THE TRIP
PART IX
I'm sitting next to Dad at our table, filled with a peace that's as warm as the kitchen around me. Mom, surrounded by a golden aura seems to float to the oven, its ringing timer commanding her to pull out her pot roast. I can't see her face and I want to, cause it's been so long, but she remains bent over, her back to me, fooling with the meat thermometer. Another harsh ring; I wonder why my alarm has even been set and I look around for Dad who suddenly isn't there. "Mom?" but my call lacks voice and she still won't turn. A passing train rattles the windows and the entire house, my chair quakes violently and I'm shaking right along with it...
I'm being shaken by my shoulders and I feel my brain rising up, breaking through cobwebs to consciousness, realizing it's a dream but wondering where in the world I am, if not the kitchen. In the dark, through squinting eyes, nothing around me is recognizable, but it dawns on me when I finally hear an urgent, but familiar voice. "Ponyboy wake up," Steve says as roughly as he's shaking my shoulders. "That was Darry on the phone. He can't control Soda, he needs us to come help. C'mon just grab your shoes and put'em on in the car."
The next thing I know I'm racing after Steve down his duplex stairs and through the parking lot, not even caring about the leftover dirty rain puddles as I plow through them with bare feet. We hop into his car and take off down the road, the asphalt shiny from the lights reflecting off the wet surfaces, and the clock reads ten till four when I wipe at my wet, grimy soles with my hand before I put on each shoe. I blink my eyes awake and my stomach feels hollow and nauseous and knotted and I'm thinking this has to be a dream. Surely things can't keep getting worse.
"What all did he say?" I question Steve nervously, not sure I'm ready to really know.
Steve, wearing an army t-shirt and jeans he didn't have time to button, keeps his eyes dead ahead as he rakes a hand through his short hair, and I can tell he's as rattled as I am. "I don't know, just that Soda took somethin' strong and he's out of his damn mind." I'm reminded of Soda's winter arrest and wonder if he's on that angel dust again. "Darry says he's gone all paranoid and violent and," Steve pauses and shakes his head, "he physically can't take him on alone I guess." The devil may as well have reached through the bottom of this car and punched me right in the gut.
The closer we get to my house the more I silently yell at myself to toughen up and get ready to see my brother in this crazed state. I wasn't here to witness the cops wrestling him on an icy downtown sidewalk and cuffing him like some wild animal while he fought back with the strength of a mad man. I'd been so thankful it was Two-Bit and Darry, not me. I just arrived for the aftermath, which was ugly enough. But it looks like I'm about to see my brother's drugged out dangerous side firsthand.
As soon as we pull up I can see Darry already standing on the porch waiting, his arms wrapped around a struggling Soda, their forms make silhouettes backlit by glowing windows, adding to the dreamlike feel. Steve leaves the car on and hops out while I'm left scrambling for the door handle. I hear Darry's firm but calm voice instructing, "Grab this side Steve," and then to me he yells, "Pony, we'll hold him in back, you gotta drive us to the hospital man," as he's already wrangling our brother down the porch steps. Darry's given up. We need professionals. It's beyond us now.
I slide across the seats and over the center console to take the wheel, my adrenaline now pumping through my veins, and they drag Soda into the backseat like he's a feral cat not wanting to go into the bathwater, and as soon as Steve yells, "Gun it Pony," my foot hits the gas pedal to the floor before Darry can even close the door, and I'm sure I've left tire marks as we tear off into the darkest hour of the morning.
Thank God nobody's out on the streets cause I run through most stop signs and even a red light or two, my eyes darting around for cops or milk trucks or some innocent paper boy aiming the bad news at sleepy porches. My seat gets bumped and jostled as they pin Soda down to the floor board behind me, and have the advantage of keeping him contained to that small space below, while they put their weight on him from above. Soda hasn't said anything. Just makes noises and forms sounds that aren't words. But to me, he seems more panicked than violent. Steve repeats, "C'mon quit fightin' us Soda," but I can tell Soda's warring against his hallucinations and not against us.
