We're Back Chapter 6
1 A/N: I don't know what the news was like back then, so I made it up.
P.S. This is a really stupid chapter. But I'm sick, with a cold and writer's block.
P.P.S. The word with the little *star* thing on it, is a word that probably shouldn't be used there, but I thought it was pretty so I did it anyway. Enjoy!
~
The glassy black automobile sped across town, it's ebony surface sparkling like polished glass. Uncommonly clean tires spun madly, sending the vehicle forward, and fast. Real silver trim and tinted windows added to the classy appearance of the sleek limousine.
Seated on the plush leather insides of the car, his muddy sneakers planted firmly on the carpeted floor, Two-Bit was trying very hard not to breathe. It wasn't just because he'd never rode in a limo before (hell, he'd never seen one live). It wasn't because he'd never been in a car where the driver had opened the door for him, and called him "monsieur". It wasn't even because of the two men seated on either side of him, that looked as if they had popped right out of an FBI comic, with their short dark hair, dark suits and dark glasses (so he couldn't tell that they were looking at him). No. It was because, new as this car obviously was, it had a distinct smell to it, which Two-Bit found to be horrifyingly unpleasant. He made a mental note to tell Sodapop (the kid would really get a kick outta it): rich cars stank to high heaven. Two-Bit scuffed one dirty shoe over the carpet and wished he was breathing in the rank odour of his own car (pot and sweaty socks) rather than this fake "piney fresh" crap. Truth be told, the greaser was beginning to get a little nervous. It was completely dark in the car (fault of the damnable tinted windows) save for a few dots of purple light lining the doors. And the only company he had was the silent suits beside him; Mr. Vanviera had called shotgun. The whole scene had Two-Bit totally weirded out. One of the men of stone beside him suddenly moved. Two-Bit watched in abject* fascination as he slowly moved his arm, raising his fist toward his mouth. The man coughed, once, and then the hand was moved back at a snail's pace to its former position. Utterly uninteresting. Still, it was the first movement either of them had made, and Two-Bit couldn't help watch. Then, like and instant replay, the man on the other side did the exact same thing, moving (if possible) even slower. Two-Bit stared. That just wasn't right.
He got as far as "Wait a-!" before they pounced on him. A piece of cloth was held in front of his face and a smell infinitely worse than the car's filled his nostrils. Two-Bit felt himself swoon, something he'd never done before in his life, and then, suddenly, he was unconscious.
~
It was nearly night. Ponyboy yawned, throwing his dishrag over the sink top and setting the last clean plate back in the cupboard. He glanced out the sparkling clean window as the last streaks of sunset faded into twilight. Ponyboy dropped into a chair, stifling another jaw-cracking yawn. He was too exhausted to do more than watch wearily as the stars sparkled into view. Darry could be a slave driver when he wanted to be. Pony cast one look across the kitchen, reassuring himself that there were no remaining renegade spots of grease. He heaved himself off the chair and managed to stumble into the living room where Soda was folding laundry, his eyes glued to the television. Sodapop gave Ponyboy a sympathetic grin as the younger boy dropped like a stone onto the floor beside him.
"What the hell are you watching the news for?" Ponyboy asked, peering at the screen.
Soda shrugged. "Nothing else on."
Ponyboy watched the annoying newscaster speak for several seconds before leaning over and snapping off the TV. He grabbed a couple of socks from the clothes pile and started folding.
Soda gave his brother a look. "Come on man. TV makes life bearable." He leaned over and turned it back on.
"In latest news-"
Click. "I hate the news," Ponyboy growled.
"I like it," Soda shot back, clicking on the box.
"Garfield Science-"
Click. "It's stupid."
Click. "YOU'RE stupid!"
"…miracles happening-"
Click, and then click again, a millisecond later.
"…Dallas Winston-"
"Wait!" Soda screeched, lunging for Ponyboy's outstretched hand. The brothers wrestled for a minute before Sodapop won by headlocking his brother in an iron, unshakeable, pry-my-cold-dead-fingers-off-your-body grip. Poor hapless Ponyboy had no choice but to listen to the mindless drone of the TV man.
"We have here an interview with our source of information, young Betty Little, former nurse."
The camera switched suddenly to the face of a pretty young girl with curled brown hair and a nurse hat perched jauntily on her head. She gave the camera a grin and waved.
"Now, Miss Little," said the reporter, shoving his face in front of the screen. "What can you tell us about this so-called miracle boy?"
"He's alive for sure – last I saw of him, he wanted another pillow. Then I come back and I'm fired! For no good reason, I can tell you that. I was a damn good nurse!"
"Imagine that," said the reporter, not looking interested in the least. "But was he really brought back to life?"
"Yeah, when I first saw him he was dead as a doorknob but he's breathing now and-"
"Thank you Miss Little!"
