I'm not sure anymore what my writing is these days! But anyway, Happy Thanksgiving..
(If you've already read this-I'm sorry-I updated it by taking out a couple of paragraphs that weren't needed)
Tall Cotton
"We're walkin' in tall cotton tonight boys," my dad says as he leans forward over the wheel searching for a parking space. We've already been around the lot twice, but I guess he thinks something might open up our third time around.
"Whaddya mean Dad?" I ask. There ain't no fields as far as I can see. Only stately oak trees illuminated by twinkling Christmas lights even though it's the middle of June, and a golf course spreading from the outskirts, its short but lush greens glowing from a quarter moon.
"He means this is the big leagues, don't cha Dad?" I see Soda's eyes squinting up at Dad beside him, looking for affirmation, unsure even though his voice sounded such a sure answer.
"Yeah 'Pop," he assures a satisfied Soda calling him by his very old nickname, and then forces his own parking space on the club's cart path.
"Alright now, who's gon' take in Darry's wallet?" Mom found Darry's wallet sitting by the phone and not in his fancy chinos pocket, and although we've been told you don't have to pay for much of anything when you're wining and dining as a guest at a country club, she worried he'd need it later if he and his friends went out after the dance. That's Mom for ya. All worried over Darry making some good impression in front of all those rich folks he calls friends.
Soda and I both scramble for the wallet, wanting to be the one to venture in this out of reach lifestyle and see it for ourselves, feeling pretty positive we may never get another opportunity. Soda's lunging at me where I'm snaking half my body over the bench seats to the front and he shoves me all the way to the back again, by my head. Dad jerks at Soda's arm and says, "Knock it off, y'all can both go." Dad doesn't see me give Soda a quick slap to the back of his head in retaliation, or maybe he does and thinks he deserves it.
"Why don't you wanna go in Dad?" Soda asks, rubbing his hair where I got him good.
"Ain't dressed for it, 'sides I been in there b'fore." I look at my dad, suddenly seeing what others might. His dingy jeans have a couple of tar stains and his t-shirt maybe ain't up to these people's standards; it's ripped at the neck and the short sleeves don't cover one of his tattoos. I shrug, cause at least he's wearing a shirt tonight, and he's showered and he always pays attention to his hair. But then I'm thankful he's not going in. Somehow I know Darry wouldn't appreciate it much.
"What about us?" Soda's suddenly eyeing my get-up and looking down at his own. "You think we're dressed up good enough?" Soda's blue thin sweatshirt now looks ratty since he did a poor job cutting the sleeves off for summer, and my faded shirt's hanging on for dear life after getting worn by two other idiots before it ever settled on my back. Not to mention there are little splatters of brownish red on the front announcing my nose bleed from earlier. Soda threw that basketball hard even when he knew I wasn't ready.
"Y'all are young and handsome enough to pull it off," he says beaming at us, and I've always admired how white his smile looks up against his tanned skin. My dad could be a really stylish looking fella if he cared to. But he doesn't. At all.
I don't have time to be disappointed when Dad hands the wallet over for Soda to hold, cause I'm busy trying to catch up with my jackrabbit brother who's already bounding up the brick sidewalk towards the glowing electric clubhouse. Somehow nobody notices the two raggedy boys who've entered the foyer and while Soda's peering in all the rooms of mostly old men smoking their cigars, I'm hopping on only the black squares of the checkered tiles, my agile feet moving swiftly across, avoiding the white tiles I've dubbed land mines. One errant move when my scuffed up sneaker brushes the white and it's game over as I'm torn in an explosion with the rest of the army in my head.
I find myself right in front of a framed poster that sits on an easel before a long hallway. The red white and blue glittery writing heralds the '1962 Midsummer Night's Dance' and I tell Soda it must be this way, pointing towards the closed double doors at the opposite end. He looks at the poster, its collage of photos from dances past and says only, "Could these people be any more square?"
