hi! so i actually originally posted this story five years ago on when i was 13 and i haven't stopped thinking about it since. it was definitely one of my favorite things ive ever written and although ive tried to come back to it hundreds of times over the last five years i haven't been able to. because of quarantine and my boredom finally taking over, i think now is finally the time to post this story again. so i hope you enjoy! this is basically my take on what happens to steve in the future and how he handles the trauma of his past. the original story is still up on my old account somewhere under a different name, but i only ever published three chapters. i really hope you like this story and leave a comment below if u did! thanks so much for reading!
xxx
Steve Randle has about three pictures of himself from when he was a child.
One where he's taking a bath in the sink, really young, only about eight months old. He's staring into the camera with curious eyes, his jaw hanging open and his hair dripping with soap and water. On the back of the photograph, the date is written in blue pen; December 18th, 1949.
There's another one where he's probably about two, staring contentedly into the camera, three fingers shoved into his open mouth. His hair is darker, longer, and clutched in his left arm is a button-eyed stuffed bear with a ribbon loosely tied around his neck. On the back of the photograph, the date is written in blue pen; October 27th, 1951.
The last one displays him and another boy, both of them wearing wide smiles and bright eyes as they look into the eye of the camera. He has his arm slung over the fair-haired boy's shoulder, both of them donning backpacks and brown-bag lunches. He's around seven, maybe a little younger at the time. On the back of the photograph, the date is written in black pen; September 3rd, 1956. Below that, a caption that reads "Sodapop and Steve's first day of second grade!" The handwriting is different from the messy scrawl that decorates the other two photographs, but almost imperceptibly so. To the untrained eye, the same person probably took all three photos and immediately dated them. But even with his memories fogged up by years of drinking and general wear and tear, he can still envision the familiar kindness behind the eyes of his best friend's late mother and how she lovingly tousled their hair before allowing her oldest son to walk them both to school that morning.
There's one more, but he burned it. He tossed it into an ashtray and put out his fifth cigarette of the night on the crisp paper, watching the embers devour the moment captured in black and white. August 16th, 1966. He was seventeen, glaring at the camera with both hands shoved into his pockets. He donned his favorite, nearly shredded, denim vest, his tattoo on his left arm completely exposed. A picturesque teenage hood, destined to be a menace to society. The boy from the first school picture stood next to him, leaning up against a pillar that supported the DX gas station. His light hair was masked by a bright blue DX hat, his smile shone in the late afternoon sun. He smiled enough for both of them.
Steve never enjoyed photographs, for obvious reasons. He only had those three, technically four, his entire life. However, the camera never left his hand after he had his first child. Same for the next kid, and the next. He's got three or four leather-bound picture albums completely filled with photographs of his three boys. Hundreds of pictures depicting them playing outside, swimming in the lake, chasing each other during a game of tackle football. Hundreds of pictures showing babies taking baths, babies sleeping, babies wrapped in pale blue hospital blankets, faces stained with tears. Hundreds of pictures with Steve, with their mother, with each other, with them as a family on Christmas morning surrounded by ribbons and half-eaten pancakes.
His favorite was a Polaroid of him with his oldest son, Daniel, swaddled in a hospital blanket. They're staring right into each other's eyes, and when he squints he can see Daniel grasping onto his index finger. He was twenty-one; he was young, impressionable, and terrified. All he had was his girlfriend, a secondhand Pontiac he had invested far too much time in, and a newborn kid he had no clue how to provide for. However, he knew that he needed to put all his doubts aside. He had a kid, and that was all that mattered. A week later, he and Alice moved to Arlington where Alice's parents lived. They found a cramped rental about a half-mile from a large stretch of desert, he begged his way into a demanding factory job at General Motors, and he learned how to install a car seat in the back of a '65 GTO. It was better than Vietnam, he knew that.
That was how he justified everything awful that ever happened to him. Mom left you at age five? Better than Vietnam. Got your girlfriend of four months pregnant? Better than Vietnam. Best friend died in Vietnam? Better than Vietnam. Even before his service halfway across the world, e was well aware that the world didn't give two shits about Steve Randle. He had taken his licks with stride since he was a kid, enduring endless disappointments and abuse from almost every adult in his life. The rage that had once consumed him as a teenager was what motivated him to be better as an adult. The very same chip on his shoulder that had landed him in his situation in the first place was the one he would eventually use to pull himself up to a better position in life. It wasn't easy, but they managed.
