THE TRIP
PART X
We pull in and park under the "chow wagon" awning at Soda's favorite childhood burger joint, now looking like a rundown ghost relic from the fifties that hasn't yet been informed the seventies have arrived and elbowed them right into obsolete.
Darry squints at the menu and starts ordering before the girl can even finish the standard "Howdy partner, how can I help you?"
"I'll take an order of fries, um...make that two fries and then I need a Bacon Bronco thing, whatever the hell that's called..."
"Without the onions but extra sauce," I say in a loud and forceful whisper, tapping Darry's forearm that rests on his steering wheel, while once again he botches up our whole order at Lasso's. "Soda likes the Rodeo sauce," I'm reminding my big brother, who's always been the worst fast food orderer known to man.
"Oh," he says flustered. "Wait, add extra onions, hold the sauce on that Bronco." He's pointing his finger at the speaker as if the girl inside can see him.
"No," I groan with annoyance and proceed to lean my entire body across him, ignoring his rolling eyes as I stick my head out his window and try and clear up this mess like always. "Ma'am? Sorry, take away the onions and keep the sauce, make that extra Rodeo sauce please...ma'am," I add so they won't spit in our food and Darry and I are both shaking our heads as we wait, and I wonder what in the world our cowgirl carhop's fixing to deliver. Putting Darry in charge of a food order can make my stress level climb through the roof, but today I just focus on trying to at least get Soda's sandwich right, cause we're finally getting to visit him at the treatment center after three whole weeks, and the only thing he requested we bring him was a "big ole' messy Cheesy Bacon Buckin Bronco Burger."
As Darry cuts us across three lanes of traffic and takes a sharp left towards the turnpike, I'm thankful he thought to order extra french fries, since we're both unable to resist reaching in the bag and grabbing handfuls. "These need salt," he says through a mouthful and motions for me to make that happen for him. I reach into his glove compartment of all kinds of condiments, napkins and extra straws we've collected over time, pull out some salt packets and get to work. "Perfect," he nods approvingly and I'm sure like me, Darry appreciates all the warm memories of youth these greasy golden fries manage to evoke.
We're nearing the facility and I roll up the Lasso's bag tighter, trying to keep the burger warm for Soda, trying to keep my nerves at bay, wondering why I would even feel nervous to be around my favorite person in the whole world. But I don't know what to expect. I haven't really talked to him since our fight when I called him such ugly names I didn't mean. Or maybe I really did. My chest aches every time I go over that night in my mind.
Darry was the one to collect him from the hospital after his release and immediately check him into this place, and since that very first day he sent word through his assigned therapist that he didn't want any visitors. Not even us. Darry's first inclination was to fight it of course, and I too felt a little sting of insult, but once Soda's case manager explained it's normal to feel physically sick with withdrawal symptoms in these early stages, I could understand why he wouldn't want us to see him that way.
I'd imagined this place to be a lot nicer, so I'm disappointed when we walk into an institutional-like lobby, the barred windows and doors behind the front desk looking like a prison. But I guess that's all the VA can offer, and I can only hope it's working to make Soda better, despite the cold atmosphere and hospital smells. Darry's his usual assertive self when he doesn't ask, but tells the front desk guard we're going to visit our brother right now and we need his room number.
We both notice the US Navy anchor tattoo on his arm when this surly guy grabs a clipboard and looks up with raised eyebrows, giving a look that manages to put Darry in his place. "Sir, you'll sit in the waiting room and when you get clearance, you'll meet your brother in the visiting area in the cafeteria."
Darry immediately changes his tune and respectfully says, "Yes sir," and leads us over to the row of uncomfortable chairs, but still chooses to stand. I sit next to the table of pamphlets and flip through them, looking at all the pictures of actor soldiers playing their parts, faking their smiles and hugging their beautiful, happy families, free from addiction and haunted flashbacks thanks to all the methods of therapies being offered. I wonder what all goes on in this place. It's hard to imagine Soda sitting around in a group of men and talking about his issues, or lying down on a couch and spilling his guts out, or staring at a swinging pendulum and being hypnotized. I don't even want to think about shock therapy. Surely to God he hasn't dealt with that.
I'm pulled from my wild and worried thoughts when the Navy guy calls out like we're in boot camp. "Curtis, you can follow me now." We scramble behind him through the mechanical doors and down a short hallway into a cafeteria that looks like a true mess hall and smells like cooked carrots and bleach. Navy seats us in one of the round tables off to the side and tells us Sodapop will be in soon.
