What Separates You From Me
Author's Note:
I don't own the Outsiders. This story is loosely based off the book and is meant to foil the characters and events of the Outsiders (many OC's and CC's will be involved). The story occurs about two to three years after the book ended. Rated T for language and topics.
Chapter I
Another Time, Another Place
"What an animal...a savage..."
You find yourself sprawled over a festering couch in a fixed expression with a cigarette in your mouth as your father looks unto you with a look of such fervent disappointment that it even sends chills down your spine.
You focus on his eyes; they held such a crestfallen grimace, one which you couldn't deny. In an attempt to avert his gaze, you take another drag of your smoke. Normally, you didn't care for his opinion, which you often found to be vapid or otherwise trite. But this time around, you couldn't help but agree vehemently on the subject.
Shaking off your gaze, he turns over, mumbles something, and leaves the premises.
"Tell me something I don't know," you quietly whisper, almost plead to no particular audience.
It certainly didn't take a genius to understand what he was going to say. Though, unless your eyes were fooling you, you could've sworn there was a dangling shred of regret in his eyes. Above everything else, he was still your father, right? And perhaps he was still worried about what happened before with you and blames himself for letting it happen.
You don't see why considering how it wasn't his fault, or anybody's really. It just...happened.
He says it again aloud, although he probably doesn't think you heard it. Your body involuntarily quivers, and you tell yourself it doesn't bother you.
It's not like you haven't heard those words before.
You Animal. Savage. Trash.
In fact, those are the exact same words that kid from school called you. Right before you broke the poor man's nose and fracture a rib or two.
It all happened so quickly that you have such a hard time recollecting it all. You remember the man's face, his beleaguering smirk, a restraining hand over your chest, and your back to the wall. There was a bitter taste in your mouth, and a large mass congregating around the two of you.
They began chanting something you couldn't hear. The only thing ringing in your ears was his words. It almost seemed echo in your head a million times over before you even thought about doing anything.
After that, everything was radiating in a dark, bloody color as time slowed down and blurred.
The only thing afterward that you can remember was the twisted and contorted look on his face when your fist met his face. Even going to the principal's office and obtaining that referral escapes you - not that you'd miss it, for that matter.
You then decided to make a list of things you know about yourself.
"I'm a bit short in height, I ain't fat, but not skinny neither. I got green eyes, dark hair and sorta tan skin. I dun look nothing like Dad or David. But I did look like Alex the last time I saw him but he had blue eyes 'nstead and they say my face got rougher features even though I was always the smallest.
People say that I look like a kid who's eighteen years old or somethin', but shorter. And girls at school say that my voice was awful deep to match my face but I never did figure what either of them meant by that.
...Oh, I got some sense. I think.
And my name is...uh...my name is..." You rub the back of your head, trying to pick your brain for the answer. Luckily for you, someone else provided it for you.
"Jesse," your father called out. You immediately turn to him, with the same indifferent look plastered on your face.
Putting on a top hat and coat, he continues. "Please don't get into any trouble." You barely hear him, and he sighs. "I mean it, Jess. Don't get into any trouble. And don't get arrested, okay?" He sounds exasperated, half-expecting you to do just that. It almost bothers you.
"Okay..."
He leaves. With nothing else to do, you survey the area and snag a tank top and button up shirt before departing.
The bittersweet fragrance of cheap alcoholic beverages heavily pervades the area around you. The place consisted mostly of half-decayed ligneous furniture. The bottom of the tables are kissed with ancient pre-chewed gum and floors are littered with the unsweeped butts of countless cigarettes. There are sparsely situated obstructions in the walls, eerily reminiscent of bullet holes.
The noise level remains at about a low hum with only close familiars truly interacting. As expected, most of the conversing involves the latest of frivolous prattle with innuendo-laden or aggressive undertones. Every once in a while, however, you notice a brief lapse or the occasional awkward cough.
A single flask drains down your throat as you listen to those around. You know what it is they're saying.
"Is that the same boy who-?" One of them would start.
"Yes, it is," she confirms in a hushed tone. "I still can't believe it...he looks and acts so much different."
"You knew him already?" she seemed oddly astonished.
"Kinda. He lives close by. Back then, he was kinda cute, but now...You know he punched that Soc kid, Jeff?"
" I heard about that. Do you 'member that one kid who ran off a few years back like he did?"
"Yeah, I remember, he had a weird name and then there were those big fights..."
