Warning: This story contains drug use. And the "F" word coming in hot!
A TASTE OF FREEDOM
"If you got a tattoo, Curtis, what would it be and where?" Curly has asked me this before, throwing it out there like it's one of life's great philosophical musings. I'm guessing he wants to be fully prepared, to know exactly what to get permanently etched on his skin when the time is right. I don't bother telling him about my fear of needles, and how the thought of one drawing on my skin makes my knees weak, and ponder instead on what I'd choose if I inked myself.
"Bicep….I don't know…..probably an eagle or somethin'," I answer and I readjust my position on the crumbling concrete ledge in the back yard of Curly's house. The moon is full, allowing me to see the mangled patio chairs and trash that litter the barren landscape.
"That'd be kinda tuff," he says absentmindedly and I watch him run his tongue along the edge of the thin paper, and then expertly roll it over, pressing down on the seal of the joint, gently twisting, softly packing it all over with kneading fingers, until he seems satisfied with its shape.
"I think I'd go for my back. Maybe have Shepard spelled out with barbed wire runnin' through it and shit." The flame from the lighter shoots up and is reflecting back to me, dead center in both of Curly's blue eyes.
His tattoo description will have to wait while he sucks hard off the joint, his cheeks hollowing while his chest puffs out. He holds the flame full, in place, and the embers are hissing and crackling with his powerful intake, some escaping their berth, dancing off on a hot August wind. I wait my turn, leaning back on my hands and he pulls the joint from his mouth suddenly, then puts it close to his nose, inhaling even more smoke which snakes up one nostril. With lungs clenching to hold in all that air, he passes it across to me and I nod my thanks.
I follow suit, the familiar process now second nature, seeing as how Shepard and I have been biding our time with Tim's hidden stash on all these long summer nights. I never even cough anymore.
As I let the smoke swirl through every corner of my rising chest, I close my eyes and think how strange it feels that, this summer, the powerful grasp of Darry Curtis, that has held me for years, has finally lost its grip, thanks to his new night job way out in the oil fields.
Sure, Soda is "in charge," but I soon saw how that was gonna go the very first night we were left alone.
"Think maybe I could go out tonight Soda?" I ask, interrupting his conversation with Steve about some James Bond girl they've been ogling in a skin mag.
Soda turns to face me, leaning back on the cluttered kitchen counter, arms folded, eyebrows furrowed. He rubs his chin and says with a disapproving voice, "Ponyboy, what do you think Darry would say to your question? Hm? Would he want you gallivantin' all over creation, gettin' into this and that?" He's now shaking his head while he silently mouths 'no' with emphasis.
Steve is now eyeing me with a raised eyebrow, sensing some shit is about to go down. I feel a heat rush to my face as I try to refrain from tackling a smug Soda, and I grit my teeth and take a deep breath through my nose.
My hand comes down forcefully on the table, shaking leftover dinner plates and I spit out, "Darry ain't here Soda, and if I have to put up with another brother breathing down my neck all summer I'm gonna.."
Well, I don't really know what I'll do, so my threat falls flat and unfinished. The seconds of silence, marred only by sounds of my heavy breathing after my outburst, are suddenly broken by raucous laughter, exploding out of those two morons. Soda's bent over, slapping his leg and pointing. Through squinted, shining eyes and a huge smile he says, "You shoulda seen your face, Pony."
He's finally winding down from his antics and all I can do is stand and stare, dumbfounded. He squeezes my shoulder and puts his face right in front of mine, grinning up close, and says softly, "Yeah Pony. You can go out."
He then stands in the middle of the kitchen in the golden light of a retreating sun, raising his hands and face to the ceiling, yelling out, "Free at last! Thank God almighty, we're free at last!" The two idiots start whooping it up, giving high fives. I shake my head and chuckle, mostly because I'm giddy with freedom. I guess what they say is true. When the cat's away, the mice will play.
Before I take off, though, he corners me in my bedroom, ready to recite his rulebook he's obviously spent hours preparing. "Don't you fuck this up, Ponyboy," is all he says, but with a look that tells me I better not, since it's his ass on the line too.
So, that's how the summer's been playing out. I can't help feeling guilty that Darry's busting his ass for us day and night, while we take advantage of his absence. We hardly see him anymore.
Curly and I have finished passing the joint, that has now dwindled to a roach, too small to take hits from, our lips and fingers feeling the burn from a flame that licks too close.