Some tables are filled with men playing cards, smoking, laughing. A few in wheelchairs missing limbs, most bearded with long hair like Soda used to be. All of them wearing the same flannel pajama pants and t shirts, as if getting dressed for the day is the least important thing in the world. And I guess in the scheme of things, it really is. A few of the tables are occupied by families obviously visiting loved ones, like we are. I can't help but stare at the violence breaking out when a group of orderlies forcefully escort a man away through the doors, the one who's been in the corner loudly arguing with nobody, only the air, with a disturbing kind of conviction.
"There he is," Darry says, using the same words and the same emotional tone when he spotted Soda in the bus station over a year ago. And I follow the direction of Darry's eyes and look towards the double doors and see our Soda, dressed in the appointed, more relaxed uniforms of his fellow soldiers here, his hair grown a bit more unruly and his beard trying to make a comeback. When he spots us he hurries over, moving chairs out of his way and we stand up, and so do the tiny hairs on my skin. And all the nerves that plagued me before suddenly leave my body when I see the brilliant smile that takes up his whole face. Darry reaches him first and I watch them share their moment, unaware of what they're saying to each other, and then it's my turn. And for a millisecond, my nerves try to fire up once more when his eyes, clearer than I remember them ever being, turn to me.
"C'mere Pony," and I lean for his embrace while he says, "you little motherfuckin' pussy." He brings up the vicious names I hurled at him, but his grin and twinkling eyes show that it's all in teasing, and he's addressing the elephant before it has a chance to trample us, just like he always does.
I still flench at the memory and he feels it. "Soda I'm so sorry," I apologize in a whisper, my chin on his shoulder.
"Pony," he says, sounding both firm and warm at the same time, "you were exactly right. I was a motherfucker and a drug addict pussy. You've always been a truth teller and I love you for it, man. I'm just so so sorry for how I treated you. I was such an ass." And as I did when I was a little boy, I feel that clean slate feeling that Soda's always been able to provide me. That complete euphoria of total forgiveness.
I hand him the Lasso bag, now marked all over with grease spots, and he pulls out the little tan packets from the bottom. "Y'all even got me extra Rodeo Sauce," he says like we're the most thoughtful people in the world and Darry gives me credit for remembering.
"Wait, it ain't Friday is it?" he makes sure before he tears into the thick burger and it's pretty gross watching him eat it, sauce falling out of the buns and onto the styrofoam container. He stands up and heads for the cart of cafeteria necessities, walking like surgeons do with arms up at the elbows, and comes back with a thousand napkins. "Mmmm mmmm," he says with satisfaction after he's finished, and Darry grabs a piece of bacon left behind but I notice Soda can't even finish the sandwich he used to wolf down in one minute. He's definitely dropped some weight.
Darry asks him how it is here and Soda says it was horrible at first but it's easing up now. He seems to be open and honest with us, and that's a relief. "It was a hard few weeks but I finally feel like I'm comin' back to myself ya know?"
He's fiddling with the paper ID bracelet on his wrist and Darry questions the white bandages taped around his other. Soda shakes his head and quickly brings up another topic. I guess he isn't as open about some things and I wonder what happened there.
We start talking about normal stuff, fill him in on things like my crazy new job of caddying at the country club, funny little moments he's missed while he's been away and I remind him he only has two more weeks to go. His face switches to serious. "I know, and it kinda scares me."
Darry leans forward and assures him we're gonna help him manage. "Soda, it's a battle, I know. We're just gonna take it day by day." And I think he must've read his own pamphlet or two. Soda nods, but I see the worry etched around his eyes.
"Dr. Fran, she's my one-on-one therapist, thinks it'd be a good idea if you, um, sat in on a few sessions during my last week Darry," he says and I feel a little left out. "She wants to put us on some plan, I don't know, and I guess meet the guy that's kinda been in charge of my life," he shrugs and chuckles a little. I guess that makes sense and I see why Darry would be who this lady wants to talk to. He's the biggest influencer in both our lives.
"You just let me know the times and I'm there," and I can tell Darry's happy to be getting involved. I knew he wasn't liking the feeling of having zero control over these last few weeks, and this is his opportunity to waltz in and take some reins back.
"Steve and Two-Bit are chompin' at the bit to get in here Soda. Are you up for other visitors?" I ask him as he goes through the duffel bag of stuff we brought him from home.
"Hell yes," he quickly answers. "I started talkin' to the walls about three days ago," he says, and although he's probably not even joking, I notice again how clear he is. Sure he looks disheveled and exhausted from the struggle, but his eyes are no longer foggy, he's moving and talking with all the mannerisms I didn't know were missing until they showed up to claim their rightful place. He's back.
