I don't even know what to call this. It's not a one shot and it can't be classified a story, just random memories Pony has of his Dad. I've been suffering bad writer's block lately, so this is how I've been writing through it. It's an exercise I thought about not posting at all, for my eyes only, but decided why not after discussing it with the lovely writer lulusgardenfli, and when she speaks, I listen. So, let's see how Pony saw Darrel...

HOW I SAW HIM

Sometimes I'm jealous of Darry and Soda for having more time. Their ages allowed them a better view of the man who was my father. I'd like to ask them questions, fill in all the gaps to better understand the gentle giant of my childhood, but I never get the nerve. Darry's too stressed out and busy all the time to be bothered with me, and even though Soda loves to tell old stories, they almost always make his eyes sparkle with tears these days, and I'm not aiming to be the cause of that.

When someone you love suddenly isn't there anymore, you wish you'd thought to ask them all kinds of things. What was once normal and mundane about them becomes beautiful and rare and intriguing. And those details that you long to know are screaming out for answers. I want to slap myself for not listening hard enough to Dad's old stories about Louisiana and growing up in the Depression, or why he fell in love with Mom, or how he learned to play the harmonica so well. What I'd give to have one more evening to sit up next to him and hang on his every slow, southern-drawled word.

I feel like I know Mom the best out of all of us; Soda might disagree. But I'm pretty sure I do. It feels like I sat on the sidelines with her my entire life, while Dad swept up Soda and Darry and took them to all the places I couldn't go. And by places, I don't just mean locations, though that happened a lot too, but I also mean conversations and life lessons and having access to all those things a father passes down to his sons. And while it makes me sick I'll never get those chances, that a careless traffic accident stripped me of my birthright, all those father-son moments that waited for me just beyond my reach, I comfort myself with every memory I do have, even the ones not so pleasant. Sometimes I tell them all to myself like a story, when I lie awake at night and work at keeping Darrel Curtis alive…

I'm six and sitting up high in the cab of the truck on his lap, my arms stretched wide apart, my hands gripping the steering wheel. It's more difficult to turn than I'd imagined, and I feel the truck fighting against me, not listening to where I want to go. The back of my head, leaned against Dad's chest, feels the vibrations of his voice when he instructs me gently, "Just keep it straight, that's it Pony."

My body moves with his legs as his feet switch between all the pedals, and I marvel at how he keeps up with everything that goes on all at the same time, just to keep this machine in motion. Now his muscled arm reaches around me and takes hold of the gearshift beside us, then he says, "Okay c'mon, we gotta shift her into third now." I run my pale hand down his brown skin, brushing over the blue-green ink of one of his tattoos, and my fingers cover his scuffed up hand as we both jerk the gear into some crazy zig zag pattern that I'll surely never understand.

We turn on our street and he says, "Alright now, hop off," and I scramble to the passenger seat, sad my turn at captain is over, but when we turn into the gravel driveway, he looks over and says, "Now don't go tellin' your momma, ya hear?" His wink and our smiles seal our pact and I run into the house with the thrill of a secret, shouting with uncontrolled delight, "Momma guess what I done!"

I can't be more than two or three, confused and out of my bed, walking through a silent dark house, searching for a comfort that not even my thumb can give me now. I hear Daddy's voice on the porch through the screen, and I follow the orange glowing tip of his cigarette that seems to beckon me. Knowing I'll just be put back to bed anyway, and might even get into a heap of trouble for being out of it, I risk it all and struggle with the door as I make my way out into the thick air. I stand between his knees and lean into his hand as he rubs my hair. He smells like wood and tobacco and his tired voice is exactly what I need when he says softly, "How's my Pony, huh?"

It's when Mom carries me away that I can't stop crying.

"Pony Curtis, you have five point zero seconds to get in here 'fore I come drag you in here by all that wild hair on your head." My blood runs cold as Soda looks up at me from the tv. He's cringing for me as he sucks in air through his teeth like he's just been burned, shaking his head as if my ten year old life is about to come to a very sad and violent ending. I'm too busy going over in my head what I've done to make Dad this angry. His temper is usually unleashed on Darry or Soda. I'm the good one, after all.

"You better go Pony, hurry up," Soda's nudging me once Dad starts the countdown, and I make it to his bedroom before he even reaches three. He's looking at his top dresser drawer and I suddenly know what this is about as I try and swallow down the lump that's already forming in my throat. I've heard him use this calm but threatening voice on my brothers, but it feels strange now aimed at me. "Would you like to explain why my gun has made its way from my sock drawer to my underwear drawer?" His eyes have the power to hold me in place.