Darry's voice is raspy as he gives us some idea of their night and it's obvious he's been tangling with Soda for a good while. He looks and sounds exhausted. "First he was tearin' at himself and then he started seein' shit and it just got worse and worse." I don't think he can believe this situation either, even as he describes it.
I've slipped into a strange calm; my nerves are steadier, my senses heightened and my reflexes are sharp as I skillfully race Steve's car across Tulsa towards the hospital, and I could swear I feel my parents watching us, all three of their sons blowing through the very intersection that took them from us.
Hillcrest Hospital stands ahead in the distance, the lighthouse in our storm, and I take the last mile even faster when I begin to hear what sounds like Soda convulsing. "Make sure his air waves are open, so he doesn't choke on his vomit," I bark at the back and wonder where that even came from. I reach behind my seat and don't know what part of Soda I happen to be patting and repeat "Hang on, hang on."
Brakes screech when I stop us right in front of the emergency room entrance, and I run ahead of the guys for help. Everyone here seems pretty undaunted by my display of wild panic, that my brother could possibly be OD'ing in front of my very eyes, but I guess they see it all the time. I'm relieved though when two bigger guys rush to the car to help Darry and Steve guide Soda who isn't convulsing like I thought, but still belligerent and looking like he stepped out of an insane asylum. His shirt's gone, revealing bloody marks and bruises lining up his chest and I step out of the way of the gurney they're rolling over and wonder how we'll convince Soda to lie on it.
Suddenly a doctor starts asking me what he took. And since I'm not really that sure I start sounding off a list of things I've known Soda to be on, just to cover all our bases. Like me, this Dr. Lopez thinks he's on a bad PCP reaction judging by his behavior and I nod in agreement. They've forced Soda to lie down and he's struggling against everyone, and Lopez says, "We'll be restraining him until he's more manageable," and while Darry looks up repulsed, I go on and say with force, "Absolutely, yes strap him down," and even help the nurses and orderlies get his wrists into position. "Please hurry, give him the shot, knock him out," I plead for them to move faster. Save him from himself.
I feel a relief sweep through me when I watch the needle press into Soda's arm and then feel his muscles under my hold starting to finally unclench. Suddenly he tries to focus on my face, his eyebrows set to pain and sadness, and he whimpers my name, "Ponyboy" and his eyelids flutter. He's not out cold though, and I hope whatever's in the IV they're hooking him up to will give him some kind of escape. He slowly rolls his head from side to side and his hands limply rest in the cuffs as they're taking him through double doors and out of sight.
I don't know if any of us hear what this nurse keeps saying. Something about a psych ward. I look around and only hear the buzzing of the fluorescent lights and feel like my head is under water. Darry's hands are grabbing the top of his head and his eyes are wide open in shock watching Soda being rolled away from us, and Steve's breathing heavy and shaking his head, his pants still undone. I think we're all three lost in the trauma of it, and we don't even think to sit down, we just stand in the middle of the lobby lost, dumbfounded, waiting for direction.
The nurse comes back to fill out more of Soda's information that Darry easily recites off for her. His birthday, his blood type, and I think back to his dog tags that list all these facts. They're probably still sitting on the bathroom sink where I laid them before I took a shower yesterday, when Soda kept staring at them. "He's Catholic," I announce out of nowhere, remembering that's stated right at the bottom, sitting just below O NEG. Everyone turns to face me like I'm nuts and then swiftly they move on, but I think it's an important piece of Soda's bio, if he made it a point that the Army knew to give him Last Rites should he reach his end. My heart is being squeezed all of a sudden at the thought.