I stretch my back out on the ledge and fold my arms behind my head, my heavy eyelids blink slowly at a couple of stars blinking back at me. I'm only half listening to Curly who's leaning up against the carport's rusted iron beam. He's going on about tattoos, a new girl in his world history class, how he caught Angela eavesdropping on his phone calls, while I'm busy trying to identify the weight at the pit of my stomach.
Soda and I are only ships passing in the night lately. If he works days, then he's out most nights with Steve or some girl from his fan club. Sometimes I see him rolling in at the same time, both of us too tired to really talk. He's warned me to be home by one. That way we don't risk bumping into Darry. But he also tells me he doesn't want me roaming the streets after that hour. And I feel myself clinging to that one enforced rule. To be honest, I didn't realize how lost I'd feel when neither of my brothers was breathing down my neck. My own words from that first night have come back to slap me in the face and I now know where this homesick kinda feeling is coming from.
My initial high has worn down to a relaxed calm, and that's given me a second wind, a reprieve from that achy loneliness. I sluggishly sit back up, working my spine back into alignment, and Curly has just finished his views on "weird" people who don't curse. "That's fucked up, man, " he says, with a voice low and raspy, and I can see his lazy half smile when he lights up a cigarette. Somehow this strikes us both as hilarious and our laughter floats above us, that is, until a big hand reaches out of the night and grabs a hold of Curly's dark hair, jerking his chin up violently, his cigarette now tumbling from his lips.
Every muscle tenses as my body gears up to either fight or run, I'm not sure which. But this panic lasts only a few seconds, because now I make out the low growl of Tim Shepard's voice. He still has his brother's curls tight in his fist as his face leans down from behind that rusty beam and makes its way right by Curly's ear. "Curly, you dumb fuck. What'd I tell you bout keepin' them paws outta my shit," his voice more menacing than any killer out of a late night movie. I don't know how Curly ain't pissing down his leg, but I guess big brothers just don't seem as threatening when they're yours. Even with his head still held captive, Curly grins really wide after he says, "Oops."
His head his flung forward by Tim when he finally lets go, and I don't make a move or sound, hoping to avoid the wrath. But, the showdown seems to be over before it gets going, when Curly starts begging Tim to let us use his car. Or at least give us a ride down to the Catcall or maybe just drop us off at Tony's. To every plea, Tim responds with quick, sharp "nopes" as he walks away to his car. Curly's given up when the motor revs, but Tim shouts out the open top, "You little assholes better quit smokin' up my profits or I'm gonna school you boys a lesson." I notice his smirk as he drives off, leaving Curly to say, "He really ain't all that mad."
The only sign left of the buzz I once had is an easygoing feeling and a pair of sleepy looking eyes, and I jump down from the concrete blocks and say, "Well, I guess we're hoofin' it."
The strip is alive with people and cars and music, the neon lights of all the restaurants ignite an electricity in me, as Curly and I make our way down Oakwood. This is the part about my sixteenth summer that I've grown to love. I'm finally wanting to go out and do things again. And I must admit Curly is a great partner in crime. I don't mind the feeling of people eyeing us as we go by; Curly because of his brother, me because of my past.
We run into many of the same guys we hang around with, some could be called hoods, but buddies nonetheless. Good for a laugh or a smoke or a backup in a fight. Curly's shooting the shit with some of his brother's cronies, talking about the latest news on the River Kings. I notice they all seem to be respecting him a bit more these past months. His growth spurt he had in the reformatory seems to have broken him out of that label of just "Tim's bratty kid brother."
We hop from place to place, never wanting to stay too long, looking for the action Curly seeks and never can seem to find. But I don't mind. I enjoy the different views, from the diners to the pool halls, the parking lots and back alleys. Most people see me as quiet, and I guess I am, but I find when I hang back, lean against walls or cars, people tend to come up and talk. And a lot of what they say I find pretty interesting. People deep down usually aren't assholes.
I've also noticed the girls taking interest in me, in both of us. You can bet I am down with that . And that's why we are heading now to Creekside Alley, a hangout where the hottest girls gather in groups, pretending they don't care if you're looking at them, but doing their best to make sure that you are.