He appreciated everything he was given, and by the time his second kid had come along, he had a steady job and a nicer house. He had everything he never thought he would, and he was happy, Alice was happy, and the kids were happy. In every picture they ever took together, her smile shone brighter than his. But, it was alright. She smiled enough for the both of them.
xxx
Steve Randle hated teenagers.
He hated himself as a teenager. He hated his friends as teenagers. He didn't particularly enjoy his son as a teenager, either. Every parent he had ever met had warned him years before Daniel had even hit puberty that adolescence was a living, breathing nightmare. He convinced himself his kid wouldn't be the same, and if he tried to, Steve would prevent it.
He was so stupid.
"You're not taking the day off tomorrow. You signed up for a shift and I have nobody to replace you," He sighed authoritatively as he tried to get the message through to his thick-skulled sixteen-year-old son. Daniel merely rolled his eyes, which was something he did roughly thirty times a day at this point. "You're not leaving work for a date, got it?" He restated as he pulled into the gravel driveway of his one-story home. The front porch lights contrasted with the dark blue night sky dotted with stars and a half-obscured moon. One thing that he continued to love about Texas was the clear night sky, filled with the familiar smell of cigar smoke and creosote. A constant comfort that could never fade from his life, no matter how much everything changed around him.
The two strode inside, Daniel slamming the garage door hard behind him before retreating to his bedroom, slamming that door in the process too. The harsh noise didn't exactly help Steve's growing migraines and as he dropped into a seat at the worn kitchen table, he was pleased to find his youngest son, James, shoveling a forkful and macaroni and cheese into his mouth. Talking to one of his boys who wasn't a teenager always helped.
"What's his problem?" James quipped through a mouthful of pasta and Steve couldn't help but crack a smile at his youngest son's blissful ignorance. He noticed the warm bowl of food in front of the kid and shot an appreciative look towards his other son, who was perched on the kitchen counter, eating his own plate of macaroni and cheese. With the recent absence of his mother, thirteen-year-old Chance had stepped in as primary caretaker of the entire house. He cooked, cleaned, and made sure everything was in order and Steve couldn't be more grateful. He was the family's saving grace and without him, they would probably be facing a tower of dirty dishes piled up in the sink.
"Wish I knew," Steve replied with a sigh as he stood from his seat, pausing to mess up James' hair, chuckling slightly at the surly look on his youngest son's face as he immediately attempted to fix his hairstyle. He stepped into the kitchen, grabbing a spoon and a bowl before fixing himself a plate of macaroni. After the day he endured, he could certainly use the comfort food. Without even turning around from the stove he could sense his other son's lingering gaze inspecting him in the heavy silence. The kid tended to drift off or get lost inside of his own thoughts that Steve could never understand. His middle child was prone to observing and drawing his conclusions about a situation without even asking a single question. Sometimes, his introspective shrewdness absolutely shocked Steve.
"Get your ass off the counter, kid." He ordered in reference to Chance's peculiar seating choice, watching that sly grin make its way onto his son's face as he hopped off the newly cleaned kitchen counter. While Chance was certainly out-maturing both his brothers in terms of responsibility, he still tried to rebel as much as he could. Whether it was for comedic purposes or not, Steve figured it was a trait he had picked up from his older brother and dreaded the day Chance would turn into a full-fledged teenager.
"How's it taste?" The boy questioned, dropping his own bowl into the sink and rinsing it out. He pushed a hand through his mop of dark brown hair and Steve tried not to notice how every mannerism the boy exhibited was almost a carbon copy of Alice. The light dusting of freckles across his nose and eyes that none of his brothers shared, his dark eyes that could bore into your soul, and his trusting smile. The boy was looking more and more like Alice each day, and Steve was sure Chance knew it too. Whether that was a positive trait or not was still up to interpretation.
"Better than that boxed garbage," he replied with an indulgent smirk, grateful that at least one of his sons had magically inherited the talent to cook that Steve himself never possessed. "James, say thank you to your brother." He called into the dining room, both of them laughing quietly when they heard a muffled, "Thank you!" from James. Steve wolfed down a few more bites of the lukewarm meal, not realizing how the twist of hunger had pervaded his body until he began to eat. After a few minutes, he placed his empty bowl into the sink next to the other one, chuckling slightly at Chance's mock disgruntled look.