Dr. Lopez comes back after awhile and now we're finally out of shock enough to comprehend a little more. "Your brother's resting comfortably," he tells us, but we all know what the truth is. He's up on the sixth floor with all the psychos and lunatics, drugged and tied up into submission. But hell, what else can they do? "We have strict guidelines we have to follow when someone is placed in our care unwillingly. He'll be under our surveillance for twenty-four hours but you'll be given a case worker that'll contact you later today to give reports of his progress."
"Wait, we can't see him?" Darry asks, but I figured as much.
"Not in the ward he's in Mr. Curtis," Dr. Lopez respectfully addresses Darry and has him sign some documents. "We're going to give him lots of fluids and keep him monitored and safe while the drugs exit his system, but after, he'll be needing recovery care in a rehabilitation facility if you want him off them for good. Now...in addition to PCP, I've been told he's been on some benzodiazepines for awhile." I look down at my feet, feeling a little guilty for telling this guy all of Soda's drug history, but someone had to. "Habitual users have a hard time coming off Benzos and there can be a lot of withdrawal symptoms associated with cessation. But Sodapop's a Vet?"
We all answer "Yes sir," and I'm guessing he must have noticed Soda's army tattoo.
"Your case worker can put you in touch with the VA then. They offer free treatment programs for troubled veterans." And with that Dr. Lopez is gone.
"Troubled Veterans," Darry repeats, shaking his head and breathing a quick sharp breath out his nose, "that's an understatement." And we all stand up to go, feeling torn between home and not wanting to leave Soda behind.
Steve gives us both an encouraging pat to the shoulders as we stumble for the car that still sits unlocked where we'd left it. "You did good by him y'all. It had to be done."
This sure isn't a date, I'm certain of that. Nobody calls at nine in the morning to ask you to lunch in three hours if they have some romantic notion. He's lucky my dad was already at work when his phone call rang through the empty house. But I could tell by his voice he's got no kind of interest. I'm gonna kill Soda for making him call me. So why did I say sure I'll meet you? Why did I jump in the shower and search frantically for something cute to wear? Why did I go so far as to call in sick to work? Cause he's polite. And if I'm remembering him right from last fall, he's pretty good looking too. Might even say bordering hot, but hard to tell, since last time I saw him he was in a panic over tripping out.
And the biggest reason why I'm waiting in this greasy diner with butterflies dancing around my stomach? He's Sodapop Curtis's brother.
I got here early to beat the lunch crowd and snag us a booth. I don't want to have to sit up at the counter with Ponyboy side by side, all awkward. But my plan wasn't necessary since this place doesn't look to be the go-to spot for lunch. Only a few customers enter now and then, order their usual and read the paper. I look up each time the door disturbs the bell that hangs above it, and then go back to studying the sticky menu or organizing all the sugar packets. And wait.
"Hey Patty, I'm not late am I? Sorry if I made you wait." I about jump out of my cold-chill skin cause there he is, standing right beside the table and I didn't see him come in. I guess he was hidden behind the last noisy group that just arrived, fussing over chairs and pushing tables together.
"Hey Ponyboy," I say a little too excitedly and then work to rein it in. "No, you're right on time." I take his hand he offers and though I'm more of a hugger, I don't slide out of the booth to greet him more warmly, just let him give me a gentle squeeze with his fingers he's wrapped over mine and I look up into his face. He's still got the crooked endearing smile, the striking green eyes, and the same dimple as his big brother. As he takes a seat across from me, I notice his lashes are as thick as Soda's and I've made my final decision. He's hot.
He's really cute starting up the small talk, but he doesn't seem nervous at all and neither am I. Asks me about my summer and I tell him I just graduated and I'm working as a cashier down at the Winn-Dixie over by the Admiral. "You gonna start up college in the fall?" he asks like he might genuinely be interested in my journey and I pause and watch him sip on his straw, his eyes looking up at me, before I answer.
"No, my Dad can only afford for my brother to go. He's banking on me and my sisters to either get married or learn to type," and I hope my little laugh after doesn't seem too bitter or worse, maniacal.