I'm mentally beating myself up for stupidly putting his gun back in the wrong drawer, and I'm sure his invitation to explain is really just a trap to get a confession. But I'm caught already since this is the second time I couldn't keep my hands off the thing. And I'm almost shivering wondering what he'll do, seeing how two years ago he promised there'd be hell to pay if I ever did it again. I try and save myself by saying, "I only held it for two seconds Dad, promise, and there ain't no bullets in it anyway." And that's the truth. I just held it and pointed it at the mirror, to see what I would look like if I held up a store, or how I'd look if I saved the day by catching the people who held up the store.

I think I hear a growl as he exhales, and he runs both hands down his face and I'm embarrassed that I think I might've just whimpered. "How many times have I told you never to touch my guns?" his voice is rising as he continues. "I don't care if Jesus Christ Himself appears to tell you there ain't no bullets, you still can't be sure, do you understand me?" His jaw is clenched and I can only nod. A yessir is out of the question without any breath to spare.

I know better than to back away as he approaches and he easily jerks me forward and bends down so our faces and eyes are painfully close. His voice is a heated half whisper and his words are sharp. "You better be thankful for this whippin I'm gonna give you, cause it's a whole helluva lot better than had your brains exploded all over this floor your momma worked so hard to clean." Dad is constantly entertaining us with crazy threats about how he's gonna beat our behinds, so much so the three of us just laugh behind his back even though I'm pretty sure he knows, but this time I can tell he's serious. He sends me off to my room and I cry waiting for him to come in. I don't know if I'm crying cause I'm scared for my backside, or scared from the thought I could've somehow blown my brains to bits by the gun I held.

He never comes in though, and Mom calls out for supper. It's awkward as I eat, knowing everyone can see the pink in my eyes and my red blotchy face. While I'm thankful Darry's actually eating with us tonight cause he occupies Dad's attention, I'm more upset that he's here to witness this. He already thinks I'm a baby as it is, and these occasional sniffs I can't control are only convincing him more of this fact. I can feel my Mom's disappointment, even if she smiles when I look at her.

I'm sent to bed early and I'm grateful. It's Dad that comes to tuck me in, and I'm guessing this is the moment. But he just sits down next to me and I'm confused cause his face just looks more sad than anything. "I know I should..but I ain't gonna give you the licks. Only cause I think you've really been thinkin' over things back here in your bedroom." He breathes in and looks all around my room for a few seconds, then looks back to me. He's talking real soft now. "Pony, do you know what what would happen to me if you hurt yourself with my gun?" I have no idea and I don't like trying to imagine it so I just shake my head. "No sir," I say with a quiet voice.

"If you hurt yourself, or your brothers on accident, my world would be over. It would be the end of me. You understand?"

I bring my hands up to cover my face that's already scrunching up. I feel that sting in my nose that tells me the tears are coming again, and I tumble over into the sobs that have worn me out all day long. He shushes and rubs my hand with his rough one, and reminds me, "We're lucky nothin' happened Pony. Let's not keep testin' it. I know you'll never do it again, right?"

"Never," I say and mean it with all my heart. I don't ever want any of us to end.

He leaves me with a pat, but of course he can't help himself from launching out one more of his wild warnings while he closes my door, only this time he sounds a bit different, lighter, and for me, he puts all his efforts into making this his best one yet. "If it ever happens again, Ponyboy, you'll be upside down on my lap so fast your head'll spin right off that skinny neck of yours and clear on down the street." I grin right back at him through tears.

My hand is held tight by Mom's as we walk down the sidewalk, and I'm almost running to keep up with her fast pace. I'm hoping we're going to the park or maybe to the school to pick up Soda and Darry early. But we turn down a different street and the sound of hammering grows louder as a torn up building comes into view. There's a huge group of men on the roof and some hanging around trucks, ladders leaning everywhere. Mom stops in front of the loud men who are barking orders and laughing at jokes. It doesn't seem to bother her as she loudly asks, "Where's Darrel Curtis?" I think about taking my shirt off, since nobody here is wearing one.

One worker hears my mother and walks over, eyeing her up and down. "Howdy ma'am. Darrel's right up there," and he points behind him and my eyes look way far up, where I see him bent over. He's working that hammer hard, showing no mercy to all those nails he's beating on.

I guess Mom doesn't want to yell for him herself in front of all these men, so she asks the guy in front of us to do it. "Could you call him for me? I'm his wife."

"Sure darlin'," he says and I feel Mom grab my hand tighter. "Curtis," he bellows out and then follows it with a quick and piercing whistle.

Dad's so high up it scares me when he stands, and I worry he'll fall as he walks over to the edge, wiping his forehead with his arm, then shielding his eyes to see better. He nods when he spots us, then takes the ladder down as easy as he'd take the stairs and makes his way over, his dimple getting deeper as his grin gets wider. "Hey babe, hey Pony. Whatta y'all doin' over here?" Then his face gets serious real fast. "Is somethin' wrong?"

"Pony, you see that tree over there?" Mom's pointing. I see it. It's not far away, but I'm not happy when she tells me to go sit under it and not move a muscle. I shake my head no.

