I watched him. That boy with the greased back hair and the greenish-grey eyes that seeped into your soul. I wouldn't watch him to mock him or to laugh at his ways. In fact, I envied the boy and his way of life, so diverse and different from my own. I had watched the boy for years, the way he walked, the way he spoke, the way he smoked his cigarette. There was an attraction there for sure. An attraction to what? His way of life? His looks? His style of dress? Whatever it was, it was enough to capture a soc like myself. Yes, I am a soc. Or a social. Whatever it is they call it. Although, I was ashamed of my label as a slave would be ashamed of his race. I coveted the greasers and everything about them, unlike the people who surrounded me that cursed them and beat down on them for the fun of it all. If you were to ask me, I'd tell you that I am not a soc. Not on the inside. My inside is a smokey interior with cigarettes, hair grease, cheap leather and old cars. My exterior is a prim and proper young man with hair cut respectively and my collar straightened.
I came from a wealthy home, the south side of town. Everyone knew me as 'Nice boy, Clark Monroe'. I desperately wanted to change that. And I was willing to become a greaser, in spite of my background and in spite of my previous way of life. But how is a soc to simply change sides when there is such a hate between the two? It is not simple, nor is it easy.
Yes, I watched that boy for several years without uttering a word to him. He was unaware of my obsession and oblivious to my dream. My dream to escape my label, my background. But in a town as small as ours, becoming a different person was close to impossible. Shortly after my watch began with the one boy, it inspired more quests. Before I knew it, everywhere I went, I would absentmindedly gawk at the greasers, admiring them. While they all inspired me, there were three in particular that kindled my dream.
The first greaser, was obviously the boy I had started with. The first one that caught my crooked eye. He was younger than most, his reddish-brown hair was what they called "tuff" and his cool eyes ran deep, perhaps they ran forever. In all the times that I minded him, our eyes had never met. I wouldn't have it any other way, that young greaser wouldn't bother to care about me. By just glancing at me, there was nothing different or outstanding. You'd only see it if you looked into my insides. Often, I thought; maybe the young greaser would see through me, but I never got close enough to trying. It would be a prolonged time before I brought myself before him and exposed myself to him.
The second watch came by accident but it was a well respected one. The young man's rusty side burns stained the side of his face and his witty grey eyes could bore into anyone. What attracted me to this loud mouthed imp was his sense of roughness, yet his personality was quite opposite from his looks. Very different from the third greaser that stopped my eye.
Dallas Winston, that was the greaser's name. I could tell you, the only outstanding reason I was aware of his name was the popularity he had with my people. That, and after I heard his name, I was so astounded by it that I decided to peruse him. Not romantically. I am heterosexual. Not belonging to any other sexual group. But I must admit this vice of mine to you-I was attracted to Dallas Winston. Him and the young greaser with the peering eyes. I couldn't help it, it was soon an obsession. I was only able to withhold the information for so long until I was discovered.
"What the hell are you staring at, Saukerl?" my friend, Helmut Frauller, cursed at me as my eyes gazed past his mane of copper hair and settled on the young greaser with the tuff reddish hair. Jolting back to reality, I eyed Helmut.
"Huh?"
"Horst" He cursed again in German, calling me a moron. Yes, Helmut was verbally abusive but he was the only soc I could tolerate, the others making me sick and wanting to vomit. Furthermore, I had learned some new curses from that loud-mouth. We were what you would portray as the out casts. Even though we were soc class, our personalities and our backgrounds constrained us from truly being socs and from wanting the others to socialize with us. Which I was content with, I resented the label. But for someone like Helmut Frauller, it was his race that separated him from everyone else. The only factor that was keeping that boy in the loop was his father's wealth and his style of dress. Helmut had moved to Tulsa from Hamburg, Germany, a substantial adjustment. The wild stories he'd tell me about the strip clubs and the bars, the night clubs and the poker games. Unlike the greaser life I was obsessed with, these stories had no meaning to me - they did nothing for me. As for myself, it was my personality that differed me from the other socs. The fact that I didn't belong made them look at me that way - it was my attitude that made them stray away from me. And so, me and Helmut had each other. It was not my choice but I learned to appreciate that foul mouthed foreigner.
"What were you looking at, Arschloch?" he spat at me again, staring hard in the direction that I was . A thing you should be knowledgeable about was Helmut's vocabulary. It consisted of many word but three in particular. Saukerl, Saumensch and Arschloch. I am not one to command you but if you are ever to encounter a German, I'd advise you never repeat these words to his face.
"N-nothing. I was thinking." I stuttered. Helmut looked at me, sceptical.
"You've got your head in the clouds, Clark." he muttered sourly. I ran my hand through my own bronze head of hair as my left eye slipped past Helmut and remained on the young greaser and my right eye, in fact, focussed on Helmut.
He wasn't aware of it, even I wasn't aware of it, but that night, there would be a fight. Between the socs and the greasers. Well, maybe I was aware. But I wasn't aware that was the night I'd have my first face to face encounter with the tuff haired greaser who I had kept watch on for years.