I do not own S.E Hinton's The Outsiders. Enjoy!
An unremarkable Tuesday night, Tulsa Oklahoma, 1965.
Sodapop Curtis. Known to all the ladies of Tulsa, and to his little brother, like a greek-god on earth. His charming grin. Gorgeous eyes. Boyish personality. It was said that he could get drunk without even touching a drop of alcohol; He could get drunk on life and the living of it.
He was a restless one. Never could sit still and all his family knew it. The gang, being his family, certainly did. So it was no surprise that this Tuesday night found him in a vicious wrestling match with Two-Bit on the floor of the mickey-mouse lover's house, who was supposed to be watching his baby sister, Karen.
"Holler Uncle!" Sodapop grinned, tightening his choke-hold, "I'll cut off your air!"
Two-bit gave in with a defeated 'uncle,' and both boys got up and flopped on the couch, panting. Two-bit ran to the kitchen and got them both some water which they drank in silence for a while before Two-Bit broke it. "So what do you think Pretty-boy," he joked, using his and the gang's favorite nickname for Soda, "Up for a rematch?"
Soda grinned and shook his head, "Don't wanna hurt you," he said devilishly, looking down at his watch, a much-beloved birthday gift from his younger brother. "And…" he said, yawning, "I gotta run. Plans with Steve."
"Chicken" Two-Bit muttered. "Alright. Tell ol' Steve-O I said hi."
"Will do," Soda replied, making his way down the steps and cracking his knuckles.
He always hated lying to the boys.
See, there weren't any plans with Steve tonight. But it was 5:00 Tuesday night, and that meant something particularly important was going on that Sodapop would not miss.
He walked past his own house, and all the others he'd grown up knowing, muscle memory taking over as he hiked the six blocks to the last place anyone would probably expect someone like Sodapop Patrick Curtis, young and beautiful and orphaned, to be on a Friday night.
The Tulsa Greyhound bus station.
Walking through the entrance, Sodapop stepped up to the ticket booth, propping his body up on the counter. "Round trip ticket to nowhere for one please."
The tired old man turned around, recognition lighting up his eyes when he saw the young man. "Sodapop," he rasped with a smile "how ya been, kid?"
Soda shrugged, smiling. "Not bad, Mr. Adams, same as always. How 'bout yourself?"
The man grinned, "I'm gettin' along."
Sodapop nodded. "How's Margie been?" He asked, his voice taking on a new tone.
The man grew visibly uneasy. "She's...alright I guess. Better than last week. Doc says she should wake up soon enough but…" he started to get choked up and continued in a tone so vulnerable it's reserved only for one's best friends. "Every time I look at her...there in that white bed I just...I don't see nothin', you know? Everyone keeps tellin' me not to give up on her and lord knows I don't want to but sometimes it just feels like…"
"...Like giving up would be so much easier." Sodapop finished knowingly. Mr. Adams nodded. Sodapop understood him and he understood Sodapop. It was a real nice thing.
"Well," the greaser started with a soft smile, "I can't promise that it'll be alright. But, my little brother has this funny thing about watching sunsets. It always makes him feel better. Maybe give that a try."
The older man looked thoughtful, "You know, now that I think about it, I haven't watched one in a good while... " He looked at the young boy in front of him and smiled, "I think I'll give that a try." He looked down at the beat-up counter. "Thanks, Sodapop."
The boy nodded. "Any time Mr. Adams. Now, I'll take one ticket, please. The usual." He reached into his pocket, but Mr. Adams just smiled at him, shaking his head. "Nah, kid. It's on me." Soda furrowed his brows. His dad had taught him never to take charity, but Mr. Adams put up his hand to stop him. "Really, son, it's the least I could do."
Soda beamed at him. "Thank you, sir."
Ticket in hand, the young mechanic turned and walked into the station. Just like every time he had done so before, it was crowded with people going every which way. Sodapop took a deep breath and walked over to his usual spot, folding his hands behind his head. A bench near the concession stand where he had a perfect view of the whole station.
And he sat.
He sat there, as he had done every week for as long as he could remember being allowed to leave the house by himself. He watched all of the people. He saw wives kissing their husbands goodbye and was experienced enough to know the ones who cried real tears. He watched old grandparents leave, ending their visits, and little kids, eager for new adventures, get on the busses all starry-eyed. He watched newlywed couples be wished well, and then, happy to just be together, get onto the bus and off to their honeymoons or new homes.
He sat and watched everyone until the sun went down. He observed their gestures, their eyes, their tones. He listened to what they said, and especially to what they didn't say. He had learned, over the years, that the unsaid was so much more important. He watched their expressions when people weren't looking, and how they carried themselves.
He sat and watched, like every week, for 2 ½ hours, as the sun went down behind the station, until finally, as the last bus of the evening departed, Mr. Adams came by and told him it was time to head home.
Sodapop stood up, stretched, thanked Mr. Adams, and headed home, smiling to himself and preparing what he would tell the gang for where he'd been.
And they wondered how he was so good at understanding people.