You tune out. Not that you have a problem with eavesdropping; if they didn't want you to hear, they shouldn't be talking so loud - that's what you were told to believe at a younger age. However, you were never one to find the spotlight to be quite flattering. You see it all around you: innumerable canvases of either awkward expressions, shock, or pitiful glances of displaced sympathy.
Strutting across the room and back to the table at the front, you come across an old friend. A young hood by the name of Anthony. He said he used to be in a group who herded sheep or something - you can't remember what exactly he said but the thought of him in rusty blue overalls as a local farm boy was utterly hilarious.
Anthony wasn't anything like you. But that didn't mean you wouldn't be friends.
You two talk. Mostly him explaining the latest convoluted scheme, or robbery, or some other dumb shit he recently participated in. Anthony never did well in school because he was too lazy to care, but he was a damn good story teller. Complete with the quirky facial expressions and self-synthesized sound effects all the way to the hand gestures. He loved every moment of it.
It makes you think that perhaps, in a distant world or a distant time, he could've made out to be a good writer. But you soon dismiss the thought; you were never the idealistic type, despite having a habit of seeing the best qualities in people.
You'd like to think that everyone had at least a talent or two, but many people either never find those talents or if they did, they were simply wasted. You think about one of the stories you heard about, back many years ago. Particularly about a set of robbers during the Great Depression: a friendly, almost non-violent group who eschewed the usage of guns as a means to rob multiple banks. What is it that they'd be able to accomplish if they were simply in a different mindset?
Or what about those in a similar inclination to Anthony. He's smarter than he believes and God knows he had anything but a cordial upbringing - just as many kids in the area. A vague picture of Anthony being a politician or a school teacher emerges in you head. However, if you ever told Anthony about it, he'd just laugh and relegate the thought.
Anthony certainly looked like your classic greaser, tight jeans, a worn black leather jacket that was too big for him, shoes with toe holes, but he did always wear a baseball cap hat rather than showing off his long and greasy hair.
The way you always saw it, Anthony was simply a greaser: nothing more and nothing less.
Your conversation remains a subtle one, lacking in serious matters. But unfortunately, the it eventually goes to: "So Jesse... Why'd ya do it, man?"
"What are you talking about?" you absently respond.
"You know exactly what I mean, they say you're parents beat you or somethin'," he explains with a vague uncertainty.
You give him a blank expression. Why want to know or so much as even care. But then you remember, as long as something is mildly interesting, the vicinity will amplify the situation just to animate their typically bleak lives, even if just for a little. "That's not it, man." You throw back a shot. "Nah, I dunno where people get that shit from."
"Really?" he asks, unsurprised. "Then what is it?"
"...Nothing, really. No one put me up to it or nothin', I just got up and left."
The conversation continued on, usually with you dismissing another confounded rumor or muttering something quick so he can't quite hear or have the time to process my words. Despite that, Anthony didn't seem to interesting in the subject. You guys haven't seen in a long time, honestly, but it's as if he hasn't changed. You decided to confront him with a thought that had been bugging you.
"Anthony, what are you looking for? A friend or a newspaper article?"
At this his eyes jump with vivacity and his hysterical laughter fills the bar. "And everybody's complaining how you ain't that dumb, wild kid we all used to love to hate. To be honest, I was gettin' pretty worried myself, but it ain't like two years away from Tulsa can change a man completely." Calming himself down and wiping a force tear from his eye, he went on. "Now, to answer your question, buddy, I ain't lookin' for either, you should know that better than everybody, even if you were out for so long."
It's true. If you recall correctly, your friendship had almost been strictly conditional. You only hung around with each other because Anthony was a new kid in town and no one else really wanted to know him at first. You didn't care so much, a friend is a friend, right?
Soon, you and Anthony leave and take to the streets just roaming around with some of his buds from school. You find yourself hanging by the periphery, only half-listening but not so much participating. There was an unsettling chill about in the air so you bring out a Kools and use its heat as a temporary source of unprecedented comfort.
They eventually turn to you, foolishly assuming you've been listening attentively the whole time. Frank speaks up.
"What about you, Jess? When was the last time you had yourself a lady friend?" he asks without hostility.
You shrug. "I dunno."
Frank was tall and broad-shouldered with gray eyes and short but greasy brown hair. He used to work at a tire company before getting fire under charges of suspected (but never proven) theft. He was usually quiet and never really had much to say except to his friends. Unlike most greasers, though, he came from a loving family. Frank isn't what you imagine to be handsome but for whatever reason, he's had a way with girls for a long time. Perhaps they saw something in him that they didn't see in others, and others didn't see in him.
