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You've been a stupid kid ever since the day you rolled into town. WIth dirty blonde hair, so white you'd have thought you bleached in the DX bathroom with a bottle of peroxide. Your clothes were too big for you, big enough to hide the bruises your old man had given you before you took off for Tulsa.
We weren't your first choice for where to settle. For a twelve-year-old run-away from NYC, I don't think you had a fucking clue of where to go. You just knew you'd die in the same streets that took you in when your parents refused, so you took all you could carry and got out. Windrixville was your first stop. I know because that was the first thing you asked me -- besides the whole "how the fuck do you hit a kid with your car?" bullshit. You've got a cousin up there, but we're both pretty sure they forgot about you. There's no use talking to them now, 'specially when they didn't bother showing up for your big day.
Stupid gets you killed, y'know. And stupid is walking across the street without looking first, and then playing dead when you bounce against the hood of my car. Stupid is waiting until I get outta my car and lean over your scrawny, dirty, malnourished, skeletal excuse for a body and flick out a switch. You're damn lucky you didn't cut me, otherwise, I woulda killed you for real.
Stupid is blackmailing me into letting you stay with me for a night or two until you get your shit together. And I guess it was my fault for letting two nights bleed into a week, then letting that week bleed into a month. Or three, or a year, or five.
You were a stupid kid, but you pulled it off, goddamnit.
You were colder than the night air blowing in off the harbour from the coast, and it would be a lie to say I didn't think you'd slit my throat that first night. Your room was nothing special, just a bed with a bathroom attached, a dresser and a lamp. You had nothing to fill the dresser with, no claim to the room at all, but it's been yours since that night. It's not just the stains on the carpet I told you to clean up, or the carvings you've left behind in the doorway. Shit, it ain't even because of your jacket still sprawled out on the bed because none of your buddies can stand the sight of it anymore.
Sometimes, when the night's grown old and I've retired my old man's records for the night, I can still see that scrawny little asshole asleep on top of the covers. You were stiff as a corpse that first night, your knuckles wrapped around your switchblade and your collar pulled up to your ears. I asked if you wanted a change of clothes and you told me to fuck off. I threw them at you anyway. Took you six months and two bottles to mutter a quick "thanks for that," under your breath.
You were a stupid kid, but you were fun to watch.
It was like running a dog fight every time you stepped inside. I never knew who'd follow you here, either for slashing their tires or flirting with their girl. Watching you and Tim Shepard going at it was always interesting. He'd crack your ribs one night, maybe you'd leave a road flare on his doorstep, but by the next night, you'd be buying each other drinks and telling me to shut the fuck up when I brought up the first rodeo I ever brought you to. Listening to you and Sylvia scream at each other was always pretty wild, too, since she doesn't get that heated over guys she doesn't care about.
Stupid is thinking you're tuff enough to take on a guy three times your size. You bitched and moaned and said you could've taken him, but your fucked up face said otherwise. I wasn't in any better shape, you little shit, try telling the hot waitress at The Dingo you got your tooth knocked out because of some thirteen-year-old thinking he's handy with a busted pop bottle. It took twelve aspirin and a bottle of Jack to wash it all down before you finally told me they thought my race was rigged. That they were gonna jump me and take the money I'd earned. That you'd seen it happen before and didn't want my body to join the bloody masses haunting you beyond the grave.
Pretty fucking ironic, huh? Haunting you beyond the grave. Just like you're doing to me, right now.
Stupid is sending two kids to Windrixville with fifty dollars and a gun. Stupid is telling them to lay low in a fucking church, while the entirety of Oklahoma is tryna find the kid responsible for the murder of Bob Sheldon. Stupid is going up there after three days, thinking everything's calmed down. Stupid is running into a burning building to save a bunch of little brats.
I told you stupid gets you killed. I told you that when we first met, when you slashed Tim's tires, when you took my car for a 'joyride' and almost wrapped her around a fucking tree. But you didn't listen to me, you were a stupid kid.
You were always a stupid kid.
You were a stupid kid.
Stupid is pointing a gun at a store clerk and getting gunned down in the streets. Sure, it's not the same street you thought you'd die on, but your blood's leeched into the cracks on the pavement and glistened under the streetlights for long enough.
It's been a few months now, not that it mattered, anyway.
Stupid is sitting at the bar and watching the seconds tick by.
Stupid is wanting to turn the jukebox on, just to see if you'll come stomping down the stairs, telling me to turn this shit off.
Stupid is wondering if this has all been the worst trip of my fucking life, it's wondering if the next person to walk through the door will be you, instead of Darry Curtis, asking if there's anything he could do.
They cared about you, your gang. You were their family, and they've mourned you as such. They buried you next to Johnny and everything, even left a pack of Malboros on your tombstone. They're the ones you gave you a funeral. It was nothing special, real cheap and easy. Most of us east siders showed up, even a few of the guys who's swing by the bar just to beat you 'til I had to step in.
Stupid is mumbling a drunken "happy birthday, fucker," on November ninth before climbing the stairs and saying everything's blurry because of the liquor.
Stupid is pausing at the door to your room and hoping, even if it's just for one more day that you'll be on the other side.
You were a stupid kid, and that's all you'll ever be. Because even if it's November ninth of nineteen sixty-six, you'll never turn eighteen.
You're a stupid kid, Dally, and stupid gets you killed.