We take the shortcuts through some back alleys, Curly kicks a can, sending it flying against a dumpster, I shield my cigarette from the wind as I try to light it. We round the corner and there stands Creekside, stuffed to the gills with people spilling out the doors and all over the parking lot. "Finally, " Curly mutters, seemingly satisfied with the amount of people.
I lose track of Curly pretty early on as we both mingle through the crowds. I am taking every opportunity I can get to talk to girls, some I know from school, some I want to get to know. My height, when it finally kicked in, has given me the confidence to approach just about anyone, and I like the feeling I get when I stand by a girl and she has to look up at me. But then, there are the girls who are wary of me. I see how they look me up and down, then clutch their purses a little tighter. That would've bothered me before, but now, it is what it is.
I hear Curly's voice call out at the other end of the parking lot. "Hey Bratcher, how's that sister of yours?" and I see Joey give him the middle finger as he gets in his car. Even he knows Betsy gets around.
Then through the huge glowing window, I spot my brother. He's standing at a table, throwing his head back laughing like usual, then readjusting his worn and weathered baseball cap. I smile just seeing it, his infectious nature. Two-Bit sits in a booth with some blonde, but it doesn't look like Cathy. His jaws are flapping a mile a minute, to his captivated audience. And I make my way to the entrance, only bumping a few bodies along the way.
The jukebox hasn't stopped all night, and before I can get back to Soda, I make a stop at the counter, where a cute girl named Molly sits, hoping to catch a waitress's eye so she can order. I know her from calculus, so I sidestep between two stools, and I'm so close I can smell her shampoo. She looks up, surprised to see me. "Oh, hey Ponyboy." I notice her dimple and the way she says my name. I find out she's been trying to get a coke, so I call out to Rosie, the lady who's worked here since time began, and I buy Molly that coke. She seems real appreciative and we start talking about things. Over her head I catch a glimpse of Soda who catches a glimpse of me. He knows not to approach now and simply tilts his chin up in greeting and gives me a little wink.
I let Molly tell me all about her new poodle named Misty, and I realize again how simple it is to talk to girls. They basically just want you to listen. Throw in some affirmations every now and then. Really look them in the eyes. Surely there's one out there I can have a deep conversation with, but tonight Molly has all my attention. I'm suddenly wishing I wasn't in this old t-shirt and jeans with the pocket half ripped off.
The jukebox has now switched to House of the Rising Sun, and I've always dug that moaning song of blues about that house down in New Orleans. Molly seems to be more comfortable, touching my arm every now and then as she goes on and on about her little sister and the fight they had this morning. That's when I see him.
He's coming around the corner from the back of the diner. Tim is making his way past all the tables, and it's as if the music plays for him. He has the devil's grin when he sees me, my eyes are wide open, and Molly's incessant chatter is just that. I swallow against a constricted throat as I watch him making his way right for Sodapop, who still hasn't seen him, because he's telling some story, his face all animated. Sweat beads break out on my forehead as the song is building. "Oh mother, tell your children, not to do what I have done, " and I watch helplessly, knowing he's about to tell on me. Just then he reaches Soda, putting an arm around his shoulder and Soda's glad to see him. And when Tim leans in to whisper in his ear, it's as if I'm facing the gallows. I can't read Tim's lips, but I watch Soda's head nodding as he tries hard to listen over the loud music and I watch his eyes and face go from happy to confused to finally getting the message, and that's when his eyes steel over and glare straight at me, his jaw fixed, while the music sings out my own misery, "I'm goin' back to New Orleans to wear that ball and chain."
I pull myself together. I'm not about to get screamed at in this place, so I cut off Molly mid-sentence to say "see ya" and book it out the door. I leave Curly behind and walk swiftly into the night with the lyrics "It's been the ruin of many a poor boy, and God I know I'm one," echoing through my head.
"How could I have done this? Should I try and deny it?" runs through my brain in rapid loops. I think back on all the promises I'd made to Darry about beating it out of there when the drugs show up. And here I am, caught red handed by the biggest dealer in town. And of course he had to show up at the same place on the same night as my brother. Probably would've forgotten all about it by morning. Well, at least it wasn't a cop. Yeah, I'll tell Soda to look at the bright side.
After much deliberation and aimless wandering, at 12:57 I am standing in front of my house, which is dark and still inside. There's hope after all. Soda has already turned in, and he'll be cooled off by morning. I slip through the door, closing it ever so gently, trying to quiet the creaks. Just when I've managed this great feat, the pitch black shroud over the living room has been snatched away by the harsh, glaring light of our living room lamp, and Soda sits in Darry's chair beside it, his fingers still on the switch.