Some guy that looks more like a football coach than a doctor walks over and interrupts us. He asks for the duffel bag and says it'll be in Soda's room once he searches through it. I guess Soda's used to giving up his stuff cause it doesn't faze him as he hands it over willingly. "Oh hey Joe, think I could have a cigarette while I'm in here?" I glance at Darry during this interaction and wonder if he feels as weird as I do. Big Joe writes something down and doles out a single Marlboro from one of the packs we brought. Even lights it for him, then walks away with Soda's belongings, but pockets the cigarettes.
Soda leans back and inhales deeply, like he hasn't in a long time. "You in here to try and quit smokin' too?" I ask with annoyance at Joe for treating Soda like some little kid or some common criminal. "Why's he taking your smokes away? Ain't you got enough to deal with in here without tryin' to cut back on your smokes?"
Soda looks at me out of the side of his eyes while his head turns to aim his smoky exhale in the opposite direction and he starts his smile before he's done blowing it all out. "Ponyboy Curtis, always Mr. Defensive," and he's right. I'm much more defensive when it comes to other people, more than myself. The cause of most of my past altercations have always been over defending someone else.
"Naw I ain't tryin' to quit," he goes on to explain. "Let's just say I had an episode the other night and they gotta watch me with my cigarettes now," and I'm alarmed when I see him very quickly glance down at his bandaged wrist. And just like that, the road I thought we made it down just got a whole lot longer.
What the hell kind of a place is this? I look at the crumpled address I scribbled. Pony's little friend did say the Blue Moon didn't she? Windows blacked out, entrance in a back alley, cats clawing through dumpsters stuffed to the gills with garbage bags. An electric sign blinks open so I go on in, almost miss the first step of a steep stairway leading to pitch black, but music leads me down into the dark nothing until I end up in what looks to be a pretty normal bar, complete with beer signs, quite a few men bellied up to an endless bar and a couple of rough looking waitresses in no kind of uniform, just wearing what they feel like and it's not very much.
I take a seat at the end of the bar and wait for service, watch the bartender's backside as she fills a pitcher, her tight jeans so low on her hips it oughta be illegal. I can see she's giving off hotness all the way over here and I'm pretty sure she's gotta be the one. Pony gave me a description of who I'm looking for, and said "She's really good lookin' Darry. Just you wait."
She delivers the pitcher to the table behind me and I hear her talking to them like she's one of the guys, about the latest scores, teasing one of them for wearing a Royals hat, getting them riled up about their shitty season. And they love it. And the more they love it, the more tips she's bound to earn. She knows how to play the game.
She's back behind the bar and notices me, smiles and says, "Sorry I didn't see you come in, be right with ya," seeming friendly enough as she writes on her tab and starts walking my way, and Pony was right, cause this girl's something, a bombshell type who stepped right out of the centerfold. For a split second I forget the reason why I'm here and give Soda a mental high five for tagging this one.
A harried voice from another waitress calls out from across the room, "Sorry Glory, I'll take him," and unfortunately starts hurrying back to her post but Glory's quick to stop her.
I stop breathing a second when she sizes me up with those eyes and claims me right out loud, "Don't worry 'bout it Rose. This one's on me." Good Lord what the hell am I up against here?
She brings that body on over and she's looking like all kinds of trouble. But I'm Darry fucking Curtis. I make myself appear untouchable and get ready to take the control right out from under her. "Hey there, I'm Glory," and she smiles as big as Soda, like she's used to getting what she wants.
"Glory, I'm thirsty. I'll take a Budweiser." And her eyebrows shoot up, not used to someone that ain't drooling all over her I guess, and my eyebrows follow suit, matching hers, but my smile breaks out cause I can already tell this is gonna be too easy.
"Sure thing hun, wanna glass?" and she's off to the cooler, but still looking me up and down, starting to get a little suspicious of why I'm here.
"Bottle's fine," I answer and she sets it in front of me and leans forward on both hands, and I notice her belly button where her white flowy shirt's riding up, and the necklace that's resting right in her cleavage which is just about at perfect eye level. There's no way she's not sexy and there's no way I'll ever let her know I think so.
I get to it. "Glory or Gloria?" I ask her.
"Glory to my friends. You can call me Glory," and I can tell she thinks her tip just went up a notch.
"Gloria," I start but pause to take a swig, "I think you and I have a friend in common."
I watch her whole body change, feeling nervous probably that I'm some cop. "Oh yeah?" she questions, her honeyed tone giving way to a tough edge. She starts busying herself wiping down the bar, ready to not give up any information.
