American Idiot

glared down at the paper while I crushed the pen in my hand. Angrily scrawling out a last love letter to Mary-Jane. Maybe it's too cliché to do, especially given the circumstances. But all the same, deep down, as much as I hate to admit it, I do still love her. I still think about her more than it's normal. And now that we are separated, I want to clear up the blurred lines.

I finished the last line. The wood lines in the crate I was writing upon appearing in my handwriting, making rough, wavy and almost illegible. 

I finished writing the last sentence, but didn't stop to read any of it, I folded it up and shoved it into a envelope, sealed it up before I could spare it another glance, and I stomped outside. Where the sky had festered up into a black mess of clouds. Threatening rain that would pour on me, reminding me who I am and how I became this way. I am Saint Jimmy. The Jesus of Suburbia. 

I tossed the envelope into the mailbox down a block from the warehouse after addressing it. Simply I wrote my home address, she'd find it eventually. And for the return to sender address... I didn't write one. I wrote 'Jimmy'

That's the best way she ever knew me. She didn't like my alternative faces. Saint Jimmy or Jesus of Suburbia. Because she knew as well as anyone that because of the things I'd done, I was no Saint.

I pitched it into the blackness of the mailbox. The lid squealing in protest when I slammed it shut. I didn't think about anything again, I just walked to the bay in a calm steady pace.

***

‘Jimmy Died Today’

I read the headline in the newspaper from three weeks ago, again and again. They hadn't put any pictures in or much of a background on him. Just that simple statement. And I began to wonder if people weren't actually celebrating the death of Jimmy. The parents of the punks at least.

I brushed my fingers over the ink. Then looked up out my car window. There it was. Jimmy's house. A new coat of paint on it, the front yard being reseeded into grass. The railing on the porch was currently being replaced. But not because the house needed updating, but because Jimmy's parents were moving.

To LA. As far from here as possible. A week after J's funeral, his mother enrolled in a bunch of different cleansing classes up there, and they put their house up for sale, and moved up there. Currently living in a apartment.

His mother now went to alcoholic classes, drug addict classes and therapy to deal with the loss of her son. No one would ever suspect a bond between them. Never one as strong as his mother made clear.

I knew I shouldn't be here. I had nothing left to see here, just the empty house, plastic sheets over the remaining furniture, a few boxes but nothing else. I guess what I expected to see here was him. And that was very very stupid.

I climbed out of my car anyways, and slowly walked up the driveway, stopping just in front of the door. Almost about to knock, I had to kick myself to remind myself that the house was empty.

I pushed open the door and was greeted by the dark living room and the smell of fresh pain. All the furniture was pushed to the north wall, while floor polishing supplies were on the scratched wood floor. I knew what room I wanted to visit though. It was the reason I was here now. 

Jimmy's room.

I walked slowly down the black hall. Passing doors, all that were shut. The door at the very end was propped open slightly, a sliver of sunlight lit the dark hallway. I paused at the door and pushed it open. The workers were all on break, they left the radio on, and I noticed the walls were covered up. 

Jimmy's walls were blood red, with black spray paint lines on it. He had stickers on his walls and his favorite song lyrics spray painted. But a bottle of Goo-Gone sat on the floor and all the stickers were peeled off and in a clump in the trash can. Half the walls were boring white, the other half of the room still had the red and black paint I'd come so accustomed to over the years.

I smiled sadly at it. “Wish You Were Here.” by Pink Floyd cam on the radio. And it brought a wave of peace with it.
I turned around and saw the stack of boxes, Jimmy's belongings. Under the window. I walked over to them. Jimmy wasn't here. I was stupid to think he would be.

Just as I was turning to leave I saw the envelope. It was laying on top of the tallest box. 

“Mary-Jane.” was written on it in Jimmy's familiar handwriting. I couldn't tell if it was actually meant for me for see, but I picked it up and it was still sealed. I placed my thumb under the flap and jerked across, pulling out the letter.

The last letter. 

I took a deep breath and concentrated on the words he had written. With intentions that only I would ever see them.

“Mary-Jane

Thought I ran into you down in the street. Then it turned out to only be a dream. Funny right? Anyways, I made a point to burn all of the photographs. Of us.
“She went away and then I took a different path”,that's what they all say don't they? I can Remember your face, but I can't recall the name. Now I wonder how Whatsername has been. 
Seems that you disappeared without a trace. Did you ever marry old what's his face?
That's why I burned all the photographs. You went away and I took a different path. I can remember the face, but I can't recall the name. Now I wonder how Whatsername has been.
Remember? Whatever,
It seems like forever ago.
Remember, whatever.
It was forever ago.
The regrets, are useless in my mind. You're in my head. I must confess, the regrets are useless. She's in my head
From so long ago, and in the darkest night. If my memory serves me right. I'll never turn back time.
      Forgetting you, but not the time
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