A/N: No doubt some of you have read, "That Was Then, This Is Now", S.E. Hinton freaks that we are. Anyway, in that book Mark and Bryon get a ride from a college hippie in a VW bus named Randy. I think this is Randy from "The Outsiders". This story is how he went from preppy soc to a society drop out hippie freak (.
Randy watched Bob out of the corner of his eye. Bob's face was contorted with anger as he punched the poor greaser over and over again.
He was a bloody mess, that kid. Young looking, 14 or so, black greasy hair, blood covering his face like a caul.
"Bob, c'mon," he said, trying to get Bob to stop before he killed the damn kid.
Bob's eyes cleared a little, some maniacal light dimming just a bit. He stopped punching the greaser, his hand covered in the kid's blood. He wasn't even conscious when he fell to the ground and lay there face down but Randy could see he was still breathing.
Randy felt that they should bring that kid to a hospital, help him up, clean him up. That kid hadn't been bothering them, in fact, they had gone hunting for an east side greaser to pound on.
They headed back to the car and Randy glanced back at the kid, he hadn't moved.
Randy realized it would be the decent thing to help that kid. It would be humane. But he didn't. He followed Bob and the guys back to the car and looked down in dismay at the blood on his nice clothes.
X X X
Another kid, another day. This one was older, or at least looked older. Sandy colored hair that might have been curly if it wasn't so heavily greased. Faded old jeans, shirt tail out, little punk.
"Damn greaser punk," Bob said after they'd caught him.
"Fuck you," the kid said, a useless hate in his eyes. Randy hadn't drank as much this day and his enjoyment of beating up greasers was starting to wane. He hung back a bit.
They held the kid's arms behind his back and he struggled and kicked, getting David a good one right in the shin. David punched him right in the stomach and Randy saw pain and panic in the kid's eyes as he struggled to get his breath back.
Bob was swearing at the kid in a blue sailor streak, punching him over and over. 'He's gonna kill him', Randy thought, and the thought was spoken like a whisper in his mind and he reached out again to temper Bob's rage.
They left the greaser lying semi conscious in a puddle of blood. It doesn't always end that way. Sometimes brothers or friends of these kids come after them with fists, stones, knives, sticks, chains. When that happens Bob swells with the pride of battle and wades in, throwing punches until he's dragged back to his Mustang.
X X X
At home they watch the little t.v. in the kitchen while they eat. The Vietnam War, shrunken to fit on the tiny screen, plays like a movie while they eat meatloaf and mashed potatoes, string beans. Little tiny dead bodies lie there in the tiny green jungle.
Randy stares at his father, willing him to not start talking about World War II and all the Germans he killed for democracy.
He was going to be a senior in high school. He knew about the draft and college. He was going to college, not some godforesaken jungle. The east side greasers and hoods were not so lucky. They couldn't afford college. When their draft number was up, it was up.
They never got a break. Sickened by the violence, this didn't yet seem unfair to Randy. It was how it was.
Randy watched Bob out of the corner of his eye. Bob's face was contorted with anger as he punched the poor greaser over and over again.
He was a bloody mess, that kid. Young looking, 14 or so, black greasy hair, blood covering his face like a caul.
"Bob, c'mon," he said, trying to get Bob to stop before he killed the damn kid.
Bob's eyes cleared a little, some maniacal light dimming just a bit. He stopped punching the greaser, his hand covered in the kid's blood. He wasn't even conscious when he fell to the ground and lay there face down but Randy could see he was still breathing.
Randy felt that they should bring that kid to a hospital, help him up, clean him up. That kid hadn't been bothering them, in fact, they had gone hunting for an east side greaser to pound on.
They headed back to the car and Randy glanced back at the kid, he hadn't moved.
Randy realized it would be the decent thing to help that kid. It would be humane. But he didn't. He followed Bob and the guys back to the car and looked down in dismay at the blood on his nice clothes.
X X X
Another kid, another day. This one was older, or at least looked older. Sandy colored hair that might have been curly if it wasn't so heavily greased. Faded old jeans, shirt tail out, little punk.
"Damn greaser punk," Bob said after they'd caught him.
"Fuck you," the kid said, a useless hate in his eyes. Randy hadn't drank as much this day and his enjoyment of beating up greasers was starting to wane. He hung back a bit.
They held the kid's arms behind his back and he struggled and kicked, getting David a good one right in the shin. David punched him right in the stomach and Randy saw pain and panic in the kid's eyes as he struggled to get his breath back.
Bob was swearing at the kid in a blue sailor streak, punching him over and over. 'He's gonna kill him', Randy thought, and the thought was spoken like a whisper in his mind and he reached out again to temper Bob's rage.
They left the greaser lying semi conscious in a puddle of blood. It doesn't always end that way. Sometimes brothers or friends of these kids come after them with fists, stones, knives, sticks, chains. When that happens Bob swells with the pride of battle and wades in, throwing punches until he's dragged back to his Mustang.
X X X
At home they watch the little t.v. in the kitchen while they eat. The Vietnam War, shrunken to fit on the tiny screen, plays like a movie while they eat meatloaf and mashed potatoes, string beans. Little tiny dead bodies lie there in the tiny green jungle.
Randy stares at his father, willing him to not start talking about World War II and all the Germans he killed for democracy.
He was going to be a senior in high school. He knew about the draft and college. He was going to college, not some godforesaken jungle. The east side greasers and hoods were not so lucky. They couldn't afford college. When their draft number was up, it was up.
They never got a break. Sickened by the violence, this didn't yet seem unfair to Randy. It was how it was.