"So, now I gotta do all the freaking work around here, huh?" He snapped with fake irritability, rolling his eyes with a huff. Steve grinned as he grabbed the dish towel and slung it around his son's neck like a scarf.
"You cook, you clean, Cinderella," Steve laughed, earning one of Chance's signature smiles. He grabbed another bowl and began to fix his oldest son's plate as Chance placed the dishes in the dishwasher. "I'm bringing this to Danny, I'll clean it off, don't worry," he elaborated and his son nodded, hopping back up onto the kitchen counter. "You should get to bed, kid. It's getting late." He reminded his son who merely groaned at Steve's request.
"It's 8:30, Dad," he grumbled. "Even James is still awake." He pointed out with a sigh, gesturing towards the kitchen.
"Even I'm still awake!" James piped up, blithely unaware of the conversation topic. However, as soon as he heard even the slightest mention of his name, he considered himself officially a part of the conversation. Steve chuckled as he remembered how he and Alice would always have to whisper or lock their bedroom door when they were discussing anything about the boy.
"Okay, okay," he agreed with a resigned look. "Just make sure your brother gets to bed soon, alright?" He offered and Chance nodded, pleased with his father's decision. He was just about to leave with the bowl of food for Daniel when his son stopped him suddenly.
"Wait!" He cried, suddenly remembering a vital piece of information. "You gotta letter from this guy who called you 'Steve-o'," he explained, rummaging around in the stack of mail for the letter he was referring to. He held it out for Steve who grabbed the piece of mail immediately. He was right, it was addressed to 'Steve-o' Randle in Arlington, Texas. The return address made his throat go as dry as the hot desert air. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart nearly beating right out of his chest. He grasped the letter tightly in both hands, absolutely mesmerized by the return address. He felt as if a fifty-foot wave had crashed on top of him, drowning him in the process. Suddenly, it was increasingly harder to breathe and he wasn't the biggest fan of the abrupt change in atmosphere.
"What kinda name is 'Two-Bit' anyway?" The boy scoffed, pulling Steve from his trance and bringing him crashing back down to reality. He forced a painful laugh before shoving the letter into his back pocket, ignoring Chance's prying stare. "What? Is it bad?" He questioned and Steve shook his head instantly.
"Just a friend from when I was a kid," He elaborated succinctly and the boy nodded solemnly. Steve rarely ever discussed his childhood around his kids. All they knew was that he was born in Oklahoma, both of his parents were out of his life, and he had no siblings. There were no enticing stories about childhood adventures or charming anecdotes about his parents. Alice was the parent with the huge, extended family; the one with loads of cousins, aunts, uncles, and siblings. So, she was the parent they always turned to for the corny family tree projects at school and she was the parent whose family always hosted huge Thanksgiving dinners. Alice and the boys were the only family Steve claimed he had ever known, and that was good enough for him. "Get your brother to bed, please." He reminded his son as he ran a shaking hand through his mop of dark brown hair. His hand rested on a deep scar an inch away from his hairline and he swallowed a lump in his throat. He really didn't need these memories coming back to haunt him tonight.
"Yeah, but um, Dad?" The boy called out once more and Steve turned once more to face his son, raising an eyebrow in inquiry. "D'you think we could play night football tonight?" He questioned hopefully and Steve couldn't stifle his minuscule grin. Night football was a game Steve and Daniel had invented after Steve had taken his new job and only got home after dark. It was just a standard game of tackle football but played at night with the porch light turned on. He nodded, thanking the stars for the new distraction. Anything to get his mind off of the letter which was burning a hole in his back pocket. Pleased by his answer, Chance instantly jumped off the kitchen counter and went to search for his younger brother, eager to get his task done with new motivation.
Steve made the brisk walk from the kitchen to Daniel's room, which he shared with Chance. The room was split in two, both sides vastly different and noticeably so. Daniel's side was absolutely covered with Van Halen posters and magazine pull-outs of half-naked girls; basically, the epitome of a typical teenage boy's bedroom. Chance's side was decked out with photographs. Polaroids of him and his friends, of the family, and even of abstract inanimate objects like a streetlight or a willow tree. Steve and Alice had given Chance his first camera nearly a year ago and the boy was rarely seen without it. He was the photographer for the school newspaper and prided himself upon his position even though all he did was take quick pictures of school functions at Cypress Junior High.