"Nope," I say quickly in agreement, feeling almost as cool as Soda right now, or hoping I am anyway as I glance his way and try to stand like he is, position my face with the same look he's giving off.
"C'mon," he beckons me, like he's the one who found the path, and I follow him as if he did.
So far I'm not that impressed with the Oaks Country Club. Not much to see but old fogies with stogies slapping each other on their fat backs while their bored old ladies look on. I've seen my parents and their friends having a lot more fun in our backyard with cigarettes, a cooler of beers and a charcoal grill.
We run across a man who looks like he's in charge. He has a name tag anyway and he's dressed in a nice suit. Soda stops him and says, "'Scuse me, is the dance through them closed doors or those ones?" He looks us up and down and asks if we're members, knowing full well we can't be. "No sir, we're lookin' for our brother. He's at the dance tonight as a guest of the Holdens. Gotta return his wallet," and he pulls out the billfold to prove he's telling the truth.
The bald man nods as if he now understands and tells Soda he knows the Holdens and he'll be glad to take the wallet to "Mr. Curtis" for us. I snort at this man calling Darry that, and Soda reprimands me with his eyes. I straighten up immediately.
"Mister my dad would have my hide if I got back in the car and told him I gave this wallet to anybody but my brother," and I find myself nodding along cause he's exactly right. "He don't take too kindly to stupid," and I smile, realizing in his back handed way, Soda's asking this man if he really thinks we were born yesterday.
The man's gray eyebrows shoot up, but he sneers a fake smile and tells us to wait. "The dance is out on the lanai. If you'll wait, I'll find him for you." He pauses and says, "Gentlemen," before he walks away and I can't help but snort again, and the draped doors are opened up to the real party that lay before us.
All Soda can say is "What the hell is a lanai?" and it must be this. A wonderland room of lights, where the outdoors steps inside and the comforts of air conditioning and classy furniture rises to meet it, making the backdrop of a velvet night sky that much more enjoyable. The rich sounds of an actual live band are as intoxicating as any hard liquor I'm guessing. I'm used to my music sounding tinny or crackly, through a radio or record player and only when I'm lucky the deeper sounds of a jukebox. For almost eleven years my music's always been contained, all of it from a box, and now it's almost magic to hear it swirling around and taking up all the atmosphere. I find myself getting caught up in it, even if it's a really lame song from the big band era. No singing. Exactly what I'd imagine they'd play in this kinda joint.
"Look at this Pony," and Soda's already headed for the huge buffet, and I take a second to question if we should leave the spot we were told to stay, but the man's no longer in sight and I follow Soda who's laughing and pointing up at the huge ice sculpture sitting fins deep in the shrimp display, a mermaid exposing her bare round breasts. I marvel at the craftsmanship, wondering how a chainsaw could make such delicate curves on a block of ice, but Soda's plucking out a shrimp for himself and asks me, "Do mermaids not have nipples?"
"Not ones made of ice I reckon," and he's hysterical over my answer when I thought I was being pretty serious. I soon join him in his laughter cause it's so infectious and it always sounds more like asthmatic wheezing than anything. He has the same exact laugh as Dad.
"Go on Pony, grab you a shrimp. Ain't nobody lookin'," and I cringe when he pops another in his mouth. "They've already peeled it and everything, pulled off the tail and the legs too," he says through a gross mouthful.
"I hate shrimp," I tell him, and he rolls his eyes cause he has to live with my constant food complaints. "It seems too veiny." I shudder at my own word and wonder if the finger sandwich selection might include peanut butter and jelly.
Some guy behind us clears his throat and we both back out of the way. He looks over at us with disdain while he helps himself to the cocktail sauce, but I notice his date sure ain't disgusted by Sodapop cause she can't seem to quit eyeballing him when he ain't looking. I've always heard talk that my brother is a movie star kinda handsome, but that's coming from our side of town. He starts high school this fall and something tells me both sides of the track are gonna take notice of him, despite his rougher appearance. And for girls, maybe that's part of the draw too. Soda may have good lucks and charm, but standing in the middle of this upper crust room, there's no doubt he gives off a dangerous vibe, like he'd just as easy steal your wallet as your girl. He'd never do that though. Well, he'd probably steal your girl and maybe even your sandwich, but never ever your money.
