"Ponyboy, I've got my last dress fitting. I'm going to take the car and be back in about an hour, alright? See if you can't get some more of your stuff packed. Our wedding's in a week, and you've barely started!"
"Alright, alright. The wedding's happening whether my junk is in the new house or not, but I'll work on it. See ya later, Sweetheart."
I sent Kathleen out the door with a kiss. Usually she wasn't too much of a nag, but with the wedding in a week and us both moving, we were all a little stressed. Slowly I made my way to my childhood bedroom. She was right; I'd been putting this off for way too long. There were a lot of reasons, I guess. Part of it was that I was busy and just hadn't had the time. The other part was sentiment. Doesn't matter how tough you think you are, there's always something that hits you in the gut with a big move like this. It was the end of an era, and an official end to my childhood and adolescence. Now, I'd turned 21 a couple years ago, but that was just paper. This was real.
My biggest problem as I stood surveying the room was where to start. That was another reason I'd been putting this off. Figuring out what to tackle first was the hardest part. I inhaled deeply and let it slowly seep back out in a hiss with my hands on my hips. The junk box. Most of that could probably be pitched out anyway, and it might make me feel like I was accomplishing something. Kneeling by my bed, I felt around for a bit and located the very dusty and crumpled box and slid it out. It was one of those landing spots for everything you don't know what else to do with but don't want to throw out. It was also handy when Darry would yell at me to clean the room because Social Services would be here for a home visit in an hour. Just shove everything off the dresser top into the box and slide it under the bed. Presto! Cleaner room in under thirty seconds.
I wiped most of the dust off the top and opened it. I was right; most of it was old junk: a bent baseball card or two, one smelly sock long since devoid of its partner, a few pencil nubs… the list went on. Underneath the junk though, I did start to find some more interesting things. My acceptance letter to the University of Tulsa was the first thing. I didn't see why, but Darry had insisted I keep it. He said I'd like to have it later. Looking at it, I decided he was right; it was sort of neat. I put it to the side. It wasn't much on its own, but I could probably slide it in the frame behind my diploma. I'd graduated last year with honors with a degree in English and Literature. That's also where I'd met Kathleen. She'd had a few years of a full blown hippie phase in college and spent most of her afternoons up in a tree in the quad reading love poetry to anyone who'd listen. I was there almost every day. In the last year or two she'd tempered the vibe. Once in awhile though, I'd show up at her house and find her meditating up in the big oak tree in her backyard.
The next thing of interest I pulled out was an old Polaroid. The picture was of the whole gang taken back in the summer of '64. The summer before… well, before everything. I smiled as I looked at the scene. It was on our way out to a rumble; don't remember which one. That summer was a pretty contentious one, so we were fighting every other week it felt like. Two-Bit felt we looked extra tuff that day, so he swiped the camera out of some Soc girl's mustang while she was shopping. Heaven knows we couldn't afford something as fancy as a Polaroid. He put it back later when we ran out of film. This photo was taken right at the height of the Greaser Era. We were so oiled up it's a wonder it wasn't running down our faces. Well, everyone except for Dallas and Darry. They never went in too much for the trend, and no one ever questioned them on it. Well, at least no one I ever knew of.
Surveying the picture, I felt my chest tighten painfully. Three of the people in that picture were gone now. Well, really it was more like three and a half. Man, they'd all gone out so differently. Each in his own way. It reminded me of an old legend I'd studied in college. It's one that appears time and time again throughout history and even different cultures: the legend of the swan song. According to this legend, just before it dies, a swan sings out its final and best song. Now, I couldn't really imagine comparing any of the gang to a swan and they'd probably beat me if they ever heard it, but this part seemed to fit. None of us were Greasers any more.
Dallas' song was like his life; short and harsh. No one would dare call it beautiful, but in my mind it was poetic in a way. How else would he have gone out? He didn't plan it like that really, but then again, he didn't plan much of anything in his life. He just reacted to anything that came along. His last act was the same, and he went out on his own terms in his own way.
