Jim hopper was a man of action, a man with a plan, a man who could proudly fix his own shit. On any better day an allegedly broken television wouldn't leave him scrambling for the landline, but the alcohol did a number on his ability to mess with the tv's back panel (or even check if it was turned on). He downed a beer with dinner, followed by his collection of bourbon, moving over to the porch afterwards to wash it all down with a few cigarettes. The sobriety required to fix technical issues was long gone by the time he was ready for his late-night surf of the channel guide. That's when he discovered the television wouldn't turn on. After several failed attempts at fixing the goddamn thing, Jim's solution resided in dialing the only number that he could remember off the top of his head. Murray Bauman. That old fucker would know how to fix this problem for sure, regardless of the yapping and theories that it might take for it to happen. In the meantime he grabbed a bag of chips from the kitchen to soak up alcohol swirling in his stomach and got comfortable on the couch, bag tucked under an arm as he munched away.
Jim basically forgot that he called Murray until there was a knock at the door. "Come in," he grumbled , probably too quietly, adding in a louder, "the door's fuckin' open!" He struggled to wedge himself up as Murray let himself in, reaching for the remote again with a pained sigh. His focus doubled down on the issue that brought his friend here, smacking the device against his palm as if it would do anything to fix the problem. "I'm not sure if it's the remote but I swear tv's were better back when shit was black and white."
𝐖𝐇𝐎: max mayfield & @fat-rambo
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓: penpal meet up at the local church!!!!
𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄:church parking lot and surrounding woods
max hadn’t kept up with anyone in hawkins, really, she hadn’t. and she didn’t think hopper or herself would consider their casual letter exchange once or twice per year staying in touch. it had all started on max’s 18th birthday actually. she was drunk and alone crying on the beach about…life. mainly el and will and how guilty she still felt for living, then disappearing within a snap of a finger. so max dragged herself home through the rain, sat down in her bed, and wrote a letter for hopper addressed to hawkins p.d. it was simple–
if you get this, guess you haven’t given up being a cop yet. i thought about el today. it was eighty-three degrees out, i don’t miss snow.
- max
but now, after over a decade of lowkey back and forth, max was seeing hopper. she hadn’t gotten a chance to see him at the wake, but he was unmistakable at the funeral, smelling like whiskey when he sat down in the pew in front of her. max was quiet towards the ceremony, and after. when they stepped outside the church, in the midst of everyone choked up as they loaded the casket back into the hearse and the bells hollowly gonged for each year of joyce’s life, max chose to stand by hopper. as the crowd began to disperse, whether to home or the overpass, she lingered by long enough for him to see her gesturing to a path towards the woods, down in the lower parking lot. max walked and was pleased to see hopper following in suit. she stuffed her hands in the pockets of her suit while they walked. after allowing the silence to stick, max sucked in a breath and looked up at the geezer, “you reek, dude.” she shook her head, eyed her moving feet for a moment, then back at hopper, “you still smoke old man? i could use a cigarette.” yikes. was that really the best thing to say given the funeral they just attended? maybe not.
Thank god for sunglasses. It was hard to find a dry eye walking out of that church and Jim Hopper was no exception. He clocked Max gesturing towards the woods and gladly used it as an opportunity to break away from the crowd. He removed his hat for the service but placed it back on his head now, thumbs moving to the front pockets of his slacks. It was hard to believe how many years had piled on since their last in-person encounter. Max obviously looked older, and there was something more serious about the way she carried herself, but the attitude hadn’t gone anywhere. Somewhere deep down he wondered if El would have met a similar fate - bogged down & hardened by life like the rest of the kiddos. Jim figured that his cologne covered the bourbon pretty well. Clearly his nose wasn’t as sharp anymore. “Can’t say you look like sunshine and rainbows either, kid.” He quipped back with the slightest smirk - it didn’t really reach his eyes, but it was present nonetheless.
Jim peeked over at Max at the mention of cigarettes. No doubt the old man still smoked, though he’d been told that it was a social activity the world left behind in the 90s. Smelled like some real bullshit considering all the old rascals seemed to be puffing on something nowadays. Jim reached for the cigarette carton in his breast pocket and plucked one out. “You know this shit will kill you, right?” He held the stick out for her, following it up with a lighter afterwards, eventually pulling one out for himself. The irony of smoking at Joyce’s funeral wasn’t lost on him. She’d lived on an oxygen tank for at least six months prior to them all watching her casket get hauled into a hearse moments before this chat. “Not the kind of way I was hoping we’d catch up ... ” He trailed off, eyes narrowing on the path ahead of them. He’d been a bit spotty with replying to her letters over the last couple of years with everything going on. “Big city treating you well? - or has the lawyer gig beat you down yet.”
