmy, we've got spiders again!"
. . . the winds of change always eventually blew them back out onto the road.
"Daddy, can I have an allowance?"
But where could the road lead . . .
"Jimmy-"
. . . for a double arm amputeed man . . .
"Daddy-"
. . . and his two headed, one-bodied wives?
So there . . .
"And your change."
. . . he was.
Store owner and manager.
Husband.
Father.
Friend.
Which was, he reminded himself, . . .
"Come sit with us. Let us rub the tension out of that neck, darling."
. . . a pretty good life.
"Thank you, Mr.-"
"Jimmy."
"Mr. Jimmy."
Quiet chuckle.
"No. It's just Jimmy."
"Jimmy. I like that. I'm Jean Cordon."
She was a new customer.
Older than him by a year or two, not much.
Slender and svelte in dark blue blouse and denim stylish pants.
Nice.
"I like this store. It's . . . homey."
And chatty.
"Thanks. I like it myself."
A friendly but not too friendly smile.
"I used to come to a place like this when I was a little girl. My father would bring me and I would sit in the deli with him and eat balogna sandwiches and drink soda with peanuts in it."
Friendly but not too friendly nod.
"Mmm."
Pause.
"Would you like Billy to carry your bags out for you?"
She smiled politely, hand light upon the counter.
"Yes, thank you."
And that was the last of it.
Except it wasn't.
"Six twenty-five."
"Did you grow up here in Florida, Jimmy?"
"Oh. Uh, no. Here's your change."
"Where do you hail from? Originally?"
A polite pause.
As the customer waited.
"Um, all over, really. We moved around alot."
"Military?"
Another pause.
But the customer was patient.
"Uh. Yeah. Army."
Polite nod now.
"Billy-"
"That must have been difficult. Always on the move. Never setting down roots."
"Uh, yeah."
"Yes, Mr. Walker?"
Stoic relief.
"Carry Mrs. Cordon's bags out for her, please."
"Sure thing, boss."
"Have a lovely day, Jimmy."
Final nod.
"Yes, ma'am. You too."
"Daddy, we need a puppy."
A barking, shedding, eating, poop machine, mmm . . .
"Jimmy, there seems to be a problem with the bathroom sink . . ."
Well, hell . . .
"How long have you owned this store, Jimmy?"
"Oh, um, a few years. But I've worked here for a long time. Started out as a stockboy."
Lingering fingers on the counter.
"Well, you've certainly worked your way from the ground up, haven't you?"
Clearing of the throat. Change of topic.
"Would Mr. Cordon like you to bring home some Lucky Strikes this evening?"
Not so subtle huff of disparaging breath.
"Not likely. Mr. Cordon is away on business."
"Oh well, perhaps another-"
"He's always away on business."
Oh.
"Billy!"
Hello again! Summer finally and hoping to continue and complete this story by August. :)
I don't know if this is a weird comeback chapter but I'm sure you will let me know.
Thanks to autumnrose2010, brigid1318, and midnightrebellion86 for reviewing eons ago. And thanks (along with DinahRay) for encouraging me to continue this story.
You are a loyal bunch of sweeties. :)