It's 5 am. I get up, put on my shoes, and get an apple on my way out. As soon as I'm out the door my feet begin to pound their way down the pavement. It's a coping mechanism. Running. Routines. I've been running every morning at 5 am ever since the incident with Johnny and Dally. It's been a way to ease the ebbing thoughts I receive even three years later. It's been a way to calm my racing mind at nights, now that Sodapop, recently turned twenty, has moved out- "onto bigger and better things" he says. Although, living in a small crappy house with Steve, a mere block away from our own small crappy house doesn't seem like much a difference to me. Darry says it's a way to "find himself," as the past few years he has gotten pretty lost in a sea of lucrative drugs. Darry was also the one who made sure he stayed close, letting him move out, yet only to a house one block away-a fallacy of freedom.
However, my thoughts are miles away from that fateful day three years ago. Today, September 1st, my brothers and I are leaving for a road trip. The last stop being college, Stanford University, where they will leave me behind to become an independent, educated member of society. True freedom-and I'm fucking terrified. No half-assed pseudo-freedom for me, no, they're just going to leave me in California and drive away.
The past few weeks of packing up my stuff were rough. I think Darry was happy to get rid of it all despite ribs of him now having an "empty nest." Him being a washed-up father now that his kids were all grown up and gone. I grimace at being called his "kid," but still embrace every time someone generates the courage to actually make fun of Darry-something I think he enjoys too, a reminisce of the way things used to be.
My thoughts wander beyond that of my somewhat steady breathing to the times when Darry, Soda, and I were all seen as brothers-all made fun of just the same. Because the parental, punishment giving role was filled by my father.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if that never changed. If my parents never died. My mind creating convoluted images of how I remember them… faded smiles… my mother's eyes reduced to a smog gray as I can't seem to remember the color of them… my father's demented laugh, the frequency of it has been lost on me, however, the way his eyes lit up when he did, is something I will never forget… or the way my mother's hair curled after spending anxious hours twirling it around her finger.
Time has softened the pain of losing them. It has muddied their reflections to the point where I cannot remember what they looked like without pictures. Without reminders.
I know somewhere in the back of my mind that I wouldn't be here if not for their deaths. I love my parents, but neither of them pushed me the way Darry did. I also have to admit, being an orphan heavily appealed to college admissions-I'd never ask for pity, but it's nice to have one good break after losing my parents at thirteen, and then my two friends not even a year later.
I hold my breath as I feel a stitch forming in my side, ten fast steps, I exhale slowly-the pain dissipating along with the carbon dioxide from my lungs. I smile, yeah, I may have some anxiousness over leaving-severe separation anxiety that's only gotten worse in my later teenage years-but, I'm doing pretty well.
I turn the corner and round back to our house. The chipped, off-white paint on its side begins to come into view. I can see Soda's old banged up, souped-up Impala, that some customer gave up on a few years back. That thing is Soda's baby-and he'd be damn offended if he knew I was referring to it as a "thing."
"She's a her goddammit," he'd always say, "And her name is Linda, and Linda is beautiful." He'd get a goofy smile on his face whenever he'd say this, only fueling the gang's running joke that he's secretly fucking his car. And he's certainly not helping any by opting to remain single-because we all know it's not from lack of girls' interest.
I run up the pathway towards our house, my excitement at the prospect of a hot shower causing me to run faster. I feel someone grab me from behind, messing up my gait as they pluck me off the ground and spin me around some.
"My kid brother off to college," Soda says his face pressed against my back, fake melodrama weighing on his words.
"Aw, lay-off, Soda, we still got another week together before you get rid of me."
He puts me down, holding me at arm's length so that he can look me up and down. He's been doing this ever since he moved out-because even though we still see each other every day he has to make a show of it as if we haven't seen each other in years.
"Oh my, Ponyboy Curtis, how you've grown, and is that-" he leans in closer, stopping momentarily to sniff the air, and I tear myself out of his hold before he can rag on me about how badly I smell. Quickly, I complete the last few steps to the front door.
As I step inside, it finally hits me. Sure, this won't be the last time I ever see the place, but it will be the last time I will ever consider myself as a resident here. My eyes graze over the coffee table beside me-missing one of the corners from when Steve and Soda broke it off one day during one of their wrestling matches. I view the piano in the corner where my mother used to give me lessons, her melodious playing filling our tiny house on any given day-now, having not been used in years, covered in a layer of dust. I glance at our lumpy couch, our meager kitchen table surrounded by nine chairs, our boxy black and white TV with the wonky antenna-I smile at the memories of my brothers forcing me to hold it in place so that they could watch their shows without interruptions. I even find myself staring at the hole in the wall where Steve once shoved my head through.
I try to commit everything to memory, knowing that once I leave this house behind, none of it will feel the same.
"Glory, kid, don't just stand there stinking up the place. I want to be on the road within the hour!" Darry's shouts break me from my reverie and I'm about to move before he comes up behind me, placing his hands on my shoulders. I follow his gaze to the picture of our parents that sits on our dusty piano.
"They'd be real proud of you, you know," he mutters, "Hell, kid, I am real proud of you." I feel my eyes begin to water, the cheesy sentiment getting to me.
"Thanks, Dar," I say, my eyes never leaving the picture of our parents. "I'm gonna go take a shower," I continue, my voice sounding a bit far away, my arm raises and I find myself pointing in the general vicinity of the bathroom.
"Yeah, you go do that, remember, I wanna be on the road-"
"Within the hour, I know." I turn around and give him snarky grin, running to the bathroom before he can do anything other than shake his head.
I step into the hot stream, embracing it as it runs down my stiff muscles. I take a few breaths, inhaling the humid air of the small bathroom. I close my eyes, trying to imagine showering anywhere else than here. It's the little things that throw me for a loop, waking up in a new bed, not seeing my neighbor's asinine yellow house out my bedroom window, having to find a new route for my morning runs… I've gotten used to the idea of not seeing my brothers everyday-that was innately understood about leaving to go to college, however, now, I'm beginning to realize everything I'm truly going to miss.
Sometimes, I wish I could've just gone to the University of Tulsa. But, The University of Tulsa isn't Stanford, they couldn't provide me with any form of scholarship-nor would they be able to provide me with the same education.
But, California…
I've been convincing myself of all of its benefits over the summer. The campus is only an hour away from the beach-the real ocean-and there won't be any Socs there. And they have Palm Trees-fucking Palm Trees. Yet, no matter, how much I play up the positives, I can't help but grieve the loss of my brothers. The lack of contact, I'll have, while being in a completely new environment-not even sure where the closest place is to buy a Pepsi.
I turn off the water once the heat no longer affects me. Wrapping a towel around my waist, I step out of the bathroom, allowing the steam to billow out in succession. Racing to get dressed as Darry yells from somewhere outside about how we're going to be late. I almost laugh as I comb my hair, "late for nothing other than his own damn time schedule," I think. However, knowing how bad Darry can be when aggravated, I do hurry, putting on my shoes again-this time with the prospect of not coming back for awhile-and scan the living room one last time before walking out the door.