Dear Two-Bit, Steve, Sodapop, Ponyboy and Darrel,
I thought about not writing this, because you're all pretty smart (except for you, Two-Bit), and I figured you'd dig what's going to happen with me telling you. Then I thought, oh what the hell, might as well get it out so you know the whole story, and don't think I'm wasting my time or overdoing things. This isn't even about me, really. It's about Johnny.
Say what you will about me, but I was good to Johnny. I know I was. That kid-he had so little to hope for, you know? And maybe he was better off that way, because nothing comes of hope when you're a greaser, but it didn't make him any happier. So I guess I was his hope, kind of. I was the one person who cared about him more than anybody else, and that's something. It's different than having a gang—y'all know I love you useless hillbilly greased-up hoods, but I'm not gonna pretend that I'm the most important thing in your lives. Johnny was to me, and I hope to God he knew that. I think he did.
You think it was the support of the gang that helped Johnny get back on his feet after he was beat up? Nope. Sure, he was grateful, especially to Ponyboy I think, but I was the one who made the difference. For a whole two weeks he lived with me, wherever the hell I happened to be living. It was summer then, so we even slept in the lot a few times. Aw, hell, I'll be honest—I didn't sleep a wink. Johnny was paranoid about getting jumped again, so I hugged him until he fell asleep and kept watch. Everywhere—in the lot, people's houses, we snuck into a run-down motel one time—that's how it went, him freaking out and me holding him and keeping watch. He didn't want me to tell you all how bad it got.
First thing I did when he was better was go up to the other side of town and smash the head and tail lights of every blasted Mustang I could find. I fucking hate Socs.
I know Johnny was in love with me. I didn't need the lectures. I knew, okay? I knew because Johnny told me, one of those nights, and I told him to fucking stop, right that blasted second. I didn't flirt with skanks and go with Sylvia because I wanted to hurt him; I did it because he needed to stop. D'you get it now? Johnny had enough shit to deal with without being in love with someone like me. As good as I was to Johnny, I wasn't good for him. I knew that, even if he didn't.
Are you happy? Johnny was the best thing in my life and it could have been better—we could have been better, both of us, but I didn't do anything because I wanted to be the good guy for once. Fat lot of good it did me, too, 'cause he's still dead and I had nothing to do with it. And I only got to kiss him once.
Anyway, you all probably know that I'm planning on dying tonight. I'll try to arrange it at the lot so you greasers can see me before I'm buried in some unmarked hood grave. Maybe Two-Bit could get his knife back, too, but no promises.
It's nothing personal, it's just...
Johnny never did a thing in his life that wasn't to help someone. He died because he dove into a fucking burning building to save some kids. And a no-good JD like me gets to live? I don't think so.
Johnny believed in heaven (I might not be getting there, but let it slide, okay?). I asked him about it once, and he joked that it was basically a huge vacant lot in the sky. No Socs—hell's so hot they think it's a party, so they hang there instead of a dirt cheap lot. Did you ever hear Johnny joke? Glory, but I loved him.
Bye, gang. See you at the lot.
Dallas Winston