Hi, this part one of a short 5 chapter story, the narration is Pony in 1978 reflecting on the summer of 1970
I am sitting on a bar stool, my sneakers tucked inside the metal footrest. I rip the wrapper off and aim my straw upwards above the bubbling Coke like it's a javelin and aim straight for the mirror.
Not realizing that Sally's behind is also in front of me.
As she stands up with a box of coasters, my pinched fingers, my angled straw, my red face and our eyes meet in the mirror.
"Aren't you a little bit old to be blowing spitballs at people?" I'm too embarrassed to notice her smile or to think of a good response. Besides, my mind is on other things.
"No, ma'am, I wasn't…" And suddenly I was thirteen again, sitting at Ray's blowing straws and rude comments at waitresses. But now I'm eighteen and a half and Dallas and Johnny aren't with me.
Odin disheveled with long stringy blonde hair, and eyes caved in by black and red rings rescued me. No matter, I was so glad to see him I almost jumped up.
"So I bend down to pick up some coasters, and when I get up I notice your little brother aiming his straw straight at my derriere." Her laugh is ample and jiggles. Perhaps like her derriere, if I had actually looked to aim for it.
"Nah, I didn't…" I stutter off in a feeble explanation.
Soda would have ragged me hard, enjoyed a few seconds of fun at my expense, but instead he just gave her a small smile, "that so?"
"Aww, honey," She puts her hand on mine, "I was just joshin' with ya, lighten up. You take everything so serious." The bolt of truth in her statement at the end has a point and I tried to smile through my embarrassment (see my smile says: I don't take EVERYTHING so seriously) even while the tips of my ears are still red.
"Didn't think you'd show up," I said honestly to Soda. I may not have always liked receiving the truth, but I could dish it out.
Soda shrugged, no offense taken, "I missed you." It was only because the words came from Soda's mouth that I believed him, his tone was flat with hardly any conviction.
I had missed him too. I went to school in town and lived in the dorms; Darry insisted that I get the full college experience. Even as I pointed out we would have saved money if I just lived at home and commuted to school. Darry worked construction and Soda did whatever he wanted. The three of us shared the same city and lived in three different universes.
"I probably won't be running track next year," Sally poured Soda a beer before he can even ask for one. He moved it towards me, an offering, but beer was never really my thing. Plus, I was still underage and I don't want Sally to get in trouble.
I shake my head and watch the droplets of condensation spill onto the bar. "The coaches want me to switch to javelin and shot put though." I had run track since I was fourteen and it was only when I made a last minute sub on shot-put and managed not only to not humiliate myself but get second place against a three time city champion in a friendly between us and the University of Oklahoma-Tulsa that my coach lit up like Buddha under the Bodhi and thus spoke the holy words: "why, I'll be a pig's fart Curtis, you can throw." And that's how the track team was fertilized with another shot put specialist.
As I tell Soda the story, his muscles clenched and his fingers tapping a faint tune on the edge of the glass, stopped tapping. "This don't affect your scholarship, right?"
I knew why he was nervous. Even though it was 1970 and there was real talk about sending our troops home, the draft, the lottery and most of all the body bags were realer.
"I got an academic scholarship, and I'll still be on the team, just not running." Translation: I still have two years of student deferment to avoid Vietnam. I talked to my brother like he's an acquaintance or a cousin I hadn't seen in years, not my best friend.
"I always knew you had one hell of an arm. I'm tellin' you Pony, you really shoulda gone out for football." He lets out a low laugh that shakes the beer inside the glass.
Soda lightens up after another beer and the two of us shoot the breeze, pretending that it's old times again. As he finishes a beer, I finish his sentences and even though everything has changed, we crack jokes and Soda gives me a hard pat on the back and his eyes almost have that old glow, "shit man, I mean it, how are you? Really how are ya? I missed you." And this time, I really do believe him.
I'm a whole lot better than I was a few minutes ago.
He asked me about my girlfriend, asked me how my classes are going and seemed genuinely interested in everything I have to say.
I'm a much better listener than I am a talker, or least I'd much rather listen to people than talk to them, but when it came to my turn to ask Soda how things are going with him, my tongue goes slack.
