Admittedly, as he stood there, Jimmy felt a minuscule flash of shame. Much of his time now was spent in solitary isolation, and it had been a lengthy amount of time since anyone who knew him by any measure had criticized him. Did things appear to be that bad? Had he fallen so low?
Well, his shoes could use a replacement, for one. Staring down at his high tops, his big toe could be seen through a little, ravaged hole. The other foot was bound together with electrical tape, keeping the sole from peeling away. His shorts were a mess, ripped at the hem, and coated in a fine layer of plaster dust from some of the construction work he'd been doing on the light house. His skin was as pasty-pale as ever, though now he bore a thick assortment of new scars and tattoos. And his hair, once shorn close to the skull, was now overgrown and bleached by the sun. Even his fingers, callused from hard work, were wrapped in a few pathetic band-aids from when he'd burnt them on the french-fry basket at the Burger Burger. Yes, he was investing in a new business, and yes, he had his own property now, but Jimmy doubted very much that Derby would be impressed that he owned what had once been a secret hideout for when Harrington and his rich friends wanted a place for a quick blowjob, or a place to sleep off a drunk before going home.
"I'm an investor." Jimmy offered back defiantly, throwing his ice cream on the ground. He'd lost his taste for it, anyway. "I work for a living. What do you do, cry on the kitchen floor with your mom after your daddy beats her with the butler's shoes?"