1 Slashed Tires Chapter 30
A/N: Hello writer's block. Yes, it is back. If there is any person who is FOR writer's block, BEWARE my psycho friend, you may be trampled in the near future by hordes of screaming, frustrated writers.
P.S. I just read the horoscopes in Cosmo. Please forgive the ominous warning in my A/N. Many thanks.
P.P.S. The starting scene is sorta filler and sorta slow. I don't know where it came from, but it's here. If it had a title, it would be called "shit". For more than one reason.
P.P.P.S. I have nothing against the Beatles really.
P.P.P.P.S. This is crazy. I need to talk less. Is anyone reading this? But warning, there are some drugs in this chapter, but I don't know how normal people react when they're high. And there is swearing, as it is my habit.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I think I stole the last line from something. Apologies. And also, this is sappy. Again, apologies.
~
"Shit." Soda said loudly, and Steve looked up from his coffee.
"What," he asked monotonously. He'd known the instant that Soda had picked up the paper that he'd go off the wall.
"Shit. How could they do that? How could they think of doing that? It wasn't Darry's fault that Johnny and Pony got into trouble." And then, "SHIT!" again, remembering the reason why Ponyboy had left the house in the first place. Maybe it was Darry's fault. Soda slumped down in the metal chair, his head in his hands. Soft tinkling music was playing from the radio. Canned music. Beatles. "Shit." Soda said again. His brain hurt. "They can't take us away. Goddamn authorities. Shit."
Steve tossed his empty "milk" carton into the garbage can. He slurped at his coffee, then spit it out, gagging. The DX coffee was the only thing he had against his job. He'd never tasted the garage oil, but he'd swear on his life that half the dark drink was made of the smelly liquid. He tossed his cracked mug into the sink and lumbered over to where Sodapop sat, dropping down in an identical greasy chair.
"Mellow out man." Steve lit a cigarette, trying to get the taste of tar out of his mouth. "Darry's smart. Ponyboy will be fine. Hell, it's just the damn paper, you know they have to make a big deal about everything. It's their business to fool around with other peoples business, and freak out innocent by-standerers like yo-self." Steve took a drag off his smoke and pointed the thing at Soda like a weapon. "So I says: Mellow out man."
"I wouldn't say I'm a bystander Steve," Soda replied dryly. "It's only MY LITTLE BROTHER who's being brought to court. Shit. Man, you are stoned."
Steve rubbed his reddened eyes with the back of his hand. "Sody. I ain't stoned. I'm tired. And I'm sick of all this stuff happening. We gotta end this thing Sody. If it weren't for those goddamn Socies we'd be cool. Johnny and Pony would'a never got in trouble. I'm fucking sick of this!" He yelled suddenly, slamming his fist down on the blue metal table. "We gotta stomp them Socies good Sodypop. We gotta wipe the floor with them's insides." He took a last puff off his weed and let it drop, grinding the ground a couple of inches from it with his heal. Soda looked at him wearily.
"If you smoked up a dime, I'll beat your head in."
"Naw. Only half." Steve lifted himself off the rickety chair and spat.
"You sicken me." Soda stood, and, moving at twice his friend's speed, he walked forward. "Give it here."
Without a word, Steve deposited the remaining marijuana in his best friend's open palm.
"Shit." Soda shook his head, giving the baggy back to Steve. "You better have paper."
Steve yawned and ripped up a DX flyer. "You got a light?" he asked, handing the pot back to Soda.
"Mmmm." Soda replied, flicking his lighter. Then, "Ohh yeah," as he inhaled the smoke. It was stronger than he'd thought, and he soon found himself in the same stated as Steve. His mind went blank, the lights dancing before his eyes; the yell that signified the end of the coffee break was only a heavenly break from the radioed Beatles. All intelligent thought drained from his mind, leaving only a string of "shit, shit, shit, shit" in its absence.
"Mmmahhh." Soda stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. "Stevie, you gotta disgust me more often." Steve drooled in answer.
"Yurgh."
~
'Don't look up. Don't look up.' Icy blues fixed on his tennis shoes, Dallas made his way through the maze of white corridors. He'd noticed, within the first five seconds of his escape, that his shoes were also white. He made a mental note to stain them with something. Maybe Steve could drench them in oil.
His straining ears were soon rewarded. He heard the nurse coming. 'Don't look up,' he reminded himself fiercely, the shh-click of high heels beating on his brain like a jackhammer. Heart pounding, he reached inside his pocket, fingering the smooth blade he'd taken from Two-Bit. But the nurse shh-clicked her way past, with hardly a glanced at the blond. Dally let the breath whoosh out of him. He'd copied Pony's silence, and somehow, he'd managed the saddened, pitiful look Johnny wore on occasion. Dallas smiled. He'd have been an actor if he hadn't turned out to be the jackass bastard he knew he was.
