Death of a Superstar

The days are dark. The nights are lonely. The great glam rocker Jimmie England is dead. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Jimmie England ran the pallet picker for our local beer supermarket. Most looked upon him with pity because all they saw was the washed up superstar who fell to earth. But not me. I still saw the glam boy of yesteryear, the androgynous guitar god who set Iceland on fire, the...you get the picture.

Gone. All gone in an instant.

It seems during the great Thanksgiving beer rush of '07 someone dropped a case of Fuller's London Pride and neglected to clean up. Everyone's trying to get their beer and get home before the bird burns or kickoff, whichever comes first. In one dark corner of the mart, the spilled Fuller lay dying and an innocent Jimmie wearing his trademark platforms was heading right for the puddle of tasty nectar.

In the roar of the maddening crowd no one heard Jimmie crash to the floor. He wasn't missed by the other workers since he never was much help in the first place. Everyone assumed the crowds had spooked the aged rocker and he went home...crowds just reminded Jimmie of his past glory days or he hated people, something like that. Most of the beer slingers were happy to have him out of the way.

That happiness would come back to haunt them a few hours later. While cleaning up for the night Jimmie's spandex-clad body was found face down in a puddle. How fitting...Jimmie England drowned in the pride of London. Most wept for Jimmie, some for the London Pride.

I haven't managed to get back there since hearing the news. For me Jimmie was the beer mart. But he lives on, in his music, in the hearts of his fans, and in the dark corner of the beer mart. Apparently his ghost has already been spotted, whirling and playing air guitar, his face dripping with joy.