WARNING: Sexual objectification of women.

It's been over a year since I updated this story..I'm ashamed. I hope to be back for good. For anyone out there who might still be interested, here it is...

THE TRIP

PART XXV

"Shit Ponyboy, I'm gonna work the airlines. You think I'm gonna spend my life in a single engine?" Steve's looking at me like I bitch slapped his grandmother. "I ain't gonna be workin' no party circuit, like some jackass clown that does birthday flyovers, I can tell ya that right now." He leans back hard on the porch swing, pissed I'd dare imply he'd waste his newly acquired pilot's license on a gig so lame, when all I asked is if he's flown anything other than the Cessna they've been training him on.

He's in some kind of mood though. Probably cause Evie wants him home by midnight and Darry's holding us up, his own bachelor party.

From where he's parked on the porch railing, Soda stretches to reach for Steve. His eyes are friendly but his hand comes down hard to grip his old friend's shoulder, Soda's discreet way of telling him to cool it. "Nobody's callin' you a clown, Steve-a-Reeno. Take it easy. Drink your beer." Only Soda could get away with that.

And so now I can get away with "I'm just tryin' to make conversation, Jesus Christ."

We're waiting for Darry to hurry up and shower now that he finally got off work. We were supposed to meet some of his old crowd downtown about ten minutes ago now.

Two-Bit pops another tab and he's close to wiping out his own six pack before we've even gotten started with our night,"That reminds me..ya'll ever see that little stunt monkey they got that stands out on the plane's wing?"

"Yeah man," Soda's smile is lazy, and aimed at me."'Member Pony? We saw that on TV when we was kids. He was in a little suit. They strapped his feet down," but now Soda's voice trails off, confused, "or wait..."

I chuckle, "That was a squirrel on water skis, Soda."

Two-Bit goes on, "No, I'm talkin' a little monkey on a big ole crop-duster turnin' flips right out there on the wing." He looks beyond us, shaking his head like his life's surely been altered after seeing such a feat. "Now that's somethin' to see, boy. The wing walkin monkey." He suddenly breaks out of his reverie and points at Steve. "Shoot that'd be cool as hell if you could fly that little dude around."

Steve closes his eyes and tries to exhale all of us out of his chest and his mind, pinches the bridge of his nose like we're giving him a headache.

Soda does what he always does and tosses him the pass.

"Nah Two-Bit. Captain Randle's gonna be piloting thousands of passengers all over this fine country in a badass Boeing 747, ain't that right Stevie?" Soda stands to hold his beer out for a friendly cheers, and Steve leans forward with an accepting tap, their bottles clinking together.

In return, Steve turns on his pride for his best friend. "Yessir, and Soda's gonna be fightin' fires and savin' lives, all in a day's work." He drinks to this promise of their bright futures, but Soda doesn't take a sip. In fact, we all watch his face fall and I feel my heart speeding up.

Ever since Soda said he was definitely interested in the position at the firehouse, Darry and I have been waiting to hear something for weeks. But Soda just keeps coming home every night beaten down from laying asphalt and hasn't mentioned a thing. We were beginning to think he didn't even apply.

Soda puts an end to all of our wondering. "'Fraid not, man. Don't feel bad or nothin', but I didn't get the job."

Two-Bit's incredulous "Why" and Steve's defensive "They're fuckin idiots not to hire you" gives me a little time to push down the tiny thread of relief that might show up on my face. The one that's making me feel guilty when I watch my brother's embarrassed smile.

"Naw it's okay, really, I'm okay, just wasn't meant to be is all."

"What's not meant to be?" Darry's voice reaches out through the screen before we see him swinging it wide open. His hair's wet and he's carrying his socks and shoes to put on out here.

Soda's slumped posture straightens when he turns to face our brother, and I watch him brush off his disappointment. He wouldn't want to ruin Darry's night. "Not a big deal Dar. Just turns out I ain't no good for hosin' down fires," and only a little trace of bitter when he adds, "I guess I'm just made for startin em. But hey, tell your friend thanks for the lead anyway."