When’s the last time anyone heard anything about [JIM HOPPER]? Old friends remember them as [DRY + CARING] but also [CYNICAL + STUBBORN], no wonder they’re still known as [FAT RAMBO] around town. Today, in 2006, they are [65] and some people say they remind them of [A GREASY AMERICAN BREAKFAST WITH DRIP COFFEE, A WIDE-BRIMMED TAN HAT, MUSTY CABIN WOOD, AND THE DEAFENING CRACK OF A SMITH & WESTON 66].
Full name: James "Jim" Hopper
Nicknames: Hop, Hopper, Fat Rambo I guess (RIP Alexi!!!!)
Birthday: September 12th, 1949
Age: 65
Education: Ex Military Education, War Trauma etc.
Occupational Experience: Former Police Chief. Brawn for Watcher investigations.
TW: Alcoholism, death.
POST 1986
When life hurts you, because it will, remember the hurt – Oh, does Jim remember the hurt. There was no shortage of it after Eleven and Will’s funerals. As one would expect, he lived in a long fog after the loss of his second daughter. He struggled to reel himself into stability, spending many evenings by the side-by-tombstones. The man tried to keep himself busy and settled back into a workflow at Hawkins PD, but no amount of Whiskey or puttering helped him escape the ache of grief. He had to face it. Joyce was an incredible anchor for him during this time. To this day he’s not sure how she managed to be so strong – dealing with the aftermath of Will’s death, taking care of the community, and tending to his own rut. She was truly a light in the dark times. Consequently, the pair grew inseparable after their collective losses – mostly knowing that they weren’t alone in the pain. Rumours abounded about a potential romance between the pair, but a relationship never officialized for them between the years of 1986 to 2006. They were happy in friendship and that was simply enough for both.
Jim’s reluctant retirement from the Hawkins Police force came in the Spring of 1999. Most of the department was sad to see him go (others unified with a collective sigh of relief), but it was time to take a step back and slow down (according to Joyce). She tried looping him into activities around town, get him involved in community, help with some gardening in the backyard but it wasn’t long until the boredom set in. Thankfully Murray saved him from the misery of retired life with a proposition to take on some work with The Watcher. It renewed a needed sense of purpose in Jim’s life. He threw himself (and his fists) into whatever investigations required a little elbow grease. It was a good way to keep himself busy. Jim did what was needed of him without question, driving out of town to be the unassuming muscle behind whatever lead was being sleuthed on … Probably executed with a lot more force than he’d ever admit to either Murray or Nancy, but neither of them would ever have to know! This chunk of his life was packed with sleepless nights in questionable motel beds, bustling from gas station to gas station in true gritty americana fashion. The years and wrinkles piled on quicker this way. So did his grumpiness.
Jim managed to take Joyce out for one last dinner at Enzo’s before her final emergency surgery. That night was the last time either of them had a conversation outside the confines of her hospital room. The proposition was initially met with resistance by her medical team. It took some convincing but enough careful planning eventually swayed them all (specifically Jonathan) to let him roll Joyce and her oxygen tank out of the oncology unit without much fuss. Jim pulled out his finest button down and slacks for the occasion. It was an evening filled with greasy bread baskets and occasional tears as they reminisced over a candlelit dining table. Time slipped away from the pair that night. If either of them squinted hard enough, they were back in 1962 – both puffing on cigarettes in the Hawkins High parking lot, contemplating what the fuck their lives would look like after graduation. It certainly didn’t look anything like this … and like all good things in Jim’s life, their flicker of joy at Enzo’s had to end too.
The drinking started to get out of hand after Joyce’s passing. As much as he’s been encouraged to remember the good times and work his way through the first foot stones of grief, the loss of his best (and community pillar) came with an emptiness that only cigars and Whiskey seemed to fill. Joyce had told him to keep it together, to try and live out his days happy & fulfilled – maybe even find a hobby besides beating people up for The Watcher. It simply wasn’t in the cards for poor old Jim. He found himself pulling away from those around him, fully shutting himself into his reclusive cabin on the edge of town. And while he’s managed to remain relatively stable for Jonathan and Murray, there’s no denying that a bottle or flask is never far from reach after the cabin door closes behind him. Jim’s only allowed his vulnerability to slip up on a handful of occasions. Jonathan himself has received a handful of 2am calls from bar owners asking him to pick up the washed-up police chief passed out on their bar. The little taxi rescue routine has been kept on the downlow between them – it’s become a quiet understanding of their mutual grief and, honestly, a sadness that neither of them are fully prepared to acknowledge.
These days Jim doesn’t leave the confines of his musty cabin often except to grab necessities and slide the pizza man a tip. There’s truly not much that can faze Jim Hopper these days. The sorrow itself manifests differently depending on the time of day – or whether you’ve caught him before or after his morning coffee (and bourbon). He’s generally more irritable and a true party pooper, though it isn’t new for anyone who knows a lick about him around town!
Time Capsule:
In 1986 Jim left an empty box of Eggo Waffles in the time capsule on behalf of El Hopper. There’s a note for the kiddo slipped inside.
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