Special Thanks:
Scarlett7: Wow, I must say that your reviews have left me very flattered due to the fact you have grasped exactly what I was aiming for with this story! Not only have you grasped that it is meant to shed light from the Soc's perspective, but you have caught the link between Dallas and Bob. Thank you so much for taking the time to review! I will add more interaction with Johnny and the others in chapter eight according to my outline.
All: I made an outline and it looks like this will be a 25-29 chapter story. College has been chaotic, so give me time. I have been sporadically working on other works as well, preparing them for a massive update. I have also been having weekly night meetings with a team preparing to go to Rwanda to teach at the university. I think I moved the relationship too quickly, but that is something I can go back and fix with time. Also, more of the greasers will appear in the following chapters.
Chapter Seven: Black-Tie Masquerade
The clashing and clanging chimes of silverware echoed in the otherwise silent dining room. Mother, with her hair neatly construed in a sophisticated bun, daintily sliced the meat on her plate, as did Father. He would cough heartily between bites, taking large gulps of wine. Nana and Antonio often had to refill his glass as he took waft after waft between chews. For some unknown reason, food had difficulty passing down his throat, but he had the pride of a lion and stubbornness of a mule in seeking medical advice and aide. After taking a particularly large mouthful of food, he began coughing loudly. His face turned a light shade of red as he held a napkin to his mouth and reached for his glass of wine, sipping it steadily. Mother placed her napkin over the plate as she left her seat and leaned over father, rubbing his back gently.
"Are you okay Mr. Pugolisly," asked Antonio. Nana rushed in with a glass of water and handed it softly to him, beckoning him to take slow gulps with a smooth, "Here." Both Antonio and Nana hovered over Father until his coughs and spasms subsided and he waved them away in an annoyed manner. Mother returned to her seat and continued picking at her meal. Adjusting the collar of his expensive black and white suit, Father cleared his throat with a deep growl before looking to his left.
"So, Michele, how is school going? Well?"
I nodded, and he continued.
"Very good. And who have you made friends with?"
"A few people. Randy Anderson," I bit my tongue. "Yes, who else," urged Father impatiently. When I failed to respond in an adequate amount of time, he briskly inquired, "And what of the other boys? I hear a Bob Sheldon is quite popular. Have you met him yet, Michele?"
The tapping of my foot on the fine wood floors at the mention of Bob's name resounded lightly in the spacious room of towering walls and expensive foreign portraits of exotic flowers and foreign landscapes of drooping trees and gushing streams and waterfalls, along with a particularly hideous portrait of a pristine woman with raven hair, awkward eyes, a much too long and wide nose who was unflatteringly clad in every piece of jewelry she appeared to own. But, the dull painting was rumored to be worth a large sum of money, and thus, became a piece often bragged about at parties. I despised the woman and the air of superiority she personified.
"Michele!"
My body leaped form its place on the cushioned chair carved of mahogany. "Hmm," I responded before widening my eyes in realization. "Oh, yes, I've met Bob. He and Randy are best friends. I've also met Trevor Johnston and Robby Parker, and a boy named Jack, but I have not learned of his last name. Not yet at least . . ."
For a few seconds, his face was unreadable and stoic. No expression could be read in his stare, but when took a quick bite of meat, he grinned broadly.
"Good! Then you will be glad to know that they will also be at the Social this weekend!" He took another gulp of wine. Whatever salt the meat possessed dulled to a bland mixture, and I shoved the dish away, placing the napkin over the plate.
"May I be excused," I beckoned.
Mother's face contorted in puzzlement, but she smiled softly and nodded. I looked towards Father, who once more was taking a large gulp of wine. His raised his hand in approval, and before I ever fully left the table he began what seemed to be the commencement of a thorough political discussion with traces of business ventures and large sums of value. Nana removed the barely eaten dish, her lips perched with the slightest trace of worriment. I caught her eyes before she faded behind the swinging door and into the kitchen.
-o-
The gentle thudding of the pencil eraser upon the desk kept time with the ticking clock mounted sturdily next to a copy of Homer's Odyssey, among other books littering the book shelves that wrapped around my room. They were a prized treasure, where a world of tranquility and escape existed in each title's unique offering. Be it the crying song of gulls as a ship approached a long awaited port of an exotic land, a creature of mythic proportion slain by a hero a fraction of the beast's size, or the classic wonderment of human prevail over personal turmoil – Oliver Twist, Canterbury Tales, The Mayor of Casterbridge, Heart of Darkness, Moby Dick, and David Copperfield – all gateways to an existence of fantasy and heroism and triumph.