"Damn Soda, what happened?" Anyone who didn't know Darry would think he's mad right now. But he's only upset cause Soda's been let down. And Darry takes everything real personal when it comes to us, as if it happened to him. "What went wrong? You passed the physical test right? I've seen you; you're in the best shape you've been in awhile."

Soda's starting to get antsy and running his hand through his hair. "Yeah, 'course I did."

I myself don't think this is the time or place to be drilling Soda, not on a night of celebration, not in front of the guys. I wish he'd leave it alone for now. But that's how Darry deals with everything; immediate and head-on.

"Oh," Darry's voice and face soften on some sudden realization, "it was the written test then?" He sounds pretty certain that Soda's poor test taking skills have come back to haunt us and it's all making sense to him now so he's taking a different approach, riding in with a new hope. Starts talking like he's some coach. "Soda, here's what we're gonna do. Lemme help you study. Ask if you can take it again. I bet they'll let ya. I'm sure of it. With my help, we could knock that shit outta the park."

And with this conversation I might as well be back in the winter of '65, pitiful and lying in my bed listening to those two go on all night about school; my thirteen year old stomach in knots over the tragic loss of Mom, Dad and according to Darry, all of Soda's potential.

Soda leans away from Darry's arm when he tries to put it over his shoulder. "Darry, I passed that test." He even flings his hand away. "In fact, I aced it." The aced is almost hissed and his eyes are narrowed.

Steve tries to dispel the tension, standing up. "Alright, alright, I'm sick of waitin'." He claps his hands together and tries to assemble his face into something positive, as positive as Steve can be anyway. "I don't know 'bout y'all but I came to see some titties. So let's go see some titties."

"Here here," I call and stand to team with Steve. "C'mon guys. Tonight's about havin fun." I give Darry a nudge, but just barely.

"Yeah you ready to sew them wild oats Darry?" Two-Bit knows as well as I do when Darry's not listening, but he says it anyway.

It takes a lot more than Soda's threatening eyes to back him down, but I know Darry, and all he really wants is to get to the bottom of, well, the bottom of everything. "Then what the hell was it Soda?"

Soda says nothing. We wait for something, anything, but he just turns from Darry and lets out all his breath, slowly walks down the front stoop and halfway down the walk. He puts his hands on his hips and looks up. We can only see his silhouette, an outline of black against a purple sky that hasn't let the last light go just yet, and he looks all alone out there. But we don't make a sound or move or disturb him. We wait to see what Soda's gonna do.

And I hear it. A gentle laugh that starts building into a maniacal laughter, a laughter that shoots all around the yard once his head's thrown back. And we look to each other, on full alert and wondering what we might be dealing with, until Soda finally turns around to face us, his audience on the porch above him. He's no longer laughing.

With his arms thrown out he says bluntly, "I failed the psych test Darry, is that what you wanna know? Huh?" Not even Darry says a word. Soda's moves are erratic and he jumps on the lawn mower I left out, his eyes never leaving us. "Can all ya'll hear me? Listen up fellas. I failed the psych evaluation." Again, silence. Then he cups his hands over his mouth and yells into the dusk, his volume building as he goes, "Cause Soda P. Curtis is crazier than a..shit..house..RAT."

All the way from here I can feel the heat of his frustration, even though he's smiling up at us now, as if in apology for either his outburst or his failures, maybe both, and then he simply heads for the car, expecting us to follow. We do.

xXx

Fog machines that choke us and pounding music make it hard to hear or carry on a conversation. Not that you come to a strip club to talk. But we try anyway. A disjointed communication of words that get thrown around the table and end up mixing together with our drinks.

"Oh God Darry's hammered."

"Lord Two-Bit, only you would eat at the buffet in a strip club."

"What are they serving up tonight? Crabs?"

"Ha. Ha. Good one, Pony."

