He stands up. He briskly walks past Enoch.
Enoch stares and then shakily picks himself up. He takes his grubby hands and smears them on his already dirty shirt. Then he begins to follow Steve. Not too close, at least 10 paces behind. Enoch walks hurriedly, taking small steps, and pretending to glance causally at the scenery as if he is taking a lousy little walk. Steve knows this. He walks faster- it hurts his ribs. Enoch walks faster. He slows down to ease his ribs. Enoch slows down.
Enoch is evil and stupid. Enoch is the next Hitler. Enoch latched on to Steve's pain and tried to beat it. He is a tricky little leech. Steve decides one day he will push Enoch off a cliff and save millions.
"Stop following me damnit." Steve calls behind his shoulder.
"What your favorite baseball team? I like the-"
"Shut up and go away."
" -the Yankees." Enoch finishes - he has been told many things- when at first you don't succeed, try, and try again.
He had been told so many things, he could not remember them. He was slower; clumsier- he is an inferior being, a crying shame, a clod who lives in a world of losers and open coffin funerals and crying of alley cats.
Enoch has been told he has no future.
He looks behind himself to make sure he has a past.
Steve walks quicker.
Enoch runs, he catches up and is right beside Steve. He is stubborn and persistent. He will make someone like him, respect him. He is not a kid- he is not like a kid, so he must be a man. He is a man. Men become friends with other men.
He jogs to keep up with Steve.
"Hey, are ya hungry? I am. Wanna come to my house? My mamma makes the best ham sandwiches."
Johnny's mother made any ham sandwiches. Johnny's mother had never made anything good besides Johnny.
"Goodbye." Steve grits.
"I goin' this way too." Enoch says sullenly.
"Get the hell out of here." Steve walks faster.
"My mamma made me come here." Enoch says darkly, his eyes are sinister, his pale face is filling with color, his teeth is gritting. It is not his fault. It never his fault.
In this second, millions upon millions were working and wasting their lives, to get money and to get things that Johnny would never have and Johnny couldn't care less because Johnny was dead.
Dallas had never cared in the first place.
He vomited before the fuzz. Oh why couldn't they had left for a moment and let him vomit with dignity? Or why- could he of raised his head a little and spewed at them?
Goddamn Two-Bit, whining about his impressive switchblades, holding that greasy warm beer bottle as if he was holding a greasy warm woman, smoke entailing out of his nostrils.
" "I don't care about your mamma." Steve stops; he turns around and slams his hand onto Enoch shoulder hard. Enoch's small body wavers and wobbles. Steve will keep him still, because he is bigger and better.
"Go away or I'll shove this cigarette-" Steve takes the cigarette out of his mouth for the full effect- he blows a stream of hot smoke in Enoch's face. Enoch does not move. Threatening Enoch Mex is almost pleasurable."up your goddamned nose."
"It was so damned hard to get the damned thing- I spent hours walkin around – that store man wasn't a no regular schmuck. He eyed me like a godawful hawk- followed me around the store-" Two Bit's voice was low and toneless, his thumb rubbing the glass of the bottle gently making large smears on the surface.
It was Two Bit's fault for giving it to Dallas. It is your fault if something is wrong- if something pains you. As for him, he blames his father, he blames religion, and he blames those tight lipped waitresses who call him a "sonuvbitch" under their sour breath when he jokingly flirt with them.
Enoch looks at Steve hand. It is warm. It is comforting. He is the first human being in Tulsa to volunteering touch him. And Steve does not like him. Nobody likes him. Tears fill his eyes.
" I'm Enoch. Not kid. My mamma made me come here an' Daddy's dead an
the boys don't talk to me at school and when they do- them eyes are full of hate. I'm not a kid, I'm not a- " Enoch shouts, his lips flapping, his mouth wide and gapping. The tears in his eyes increase. He is not a kid. Believe him! Noone else will.
"Listen kid- I don't give a shit. Not about your daddy. Not about your mamma. Not about the boys at school." Steve voice is banal and isolated. His voice cracks. Oh, this is very wrong.
Enoch has tears in his eyes; his face is contorted and pale.
It is wrong.
Steve asks himself: WWJD?
What would Johnny do?
Steve takes his hand off Enoch's shoulder. Steve digs in his pockets.
"You like candy right? How bout I give you some candy and you got away? " Steve's suddenly feels generous and righteous - his voice is low and soft.
