Another one shot, and I like it. It's not going to continue, and it ends with a bit of a cliffy, which I like. I know in teh book it says Ponyboy doesn't drink, but this is years later, so I can change things. Mwahaha.
Happy reading.
The tinted glass door swung open and sunlight rushed in, along with a tall, rough looking man. In his late twenties, the man wore a plain black t-shirt with dirty dark blue jeans. He had aviators covering up most of his face and his dark blonde, wavy hair was tussed and reached his neck, grease still in it from the day before.
He walked with a bit of a swagger and had an old leather knapsack swung over his shoulder. He walked over to the receptionist desk were a worn out looking woman in her midfifties sat watching him. In all her years working in the Happy Trails Rehab Center of Tulsa, she had become quite talented at picking out which patients were going to be trouble and this guy had it written across him like warning label on a bottle of poison.
"Hello, darlin'." the man breathed out at her, leaning on the counter more than she was comftorable with.
"Checkin' in?" the woman croaked, her eyes looking at the three day old stubble that spread over his chin to his cheekbones. He was handsome, there was no doubt, his skin tanned and already leathering.
He pulled off his aviators and revealed vivid green eyes that were clouded with alcohol, but still managed to have certain spark behind him. Yes, this one would be trouble.
"Ma'am, I would love to check in to your lovely facility. I was walkin' in here, and I thought to myself, 'damn, these are some mighty fine oaks.' Those trees down the walk? Mighty fine." the man smiled, his breath smelling of bourbon.
"Sir, it is 11:30 in the morning and you are already drunk." the woman stated, peering up at him over her reading glasses.
"Correction, ma'am, it is 11:30 in the morning and I am still drunk." he winked at her.
"Name?" the woman asked, her pen poised over paperwork snapped into a clipboard. Normally it was up to the person checking in to fill this out, but she didn't trust he could write in his current state.
"P. Michael Curtis." the man said, extending his hand to shake, which the woman promptly ignored.
The man looked ove at the woman's name badge, resting on her chest just in time for the woman to look up and catch his gaze.
"My apologies," the man started, and then with another glance at the tag, "Betty. Just wanted to know yer name."
"I need to know yours, sir. What does the P stand for? Peter? Paul?"
"Do I look like an apostle to you?"
"Sir, I need your real name for the records." Betty sighed. She was regretting turning down that second cup of coffee earlier.
"All right, if it's for the records." the man chuckled, "Name's Ponyboy." he said, extending his hand again.
Betty the receptionist let out an exasperated sigh. She didn't have the energy for this. Her own husband had been drunk the night before, keeping her up half the night. She couldn't deal with another drunk right now. She hated her job.
"Sir, I need your real name for the records. Perhaps you should come back when you've sobered up." Betty instructed, hoping her boss wasn't close enough to hear. That was the kind of comment that could get a person fired from a rehab clinic, but at that moment, she didn't really care.
"Ponyboy is my name, I'll prove it." the man shot back, dropping his back and diving his hand into his back pocket. He whipped out an old black leather wallet, thick with various things, none of which was cash.
"There, see," he thrusted his license into her face. The picture was a few years old, from back when he was more sober. His smile in the photo was genuine, and he looked so much cleaner. Betty took a moment to just look at the photo, amazed that this was the same person, not his happier, younger brother.
"Well, I'll be damned," Betty muttered. There it was, on an official state issued drivers license: Ponyboy Michael Curtis. "Says here you are...twenty-nine. Is that correct?"
"Yes, ma'am. Don't tell me I look thirty already!" with that he let out a low chuckle, he was bolder when drunk. Told jokes just like his old friend used to, back when he was younger.
"And you reside at this address in Tulsa still?"
"Oh, no ma'am. I recently moved out. As in, my wife kicked me out. Last night. Hence still bein' drunk." this time when he spoke, Ponyboy's eyes dropped to the floor and he watched as his old sneaker moved back in forth on the cream tile floor, leaving a slight scuff on the floor with each movement.
"Current residence?" Betty asked, scribbling away on her precious paper work.
"Well, that old Buick out front...that's bein' towed...shit." Ponyboy answered, watching through the glass doors as everything he had left was getting hitched to a towtruck. "Why don't you just put homeless?"
"Insurance?"
"Here, I don't think it's gone out yet." Ponyboy handed her a card to a company that had been refusing his business for months, but the receptionist didn't know that, and he didn't feel a need to tell her.
"Next of kin?" she croaked, still scribbling away.
"Now, why would you need to worry about that?" Ponyboy grinned, leaning over again from where he'd been standing, turning the charm back on. "You know, I used to be real shy, ain't that funny? And now look at us, just met and chattin' like old friends."
"Sir, you smell like alcohol. You are checking into rehab drunk. I have worked here for over twenty years, and have never in my life had to check in someone who was intoxicated." Betty said, slamming her pen down in the frustration. She tried to keep her tone polite, but couldn't help but let some of the anger slip out.