I should take a moment and explain that Soda was a junkie.
We sat in Arnie's Bar. Arnie's was fourteen years old in 1970 and like most fourteen year old males, having been a member of that strange subspecies myself, Arnie's could be moody, boisterous and absurd, but mostly it was just a local hangout.
Darry had started hanging at Arnie's a few years ago, and when Soda first came in, he was, for about five seconds, "Darrel's little bro," before he made a name for himself. Next to us two men were years ahead on the whole healthy living bandwagon since they kept on talking about melons and cantaloupes. Their laughter was onomatopoetic, "haw, haw, haw" they bellowed to one another as smoke from their Lucky's shrouded the air. Some college kids sat in one of the booths and poured over Yeats and on-tap beer. Between Yeats and the cantaloupe aficionados sat Soda and me.
It might sound crazy meeting an addict at a bar, but Soda never had a problem with drinking and I would have met Soda in a blood sprayed alley if that's where he wanted to meet up. If the mountain won't come to Muhammad then Muhammad will come to the mountain.
Also in 1970 though all of us who knew and loved Soda knew he had a problem, he wasn't at rock bottom yet. The tiny scabs on his chin could easily be written off as adult acne. He wore long sleeve shirts, but Soda was also idiosyncratic when it came to dress, wearing shorts and t-shirts in winter and long sleeve shirts in the summer. This shirt was unbuttoned about halfway down his chest and every now and then he scratched his beard and his chest hair.
Picture it now: the scabs, the beard, the long dirty hair, the open shirt and most of all his tongue piercing; it all gave him an image that he was conscious of and even cultivated: I'm a rebel. I'm dangerous. But he could still pull off a smile back then, could still be charismatic and charming, so now the look said, I'm a rebel, but I can be tamed.
A good crowd at Arnie's seemed to know him, coming up to him, talking to him. I was used to Soda being the center of attention, he was the dervish and the world skirted around him, followed and spun to his every move. And when he collapsed, it seemed to collapse with him.
"Soda…" he's spinning on the bar stool like he's 5 and not 21. His knees almost crashing into mine and I reach for his arms, to steady him, to steady myself for what I'm about to say. I don't really know what I'm going to say, I want to tell him to stop this, to get help, I wanted to ask him what I could do, a selfish part of me wanted to ask him what we did to him. But again, my tongue is thick and heavy and silent.
But Soda seemed to know exactly what I was trying to say, he almost always did. And he looked me straight into my eyes and his stare was as piercing as any arrow Arjuna ever launched.
"Pony, we can only do what we can do."
I first saw her through the flick of the flame from my lighter.
Her bellbottoms matched the tawny brown stool, the cuffs flared like yurts around her feet. When she stood up, her keys jingled in her pockets and from the waist down she had the stance of a libidinous reindeer on the prowl.
She sauntered towards us, or at least towards one of us, since even junked out Soda could still reel in the opposite sex without effort. Her perfume foreshadowed every step.
The perfume was followed by a lime green crinkled blouse, a tiny gold chain that swung in one direction and hips the swiveled in the opposite; on her head a peach bandana with a tiny gold bell and curls spiraled tight.
I nudged Soda, can you believe this? But Soda turned slightly towards her, his lips slithered into a smirk.
"Howdy."
I waited. Waited for Soda to tell her politely to get lost and then not so politely if she didn't get the hint. And as I waited his smirk only gained a midnight prowler's edge.
"What's ya name sweet thing?" It took everything not to throw up, I settled on throwing my head back and rolling my eyes deep into my what the fucks.
She giggled loud enough to turn heads and my digestive tract. Her voice had the screeching quality of lime green nails on chalkboard.
Her name wasn't Circe or Deborah or Rina Marlowe. It was Lauralee. I'm not sure if she spelled it Lauralee or Laura Lee, but she appeared to be the type who was born Laura Lee and then one day woke up, threw out old shoes, moth covered clothes and the space between the a and the l.
"I've been watching you and you look like the type who could be in for a lil' trouble," she poked his chest.
"What happened to your sweet lip baby?" His bottom lip had a small cut. Her lips clicked with concern and as Soda opened his sweet lip a bit and revealed his tongue piercing, her eyes aroused.