He pulls out a sticky half-melted toffee from his pocket- a present from Soda.
"Here ya go. Here's your candy." Steve sighs as he quickly and grudgingly pries Enoch's wiry hand open and puts it in his sweaty grubby plump little palm.
Enoch stares at the melted piece of candy lying pathetically in his palm. The candy scalds him, it mocks him. It calls him what the boys call him at school- not only that, it sticks to his palm. It makes his cheeks flush with humiliation, and his swollen eyes burn. Men do not give each other candy.
Enoch bites his lip, he hopes it mortally wounds him and he will taste his own bitter blood. He feels his soles vibrate and quiver from the noise. It is loud graceful supersonic noise that echoes in every beat of bitter blood that flows through his ears. He will not listen with his feet anymore. He will make them deaf.
He heard the story of the girl with shoes that danced, and when she put them on she danced all day and she couldn't stop. She could not take the shoes off. She had to cut her feet off.
He does not want to cut his feet off.
Like ice thrown down his neck, a sinister and menacing block seeped down his neck- down his spine leaving a slimly trail behind it. Enoch is no longer desperate to be touched, to be liked, to be wanted. He is desperate to hurt, to hate, and destroy. He is a man and men destroy each other.
Steve grows impatient. The kid was not grateful. The little bastard should be grateful-it is from Soda. Soda is a goddamn tiger.
"Would ya like a quarter tank or a full tank? ROAR!" Soda snarls.
"You're very goddamn welcome" The stranger sneers.
Enoch smiles, his smile is crooked and twisted, and his scrawny arms by his side, he is standing up straight.
Steve stares- he feels his fingertips become numb and his face tingles. Enoch is feeding on him and tearing his muscles from his bones and ripping them to strongly shreds.
"You think you're better than me don't ya?" Enoch smiles as he wipes his nose and wipes his eyes clumsily.
Steve is better then you. Steve does not have to prove anything to you Enoch Mex. He will not sit while you eat him alive, and crack apart his already cracked ribs. Steve turns around.
"You think you're better then me. But you're not. I can hear the worms and they're waiting for ya, y'hear me?! I can hear em, and you can't! I'm better then you!"
And Stranger Steve walks away. He will out walk those worms
Enoch stares and then shakily picks himself up. He takes his grubby hands and smears them on his already dirty shirt. Then he begins to follow Steve. Not too close, at least 10 paces behind. Enoch walks hurriedly, taking small steps, and pretending to glance causally at the scenery as if he is taking a lousy little walk. Steve knows this. He walks faster- it hurts his ribs. Enoch walks faster. He slows down to ease his ribs. Enoch slows down.
Enoch is evil and stupid. Enoch is the next Hitler. Enoch latched on to Steve's pain and tried to beat it. He is a tricky little leech. Steve decides one day he will push Enoch off a cliff and save millions.
"Stop following me damnit." Steve calls behind his shoulder.
"What your favorite baseball team? I like the-"
"Shut up and go away."
" -the Yankees." Enoch finishes - he has been told many things- when at first you don't succeed, try, and try again.
He had been told so many things, he could not remember them. He was slower; clumsier- he is an inferior being, a crying shame, a clod who lives in a world of losers and open coffin funerals and crying of alley cats.
Enoch has been told he has no future.
He looks behind himself to make sure he has a past.
Steve walks quicker.
Enoch runs, he catches up and is right beside Steve. He is stubborn and persistent. He will make someone like him, respect him. He is not a kid- he is not like a kid, so he must be a man. He is a man. Men become friends with other men.
He jogs to keep up with Steve.
"Hey, are ya hungry? I am. Wanna come to my house? My mamma makes the best ham sandwiches."
Johnny's mother made any ham sandwiches. Johnny's mother had never made anything good besides Johnny.
"Goodbye." Steve grits.
"I goin' this way too." Enoch says sullenly.
"Get the hell out of here." Steve walks faster.
"My mamma made me come here." Enoch says darkly, his eyes are sinister, his pale face is filling with color, his teeth is gritting. It is not his fault. It never his fault.
In this second, millions upon millions were working and wasting their lives, to get money and to get things that Johnny would never have and Johnny couldn't care less because Johnny was dead.
Dallas had never cared in the first place.
He vomited before the fuzz. Oh why couldn't they had left for a moment and let him vomit with dignity? Or why- could he of raised his head a little and spewed at them?
