I'm back to the one shots and a little rusty. This one takes place right before Soda goes to Vietnam. Pony's sixteen and Soda would be just about to turn nineteen.
OUT COLD
Get up. Get up Soda, you jackass. I will myself to shake it off, to stand, stand up dammit and unleash all holy hell on that piece of shit that came out of nowhere, but I don't stand a chance against the grip of gravity and a sudden urge to vomit. I roll on my side to a hundred blades of grass that poke at my cheek and feel cool against heated skin, and I wonder why the feet that thunder around me aren't kicking at my miserable carcass.
Through the pounding confusion, I can still make out Ponyboy by his familiar grunts as he lands each of his ruthless punches, always a rough and noisy fighter. And all I want to do is go to sleep right here against the comforts of wet dirt and earth. Steve yells something in the distance. Two-Bit's mouthing, cussing up a storm nearby. Funny I don't remember him coming along with us tonight. Where are we anyway? Car doors slam and my eyes give their last valiant flutter before they come to rest right where they belong.
"Soda's down man," someone says in slow motion, right when that beautiful deep sleep comes to claim me.
But I'm disturbed by hands weaving their way under my arms. Tugs and jerks and conversation run just above the surface, and I stare up from the bottom of the dark pool toward the sounds of urgent voices and three sharp snaps.
"Soda? Can you hear me? Soda wake up."
"He's out cold y'all."
"C'mon you grab his legs."
I'm dragged and hoisted up, and the movement makes me nauseated, my roiling stomach flips and I don't know I'm throwing up bile until I hear "Hurry, let's get him on his side."
"Is Darry home tonight?" wakes me up. How long have I been asleep? The vibration of the car is sickening and I'm sprawled out, too long for the backseat, legs bent, head raised and resting against a warm chest that moves up and down. My head moves along with it and I can tell this is Pony I'm leaning on. His voice sounds different with my ear pressed against him, like I'm listening from the inside out, able to hear the exact point where it starts from deep within.
"No he's workin' the rigs. He gets in about two," he answers to the front seat, and then he's silent while Two-Bit and Steve try to piece together what happened. His hand is wrapped around my wrist and he squeezes every now and then. I feel his thumb mindlessly rubbing over my cluster of veins that are raised there, while his worry floats and settles thick around us.
"Damn that got ugly real quick," Two-Bit says, and I can tell he's tucking a fistful of tobacco in his jaw.
"Soda hardly said a 'fuck you' 'fore they started swingin'," Steve says defensively. "Those assholes was just itchin' for a fight."
"Which asshole?" Two-Bit says to himself but loud enough, and even I know what he means. They've gotta be tired of me and my explosive behavior these days, dragging them into all those fires I can't help lighting.
"Shut up Two-Bit," Pony says with zero bite. He's too sick over why I've been acting this way.
"Hell you know I don't mean it Ponyboy," Two-Bit drawls and I hear his regret. Then suddenly he's fired up as he declares, "I'd stand by that boy in any damn fight he wants to start. And I have." And he has. A hollow ache creeps up my throat. And I'm glad when Steve starts talking.
"Man Pony you stomped his ass good," he says loudly with a quick laugh and I feel my lip pulling at its corner, wanting to smile with pride for my little brother, but my mouth won't follow through.
Two-Bit joins in the accolades. "Been awhile since I seen you go at it. Holy shit Ponyboy, I had to do a double take. You were sluggin' like Darry Curtis himself."
"That dirty motherfucker kicked Soda in the head," is all Ponyboy quietly says, and only I can feel the growl sitting guard beneath his words.
"How's he doin'?" Two-Bit asks with concern and the car suddenly jerks, a violent, jarring jolt. "Fuckin' pot holes."
I wince and grab my head while it feels like a lightning bolt shoots through my throbbing brain, and the white hot flash gets smaller as I watch it shrink until it's a tiny pinprick of light and the world gets dark again...
"What do you mean he's been out for two hours?" The faraway question shoots out and explodes into fireworks behind my lids, lids that are so weighted it takes all I've got to lift my lashes. I only manage to stare at the ceiling, but the familiar mess of my bedroom fills the corners of my vision and I wonder why my head hurts something awful. I wiggle my toes and can feel I'm tucked under blankets, wearing only scratchy jeans that I wish I knew how to push off. I moan just to be sure I'm still here.
A creak of the door and a sudden glow of soft amber fills the room. "Soda?" he whispers worriedly and relief sets in just knowing he's home. I squint up at his shadow that now looms across my bed.
In a voice that just can't hide my shameful whimper, I tell him, "Dad, I'm real sick."
"Dad, I'm real sick," has knocked out my breath and stopped me in my tracks. I swallow hard, then make the last few strides to Soda's bed and I rub my hands against my jeans, wishing I'd washed off the grime of work. I lean over him, real close and into the crack of light spilling from the hallway, hoping he'll recognize I'm not Dad at all.