"Antonio – "
The pencil clanged loudly as my head snapped upwards at the sudden alarmed female scream resounding from below.
"Dear God! Catch it!"
My feet barely touched the stairs, the screeches increasing in tone with each step. What met my eyes was an amusing display. Nana stood upon a wooden stool, dish rag in hand. Antonio held a broom in a batter's position. Both stared intently at the floor.
"What's going on," I laughed.
"God damn mouse is what," muttered Antonio.
"Watch you mouth, Anthony," corrected Nana, tentatively bringing a single foot down onto the tiles. "I think it is gone now." She scooped up the stool and placed it back into the closet. The clock chimed the nine o'clock hour. Father and Mother would have long retired to their rooms or office in the wing furthest from the kitchen. Antonio set the broom aside and slumped into a chair beside me. "We better hope your parents don't see that mouse. There will be hell to pay, for us and the man who sold them this house with the guarantee it was vermin free."
"It's just a mouse, what can it do?"
"Enough to hurt us," he snapped. "Just imagine your mother seeing that thing, or even your father. I can see it now. He'll be sipping his afternoon coffee at his desk, he'll look down, and there on his contracts is your little mouse, harmless, but nonetheless an imperfection in his delicate and shiny new house. My word," he faked a gasp, "what would the neighbors say if they saw it? Take a guess who will be on the end of that pointed finger . . . US!" He sulked, sipping a glass of water. As Nana left the room, he pushed the glass onto the table, causing a portion of the liquid to topple over the edge and onto the wood. He leaned forward.
"So, why did they call you Michael?"
I shrugged. "Why does it matter to you what they call me?"
"You don't think your parents will find it a little odd during your pristine social dinner?"
"There's ways to avoid it – "
"Not really."
Unknown to him, the knot in my stomach tightened like a nest of coiling snakes. As much as I fought to disprove his theory, there was no logical escape from it. "It's just a name," I concluded, shoving away from the seat and towards the stairs, barely hearing the soft echo of Antonio's deep baritone voice.
"Then why are you so afraid of it?"
-o-
The social came with a warm welcome. Bob spent the remainder of the days with subtle torments and insults while Randy held my tongue with his steady glare.
The suit of black shined in the Autumn sunlight, nearly glinting in an array of material expense and grandeur. For all its worth, I had hoped for the least bit of comfort, but it was in vain. The collar itched and choked while the suit constricted free movement.. Mother and Father bustled about the house the entire day, Mother fretting over attire while Father gathered any business transactions he may need. The evening did not dawn soon enough, as the sun sunk low on the horizon and coated the sky in a cotton candy decoration. The car bumped lightly down the road. I glanced up. Mother fixed her hair in the mirror, caught my eyes, and smiled.
"The other boys will be there," she turned in her seat. "Don't fret about being dulled by all this adult conversation. As soon as you greet Mr. Sheldon you are free to have fun – "
"Behave," growled Father, adjusting his collar as his large neck hung over it. I smirked.
The car rolled to a stop behind a long line of expensive vehicles, all leading up to a massive structure that I dared to risk saying, belittled my own home. Roman pillars held the upper balcony that wrapped around the entirety of the house, and above the French doors was a massive window that hosted the chandelier within the foyer. The mansion was coated the cleanest of white and was framed by flora and trimmed trees. Father quickly parked and ushered us up the stairs and through the already open and welcoming doors. It was ever so much like a daze of lights and sounds and smells. As soon as my dress shoes clicked upon the tiles, my nose tingled with the scent of cooking beef, pastries and desserts, and expensive perfume and cologne. The lights glinted off of the marble in a sporadic array that matched the clanging of glasses and thunder of voices in active conversation.
I was lead through multiple halls and finally into the main room that had been cleared to reveal an almost ballroom atmosphere. It was here that Randy's bushy hair caught my attention. He was greeting multiple older gents, many with groomed beards and slightly balding heads. He nodded in acknowledgment while Mother grasped my arm and led me towards a group of men, one baring the glaring resemblance of Bob. Father was already holding a glass of wine and congenially conversing with him, but upon our presence, all eyes turned towards us as Father introduced us. I unknowingly flinched at my name, but noting the clear absence of Bob and Randy, and the clear unbalanced state of Mr. Sheldon, I relaxed.