He nods his understanding and looks sorry, but I don't want him to be so I tell him my real plans. "It's okay though. I'm gonna save up enough money for my own car and take off for San Francisco, see America along the way."
Pony smiles and says, "I remember you saying that. You wanna find yourself right? Soda told me you still hadn't given up on taking him with you," and his face changes just a smidge, but I see it nonetheless.
And suddenly I know this lunch is about Soda. And my stomach gets tight. "What's up with Soda these days? He's been off the radar it seems." I'm remembering his strange behavior towards me a couple of weeks ago outside school.
Pony clears his throat and sits up a little bit, places his used napkin on his empty plate and gives it all to me as I'd expected from someone like him. Straight.
"Well ya see, that's the reason I called you Patty. Soda got a little too caught up in the drug scene and he's been trying to get clean." Suddenly I feel worried that Pony thinks I'm some druggie who's the reason for his brother's downfall. I let him go on. "He's doing a lot better though. But he's gonna be comin' home soon and my brother Darry doesn't want him to fall back with the same kinda people." Now my heart is racing, understanding how they see me. They don't want me anywhere around their brother. They've got me all wrong. But before I can defend myself, Pony says, "We need to find that girl Soda's been seein'. Gloria? Do you know where she lives, where we might be able to find her? Darry's been wantin' to pay her a visit."
I let out a breath I didn't know was trapped inside me and swallow hard. Thank God this is about Glory. "I don't know where she lives," and Pony's looking at me funny. I think he can tell I got flustered. "But I do know she works afternoon shifts at the Blue Moon bar."
Pony's a gentleman. He got what he came here for but he makes no attempt to rush the rest of our lunch. He's a great conversationalist, but I find myself thinking of Soda most of the time and he's being distracted by the loud obnoxious behavior of the group that pulled three tables into one. Sounds like they're sounding off about the war but I hardly pay attention. Pony takes care of both our tabs and leads me out, holding the door open, but he looks intensely at me and touches my arm when we're out on the sidewalk. "Patty, would you mind waiting right here?" I nod, confused.
He turns back into the diner and I watch him through the windows. He walks right up to the mouthy group and he says something to the one who'd been the loudest. I suck in my breath when I see Pony reach down and roughly grab him by his shirt, jerk him up and get in his face, then push him down hard back into his chair. I think my mouth is hanging open along with the other patrons when he returns outside like nothing's wrong. "Here, grabbed us some peppermints," he says in a lazy drawl and he hands me the red and white striped candy. I remember to close my mouth.
"Well thanks for meeting me here, I had a real good time." And I'm realizing Ponyboy Curtis is almost as interesting as his brother, and that's a pretty tall benchmark. Suddenly I find myself wanting him to think highly of me.
"Pony, I want you to know I'm really not in the drug scene. I hung out at the farm cause my brother lets me tag along everywhere. I've only tripped acid once, and it was with Soda and he didn't want me to. But I did and he took care of me all night. I never touched the stuff since."
Feeling like a nerd after unneccesarily professing my innocence to a boy I hardly know, Pony kinda chuckles and says, "That's good to know I guess." I feel myself blushing dammit.
"When does Soda get home? Maybe I could come see him." Hope is laced all throughout these words of mine.
And Pony can't realize the knife he drags through me when he shrugs and answers, "Not so sure if he's up for visitors these days." I hide my hurt and thank Pony for buying my lunch.
"See ya 'round Pattycake," Pony uses Soda's nickname for me and I watch him walk away down the sidewalk.
I throw my mint in the trash can and take the long walk back to my dull life. I must've been crazy thinking I could ever be with someone like a Sodapop Curtis. I was just some goofy school kid he took under his wing cause he probably felt sorry for me. He's just a crush anyway. I try to ease myself into the harsh and painful reality I'm finally having to accept, but knew all along. I'm not anywhere near his league.
A/N: Outsiders by SE Hinton