The scene faded and the first newscaster came into view. He gave the camera a toothy smile and said: "Isn't that an interesting story, folks? This is certainly new! The blond youth is bound to go down in history! In other news-"
Click. Pony had somehow escaped. (Most likely because Soda had been completely immersed in the news story.)
"Ponyboy!"
"We heard the news you wanted. It's just boring now."
Soda shook his head but didn't argue. "I can't believe they put him on TV!"
Pony cracked a grin. "Bet he'll be pissed."
~
And pissed 'he' was indeed.
Lying in bed, at 6:30 p.m., trying to sleep (there was little else to do), Eleanor had heard the first hint of noise. Then, slowly, it grew, louder and louder, the sound of a thousand annoyingly perky voices, all rushing towards her. At first she thought that Soda and Steve and Two-Bit had somehow managed to get back in. But soon it was clear that even they couldn't have made such a formidable ruckus. The noise swelled to ear- shattering levels, the sound of stampeding feet now audible. And then, suddenly, some blond, lipsticky lady poked her head in.
"He's in here!" she shrieked, and Eleanor was instantly swarmed.
People, yelling and hissing and pulling each other's hair, trying to see her. Microphones were poked into her, cameras swung at her head, and everywhere she looked, squawking nosy reporters. Voices shrieked and screamed, and dozens of questions were thrown at her from every direction.
"What's your name?"
"Where are your parents?"
"How long were you dead?"
"Do you REMEMBER anything?"
"What was your first thought when you woke up?"
"Did you see God?"
"Did you see God?"
"Did you SEE the Devil?"
Completely bewildered and very much afraid, Eleanor could do nothing more than scream at the top of her lungs:
"GET OUT OF MY ROOM YOU FREAKISH DEGENERATE SICKOS!"
Which did nothing. Except add to the din the noise of a thousand pencils scratching down her words on padded paper.
Then suddenly, (and a little late) her saviour arrived. Dressed in a white cotton skirt and white cotton shirt with a little red cross on it and a white hat (also with a little red cross on it) and white stockings and horrible white shoes, her scarlet painted mouth a tight grim line, Head Nurse Geraldine arrived on the scene.
She opened her mouth and in a voice as loud as a foghorn shouted: "VISITING HOURS ARE OVER!" And held up a shotgun.
It was very effective.
The room emptied almost as quickly as it had filled. The only person who dared defy the cross nurse was a bimbo-ish woman with a large microphone and too much hair. But one narrowed –eyed look from Nurse Geraldine and Miss Bimbo too, left in a hurry.
The nurse closed the door quickly, bolted it, and leaned her shotgun against the wood. Then she turned and gave Eleanor a steely look.
Eleanor, though grateful, was terrified (and rightly so).
But the nurse's grim expression softened slightly (very slightly) and she gave the girl what was obviously meant to be a smile.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked abruptly.
"No – no thank you ma'am," Eleanor corrected herself. She'd mind her P's and Q's with the lady around.
The nurse gave her a quick nod, and, shouldering her firearm, she dashed out into the sea of angry, mobbing reporters.
"QUIET!" she yelled once and then the door shut behind her.
Eleanor hadn't realised how tense she'd been until now. She relaxed slowly, never moving her eyes from the door. The people had gone a lot quieter. Her eyelids began to droop. Then she heard a noise, a kind of scuttling under her bed. Her eyes snapped open once more, and she picked up her baseball, ready to chuck it at any cockroach that appeared. But what was under her bed was something much more annoying and harder to get rid of than any cockroach.
The reporter stood quickly, brushing the dust bunnies off his business suit. He glanced back to the door, and then bolted it quickly. Then he gave Eleanor a terrifying smile.
"Now then, Mr. Winston, I have a few questions I'd like to ask you-"
"As do I!" called out an angry voice. A red-faced reporter heaved himself through the window. "You aren't the only resourceful one here!" he said triumphantly to the other.
"Here boy, if these two people get to ask you stuff, you can't not talk to me." A heavy, white-haired man slid quickly from his hiding place in Eleanor's most hated room: the bathroom. She wished he'd drowned in the toilet.
From outside, the noise had started again. Eleanor could hear Nurse Geraldine's rage, her fists beating against the locked door, her furious voice yelling words that made Eleanor relieved that the children's ward was on the other side of the hospital.
A few more reporters appeared; one had managed to squish herself into the pillow cupboard, and another particularly skinny lady had hidden herself behind a couple extra IVs. One would have been sufficient enough to drive Eleanor up the wall.
As the squawking and demanding began anew, Eleanor sighed in defeat, unable to even lift herself off the bed. She answered the questions in monosyllables, hoping that each new inquiry would be the last. Through the open window, the moon gleamed, bright and full, mocking her plight. Eleanor growled a curse, swearing her eternal hatred of the 6 o'clock news. She could tell it was going to be a long night.