She says my full name in her voice that means business, so I behave and go plop down where she wants me, and I'm actually glad for the shade. I trace the dirt, pretending to write words, and look up every now and then to make sure my parents are still there. At first they're quiet, but by the way mom's moving I can tell she's mad. I feel sorry for my Dad being in trouble and all. As she starts to leave I see him grab her arm, and his voice is loud enough for some of the men to stop their work and look over. "Damnit girl there ain't no ounce of truth in them words you keep spittin'."

She tugs her arm out of his hold and comes my way. Her eyes are on me, but she's not really looking. I wince when she jerks me up by the hand. Wondering what I've done, we march away. I feel better when she tells me I was good for staying put, and I quickly look behind before we round the corner, but Dad already has his back to us, lighting his smoke and shaking his head as he walks slowly back to the building.

"Lordy boys, I got myself a good one," Dad shouts about Mom as he claps his hands once and rubs them together. He sits at the head of the table and looks at her with shining eyes. "Honey, this looks damn good." And he dives into his favorite down home dish of jambalaya. But while I'm glad it's a treat for him, I stare at my bowl and can't help but gag at the sight. There's no way I'm getting this down, even if Mom's threatening me like I'm five. "You have to take at least three bites Pony. Don't you know how many children are starving in this world?"

I start to sweat when I watch Soda shovel his down and wonder how he can stand it. "Pony, you're eleven years old. It's time to start expanding your taste buds. You can't just live on peanut butter and jelly all your life. Now all I'm asking for is three bites," Mom says, her soft voice sounding more impatient as this is starting to escalate. I figure it ain't too wise to ask if that's rice or maggots floating around in this mixture of puke in front of me. I exhale loudly and lean back in my chair, and wait for Dad to start in on me too. It's his favorite after all. If it's something out of his Louisiana, he assumes we're all gonna love it as much as he does.

I feel him staring at me, and I glance over to gauge how mad he's getting. His eyes don't look that fierce when he says, "Pony, your mom worked hard on this fine meal. Why don't you be respectful now and take some bites. You may just love it." I can't stop looking into his eyes even after he says it. They plead with him, silently begging for mercy. Cause I physically can't make myself do this. It's too much to ask. I swallow hard and watch Mom get up from the table to cut into the dessert on the counter. The dessert for only those who actually did eat the vile heaping of nasty served up this evening.

Before I know it, Dad's grabbed my bowl and starts dumping heaping spoonfuls of that shit right into his dish. And my eyes are wide with shock. The deed is done before Mom ever turns around and Dad says loudly, "Way to go Pony." And to Mom he says, "He took them bites hon."

Dad's always roughhousing when he gets home from work. Tonight he comes through the door yelling, "Alright boys, who's been behavin' today and who hasn't. I wanna know names so I can start giving out the punishments." Soda and I erupt into delighted chaos, squealing and pointing fingers and yelling "I'm next," while Darry's squeezed into a headlock and being forced to repeat "My Dad is the strongest man on Earth." Soda gets thrown like a wild sack of potatoes on the couch and I'm held in midair by my ankles, giggling cause the living room's upside down. I can see my mom in the kitchen cooking supper, ignoring the shouts and thuds, and just when all the blood's rushed to my head, Dad tosses me on top of Soda who's still sprawled out on the couch.

Soda and I are calming down as we watch tv, but I can see my parents in the kitchen. My mom's smiling as my Dad's looking at her with the face he only gives her. "What about you Maggie," he says in a low, strange voice. "Have you behaved yourself today?" And I see him hug her and bend to kiss her neck, and when his hand gives her a little tap right on her behind, my face and ears burn red.

Dad's driving me to school this morning since Mom ain't feeling too well. We say our goodbyes and I walk up the front steps just as the bell rings. Rising above all the noise I hear Dad calling out my name, and I turn around to find he's jogging up to hand me my sack lunch. "Here Pony. Don't forget this." I take it and thank him, and he tells me again to have a good day and work hard but have fun and all those things he loves to say over and over. When he's finally gone, I notice Lucy Reeves is standing right by me, the best looking girl in all of fifth grade.

"Your dad talks funny," she says flatly and walks off.

And I stand frozen and watch my Dad as he dodges all the little kids that are running around, making him appear even bigger than he is. His jeans already look dusty before his day's even begun, his t-shirt is worn out from sun and being washed too many times. A cigarette is tucked above his ear. He's rough all the way around. And my feelings hurt for him as he climbs in his truck and drives away. Because he does talk different. He looks different than all the other parents. And my stomach feels sick when I slowly admit it to myself. I'm embarrassed.

A/N: Outsiders by SE Hinton

Alright, it's getting long enough so I'm stopping here. But I'm sure I'll return with more of Pony's memories. Or maybe some of the other boys will have some to add. Thanks for reading!