"My, my you're a bad boy," she cooed into his neck.
I felt as if I was watching a train crash.
He leaned into her, his voice condescending, "the baddest."
The baddest train crash.
Her hips moved, her chain stood still, "then you're right up my alley, Cat." My poker face fell and I shook my head and chuckled.
I sighed with relief; clearly this was a bridge too far even for Soda. This woman was pathetic. I don't even mean that in a pejorative way, although I'm aware of how it sounds, but I mean it sincerely, she was pitiful. And she had no idea how sad she sounded. She reminded me of the kid who is convinced she's destined to be the next star, unaware that the only reason she gets the solos is because she is the butt of everyone's cruel jokes.
Soda, his hands wrapped around her waist, her gold chain spilling onto his arm, "and maybe we can get ourselves in some big trouble later on." He eyed the space between his legs, looked up at her for a half second and back down, licking his lips.
And Soda was sitting in the front row, cruelly taunting her to continue her wobbled off-key solo as snickers and guffaws rang out like gun shots around them.
I felt bad for her and as annoying as she was, I wanted to give her back some of her dignity. More so I wanted Soda back and right now both her dignity and his soul could only be restored by separating the two of them.
I gripped onto the edge of the bar to steady myself.
This set her off into a fit of giggles that made her seem younger and younger the longer it went on, and if I closed my eyes I'd swear that she was barely 16.
"Am I gonna hear them same sounds tonight when I nibble your ear and…" Soda's eyes and mouth leered down her body; his words and glare becoming dirtier the farther and farther down until he locked into her crotch and stayed there.
I looked away, desperate to find another point of focus but my eyes followed the contours of the room, past the two men having an animated but low volume exchange, haw, haw, haw, past Sally slugging beer to a large group in the corner, and landed right on his mouth opening around her ear. His teeth molded onto her skin.
He whispered something in that ear which caused her eyes to widen with alarm and then the giggles started up again. This time there was an uncomfortable space between each giggle. And if she was my sister and he not my brother, I would have flattened him into the peanut shell floor.
But her moment of being uncomfortable was temporary because in a flash she pressed her flesh into his and tried to make, what I thought was a 'come hither' look, but might have been the effects of blinking square lights or a palsy.
"You're makin' me hot."
I was about to grab a water and hand it to her, anything to stop this.
He leaned over on his stool. "I got plenty of juice for ya baby, now open your mouth and say 'ahhh' I wanna make sure your thermos is big enough."
"Soda," my voice harsh as I tried to pull him back. Neither of us were strangers to crude talk and language and by the standards of late night bull sessions this didn't even hit the frothy Richter scale. But dirty remarks in private were different from saying them in public to a woman you didn't even know.
Not to mention he was sounding like a complete idiot. And he knew he was sounding like an idiot, he didn't care. He was treating her this way on purpose and she seemed to think he was actually flirting with her.
These were the pick-up lines I'd expect from the dumbest Brumly Boy back in the day, not from Soda, who all appearance to the contrary had a sweet charm, especially when it came to women.
But that wasn't the reason for the power drill churning my stomach into a preemptive nausea. They were both adults, both willing and wanting, her hands continued to paw across his chest; her fingernails coiling his chest hair. If their two flesh wanted to become one, who the hell was I to be a prig? And hell, it wasn't like I wasn't above having some fun or having a one night stand.
Then I saw it.
The look on Soda's face. It was cocksure and arrogant, yes, but it was so much worse. He didn't care about this woman that much was clear and hell he probably didn't care about half the girls he banged; but he didn't even want the sex. I could tell that he didn't find her one bit attractive, he probably found her just as sad and pathetic as I did.
But while the old Soda would have told her that he was 'taken' or 'not in the mood, darlin'' the Soda in front of me was a shark sniffing human blood (or cheap perfume) and what she offered with literal bells on was his for the devouring. Not because he wanted it or needed it, but because he could.
And the bar we're in. Look around, the group in the corner, squealing; Soda sniffling, she asked if he has a cold, mud tracked on the floor. I can smell my sweat through Darry's cologne.