1 A/N: I don't know what the news was like back then, so I made it up.
P.S. This is a really stupid chapter. But I'm sick, with a cold and writer's block.
P.P.S. The word with the little *star* thing on it, is a word that probably shouldn't be used there, but I thought it was pretty so I did it anyway. Enjoy!
~
The glassy black automobile sped across town, it's ebony surface sparkling like polished glass. Uncommonly clean tires spun madly, sending the vehicle forward, and fast. Real silver trim and tinted windows added to the classy appearance of the sleek limousine.
Seated on the plush leather insides of the car, his muddy sneakers planted firmly on the carpeted floor, Two-Bit was trying very hard not to breathe. It wasn't just because he'd never rode in a limo before (hell, he'd never seen one live). It wasn't because he'd never been in a car where the driver had opened the door for him, and called him "monsieur". It wasn't even because of the two men seated on either side of him, that looked as if they had popped right out of an FBI comic, with their short dark hair, dark suits and dark glasses (so he couldn't tell that they were looking at him). No. It was because, new as this car obviously was, it had a distinct smell to it, which Two-Bit found to be horrifyingly unpleasant. He made a mental note to tell Sodapop (the kid would really get a kick outta it): rich cars stank to high heaven. Two-Bit scuffed one dirty shoe over the carpet and wished he was breathing in the rank odour of his own car (pot and sweaty socks) rather than this fake "piney fresh" crap. Truth be told, the greaser was beginning to get a little nervous. It was completely dark in the car (fault of the damnable tinted windows) save for a few dots of purple light lining the doors. And the only company he had was the silent suits beside him; Mr. Vanviera had called shotgun. The whole scene had Two-Bit totally weirded out. One of the men of stone beside him suddenly moved. Two-Bit watched in abject* fascination as he slowly moved his arm, raising his fist toward his mouth. The man coughed, once, and then the hand was moved back at a snail's pace to its former position. Utterly uninteresting. Still, it was the first movement either of them had made, and Two-Bit couldn't help watch. Then, like and instant replay, the man on the other side did the exact same thing, moving (if possible) even slower. Two-Bit stared. That just wasn't right.
He got as far as "Wait a-!" before they pounced on him. A piece of cloth was held in front of his face and a smell infinitely worse than the car's filled his nostrils. Two-Bit felt himself swoon, something he'd never done before in his life, and then, suddenly, he was unconscious.
~
It was nearly night. Ponyboy yawned, throwing his dishrag over the sink top and setting the last clean plate back in the cupboard. He glanced out the sparkling clean window as the last streaks of sunset faded into twilight. Ponyboy dropped into a chair, stifling another jaw-cracking yawn. He was too exhausted to do more than watch wearily as the stars sparkled into view. Darry could be a slave driver when he wanted to be. Pony cast one look across the kitchen, reassuring himself that there were no remaining renegade spots of grease. He heaved himself off the chair and managed to stumble into the living room where Soda was folding laundry, his eyes glued to the television. Sodapop gave Ponyboy a sympathetic grin as the younger boy dropped like a stone onto the floor beside him.
"What the hell are you watching the news for?" Ponyboy asked, peering at the screen.
Soda shrugged. "Nothing else on."
Ponyboy watched the annoying newscaster speak for several seconds before leaning over and snapping off the TV. He grabbed a couple of socks from the clothes pile and started folding.
Soda gave his brother a look. "Come on man. TV makes life bearable." He leaned over and turned it back on.
"In latest news-"
Click. "I hate the news," Ponyboy growled.
"I like it," Soda shot back, clicking on the box.
"Garfield Science-"
Click. "It's stupid."
Click. "YOU'RE stupid!"
"…miracles happening-"
Click, and then click again, a millisecond later.
"…Dallas Winston-"
"Wait!" Soda screeched, lunging for Ponyboy's outstretched hand. The brothers wrestled for a minute before Sodapop won by headlocking his brother in an iron, unshakeable, pry-my-cold-dead-fingers-off-your-body grip. Poor hapless Ponyboy had no choice but to listen to the mindless drone of the TV man.
"We have here an interview with our source of information, young Betty Little, former nurse."
The camera switched suddenly to the face of a pretty young girl with curled brown hair and a nurse hat perched jauntily on her head. She gave the camera a grin and waved.
"Now, Miss Little," said the reporter, shoving his face in front of the screen. "What can you tell us about this so-called miracle boy?"
"He's alive for sure – last I saw of him, he wanted another pillow. Then I come back and I'm fired! For no good reason, I can tell you that. I was a damn good nurse!"
"Imagine that," said the reporter, not looking interested in the least. "But was he really brought back to life?"
"Yeah, when I first saw him he was dead as a doorknob but he's breathing now and-"
"Thank you Miss Little!"
