Jimmy didn't get the message. Right after he graduated (he didn't walk, of course), we found a message spray-painted in bold red letters on an abandoned warehouse around the corner from the drive-ins.
To the kids of war and peace:
Don't follow me where I'm going. Who else is going to stir up trouble when I'm gone? Some day you'll see. When you've gotten to where I am, it's not over until you're underground. I can't take this place, and I can't leave it behind. Don't wear out my name, fuckers.
St. Jimmy
Michael and I found it first, and we stared at each other in horror for a while until racing to the bridge. It was too late; Jimmy was slouched against the railing, a gun next to him and a sizeable hole in his head. It was raining in June, and his blood made red streaks on the sidewalk, dripping into the river. Michael almost threw up when he saw the brains splattered against the pavement, but all I could do was stare in mute horror.
The police came, and by the end of the day you couldn't even tell Jimmy had died on that bridge. Every time I pass, though, all I can see is his lifeless body, limp on the side of the road, soaked by the rain and so, so pale.
I guess he wasn't lying when he told me he wasn't long for the earth.
The song I started writing before I got lost in reminiscing about Jimmy sits staring up at me from the page. I can hear Michael upstairs, playing a melancholy riff on his guitar. I turn the page and blank out, resting my forehead against it. My tie is choking me and I tug it off, unbuttoning my shirt halfway and shoving the sleeves up to my elbows. The black dress shirt is a little bit too small, and I've had it since freshman year.
Since I met Jimmy.
It was his.
I cry now, and the tears come easily. They build on my lashes, slipping down my face as they escape from my closed eyelids. I am spotting my new page but I don't care; I don't care about anything anymore. I haven't seen Whatshername since school ended and I don't think I will. Everything seems so pointless, and I hate myself for breathing. For still being here when Jimmy is gone. Bitterly, I open my eyes and begin to scrawl.
It's something unpredictable, but in the end it's right
I hope you had the time of your life.
I hate the words, but I know they're true. I hate a lot right now, so I don't pay any attention to it. I'm sober again, and it makes my head pound, being able to hear all of my thoughts.
No wonder Jimmy was always high or drunk. I can understand the temptation.