I feel someone tugging me away by my belt loop and it's Darry. "C'mon guys, step away from the buffet." He's dressed in the uniform of the wealthy, and if I didn't know, I'd mistake him as one of them. Bald guy seems winded beside him. I guess he was on some hunt to find us. Darry takes the wallet from Soda who's already calling him a nerd, and tries to scoot us on out of the way. "Tell Dad thanks for driving all the way over." But he can't move us fast enough and I watch his eyelids close in defeat when Mr. and Mrs. Holden mosey up behind him, wanting to see the little brothers, the kind of people Darry's risen out of.
They seem nice enough to me. Soda will probably call them fake later, but isn't that all being cordial is? I kinda like the attention Mrs. Holden gives me. She's real pretty for a grown woman and her eyes seem genuine, and she tells us we're as handsome as Darry. I don't mind that at all. I look to Soda who's as fake as the best of 'em. And I wish I had that kind of power to win people over, but I never can find my words. And even if I found my words, they wouldn't dance the way his do. I watch Darry from the corner of my eye and he doesn't look as mortified as I thought he'd be.
One of Mr. Holden's friends joins the group, an old but distinguished looking man and he says he knows me. "Ponyboy Curtis I had to come over here and give your hand a firm shake young man." My chest fills with pride. I'm not sure why such a rich guy would know a poor boy like me, but it feels nice. "I'm Dr. Altman, and I delivered you. It was one of my last deliveries before I retired and I'll never forget it." He grips my shoulder and gives it a squeeze and his smile looks almost sad, like there's something behind it. "How's your sweet mother doing Ponyboy?"
Darry immediately walks over and speaks for me. "She's fine Dr. Altman, right Pony?" He makes a big show to look at his watch. "Wow, you and Soda better be getting back to Dad. I'm sure you've stayed too long as it is."
We say our goodnights and Darry delivers us as far as the foyer. "Soda quit taking all the dinner mints and go home for crying out loud." We both shake our heads at our uptight brother. We watch him leave and laugh at him when he trips on one of the oriental rugs.
It's when we're leaving do we finally notice the scuffle that's taking place right outside the club doors. One of those cigar smoking phonies is talking to my Dad and I can't hear them, but I can already see Dad's pissed. "Oh no," Soda breathes as we hurry to the scene.
"See, here come my boys." Dad's voice is threateningly nice. "Now I'll gladly get out of your hair..your toupee in your case. Please, go enjoy your evenin'." He throws his arms around each of our shoulders and pulls us along, making sure to hock up a big spit and even with the cigarette dangling in his mouth, still manages to send it sailing through the air, to splatter right on the country club grounds.
"What was that all about?" Soda asks so low I can barely hear.
"He had a problem with me coming in to look for my own sons. Why the hell'd y'all take so long anyway?" I wonder if he's offended or hurt, but he doesn't act like it. I would be.
We climb in our old car in the middle of all the shiny ones and I don't even fight Soda for shotgun while he's going on and on to Dad about what an awful and fake place it was. Dad's laughing at all of Soda's funny commentary, and I am too, but I can't help feeling like a traitor, cause I wouldn't mind going to one of those dances one day. Or even more, be a Dr. Altman. Then all I have to do is think about the old jerk who wouldn't let my Dad in and my blood's boiling. Who needs country clubs when we have the East Tulsa Public Pool?
We drive home to Mom and I wonder what Darry's doing now in that lanai, who he's talking to and the interesting stories he's hearing. I lean over my dad from the backseat and wrap my arms around his neck and shoulders. Rest my chin there. Soda's playing with the radio and Dad's chewing on a match. I decide I never want to change.
A/N: The Outsiders by SE Hinton
Thank you for reading!