His friend, Louis, seemed a bit distraught. "Have ever even had one, Jess?"
"I guess not," you admit, unsure of whether you were telling the truth yourself. "Though there was this one girl I met while I was away..." you quietly start, but then dismiss the thought.
"I thought you was with that Angela chick a few years back," Anthony adds.
You turn to him, smirking for once in a long time. "Angela?" You laugh, shaking your head. "Nah. Never."
"Why not?"
"She's a bitch," Anthony answers for you.
"What? She's hot, man," Frank responds.
"Maybe, we'll never know as long as she's wearing three tons of make up on."
"She does not."
"She totally does. When you kiss her cheek, you can see her face all smeared and shit, it's disgusting. How the hell does she pay for all that, anyways."
"So what? All greasy girls wear tons of make up for some dumb reason," Frank points out, shrugging.
"Really?" Louis cluelessly asks.
"Damn straight, man. And they probably think we like that shit."
"Probably," Frank says. "Dunno 'bout you guys, but I like mah girls more natural, ya know?" He grins.
"Frank, looks ain't everythin' you should look for in a girl, you know that."
"Yeah, right. You're such a candyass, Anthony. C'mon, man. Take whatever you can get."
"Whatever, guys. I swear, some girls are crazy. One minute they're fuckin' screaming at you, and the next they're begging you to like cuddle and shit."
"Eh...I guess you're right, Anthony. I hate them needy ones."
"Yeah, but some girls, Frank?" Louis seemed hysterical. Perhaps Louis got more drinks than he should have. "How 'bout all of them?" Once again, they all seemed to nod in agreement - all of them but you, that is.
It took you about an eternity and a half to finally figure out that we were all headed towards a party hosted by some grease in a nearby block. Before we get there, a well polished car drives by. Unsurprisingly, it was a bunch of Socs for school who drove by perhaps just to show off or perhaps they just so happen to be around. They spotted each of us and slowed down as they approached and passed us by.
They all seemed to be swearing at you and the others with utter vulgarity and disdain. So intently wrapped up in their own worlds, you doubt that they know any of your names (not that they'd have a reason to know any of them, barring yours, of course).
Louis just glared at them indignantly before expelling his hand from his pocket and flicking them off. Anthony just looked away with a contemptuous grin, pretending not to notice. Of course, you leave it to Frank to return the favor with a swearing of his own, a classic flushing of his face, and playing the obligatory "spit on their tire tracks" card . As for you, you don't so much respond, but rather scrutinize their responses.
After it all blows over, it left each of them in poor mood with a prevailing tenseness in air. Louis asks you for some Kools.
"Damn Socs," Frank finally spits out. He's never had nice experiences with Socs. It didn't help that the time you found him in a dark alley, half-conscious and beaten to a pulp. He still has scars on his chest and back to prove the incident. You can't help but feel for him but still feel like he had it coming. Especially since he was hanging with some Soc girl who was best known for what she did on a mattress.
"Who the hell do they think they are?"
"Who the hell knows?" Anthony responds quietly.
"I mean, they probably got it made but they got no better things to do but to bother us. We have to work for all of our shit but they don't have to lift a damn finger and they can get away with doing anything want. To them, we're all scum but they're the ones always startin' shit." You can barely hear him since he was talking so quietly.
"Do you really think that, Frank?" you ask with a bit of a spark.
"Yeah, isn't it obvious?"
You frown. "How would you know? I mean, none of us are like the nicest people around either. And we don't know nothin' about their lives. How can we be so sure?"
"Are you really defendin' them, Jess?" Louis asks, shocked.
You don't respond. "Damn, Jess, you really are a different person." He scowls with swelling frustration or disappointment, you can't tell.
Maybe both, you think.
They all look at you with the same expression, even Anthony. You hate it.
"Well maybe I am different," you admit almost stolidly. "But I think it's more disappointing to know that this town hasn't changed one bit since I left." You shake your head in dismay. "It's like the same damn things every time."
You turn around but you hear a voice behind you. "You're wrong," Anthony states with conviction.
"Prove it."
No response.
You decide to leave it there. You then walk away, never looking back at them. No storming off. No dramatic catharsis. Just a wayward excursion. Another search for another time, and another place, knowing full and well that you'd come along empty-handed like you always did.
No matter what you did, you'll always end up back in Tulsa. One way or another.
"Somethings never change."