"Hey, didn't we go to school with that girl?"

"Oh yeah, I remember her, she was a class above us. Hey, ain't she the one that dated Jimmy Jenkins?

"I heard Jenks killed a guy. Out past the Moon Quarry 'bout two years ago. Stabbed him in cold blood. No offense, Pony."

"None...taken?"

"Jesus in Heaven, would you look at that rack?"

"Y'all I've never seen Darry this shitfaced."

"How the hell does she do that? Now that takes skill. Bonafide talent."

"C'mon throw in some cash cheapskate, we're all going in on a lap dance for Darry."

"Look all I'm sayin is you ain't seen nothin till you've dated a gymnast."

"Okay who's gonna be the one to tell Two-Bit he's dragging toilet paper across this bar on the bottom of his shoe? Nobody right?"

"I gotta go, Evie's probably sharpening the knives.

"Don't be such a pussy."

"..and by the way, it's obvious you've never had pussy."

"Could one of y'all please inform Darry he can't slip the dollar bills down the front of her panties, they're gonna bounce us out, man."

"Tell that little waitress to come back here. I got somethin' for her."

"He's done. Cut him off."

xXx

"Thanks for helping us Steve."

It took three of us to wrestle Darry into a cab, then get him up the walk. He only got belligerent once but at least we didn't have to carry him. And when we threw him onto his bed he kept going on and on, stuff about his job, his life, something about losing everything, a bunch of crazy talk. He wanted to call Liz but we wouldn't let him. I don't think she'd appreciate much of what her soon-to-be-husband has to say at this point.

Now I'm nose diving into my bed, but I can hear Soda and Steve out on the porch.

"You walkin' home I guess? Sorry we made you so late. Evie's never gonna let you outta the house again."

"Naw I called her from the club and said I had to help with Darry. She wasn't too bent."

"Man I always said Evie was the coolest chick in town.

"Well now that don't mean she won't be makin me pay over the next couple days. But it's worth it."

There's a silence between them. And I almost fall asleep in it, drifting off on the humming buzz of cigars and whiskey shots.

"Hey, 'fore I leave, you're not down about that stupid test are you?" Steve's question pulls me into consciousness, but I'm still kinda out of it, so it takes a good second for me to piece together all his words in the right order.

"Yeah Steve, I'm down about it. Course I am." There's an honesty that Soda has always saved for Steve. And I used to wonder what it is about him that would make Steve Randle be anybody's confidante. "It's not like I'm that disappointed about the job. But it's just another thing that the war's fucked up for me. I came home but I guess all I am now is damaged goods. That test just confirms it."

My heart sinks to my stomach to hear Soda talk this way about himself and now I'm wide awake. I think about running out there and reassuring him that he's still whole and I love him.

But instead, Steve gets firm and turns everything on its side. "You really think the war made you this way? Soda I've known you since first grade, and you've been weird since the day I met you. To hell with that test. Anyone that knows you coulda told'em that Soda Curtis is balls to the wall crazy."

My eyes are wide in their sockets and I figure I'll be breaking up some fight at any minute. But so far Soda hasn't made a sound, while Steve is pretty much yelling at him.

"I mean yeah Soda, fuck the war, you're right about that. Sure it did a number on you, but it certainly doesn't get the power to change who you really are. This test just confirms what I already knew, what we all know. You ain't normal. You've never been like anyone else. And thank God for it. You're just good ole Soda. And you happen to be a little wacko. Nothing's changed, man."

I strain to hear Soda who's talking quiet, but by his inflection I can picture that sly grin my brother's always worn, and my stomach eases. "Oh I don't know 'bout that Steve. I might prefer to use the word eccentric. Mixed with a dash of mystery maybe?"

"Right, and a whole lotta shit talk."

Just like that it's over. Steve's managed to shake him out of it. And across the years their friendship has made a whole lot more sense to me.

Steve heads for home, and Soda beat the war, at least for tonight.

A/N: Thank you for reading!