We're in a pig pen. And Soda, he can't see her, he can't see her desperation, her insecurity. Her humanity. His humanity. But he looked through her eyes like she's a piece of trash. And he doesn't stop looking. His mouth curl slightly, a small cut of his teeth, feral and edged, breaks through his lips. His eyes darken. The longer he looks the more hate filled his face becomes.
He wasn't Odin. He was the wolf.
But it wasn't her he hates, I know that now. It was himself. Her eyes weren't a window into her soul; it was a mirror into his.
She doesn't notice, or if she does notice, it doesn't bother her. The more contempt in his gaze the more she seemed turned on and I didn't know what to make of her anymore. But I knew what I needed to do.
"Let's go, now." I wheezed and grabbed his arm, about to show him how strong my arm really was. But Soda doesn't budge.
Lauralee glared at me with disgust. Taking a good look at her face she was older than I first thought. I'd guess around 38 but she would be the type to still call herself, 'mid-thirties.' She was old enough to be his mother.
I looked at my warped reflection in the glass and conjured up a story for Rina, I mean Lauralee: recent divorcee, husband took the car, she got the daughter. Now she was trying to 'live her best life ever!' She would definitely be one to add an extra exclamation mark. Watched Monday Night Football religiously, still didn't know the different between a tight end and wide receiver, except as a double entendre, "I'll be your wide receiver tonight." She borrowed the bandana from her daughter, the perfume from magazine inserts from the dentist office, her confidence from a bottle of Jack.
"Who are you?" Her voice could freeze an Indian Summer. Jeez. Well, good, it's not like I wanted her to like me anyways.
"This is my brother," and for a moment it felt as if the spell had been broken and Soda's voice and eyes returned to normal.
"Oh my gosh! You two could be twins!" We could not at that point be mistaken for twins; at that point we hardly still looked like full blooded brothers, but I nodded wordlessly.
Then to me, "you're as cute as your brother, maybe the three of us can get together afterwards, a ménages à trois if you will."
Yes, if I will.
"A mangled twat, what?" Soda snorted into his glass and I'm too curious about where he picked up British slang to feel embarrassed. In fact, I laughed in spite of myself. God knows, I could be an asshole myself sometimes.
She hit her forehead, not hearing or not caring about Soda's rude comment, "I am such a ditz! I forgot to ask you, what's your name Cat?" she gave Soda moonie eyes.
"His name's Dog O' War, ma'am," I said in the best hoe down Ozark accent I could muster. This night was already a sham, might as well turn it into a farce.
Both Lauralee and Soda gave me a death stare. And two shall become one. Lauralee because I'm sure she didn't like being reminded of her age, and Soda because? Was he actually serious about her?
"I'm sorry, my name's… Mike." My voice is conciliatory as I reached out to shake her hand.
I wasn't about to tell her my name's Ponyboy, she seemed like the type of wit who would wonder if my genitalia could be compared to that of a horse, and given how Soda was behaving I wasn't sure if I could trust him not to whip out his right in the middle of the bar.
Soda's face broke into a sly grin and any peevishness he felt towards me vanished. "Pa…" he started with a grin, but his face darkened and envelopes into itself and even I'm not welcomed into this moment, it's his pain alone.
It's only a split second, only I saw it, because then Soda's face returns to its bloodless charm. "Why don't ya call me anything you like, how's that little girl?" His voice is a pulp fiction come to life.
Who is this man?
"What the fuck, Soda?" but he doesn't hear me.
This drew titillating laughter. Of course after being called 'ma'am' of course she'd love being called 'little girl,' and as long as none of us looked in the mirror we could all play into our delusions: Lauralee wasn't old, I wasn't lost and Soda wasn't a pig.
"I have some…" she pauses, "acid" in my purse if we wanna have some fun. I've never done acid before have you?" Have you? Have you? It wasn't funny at all, but I let out a bitter laugh and clap.
They both ignored me.
"Drugs scare me, there was a lady in Tallahassee who cooked her baby in a stove when she was on LSD," then she paused and her voice lowered a register and became almost normal and without realizing it I leaned towards her, "I read all about it in the newspaper. But I don't think one hit could hurt, do you?"
