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June, ‘66
I knew things were gonna be rough from that very first night. That very first night, when you wandered out into the middle of the street and got acquainted with my windshield.
You. Malnourished, fighting mad, still smelling of salt from the harbour. What else was I supposed to do, leave you there to bleed? All of twelve years old, already cussing me out in broad fucking daylight ‘cause I ‘wasn’t watchin’ the fuckin’ road’.
I should’ve just left you there. It would’ve saved me the headache. Later, it would’ve saved me plenty of money, and I wouldn’t have had to listen to Sylvia every time you pulled one of your ‘shitforbrains-boyfriend’ routines. But I didn’t leave you there in the road – corner of Main and 56th.
I kept my distance, but that didn’t matter to you. I opened the door and cocked my head for you to get in – and you just glared at me. You grabbed your switchblade, too. You always told me I was a dumb hillbilly but I saw that, dipshit. You were twelve, for Christsake, and you sure as hell acted like it. All boney limbs and a nose you hadn’t grown into… talking like you were hot shit instead of scared outta your everloving mind. I took you home all the same, as if you were something to be proud of. I was a skinny kid, but the clothes I lent you seemed to swallow you whole.
You were something to be proud of, I guess, in a fucked up kind of way.
Funny. Mean. Good in a rumble or when the bar needed to clear out ‘n’ folks didn’t get the hint. You were a good storyteller and a lot of people liked that about you, even when you were a piece of work. I liked that about you. Your gang liked that about you. Sylvia really liked that about you. I didn’t like that part as much – neither did Shepard.
You were a liar and a cheat, downright cruel at times. But you didn’t seem like it when you were tossing darts with the boys, or twirling my cousin in slow circles. The look you got in those eyes of yours when Sylvia whistled along with the best of Johnny and June…. Or the way you looked at me every time I stuck my neck through the threshold, just to see her head on your chest, scarred fingers tracing careful patters down her back.
Like that, you almost looked like someone worth missing.
I knew things were gonna be rough when word got out. Cade and Curtis, they never seemed the type capable of something like that. Darry, the rest of your outfit, you? Those were names I could see in the paper. Not Johnny, though, and certainly not Ponyboy.
Things were gonna be rough now that some hotshot got stabbed, and I was gonna pay for it one way or another. Business would get rough, a greaser hangout after something like that would only cause more trouble than my old cowboy bar was worth. Then, to make it worse, you brought the fuckin’ murderers into my bar.
I shouldn’t have said the things I did when you told me. I shouldn’t have, but I did, and I can’t take it back. Especially not now.
I knew things would be rough after Johnny died, but I didn’t expect this.
One night they say you’re at the hospital, nursing your wounds after saving some kids from a fire. The next night, you’re at the Lot for a rumble. Then you’re back to the hospital, and then… and then you steal my fucking car and then you’re gone.
We’re still waiting for you to come back. I’m still waiting for you to come back. It’s funny to think about all the time I have now. All that time I would’ve spent tracking you down, bailing you out, cleaning up your fuck up’s. I’ve got all that time back, and all I do with it is stand around. Waiting. Either for you to come ripping up the driveway, tires squealing and rubber burning when you drift into the parking lot, or for the cops to come ‘round and let me know they found your body.
I haven’t touched your room. I know how much you hate people touching your shit, even if all your shit was just my shit to begin with.
I know things are gonna be rough without Johnny, but it would be real nice to have you back. It’s the least you could do, y’know, after taking my car, my fucking money, damn near breaking Syl’s heart in two…
Tim comes in looking for a fight he can’t find. The best of Johnny and June don’t sound the same. Don’t even get me started on the dog-, if he keeps limping like this, wailin’ all the time and sleeping outside your door, people are gonna tell me to put him out of his damn misery.
Don’t ask me how you did it, but looks like there was something about you worth missing after all.