"Ma'am, if I wadn't drunk right now, I wouldn't need to check in at all." Ponyboy grinned, highly amused at how flustered this woman had become.
"Next. Of. Kin." Betty demanded through gritted teeth. She was too tired for this, and already this guy had wasted so much time that she was missing some of her lunchbreak for this.
"Let's see, I already told you my wife kicked me out last night, my parents up and died years ago, my brother is somewhere in the Vietnam jungle, just rottin' away, my oldest brother hasn't talked to me for years, last I heard he wasn't even in Oklahoma anymore, my dead brother's best friend stopped comin' around years ago, my best friend died when I was fourteen, one friend died less than a week after him, and the only guy I have left keeps gettin' himself locked up because his hobby is stealin' cars, which is a lot harder than shopliftin', but he is yet to figure that out!" Ponyboy finally snapped.
Betty's eyes had gone big and her chubby hands were clamped to her chest. His eyes had gotten so angry as he spoke, his spit splattered on her glasses. He was leaning on her desk again, but not in the friendly casual way of before, but with his hand flattened against the top and his body leaning forward, ready to spring.
"Oh, Jesus, Betty," he muttered, getting off her desk and moving his hand to forehead, holding it so tight he seemed to be holding it together, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's the drinkin', gives me mood swings. I didn't mean to snap, you can calm down, I ain't no danger. I ain't been a greaser for years now, I ain't gonna hurt nobody."
Betty didn't understand what he meant by 'greaser,' but she was too nervous to ask any questions. She just nodded, her eyes still big, not bothering to clean off her glasses and went back to scribbling.
"Just..." Ponyboy started, looking around the waiting room in desperation, hoping one of the rubber plants or plastic chairs would be the comfort he so desperately needed, "Just put my wife on there. She's at the address on my license. Name's Cherry, 'scuce me, Sherry Valence-Curtis. No kids to notify."
Betty nodded, writing more carefully now as her nerves calmed down.
Ponyboy looked around the waiting room again, examining the large oil painting of some exotic flower that would die the moment it was brought to Oklahoma. All the magazines were out of date, and the posters on the wall were meant to inspire various good behaviors.
"STAY IN SCHOOL" He'd done that, but here he was. Even went to college. Got a useless degree and a taste for beer bongs there.
"SECOND HAND SMOKE KILLS" He'd smoked for years, and was yet to hear of anybody dying from that, his very cigarette found as the cause. At that very moment the idea of a smoke sounded pretty good, but he had a figure Betty might pitch a little fit if he lit up. He could tell by the watchful eye that kept sliding off the paperwork onto him meant she didn't exactly have him in on her good list.
"DRUNK DRIVING KILLS" All driving drunk had done for him today was get him to rehab. He had no one to blame for being here but himself, he knew. Although that bartender must have been a real jerk, giving him drink after drink. And he wouldn't have gone on a binge if he and Cherry hadn't had another one of their nasty fights.
They always fought over the same things: money, drinking, and the fact that she had never gotten the baby she longed for. They'd tried, it just hadn't happened. He promised her it would happen one day, they'd be parents one day, but she just kept getting sadder and sadder, working more than being at home. So, on nights that she was late, he'd have an extra beer or two. Soon it turned into him going to a bar after work, not even bothering to see the empty house waiting for him.
Finally, it landed him here. He'd come on his own, thinking maybe, just maybe, he could go home when he was let out. Things would get better, they'd finally have their baby. The complete family. They'd be normal, and happy, and he would make sure not to die like his parents had. Everything would be better, as long as he got sober.
"Mr. Curtis?" Ponyboy turned around at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Standing in the doorway was a doctor, already gray haired and bearded, who was fit and in better shape that Ponyboy was, his face friendly. He was wearing a lab coat over his slacks and tie, and looked just like every other doctor Ponyboy had ever seen in his life.
"Please, call me Michael." Ponyboy responded, facing to doctor across the room.
"Says here your name is Ponyboy." the doctor responded, holding the clipboard that Betty had worked so hard to fill out.
"It is, but that stops workin' out so well once you hit age fifteen." Ponyboy answered. The only people left in his life who would call him by his given name were those who were still alive from his gang, if they ever spoke to him, and his wife, if she ever spoke to him.
"I rather like the name Ponyboy." the doctor responded, watching how many times Ponyboy stumbled as he walked over to him.
"Yeah? Had a brother named Sodapop. Honest to God, name on the birth certificate." Ponyboy grinned, almost tripping over his own bag.
"You don't say? Well, by the time we get done with you here, Sodapop'll be mighty proud of you." the doctor put a friendly arm across Ponyboys shoulders as he spoke, guiding him out of the receptionist area into the actual facility. The doctor had completely missed the part where Ponyboy said he'd "had" a brother, but Ponyboy didn't correct him.
"Oh, yea? I'd like that." Ponyboy answered, going along with the gentle push. They walked on, leaving Ponyboy's bag and wallet in the waiting room behind.