I have just about exited my body as it jumps out of its own skin, and I fall back against the door, my hand on my chest, breathing heavy. "Shit, Soda," I hiss. "You scared the hell outta me. Jesus, Lord in Heaven."
"Good," he says with a sinister voice and I realize then this is about to get worse before it gets better.
I go for nonchalance first. Try and pass by him to get a drink out of the kitchen, acting like this is any other night. But with a side glance I can see his eyes have grown hard and narrowed, following my every move like he's some jungle animal tracking his next meal. His cheeks are even flushed, which always means he's hit his maximum capacity. After living with someone all your life, you can read all of their languages, and a mad Soda, though not very common, is certainly not unheard of. Maybe some wouldn't be able to picture the two of us at odds, but I've spent countless times on the receiving end of his temper. And vice versa. I have a feeling we're about to resort to one of our brawls from the days of old, the kind used by brothers, to settle a score.
I reach the refrigerator and he's on his feet. Soda will not be ignored. I'm trying to act calm, keeping my hands steady while I pour my milk. But he's not having it. He rips the milk carton from my hand and practically pounds it into the counter. The milk erupts out of it like the geyser we visited one summer when I was 10. "What the fuck were you thinking Ponyboy?" he cries out to me, and my words have escaped me.
"I'm sorry Soda," though genuine, is all I can think to say.
"You really fucked me over, ya know?" and he's emphasizing the me. "If Darry finds out about this, all of it comes crashing down on me!", his voice is escalating as his hands fly furiously around the room, as if all of it really will crash down at any minute. Then those hands fist my t-shirt and he starts walking me backwards until I'm pushed against the wall. "I can't believe you're so selfish. What if it was a cop that found you? You selfish little shit," and the venom he's spewing as he's one inch from my face is really starting to piss me off. So, I take my hands and firmly shove him away.
It's now become a stare off. And I'm really good at those. I even sit down to get comfortable, because I've got all night. These are the kinds of buttons I've learned to push, being his only little brother, and I watch him getting ready to explode. By the look he gives, I can tell, it's on. He charges at me, tackling me and my chair like we are little kids again. We crash to the floor so fast my shoe flies off my foot and straight through to the living room where it lands on the piano, followed by a plunk of keys.
I try to break free from his hold, and I've almost made it, but he has a hold of my shirt and I'm trying to pry his fingers off. He yelps when I bend two of them way far back and I escape, running down the hall to my room, with him on my tail, slipping on his socks using the walls to keep balance. I've almost slammed the door but he's already there, pushing against it like his life depends on it. We are straining against each other, grunting, and I'm almost laughing at the adrenaline, the thrill of the chase and what we must look like to anyone else. Just like always, he's managed to slide though the smallest crack and I can't help but scream when he yanks me down to the floor, and now he's got me on top of him in the dreaded headlock. And all the while I'm trying to weasel out, he's continually punching my arm, not hard, just over and over with one knuckle extended, frogging me, until the repetition becomes painful. "Stop it, Soda," I say, my voice choked and strained.
"Are you ever gonna smoke pot again?" he asks me, relentlessly throwing those punches, his other arm gripping me, never letting up.
"No, I promise," and he's let me go, happy himself that the weight of my body is finally off of him. It couldn't have been comfortable now that I'm about his size. We are breathing heavy sitting on the bedroom floor just looking at each other. His features have now settled into the more serious than mad range, our fight having diffused most of his anger. And I really am feeling bad about what I've done. "I'm really sorry, Soda. You're right. You told me not to fuck this up."
"Pony, it's not just that. You know you of all people can't get caught with drugs. It's your ticket on the first bus to a boys' home," he says softly, to both of us.
"So," he says louder with a slap to his knee. "It's over. All this runnin' around is over. It has to be. For the both of us." He's looking at me prepared to fight should I choose to buck against this new rule.
And I feel three months of anxiety slowly release its clutch and go slinking away. I smile at Soda. And he's a little surprised.
"It's over," I repeat.
A/N: The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton, The House of the Rising Sun by The Animals, and Soda's "Free at last…" words taken from the I Have a Dream speech, from Martin Luther King, Jr.
Thanks for reading! Oh, and don't use drugs:)