"I'm Darry Curtis, Sodapop's older brother," and she freezes and her eyes grow wide and she looks at me really hard now.
"You're kiddin' me? Y'all don't look much alike. Damn, but every last one handsome. What the hell's in that water y'all grew up drinkin'?" She's shaking her head, walking over again, even runs her hand over mine. "Good to meetcha Darry." But her flattery doesn't fool me.
I pull my hand out from under hers and start pulling out my wallet cause I'm not wanting this to take any more of my time. "Soda's all cleaned up now ya know."
She doesn't miss a beat so I can tell she's not out of the loop like I'd hoped. "Yeah, I'm real proud of him." And I might just believe her.
I can't afford to be nice, so I get ugly. "We don't need you creepin' back around messin' this all up for him, ya hear me?" Neither of us are smiling now. Her jaw is as clenched and her stare is as intimidating as mine.
"I think you'd best leave that decision up to your little brother. Surely you know him better than that, Darry. He's one that won't ever be controlled. Now why are you wastin' your precious time and energy tryin'? You're just used to spinnin' them wheels ain'tcha?"
"I'm used to people doin' what I ask, and I think you're gonna do what I'm tellin' you to do."
She lets out a soft laugh that grows louder and she throws her head back. It's the kind of laugh you can't help joining and even I chuckle with her, in this tense moment. She wipes her eyes and finally stops laughing. "Oh God Darry, or what? You gonna spank me? I assure you it wouldn't be the first time I've been spanked at the hands of a Curtis."
I throw down a five and smile my threat. "Stay out of our lives Gloria, or I'll make yours miserable." I get up to go and watch Glory take the five and smile up at me, slowly tucking the bill down between her tits into her bra.
"I hate that we didn't get off on the right foot Darry," she says with fake spun sugar. "I'm afraid you got the wrong idea about the kind of girl I am."
"I know exactly what type of girl you are Gloria," and I start walking out.
"Good," she calls behind me. "Then you know I always take what's mine. And you can count on seeing me again, Darry Curtis."
We're just finishing up our final therapy meeting. And it's the night before Soda's release back to the real world. But he seems a little off tonight, all throughout our hour session his mind was somewhere else. And I chalk it up to nerves over his next step of having to keep clean outside of this protected environment. I walk him back to his room and tell him I'll help get him packed up a little. His hovel is a tiny depressing cinder blocked closet and the two of us are too big to move around in here comfortably. I start folding his clothes and putting them into bags.
"Here I brought you these clothes for you to wear out tomorrow."
"Thanks Darry," he says while he's taking down the pictures he has taped to his walls and I laugh when he spends extra time and care gently taking down all the Penthouse pets that got him through these five weeks.
"Don't forget, that's your pillow," I remind him and I'm lost in thought trying to make all this fit into one bag. I've been wrestling this past week with what all to reveal about Soda's history to Dr. Fran and well, to Soda. I hope I haven't destroyed his recovery somehow by not telling, hope I've made the right decision to keep my mother's own addiction issues hidden, that Soda comes by it honest actually, and he doesn't even know it. Or does he sometimes remember and wonder if it was a dream? It would have to seem that way to him, having memories of our sweet mother hurling couch cushions across the room when we wrecked the den, or her words slurring every now and then in a way that made my stomach sick, way way back in our beginning, or was he too young to notice? Does he remember Dad dragging her down the hall kicking and screaming one night? Does he remember running for Dad's help when he came in one day to find her dragging me...me down that very hall, slapping me all over? I'm too scared to bring it up.
"Alright," I breathe, "looks manageable now. What time am I picking you up?"
"I already got a ride Dar," he says, jumpy and full of all the subtle but familiar tics that've always let me know he's holding something in.
"Huh? Did Steve take off tomorrow? He didn't have to do that." I'm confused, why wouldn't Pony and I be the ones to pick him up and bring him home?
"Glory's picking me up," he mumbles quickly and I pull myself off the floor and stand up right in front of him, our height difference more glaring whenever I get this close.
"Huh?" I ask harshly. "When the hell did you talk to her Sodapop?" My blood's rushed to my face and I'm already planning my next method of attack on this dirty bitch.
He backs away and sits in the wooden chair and won't look at me when he says, "She came and visited me yesterday." I've never heard him sound more tired.
I drag my hands down my face and will myself to get calm. But I can't quite make my tone be anything but rough and heavy. "Soda, you know it isn't healthy to be around her. To throw yourself right back into a toxic environment." I've gotten really good at using Dr. Fran's phrases.