Daniel sat at his desk, the room illuminated by the light from his desk lamp as he worked on what Steve hoped was a homework assignment. His Walkman sat on the desk amidst the chaotic array of papers and school supplies, his head bobbing along silently to whatever tape he was blaring. Steve crossed the threshold of the room, placing the still-warm bowl of macaroni and cheese on the boy's desk to catch his oldest son's attention.
"Hey, kid," he greeted as he took a seat on Daniel's bed, groaning as he felt some of his joints crack. He often felt about ten years older than thirty-seven, but that was due to the long days he spent under cars. If he wanted to look younger, he would have gone into a different profession. He watched as Daniel removed his headphones and turned to face his father, his best 'fuck off' face greeting Steve. It was a look he had worked on since he was three and Steve announced he was getting a little brother. "Danny, I'm sorry I snapped at you, but you need to learn responsibility. You can't just take off work to go out with a girl." He reasoned with a sigh, realizing he had to be the one to start the conversation.
"What? You want me to be more like Chance?" Daniel questioned as he cocked his eyebrow dangerously, his dark eyes glaring at Steve. His mouth was twisted into a sarcastic grimace as he spat his younger brother's name, almost as if it was poison on his tongue.
"Okay, I never said tha-" he began but was cut off by a furious Daniel.
"You did last week!" He insisted and Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from saying something he'd regret. He took a deep breath before he continued, choosing his words wisely.
"Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have compared you to your brother. I just want you to realize that being mature and keeping your word is more important than a date. Alright?" He pointed out. Reluctantly, Daniel gave a small nod, dropping his glare. He was never skilled at staying mad for long. Feeling sympathetic, Steve continued. "Look, if you put in the hours tomorrow and don't screw anything up, you can take this girl out after work, sound good?" The promise of a longer curfew instantly cheered up his teenage son and Daniel agreed almost immediately.
So it wasn't the greatest parenting technique, but it sure as hell worked.
"Thanks, Dad." Daniel smiled enthusiastically as he turned back to his homework. Steve left the room, feeling satisfied with his handling of the situation. He stole a quick look in James' bedroom, pleased to find the young boy laying in bed, fixated on his copy of 'Stuart Little', mouthing the words silently to himself. Steve pulled a slight grin before making his way back to the kitchen. Chance had finished cleaning up and left, most likely to retrieve his football. Finally, alone, Steve took his seat at the table once more, removing the now crumpled letter from his back pocket. He tore open the envelope in one swift motion, his hand hovering over the crisp white paper. If he pulled the paper out, he'd be playing with fire and expecting not to get burned. He yearned to know what was written on that paper, but he also dreaded it simultaneously. A sense of mistrust had been placed in anything that originated in Tulsa, Oklahoma, especially anything regarding Keith Matthews. He never wished to see anyone from that desolate one-horse town ever again, and here he was, actually considering reading this letter and ruining everything. It had been sixteen years since he had been back there, and some letter wasn't going to change his mind about his decision. Everything in his life had fallen into place after he left Tulsa, and he didn't need the pain and unpleasant memories that came with returning to his hometown.
Just as he was about to make his decision regarding the letter, he heard Chance's soft footsteps as he strode into the kitchen, carrying his football under his arm. Steve instantly shoved the letter back into the envelope, pushing it under one of the faded forest green placemats that sat upon the table. He silently reminded himself to retrieve it after the game of night football before one of his sons found it and started attacking him with questions.
"Ready to go, kid?" He asked, pushing back his seat and clambering to his feet, stretching as he did so. Chance nodded, opening the back door as Steve followed him outside. The dim porch light illuminated their faces in the evening. He watched as his son tossed him a spiral, catching it firmly between his hands. As they tossed the ball back and forth, his mind wandered, even though he didn't intend for it to. He wanted so desperately to seal his thoughts off from the depressing memories of his hometown; to protect his psyche from ever revisiting the first seventeen years of his life. The very thought of whatever may lie within made him feel like that scared, young teenager again. He hated that feeling. He tried his best to concentrate on the smell of the evening air invading his senses or focus primarily on the rough texture of the football against his calloused palms, but it was inescapable.
Whatever was in that letter was persistent and he could not get it out of his head. As much as he loved his life, his kids, even Alice, he needed to know what was in that letter. Otherwise, Tulsa, Oklahoma would never leave him alone.