Johnny's song couldn't have been more different. Johnny's swan song was his letter. Well, to tell you the truth, it was equal part his heroism in the fire and equal part his letter to me. Now Johnny's was a true swan song: brave, strong, glorious, and beautiful. Though he died well before his time, I think most people wish their ends would be like Johnny Cade's. He died a hero, and there was purpose in his death. Johnny spent his life having stuff happen to him instead of choosing what he did. He chose to go in that building with me to save those kids, and I think that made all the difference. Even though he struggled in the hospital with dying at only sixteen years old, ultimately he went out hopeful, strong, and without regret. I still have his letter in my top dresser drawer. I pull it out every once in awhile to remind myself what life should truly be.
The third person gone from the gang was Steve. His song was some strange blend of Dally's and Johnny's: explosive, yet meaningful. Steve and Soda had both enlisted to fight in Vietnam; only Soda came back. I'd never liked Steve; he was arrogant, mean, and ornery. However, he was loyal to a fault, and I'd always love him for that. He'd never stranded us in a fight, and he's the one that got Soda home from the war. Randle had thrown himself over a grenade and saved the lives of most of his platoon, Soda's included. Soda became the half.
Even though he came back to us physically, the Soda that came back to us was changed. He came back broken. Most of the time it's like looking through a cracked mirror at the brother I used to know. Sometimes you can still catch glimpses of the old Sodapop, but it's fragile and distorted. His song started that day in Vietnam, and he's still singing it. It's sharp and discordant, but beautiful, always beautiful, just like my brother. Soda tries to cope, and we help the best we can. He tries to be strong, but his spark for life isn't what it used to be. He spends most of his time at the VFW. His gang now is the Veterans, a group of tough, scarred men who try to help each other live with the atrocities they've seen and the horrors they've committed.
My other brother's swan song began a long time ago, I guess, and it's blossomed into a full symphony since then. His started sharp and loud when the State signed over guardianship of Soda and me to him. That was the day I think his true Greaser days ended. He was still one of us, but it just wasn't the same after that. As Darry took on the parent role, his song evened out into something powerful and consistent. Also beautiful in it's own way, and soothing in its predictability. Then he got married a few years back and now has a couple of kids: a three year old, a two year old, and one more on the way. It's probably a good thing I'm moving out; he needs the space. Since then, his song has mellowed out even more. It's more like a lullaby now.
Two-Bit started singing his song the day his mom got a call from her doctor saying she was sick. Liver cancer is what got the redoubtable Mrs. Matthews in the end. Crazy to think, her quick-witted, incorrigible, and reckless son should have been what sent her to an early grave, but instead, it was a bunch of wild and deadly cancer cells. From the day she started showing her illness, Two-Bit became a different man. He actually grew up. His song sounded like dark carnival music. Lots of twists and turns, but still amusing to listen to. He has gotten it to be a little brighter lately. He has a son now who calls me Uncle Pony, or at least tries to. The words aren't quite all there yet. That boy is going to be every bit the handful his father was; you can already tell it and he's not even two. It will be fun to watch Two-Bit raise a miniature version of himself.
The last of the Greasers from the photo is me. I ain't a Greaser anymore either, but when did I start singing my own swan song? Maybe it was when I went to college, maybe it was when I met Kathleen, or maybe it was earlier. Maybe mine started the same time Johnny was singing his. That's when I first truly started realizing that the world isn't actually split up into Greasers and Socs, or Us and Them. There are a lot more shades of gray between, and to be a true Greaser you have to only see in black and white. It's how we survived then. But we were gone now; the time for Greasers was over. That mentality was for hot-blooded teenage boys with something to prove.
Funny thing, the next item I pulled out of the box was an almost empty jar of hair grease. It was probably the product of one of the Social Services dresser top purges. I hadn't greased my hair in years. I'd probably stopped right around the time I graduated high school. Trends had changed and you didn't see anyone with greased hair anymore. Well, once in awhile you'd see a tough old Grease like the Tim Shepard type who refused to let it go, but that was rare. You'd pass them in the street and nod because like recognizes like. Grease or no, we still understood; we'd just moved on.