"Be back soon, went to get supplies, J.C." It said in the dust of
the church floor. Nothing had changed. My parents were dead. That soc
was dead. Shit. Shit.
I'd dreamed it all before but stopped none of it. The afternoon light looked funny in this place. Johnny's initials are the same as Jesus Christ, and that thought had its own kind of terror. I called for him but only heard an echo, "onny onny..."
I went to get a drink from the pump and was surprised at the funny taste, splashed some water on my face. Wake up, wake up. I sat on the back steps and tried to think.
It was only a dream. A panicky dream because Johnny killed someone and we were in big trouble. That's all. Nothing to worry about. We were fine even if we had to live in this church the rest of our lives.
But I could test it with the details. In the dream I remembered that Johnny bought baloney, cigarettes, matches, peroxide to dye my hair, and I got mad again thinking about how stupid he made my hair look. He had wanted to hack our hair off with that damn switchblade of his.
Gone with the Wind. I shuddered remembering that. He bought Gone with the Wind, I'd always wanted that book. But thinking about it that didn't seem likely. Yeah, sure, I wanted that book but I'd never seen Johnny read a book. He wasn't a great reader. He stayed back in school one year and everything. He won't buy a book.
I heard him coming through the dead leaves and he whistled, the low whistle that ends in a sudden high note. It means, "Who's there?" I returned it and ran out the door and fell. Johnny peered down at me over his package.
Inside the church I held my breath while he dusted off the table with his jacket and started to unpack the supplies. If he bought that damn Gone with the Wind then I'd have to tell him...tell him everything. I prayed to whatever God was listening, "please don't let the book be there, please..."
"A week's supply of baloney, two loaves of bread, a box of matches..." I couldn't stand it. I had to see if he bought it. I dug into the bag. I felt the smooth cover of a book and felt cold. Squeezed my eyes shut and pulled it out. No, no, no. I opened my eyes. Gone with the Wind. We were fucked.
"Johnny, why'd you buy this?" My tone was angry but I wasn't angry with him. He couldn't, how could he know? He looked at me, perhaps startled at my angry tone.
"I remembered you sayin'something about it once. And me and you went to see that movie, 'member? I thought you could maybe read it out loud and help kill time or something."
Uh huh. I saw the peroxide sitting on the table but no time to address that now. And Johnny's answer was word for word what he said in my dream. Word for fucking word.
"Johnny, look," How to explain? The church is going to go up like a roman candle because of our damn cigarettes and you're gonna die, and Dally's gonna die, and who the hell knows, I could die, too. I'd heard that you can't die in your dream or you'd really die. How they know that is beyond me but that seemed to be the implication. We were all going to die soon.
He was looking at me, patiently. And I saw it again, that hospital room and how he was burned, barely moving, the weird noises of the hospital machines. How he could barely open his eyes when we came to visit him, how afraid I was to even look at him.
"Johnny, I had this dream, and it, it's coming true," That sounded stupid. He looked at me almost skeptical, not quite, though.
"I know it sounds stupid but it's true. We have to leave, we can't stay here,"
"We can't leave. Dally's coming in a few days, we can't leave,"
"Johnny, that doesn't matter, we can't be here when Dally shows up. See, I dreamt all this. I dreamt that you bought that book and that you want to cut our hair..."
"Yeah. They'll have our descriptions in the paper, we can't fit 'em."
"That doesn't matter, Johnny! Will you listen! I dreamt all of this, and it doesn't end good, we can't stay here." I couldn't tell him what happens, that he dies and Dally dies and who knows how I'll die.
"Ponyboy, I know you're scared. So am I. But we're o.k. Dally'll be here soon and it'll all be o.k., you'll see. Now we gotta cut our hair," He sat down and pulled out his knife. I didn't care about the stupid hair this time. Didn't care that he was gonna saw it off and bleach it that stupid color. What does your hair matter if you're dead?
I'd dreamed it all before but stopped none of it. The afternoon light looked funny in this place. Johnny's initials are the same as Jesus Christ, and that thought had its own kind of terror. I called for him but only heard an echo, "onny onny..."
I went to get a drink from the pump and was surprised at the funny taste, splashed some water on my face. Wake up, wake up. I sat on the back steps and tried to think.
It was only a dream. A panicky dream because Johnny killed someone and we were in big trouble. That's all. Nothing to worry about. We were fine even if we had to live in this church the rest of our lives.
But I could test it with the details. In the dream I remembered that Johnny bought baloney, cigarettes, matches, peroxide to dye my hair, and I got mad again thinking about how stupid he made my hair look. He had wanted to hack our hair off with that damn switchblade of his.
Gone with the Wind. I shuddered remembering that. He bought Gone with the Wind, I'd always wanted that book. But thinking about it that didn't seem likely. Yeah, sure, I wanted that book but I'd never seen Johnny read a book. He wasn't a great reader. He stayed back in school one year and everything. He won't buy a book.
I heard him coming through the dead leaves and he whistled, the low whistle that ends in a sudden high note. It means, "Who's there?" I returned it and ran out the door and fell. Johnny peered down at me over his package.
Inside the church I held my breath while he dusted off the table with his jacket and started to unpack the supplies. If he bought that damn Gone with the Wind then I'd have to tell him...tell him everything. I prayed to whatever God was listening, "please don't let the book be there, please..."
"A week's supply of baloney, two loaves of bread, a box of matches..." I couldn't stand it. I had to see if he bought it. I dug into the bag. I felt the smooth cover of a book and felt cold. Squeezed my eyes shut and pulled it out. No, no, no. I opened my eyes. Gone with the Wind. We were fucked.
"Johnny, why'd you buy this?" My tone was angry but I wasn't angry with him. He couldn't, how could he know? He looked at me, perhaps startled at my angry tone.
"I remembered you sayin'something about it once. And me and you went to see that movie, 'member? I thought you could maybe read it out loud and help kill time or something."
Uh huh. I saw the peroxide sitting on the table but no time to address that now. And Johnny's answer was word for word what he said in my dream. Word for fucking word.
"Johnny, look," How to explain? The church is going to go up like a roman candle because of our damn cigarettes and you're gonna die, and Dally's gonna die, and who the hell knows, I could die, too. I'd heard that you can't die in your dream or you'd really die. How they know that is beyond me but that seemed to be the implication. We were all going to die soon.
He was looking at me, patiently. And I saw it again, that hospital room and how he was burned, barely moving, the weird noises of the hospital machines. How he could barely open his eyes when we came to visit him, how afraid I was to even look at him.
"Johnny, I had this dream, and it, it's coming true," That sounded stupid. He looked at me almost skeptical, not quite, though.
"I know it sounds stupid but it's true. We have to leave, we can't stay here,"
"We can't leave. Dally's coming in a few days, we can't leave,"
"Johnny, that doesn't matter, we can't be here when Dally shows up. See, I dreamt all this. I dreamt that you bought that book and that you want to cut our hair..."
"Yeah. They'll have our descriptions in the paper, we can't fit 'em."
"That doesn't matter, Johnny! Will you listen! I dreamt all of this, and it doesn't end good, we can't stay here." I couldn't tell him what happens, that he dies and Dally dies and who knows how I'll die.
"Ponyboy, I know you're scared. So am I. But we're o.k. Dally'll be here soon and it'll all be o.k., you'll see. Now we gotta cut our hair," He sat down and pulled out his knife. I didn't care about the stupid hair this time. Didn't care that he was gonna saw it off and bleach it that stupid color. What does your hair matter if you're dead?