The room buzzed of the guffaws of half-drunken men and the giggles of women sharing in the taste of the pastries. I was tempted to help myself to one when Randy lightly tapped me on the shoulder and motioned with his head for me to follow. He casually made his way from the room, down several halls, and to the very back of the house, where he opened up the glass door and led me to the backyard. It too, was highly furnished, complete with a grand oval swimming pool. Sitting there was Bob, Trevor, and another I had yet to meet who was clad in a letterman's jacket.
Bob sat calmly on the edge of a reclining chair, the cigarette in his mouth glowing brightly against the raven background of bushes. Glancing at me, he breathed the grey smoke from his
thin lips and nostrils and passed it to the boy I did not know, who then reached forward and handed it to Randy. Randy took a drag and immediately handed it to me. Trevor's eyes narrowed as he studied my actions. I placed the cigarette to my lips and inhaled deeply. The heavy thudding of my heart subsided and I breathed deeply. Handing the cigarette to Bob once more, I watched as he smirked.
"Almost expected you to start coughing." He flicked the cigarette onto the ground and grinded it with his foot. "When did you start smoking?"
"Year or so ago. So, what do you guys do at these things? Sit and smoke –"
"And drink," howled the skinny no-name brunette, shoving a bottle of beer towards me. The others laughed as Randy took a large swig of the liquid. "As you can see, Art here is three sheets to the wind, already." The slightly wavering group rose to their feet and Bob motioned with his hand for me to follow while Randy handed me a flask that had been tucked securely in his coat.
We exited at the back gate and wandered, what seemed to me, to be aimlessly down the street. Bob slowed his pace and walked alongside me, Randy carefully eying him. "I'm not going to kill him for Christ's sake," he barked. "And how do we all know that," Randy asked, an eyebrow arched.
Bob smirked and motioned at Art, who was singing bits and parts of different Beatle's songs all at once while leaning heavily on Trevor, who grimaced and attempted to push him away. "For one, I would not have brought along the yapping mut over there, and two, we'd be on the other side o' town." I grinned at his remarks. Bob glanced at the flask in my hand. "Drink it already, will you!"
Hesitantly, I twisted the lid and opened the flask. The liquid stung my chapped lips, and this time I did cough as it ran down my throat. The boys laughed gaily and I felt myself relax ever so slightly. Randy slung an arm about my shoulders and grabbed the flask once more.
"Where are we going," I questioned.
"Party," breathed Bob, lighting another cigarette.
"Where at?"
Randy interjected. "Stop asking questions and just chill."
-o-
The house where the party was held was located in a middle-class neighborhood. The scent of smoke and beer spewed from the house and the sound of rock n' roll music blared from any open window and door. Several expensive cars crowded the streets and stumbling bodies hooted and hollered from random directions.
Bob and Randy entered the house as if they owned the place and were greeted with slick smiles and pats on the back. Sensing my hesitation, Randy grasped the collar of my shirt and smirked. "Loosen up, kid. Here," he handed me the flask, "help yourself."
I situated myself against one of the wallpapered walls beside the stairs and took another drink from the flask. All around me were a mixture of high and middle class kids, some clad in suits while others were in much more comfortable garb. On the other side of the room, my eyes caught sight of a pretty, petite girl dressed in yellow. Her eyes caught mine, and she smiled warmly as she made her way over.
"You're new here, aren't you," she asked, playing with her honey colored locks. My palms began to sweat, and I took another swig.
"Yeah, moved in a little over a week ago."
"How do you like Tulsa so far, I mean, greasers aside of course?" She frowned at the word "greaser," but casually resumed a radiant smile. I shrugged. "It's okay so far. Different from where I'm from, but okay." She beamed. Before she could get another word out, Randy shouted my name from another room, causing me to jump slightly. The girl giggled as I excused myself and headed into the kitchen.
"My name's Miranda by the way," she called after me. "I'm Michael," I hollered back, grinning.
Randy and Bob lazily lounged against the kitchen counter as I entered the room. Beside them was a massive and much older looking man sporting a letterman's jacket similar to the one Art wore. His sandy blonde hair was combed loosely to the side and his eyes held a thunderstorm within them, just begging to be set free. "This him," the nearly-sober man husked. Bob nodded.
"This is Paul," Randy explained.
"You look a little old for high school," I murmured. He glared for a moment before bursting into a grizzly bear laugh. "Good thing, cause I'm not in high school anymore."
"Paul here is in college. Studying to be a lawyer. Big football player, too. But, his biggest rep outside of football is the clubbing he gave to the greasy apes across town." My eyes widened. "That true," I questioned.