He slid down the hall, slowly, silently, slippery as the grease he refused to put in his hair. Intensive care smelled like antiseptic and piss. The elevator music was drowned out by the whirring of electric machinery: life support. Dally suppressed a shudder and sped up his pace. He was willing to chance getting spotted if it meant a few less seconds spent in the hall of the dead. Dally peered in the different rooms, but recognised no one. He continued, further and further into the hellhole, worrying that he'd somehow missed the right room, always wishing he could turn and hurry out. Then, almost at the end of the corridor, his perseverance was rewarded.
"Johnnycake?" he called softly, sliding into the room. The boy's pale eyes opened, the black orbs as glassy as the enamelled walls.
"Dallas?"
"Yeah, kid." Dally cast his eyes over the room, searching out any hidden nurse. Finding no one, he hurried to Johnny's side.
"I asked to see you." Johnny was struggling to sit up, a sheen of sweat coating his face. "The nurses said you didn't want to see me."
Dallas felt a pang again in his chest. "No, no," he said quickly. "I wanted to. They wouldn't let me see you."
Johnny's eyes closed, and he lay back, giving up on moving. "Oh."
"How ya doing kid?" Dally whispered, pushing Johnny's hair out of his eyes.
Johnny swallowed. "Not so good. I'm not so good Dally. Dallas…I think I'm going to…I'm dying Dally." He opened his eyes, sad eyes, sixteen-year-old eyes that hadn't seen enough of the world.
"No!" His voice was too loud, too high. "You aren't dying Johnny! You're just hurt. Don't worry kid," Dally's voice was breathy, as if he'd just run a mile. But at least it was quiet now. "We're gonna get those Socs back! We're gonna beat 'em Johnny…I promise we're gonna get even." He reached forward, brushing the boy's hair again.
"Dallas-"
"No, kid. You gotta rest. You gotta get better. I'll be back. I promise." Dally backed out slowly, not really wanting to leave yet. "Johnny. Hold on kid."
"Bring Ponyboy." Johnny's voice was calm, steady; his black eyes gazed at Dallas. "I need to talk to him. Be careful Dally."
"Yeah. Yeah…" Dallas turned, hurrying from the dark room, down the hall that reeked of death. He raced down the stairs, his heart beating in his ears. Through the lobby and out into the cold night, feet slipping on the tiled floor, he ran. The wind raised to a howl and he stopped, his breath coming in gasps and he leaned against the side of the hospital in the dark, biting his lip and praying that he wouldn't cry.
A/N: Hello writer's block. Yes, it is back. If there is any person who is FOR writer's block, BEWARE my psycho friend, you may be trampled in the near future by hordes of screaming, frustrated writers.
P.S. I just read the horoscopes in Cosmo. Please forgive the ominous warning in my A/N. Many thanks.
P.P.S. The starting scene is sorta filler and sorta slow. I don't know where it came from, but it's here. If it had a title, it would be called "shit". For more than one reason.
P.P.P.S. I have nothing against the Beatles really.
P.P.P.P.S. This is crazy. I need to talk less. Is anyone reading this? But warning, there are some drugs in this chapter, but I don't know how normal people react when they're high. And there is swearing, as it is my habit.
P.P.P.P.P.S. I think I stole the last line from something. Apologies. And also, this is sappy. Again, apologies.
~
"Shit." Soda said loudly, and Steve looked up from his coffee.
"What," he asked monotonously. He'd known the instant that Soda had picked up the paper that he'd go off the wall.
"Shit. How could they do that? How could they think of doing that? It wasn't Darry's fault that Johnny and Pony got into trouble." And then, "SHIT!" again, remembering the reason why Ponyboy had left the house in the first place. Maybe it was Darry's fault. Soda slumped down in the metal chair, his head in his hands. Soft tinkling music was playing from the radio. Canned music. Beatles. "Shit." Soda said again. His brain hurt. "They can't take us away. Goddamn authorities. Shit."
Steve tossed his empty "milk" carton into the garbage can. He slurped at his coffee, then spit it out, gagging. The DX coffee was the only thing he had against his job. He'd never tasted the garage oil, but he'd swear on his life that half the dark drink was made of the smelly liquid. He tossed his cracked mug into the sink and lumbered over to where Sodapop sat, dropping down in an identical greasy chair.
"Mellow out man." Steve lit a cigarette, trying to get the taste of tar out of his mouth. "Darry's smart. Ponyboy will be fine. Hell, it's just the damn paper, you know they have to make a big deal about everything. It's their business to fool around with other peoples business, and freak out innocent by-standerers like yo-self." Steve took a drag off his smoke and pointed the thing at Soda like a weapon. "So I says: Mellow out man."
"I wouldn't say I'm a bystander Steve," Soda replied dryly. "It's only MY LITTLE BROTHER who's being brought to court. Shit. Man, you are stoned."