"Sodapop Curtis," I say with clarity and a bit of force to get him to snap out of it, "I want you to sit up for me. I want you talkin' normal or I'm not gonna let you go back to sleep."
He writhes and groans in complaint, and I feel Pony come up behind me. "We've been wakin' him up every now and then. He seemed like he was gettin' better about thirty minutes ago. Remembered the fight anyway. And his name." He bends down to pick up something. "Guess he threw off his washcloth. I'll go wet it again." I don't tell him he just now called me Dad.
"Soda," I say more gently now, "let's raise you up a bit," and I carefully work to prop him up on the pillows I've stacked against the headboard. I turn on our old cowboy lamp and it's hard to judge the size of his pupils that are set in eyes so brown. I search them anyway and only find the agony that churns inside them, his torment that he's been trying to conceal from all of us for a few weeks now.
"What day is it Soda?" I question, and have to think on that one myself, since all my days and nights blur together ever since I took on a grueling night shift last spring. I make it easier on us both. "Do you know what month it is?"
His face is pale, making the little cuts he's picked up lately look more pronounced. "It's October Darry," he says hoarsely and I'm reassured by his answer and my name. "I won't be around here to see November," he adds in a choked voice and I might as well have been the one who took that kick. Of course he knows what month it is. All he's been doing is counting it down since we got the letter, all of us trapped in the holding cell of wait, a torturous existence. Pony's back with the wash cloth, but he only drops it off when he hears how the conversation turned. He can't stand to stay and be a part of it.
"You'll be back for plenty of other Novembers," I remind my brother, and myself. And I work to rein in my anger, the violent anger that makes my nostrils flare, the seething rage that makes me punch my dashboard and scream out in desperate defiance when I'm alone in my truck. I scream to God, to my parents, to whoever it is up there who keeps rolling our dice and crapping out on us every fucking time it matters. I let out the breath of shaky emotions into my cupped hand and pull my shit together. Soda doesn't need this now. I sit down beside him, kick off my work boots and tell him to keep talking to me. I ask him about the fight and wonder if we're even gonna get Soda out of Tulsa alive at the rate he's going now.
"It was stupid," he says, his words slow and sluggish, but he's coming to, thinking straight at least. "I can't control my mouth lately," and I silently add, or your fists. And I know it's all fear. I'd give anything to take it all away.
Suddenly he breaks into a grin and for a moment I feel comforted. "And are you aware our little brother's a certified, legit, honest to God badass?"
A short laugh escapes out my nose and I shake my head. "No I wasn't aware of that," I say, though I know Pony's always been a strong and scrappy fighter. With his size now, I don't doubt Soda's claim, though he tells me I can confirm it with Steve and Two-Bit.
Suddenly his breath sucks in and his face is strained. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he says in panic and I grab the washcloth and let him retch into that. Nothing much comes out, but he goes through several convulsions that try and make him empty out his stomach and it looks painful.
When it's over he falls back exhausted from the physical labor, he wipes his mouth against his arm and his voice is cracked and gravelly. "I thought you were Dad." His statement hovers in the air, and I don't know what to do with it. "Ain't that fucked up?" he questions with a smile that stops before it ever got started.
"Not fucked up at all," I tell him honestly. "You were disoriented. Confused. You imagined what you wanted and at that moment you needed Dad." I decide not to tell Soda how many times a day I talk to our father; I keep that for me alone.
"No, not him," he says with his eyes closed and I don't know how to interpret that so I leave it alone.
I figure Soda's falling back to sleep and I stare ahead at the room we used to share. I wonder what happened to our old creaky bunk beds and remember the stormy nights he'd climb down and crawl into my bottom bunk.
"Darry, let's pretend we're in a covered wagon on the Old West trail." I roll my eyes at Soda's imagination but can't ignore the cozy feelings sweeping over us as the rain pelts the windows and the thunder shakes the little house.
Just when I think he's out cold, Soda opens his eyes, locks them with mine and does what he does best. "Don't be scared for me Darry," he tells me when I should be assuring him.
"I'm not," I lie. "I know you can do this."
"I'm scared. I admit it. And I know I'm acting crazy lately but that's just how I do things. But I know what I'm doing. I'm gearin' up for this shit man." And his eyes shine with the truth and I'm lifted on top of his words.
And suddenly it all makes sense. Soda's behavior may always seem erratic, but for him, there's always purpose.
His eyes may be holding mine but my narrowed blue ones now stare back to take over. And my words were never more important than right now. "Soda, I want you to go over there and fight like hell. I want you to get mean. Fuck all the sensitive humanity bullshit. I don't give two shits who you kill or how you kill to get back home. And Dad would tell you the same thing."
I feel Soda nodding beside me. I sense him getting heavier as he's drifting off. I hear Pony brushing his teeth and finally turning in. I lean my head back and shut my eyes and lean against my brother who's leaning against me.
A/N: Outsiders by SE Hinton
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