Paul nodded and smirked. "I use to rumble with the Shepherd gang. You ever wonder where Tim got that scar?"
"Whose Tim?" He looked at me as if another head had started to appear from my neck. "Kid don't know about Tim Shepherd, yet? How about Dally?"
"I've heard of him," I shouted enthusiastically, the liquid from the flask clearly taking over my senses. "Good for you," mumbled Bob.
"He's only been here a week or so, Paul. We're still teaching him the ropes –"
"When he's not sympathizing with the scum of the earth," growled Bob, glaring at me. My eyes narrowed in return. Paul smirked again. "Don't like each other very much, do they?" Randy shook his head. "What's this about sympathizing, kid," he beckoned, slinging a giant arm around my shoulders and steering me out the backdoor and into the well kempt yard complete with a decent sized swimming pool. Despite the cool weather, girls were clad in their bathing suits and boys tossed a volleyball from one end to the other.
"It's nothing," I assured him. "Nothing my ass," Bob shouted, stumbling after us. He tripped on a garden gnome and tumbled in a heap of curses. I found myself laughing despite the look of malice he directed at me. "You should have seen the lil wop try to defend the twiggy grease the other day. I swear he was going to cry."
"I was not! You were going to kill him! What would you know, you were too drunk to even drive home!" Paul grasped Bob's shoulders and veered him towards the house. "Go lie down before you fall in the pool you stupid drunk," he mock-ordered. Trevor laughed as he passed by us, ducking a rock thrown from Bob. Nonetheless, Bob stumbled back into the house.
Paul turned towards me and folded his arms, making me feel quite small. "They didn't have greasers where you're from? I damn near thought every town had some form of greaser."
"Nah. I mean, we had the poor kids, but nothing like a grease or a Soc. The rich kids just generally stuck with the rick kids and the poor, the poor kids. No jumping anyone or anything," I explained. He nodded.
"Well, it's not like that here. You have to shape up. You got to know how to fight, who your pals are, and what you are. You especially don't want to screw up your social rank around he. I've seen guys who had the world in dollars be pummeled like lowlife greases for not taking a stance. Not all, but you stick out like a sore thumb."
"Thanks," I spat. "Hey," he defended, "I got nothing against kids with a little color in them, but I know from experience that you do not want to be Bob's enemy and be an Italian right along with it. Bob's clear-cut in his likes and dislikes, and so far you are zero for two."
I tapped the flask and brought it to my lips. "Look, just go along with it. Make it easier on yourself. They deserve it –"
"Why?"
Paul frowned and ran his heavy hand through his hair, his eyes clouding over with undistinguishable emotions. "Look, there are a lot of reasons why things are what they are. It's not just that they are poor, I mean, I pity some of them. One of my buddies from football lived down there with his parents and younger brothers. It's just that most are just trash that doesn't even try to make their lives worth anything more than to consume what we wealthy men put into the economy. Their lives are not worth more than the beer they drink and the Camels they bum off of each other. Their girls are whores and their boys grow up to be alcoholic abusers."
"It's a cycle," I whispered, remembering Randy's words.
"Exactly," exclaimed Paul. "Just think of it this way, you care about them more than they care about you. Tell you what, go walk onto their turf. See what they do to you. I bet you that you would be lucky to be alive. Don't believe me, try it."
A chilled breeze rustled the overhanging tree branches. Paul's eyes matched the clouding night sky. I watched as girls shuddered in the bathing suits, scooting closer to their boyfriends. I pulled at the collar of my shirt, lips flat in contemplation. He was right, to an extent, I reasoned.
A loud whistle interrupted my thoughts, and I strained my neck to see Randy walking towards the street, guiding Bob. Trevor and Art followed behind them. "Mikey, let's go!"
"Don't want Mommy and Daddy to be worried," squealed Trevor. I rolled me eyes and trudged after them, waving absent mindedly behind me. My head had begun to pound once more, and it felt as if the drumming of the music would not leave my brain even as the house slowly began to fade behind street corners. I watched as Art and Bob took turns emptying their stomachs while Randy and Trevor attempted to get them to go in the right direction and to stay out of the streets. I vaguely wondered why we had not taken a car, and my thoughts strayed to the yellow girl with rosy lips and delicate laugh, and then to Paul's cleverly construed words of wisdom. Anxiety clenched my heart, but for once I did not feel like dealing with a right and wrong, black and white issue. I took a long sip of the liquid, completely content in my semi-drunk haze of grey.
Author's Note: Please review!