Steve rubbed his reddened eyes with the back of his hand. "Sody. I ain't stoned. I'm tired. And I'm sick of all this stuff happening. We gotta end this thing Sody. If it weren't for those goddamn Socies we'd be cool. Johnny and Pony would'a never got in trouble. I'm fucking sick of this!" He yelled suddenly, slamming his fist down on the blue metal table. "We gotta stomp them Socies good Sodypop. We gotta wipe the floor with them's insides." He took a last puff off his weed and let it drop, grinding the ground a couple of inches from it with his heal. Soda looked at him wearily.
"If you smoked up a dime, I'll beat your head in."
"Naw. Only half." Steve lifted himself off the rickety chair and spat.
"You sicken me." Soda stood, and, moving at twice his friend's speed, he walked forward. "Give it here."
Without a word, Steve deposited the remaining marijuana in his best friend's open palm.
"Shit." Soda shook his head, giving the baggy back to Steve. "You better have paper."
Steve yawned and ripped up a DX flyer. "You got a light?" he asked, handing the pot back to Soda.
"Mmmm." Soda replied, flicking his lighter. Then, "Ohh yeah," as he inhaled the smoke. It was stronger than he'd thought, and he soon found himself in the same stated as Steve. His mind went blank, the lights dancing before his eyes; the yell that signified the end of the coffee break was only a heavenly break from the radioed Beatles. All intelligent thought drained from his mind, leaving only a string of "shit, shit, shit, shit" in its absence.
"Mmmahhh." Soda stared unblinkingly at the ceiling. "Stevie, you gotta disgust me more often." Steve drooled in answer.
"Yurgh."
~
'Don't look up. Don't look up.' Icy blues fixed on his tennis shoes, Dallas made his way through the maze of white corridors. He'd noticed, within the first five seconds of his escape, that his shoes were also white. He made a mental note to stain them with something. Maybe Steve could drench them in oil.
His straining ears were soon rewarded. He heard the nurse coming. 'Don't look up,' he reminded himself fiercely, the shh-click of high heels beating on his brain like a jackhammer. Heart pounding, he reached inside his pocket, fingering the smooth blade he'd taken from Two-Bit. But the nurse shh-clicked her way past, with hardly a glanced at the blond. Dally let the breath whoosh out of him. He'd copied Pony's silence, and somehow, he'd managed the saddened, pitiful look Johnny wore on occasion. Dallas smiled. He'd have been an actor if he hadn't turned out to be the jackass bastard he knew he was.
He slid down the hall, slowly, silently, slippery as the grease he refused to put in his hair. Intensive care smelled like antiseptic and piss. The elevator music was drowned out by the whirring of electric machinery: life support. Dally suppressed a shudder and sped up his pace. He was willing to chance getting spotted if it meant a few less seconds spent in the hall of the dead. Dally peered in the different rooms, but recognised no one. He continued, further and further into the hellhole, worrying that he'd somehow missed the right room, always wishing he could turn and hurry out. Then, almost at the end of the corridor, his perseverance was rewarded.
"Johnnycake?" he called softly, sliding into the room. The boy's pale eyes opened, the black orbs as glassy as the enamelled walls.
"Dallas?"
"Yeah, kid." Dally cast his eyes over the room, searching out any hidden nurse. Finding no one, he hurried to Johnny's side.
"I asked to see you." Johnny was struggling to sit up, a sheen of sweat coating his face. "The nurses said you didn't want to see me."
Dallas felt a pang again in his chest. "No, no," he said quickly. "I wanted to. They wouldn't let me see you."
Johnny's eyes closed, and he lay back, giving up on moving. "Oh."
"How ya doing kid?" Dally whispered, pushing Johnny's hair out of his eyes.
Johnny swallowed. "Not so good. I'm not so good Dally. Dallas…I think I'm going to…I'm dying Dally." He opened his eyes, sad eyes, sixteen-year-old eyes that hadn't seen enough of the world.
"No!" His voice was too loud, too high. "You aren't dying Johnny! You're just hurt. Don't worry kid," Dally's voice was breathy, as if he'd just run a mile. But at least it was quiet now. "We're gonna get those Socs back! We're gonna beat 'em Johnny…I promise we're gonna get even." He reached forward, brushing the boy's hair again.
"Dallas-"
"No, kid. You gotta rest. You gotta get better. I'll be back. I promise." Dally backed out slowly, not really wanting to leave yet. "Johnny. Hold on kid."
"Bring Ponyboy." Johnny's voice was calm, steady; his black eyes gazed at Dallas. "I need to talk to him. Be careful Dally."
"Yeah. Yeah…" Dallas turned, hurrying from the dark room, down the hall that reeked of death. He raced down the stairs, his heart beating in his ears. Through the lobby and out into the cold night, feet slipping on the tiled floor, he ran. The wind raised to a howl and he stopped, his breath coming in gasps and he leaned against the side of the hospital in the dark, biting his lip and praying that he wouldn't cry.