The scene faded and the first newscaster came into view. He gave the camera a toothy smile and said: "Isn't that an interesting story, folks? This is certainly new! The blond youth is bound to go down in history! In other news-"
Click. Pony had somehow escaped. (Most likely because Soda had been completely immersed in the news story.)
"Ponyboy!"
"We heard the news you wanted. It's just boring now."
Soda shook his head but didn't argue. "I can't believe they put him on TV!"
Pony cracked a grin. "Bet he'll be pissed."
~
And pissed 'he' was indeed.
Lying in bed, at 6:30 p.m., trying to sleep (there was little else to do), Eleanor had heard the first hint of noise. Then, slowly, it grew, louder and louder, the sound of a thousand annoyingly perky voices, all rushing towards her. At first she thought that Soda and Steve and Two-Bit had somehow managed to get back in. But soon it was clear that even they couldn't have made such a formidable ruckus. The noise swelled to ear- shattering levels, the sound of stampeding feet now audible. And then, suddenly, some blond, lipsticky lady poked her head in.
"He's in here!" she shrieked, and Eleanor was instantly swarmed.
People, yelling and hissing and pulling each other's hair, trying to see her. Microphones were poked into her, cameras swung at her head, and everywhere she looked, squawking nosy reporters. Voices shrieked and screamed, and dozens of questions were thrown at her from every direction.
"What's your name?"
"Where are your parents?"
"How long were you dead?"
"Do you REMEMBER anything?"
"What was your first thought when you woke up?"
"Did you see God?"
"Did you see God?"
"Did you SEE the Devil?"
Completely bewildered and very much afraid, Eleanor could do nothing more than scream at the top of her lungs:
"GET OUT OF MY ROOM YOU FREAKISH DEGENERATE SICKOS!"
Which did nothing. Except add to the din the noise of a thousand pencils scratching down her words on padded paper.
Then suddenly, (and a little late) her saviour arrived. Dressed in a white cotton skirt and white cotton shirt with a little red cross on it and a white hat (also with a little red cross on it) and white stockings and horrible white shoes, her scarlet painted mouth a tight grim line, Head Nurse Geraldine arrived on the scene.
She opened her mouth and in a voice as loud as a foghorn shouted: "VISITING HOURS ARE OVER!" And held up a shotgun.
It was very effective.
The room emptied almost as quickly as it had filled. The only person who dared defy the cross nurse was a bimbo-ish woman with a large microphone and too much hair. But one narrowed –eyed look from Nurse Geraldine and Miss Bimbo too, left in a hurry.
The nurse closed the door quickly, bolted it, and leaned her shotgun against the wood. Then she turned and gave Eleanor a steely look.
Eleanor, though grateful, was terrified (and rightly so).
But the nurse's grim expression softened slightly (very slightly) and she gave the girl what was obviously meant to be a smile.
"Can I get you anything?" she asked abruptly.
"No – no thank you ma'am," Eleanor corrected herself. She'd mind her P's and Q's with the lady around.
The nurse gave her a quick nod, and, shouldering her firearm, she dashed out into the sea of angry, mobbing reporters.
"QUIET!" she yelled once and then the door shut behind her.
Eleanor hadn't realised how tense she'd been until now. She relaxed slowly, never moving her eyes from the door. The people had gone a lot quieter. Her eyelids began to droop. Then she heard a noise, a kind of scuttling under her bed. Her eyes snapped open once more, and she picked up her baseball, ready to chuck it at any cockroach that appeared. But what was under her bed was something much more annoying and harder to get rid of than any cockroach.
The reporter stood quickly, brushing the dust bunnies off his business suit. He glanced back to the door, and then bolted it quickly. Then he gave Eleanor a terrifying smile.
"Now then, Mr. Winston, I have a few questions I'd like to ask you-"
"As do I!" called out an angry voice. A red-faced reporter heaved himself through the window. "You aren't the only resourceful one here!" he said triumphantly to the other.
"Here boy, if these two people get to ask you stuff, you can't not talk to me." A heavy, white-haired man slid quickly from his hiding place in Eleanor's most hated room: the bathroom. She wished he'd drowned in the toilet.
From outside, the noise had started again. Eleanor could hear Nurse Geraldine's rage, her fists beating against the locked door, her furious voice yelling words that made Eleanor relieved that the children's ward was on the other side of the hospital.
A few more reporters appeared; one had managed to squish herself into the pillow cupboard, and another particularly skinny lady had hidden herself behind a couple extra IVs. One would have been sufficient enough to drive Eleanor up the wall.
As the squawking and demanding began anew, Eleanor sighed in defeat, unable to even lift herself off the bed. She answered the questions in monosyllables, hoping that each new inquiry would be the last. Through the open window, the moon gleamed, bright and full, mocking her plight. Eleanor growled a curse, swearing her eternal hatred of the 6 o'clock news. She could tell it was going to be a long night.