"I dunno, I don't do drugs," he looked her straight in the eyes. Though she smiled, her breath, her hands, her chest, her hips, her bell, her gold chain and finally her eyes pulled back. For a second this Lauralee who only knew Soda for a few minutes seemed to realize better than anyone who he was.
"Curtis, I've had enough of your bullshitting to last me a lifetime." The voice emerging from the door is harsh, a Russian nesting doll of gravel contained in Bourbon cupped in a throat.
Mary. I had never been so relieved to see her. Soda had a type judging from Mary and from empty threats from Tim Shepard to beat his ass: small, dark hair and fierce.
Soda just stared at her, too worn out to give her a glare. She was from California but came back to Oklahoma with my brother. Now their relationship was over and I really didn't know much about what she was doing with herself, besides shooting up.
Curtis got his ass up and whispered something in Lauralee's ears; he attempted to smile at her. A nice smile too, you could tell it strained him.
Her bell bounced against her forehead, but she still smiled back, especially as Mary shot daggers straight at the two of them.
"I'll see ya later Pone," and Soda pulled out some money from his billfold and placed it on the bar.
"Soda," I stood up but I didn't know what to say.
"I promise Pony, I'll see you later, okay? We got a whole summer together." He gave me a sad smile. We can only do what we can do.
He tried to reach his hand out to me, but I pulled back. Only our shadows touched.
"Wait, Soda," I called out to him but when he turned to face me, my shoulders only sank in defeat, "I'll see you around."
"Cunt," Mary shouted and both Lauralee and Soda looked at her, there was a small smirk on Soda's face, though it was hidden by his beard and offset by his eyes. Lauralee looked aghast.
"Oh, not you baby, I'm just talkin' about the one inch dick you're gonna be fucking tonight."
Soda just laughed and gave her the middle finger. Not embarrassed at all by her comments.
"No, sweetie that's too big." Then to Lauralee, "stick your lil' pinkie inside of your cooch and you'll get a good idea of what you can look forward to tonight." Then back to Soda who was enjoying seeing her riled up, "fuck you Curtis!"
"That's pretty much what's gonna happen, Mare," and gives her a wink.
"What's her problem?" Lauralee asked as she leaned into Soda. Though I noticed she did take a worried glance downward.
He walked out of Arnie's with his hands around Lauralee, her keys jingled, her perfume remained.
"Did you catch the cantaloupes on that one?" One of the guys next to me asks the other after Lauralee left. Honestly he had a point her um, cantaloupes were quite fruitful.
Haw Haw Haw
There's one more moment in this story that in the years ahead I would return to, endow it perhaps with more meaning than it carried. Before Soda left, before he left with this woman and her cantaloupes, he took a napkin and cleaned the spot of the bar where his drink missed the coaster. He didn't want to make Sally's job more difficult on her than it already was.
Mary took a deep sigh. Unlike Soda, Mary actually looked like a junkie, an emaciated Kali with ribs sticking out. The man who hubba habba about Lauralee looked at Mary with disgust.
"Why does he keep on doing this Ponyboy?" Her lips quivered and her voice shook like a candle about to burn out. My eyes softened. I run my fingers against the sleek dark wood and watch the napkin fibers blister my reflection.
I wish I had an answer for her, but hell if I knew myself. The door opened again and through the mirror I watched the grey night and Lauralee's headlights pull out.
Lauralee took Soda to her apartment, he washed up in the sink and as the ice cold water hit his face, she was in the bedroom, undressing. When my brother opened the bedroom door, she was lying there, naked, a pink lace teddy next to her.
He unbuttoned another button and looked at her, looked at her anticipation, looked at her excitement, watched as her fingers touched her body. Saw her perfume on the night stand. Saw the candle she lit on the other night stand. Watched her naked body.
"Nah, you ain't really my type," and walked out the door.
A/N: I don't own, and at this point I'm sure S.E. Hinton wouldn't want any claim to these people in this story either.
Mistakes I knew I was making: Arnie's of course is a real bar in Tulsa, but I'm not sure if the University of Tulsa had a track team based on their yearbooks, but in this version they do.
Sorry for asshole Soda.
I do truly appreciate all reviews, reads SO MUCH especially as I VERY unsteadily try to get back into writing. Thank you.