Goddamn Two-Bit, whining about his impressive switchblades, holding that greasy warm beer bottle as if he was holding a greasy warm woman, smoke entailing out of his nostrils.
" "I don't care about your mamma." Steve stops; he turns around and slams his hand onto Enoch shoulder hard. Enoch's small body wavers and wobbles. Steve will keep him still, because he is bigger and better.
"Go away or I'll shove this cigarette-" Steve takes the cigarette out of his mouth for the full effect- he blows a stream of hot smoke in Enoch's face. Enoch does not move. Threatening Enoch Mex is almost pleasurable."up your goddamned nose."
"It was so damned hard to get the damned thing- I spent hours walkin around – that store man wasn't a no regular schmuck. He eyed me like a godawful hawk- followed me around the store-" Two Bit's voice was low and toneless, his thumb rubbing the glass of the bottle gently making large smears on the surface.
It was Two Bit's fault for giving it to Dallas. It is your fault if something is wrong- if something pains you. As for him, he blames his father, he blames religion, and he blames those tight lipped waitresses who call him a "sonuvbitch" under their sour breath when he jokingly flirt with them.
Enoch looks at Steve hand. It is warm. It is comforting. He is the first human being in Tulsa to volunteering touch him. And Steve does not like him. Nobody likes him. Tears fill his eyes.
" I'm Enoch. Not kid. My mamma made me come here an' Daddy's dead an
the boys don't talk to me at school and when they do- them eyes are full of hate. I'm not a kid, I'm not a- " Enoch shouts, his lips flapping, his mouth wide and gapping. The tears in his eyes increase. He is not a kid. Believe him! Noone else will.
"Listen kid- I don't give a shit. Not about your daddy. Not about your mamma. Not about the boys at school." Steve voice is banal and isolated. His voice cracks. Oh, this is very wrong.
Enoch has tears in his eyes; his face is contorted and pale.
It is wrong.
Steve asks himself: WWJD?
What would Johnny do?
Steve takes his hand off Enoch's shoulder. Steve digs in his pockets.
"You like candy right? How bout I give you some candy and you got away? " Steve's suddenly feels generous and righteous - his voice is low and soft.
He pulls out a sticky half-melted toffee from his pocket- a present from Soda.
"Here ya go. Here's your candy." Steve sighs as he quickly and grudgingly pries Enoch's wiry hand open and puts it in his sweaty grubby plump little palm.
Enoch stares at the melted piece of candy lying pathetically in his palm. The candy scalds him, it mocks him. It calls him what the boys call him at school- not only that, it sticks to his palm. It makes his cheeks flush with humiliation, and his swollen eyes burn. Men do not give each other candy.
Enoch bites his lip, he hopes it mortally wounds him and he will taste his own bitter blood. He feels his soles vibrate and quiver from the noise. It is loud graceful supersonic noise that echoes in every beat of bitter blood that flows through his ears. He will not listen with his feet anymore. He will make them deaf.
He heard the story of the girl with shoes that danced, and when she put them on she danced all day and she couldn't stop. She could not take the shoes off. She had to cut her feet off.
He does not want to cut his feet off.
Like ice thrown down his neck, a sinister and menacing block seeped down his neck- down his spine leaving a slimly trail behind it. Enoch is no longer desperate to be touched, to be liked, to be wanted. He is desperate to hurt, to hate, and destroy. He is a man and men destroy each other.
Steve grows impatient. The kid was not grateful. The little bastard should be grateful-it is from Soda. Soda is a goddamn tiger.
"Would ya like a quarter tank or a full tank? ROAR!" Soda snarls.
"You're very goddamn welcome" The stranger sneers.
Enoch smiles, his smile is crooked and twisted, and his scrawny arms by his side, he is standing up straight.
Steve stares- he feels his fingertips become numb and his face tingles. Enoch is feeding on him and tearing his muscles from his bones and ripping them to strongly shreds.
"You think you're better than me don't ya?" Enoch smiles as he wipes his nose and wipes his eyes clumsily.
Steve is better then you. Steve does not have to prove anything to you Enoch Mex. He will not sit while you eat him alive, and crack apart his already cracked ribs. Steve turns around.
"You think you're better then me. But you're not. I can hear the worms and they're waiting for ya, y'hear me?! I can hear em, and you can't! I'm better then you!"
And Stranger Steve walks away. He will out walk those worms