Now there's all kinds of hope on Soda's face when he enthusiastically tells me, "No Darry, you don't understand. She got clean too."
I wonder how Soda can be this naive. "Bullshit, Soda. That girl's tellin' you what you wanna hear."
"No, Darry, she really is," and now he sounds so sick he's scaring me.
"Well how the hell are you gonna believe her?" I wait, and I wait, and I fucking wait and I already know what he's going to say. I hear the second hand like a ticking time bomb. And I try and gear up cause I can't seem to convince myself he's going to tell me anything else, something different. Please God, something different.
His knee is bouncing. His brown eyes drag themselves from staring at his shoes all the way up to stare at me. He takes a shaky breath, and says, "She's pregnant."
Hearing what I already knew seconds before doesn't change the effect of those words. Their devastation. My blood runs cold. And my brother has just signed his life away. It's over. I shake my head and can't find any words.
Soda launches into his speech on how it's all going to be okay, that it's all for the best, that he'll have to be good now that he's gonna be a father, and I start tuning him out when I see he's only trying to convince himself.
Suddenly my frozen blood starts churning again, and a red heat starts rushing throughout and I'm so mad at my dumbass brother I could kick his chair across the room, with him still in it.
I kick his bag instead and all those clothes I folded come flying out, and Soda follows me telling me over and over how sorry he is. I hold my hand up to make him stop talking, but he flinches like I'm about to hit him. "It's over Soda. I'm so fucking tired of fighting for you when all you do is turn around and ruin your own life. I can't even look at you right now. Don't bother coming home and begging me to help you. I'm done Soda. Done," and I slam the door, leaving him standing in the middle of the room with a look on his face that I've never ever seen before.
I don't even remember my walk down the hall or pushing the elevator buttons, I can't remember if I signed out or maybe I just told the night nurse to fuck off, that wouldn't surprise me. I'm finally coming back to myself when I end up at the ramp for Creek Turnpike and I wonder how I got here. And that's when I start really seeing Soda's face, the way it looked when I left, so destroyed and lost. And I think, what the hell am I doing?
I jerk my wheel and ignore the angry honks when I make an illegal U-turn and race back to my brother. My tires screech to a halt in the parking lot and I run in, demanding that I see him for just a second, that I'm begging them, that I know visiting hours are over but it's really important. That I'll die if I can't see him right now and the guards are starting to walk their way over and I don't care if I'm losing my mind. And it's gotta be God's grace that in that moment, I see my brother through the windows, walking with a group of patients, their backs to us, probably on their way to the weight room. I make my fist fit through the bars and bang on the windows despite the guards yelling at me to stop and surrounding me like vultures. But I got his attention. They all turn around and he can see me. Now to make him hear me.
"Soda I didn't mean it," I yell louder than I've yelled in a long time. "The door is always open. You can always come home."
As soon as I see he understands me, the moment I can see just that little exhale and the way his eyes look at me, once his lips start tugging up in the corner, I shake my shoulders to get these guards off me and say, "Okay I'm leavin', I'm out of y'alls hair now." And I walk out of that place I hope to never step foot in again.
Jeans feel weird after being in pajamas so long. I sign my papers and say goodbye to the staff, to the guys I've gotten close to, to Dr. Fran who makes me promise I'm going to keep up with my meetings. And I will.
"Do you have a ride?" Joe asks me, and I tell him it's waiting outside.
I feel nervous and restless and sick all at once, but the bright sting of the sun works to zap me out of all my feelings. I squint against it and shield my eyes, and the white hot light in front of me suddenly morphs into a car, and I can make out the girl honking in the driver's seat, asking "Hey baby, you wanna ride?" and my stomach flips when I see her, through clear and sober eyes, in the harsh light of day. I don't know if I'm turned on more by her hotness or the fact she's now carrying my baby. And as my feet are dragging me to this car I'm not sure if I'm headed for heaven or hell. But does it really matter? When it comes to Gloria, they're kinda one and the same.
I slide in and can't control my hands all over her. It's been so long and I'm so hungry. I snake my way under her skirt and smile when I find she's not wearing panties, and thank God she's still ready to play, even though she's pregnant. I've never met someone who's so good at being bad. I break away and keep my hands to myself so she can drive us away from here, and I use my teeth to rip off my id bracelet. "Take me to your place."
"Our place," she corrects me.
"Our place." I whisper, and stare out the windshield at a world I suddenly don't recognize.
A/N: Outsiders by SE Hinton