It's Getting Late
I leaned against the car, the metal cool in the fading light, fading heat. I was extremely conscious of being out of my comfort zone.
I went to school here in Oklahoma, college, but I never adjusted. The accents, for one thing. Sort of twists the words, drawls them out. In Boston the speech is faster, almost pressured.
And this, these kids, their dirty lives of poverty and crime. Sure, Boston has it too but it wasn't my life. I got in exactly one fight before I left Boston for Oklahoma. These kids here, they fight all the time, what did they call it? Rumbles?
I shook my head and went toward the church. Their sanctuary. I'd had enough of this for awhile. I wasn't up for more.
The sun set in front of the church so behind it the color simply drained from the sky.
I glanced warily at Dallas, not so sure he wouldn't hit me yet. He was sitting on the back steps and the anger was gone. A sort of terrible patience had taken its place.
The boys were playing cards, poker, a little pile of cigarettes between them. They were both trying to have poker faces but failing, smiling or scowling at their new cards.
"It's getting late," I said, the words making me feel absurdly like their father. I'd heard my father say that enough. Dallas didn't look at me, didn't even move. Ponyboy looked worried, the easy distraction of the poker game falling away, the cards forgotten in his hand. Johnny looked at me, too, but calm, almost serene.
"It's getting late. It's up to you. We can go back now or I can come and get you in the morning,"
Dallas turned away. Ponyboy's eyes got wide and the cards fell from his grasp.
"Now," Johnny said, his voice quiet but firm, "let's go back now,"
Stream of Consciousness
It was dark. A complete darkness unbroken by streetlights or house lights or stores. A couple of times I almost lost the road, I felt like I was driving in some lightless, airless void.
Johnny's calm was cracking. He was in the front with me and I glanced at him from time to time. His breathing was slow and shallow and he had his eyes closed.
"Hey kid, don't worry so much. They aren't going to torture you," I said lightly.
They didn't trust the cops, I knew that. I was sure I didn't help by drilling it into them not to say anything. But that was important. I didn't want these Barney Fifes getting any sort of confession.
The miles sped by and houses began to dot the landscape, and we passed pastures of cows and horses.
The loaded gun they had at the church was now in the glove compartment. Dallas had wanted to leave it at the church.
"No, Dal," Johnny had said, "some little kid might find it,"
I wish I had unloaded it. Johnny kept fiddling with the little handle on the glove compartment.
"Quit it," I snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh. Johnny flinched and quit playing with the handle.
I couldn't help thinking about things. Like a stream of consciousness going out the window with the boys' cigarette smoke. They smoked like it was going to be outlawed tomorrow. Nerves. I understood.
I thought about the cops in Boston. Irish, by and large. On the Foley side of the old Williams family tree I had a cousin or two who wore the blue uniform. There were a few bad ones, as in everything, but for the most part the Boston cops drank hard, tried to keep your kids safe, and came when you called them.
Ponyboy and Dallas didn't like cops, that was clear. But Johnny feared them. I figured it had to do with authority. Who's the ultimate authority figure for a kid? The father. And Johnny feared his father. That fear must have bled to everything and everyone that hinted of authority.
I thought of what Dallas had said, that I didn't understand. But he didn't understand the ideal of justice that underlies the courts. It's not ideal, of course, nothing run by men is, or could be. But I thought Dallas didn't know that concept, that he didn't realize the system works toward the ideal despite sometimes going against it. Therin the hope lies.
I'd seen his face, his old 17 year old face with the flat eyes. He didn't have that hope.
I leaned against the car, the metal cool in the fading light, fading heat. I was extremely conscious of being out of my comfort zone.
I went to school here in Oklahoma, college, but I never adjusted. The accents, for one thing. Sort of twists the words, drawls them out. In Boston the speech is faster, almost pressured.
And this, these kids, their dirty lives of poverty and crime. Sure, Boston has it too but it wasn't my life. I got in exactly one fight before I left Boston for Oklahoma. These kids here, they fight all the time, what did they call it? Rumbles?
I shook my head and went toward the church. Their sanctuary. I'd had enough of this for awhile. I wasn't up for more.
The sun set in front of the church so behind it the color simply drained from the sky.
I glanced warily at Dallas, not so sure he wouldn't hit me yet. He was sitting on the back steps and the anger was gone. A sort of terrible patience had taken its place.
The boys were playing cards, poker, a little pile of cigarettes between them. They were both trying to have poker faces but failing, smiling or scowling at their new cards.
"It's getting late," I said, the words making me feel absurdly like their father. I'd heard my father say that enough. Dallas didn't look at me, didn't even move. Ponyboy looked worried, the easy distraction of the poker game falling away, the cards forgotten in his hand. Johnny looked at me, too, but calm, almost serene.
"It's getting late. It's up to you. We can go back now or I can come and get you in the morning,"
Dallas turned away. Ponyboy's eyes got wide and the cards fell from his grasp.
"Now," Johnny said, his voice quiet but firm, "let's go back now,"
Stream of Consciousness
It was dark. A complete darkness unbroken by streetlights or house lights or stores. A couple of times I almost lost the road, I felt like I was driving in some lightless, airless void.
Johnny's calm was cracking. He was in the front with me and I glanced at him from time to time. His breathing was slow and shallow and he had his eyes closed.
"Hey kid, don't worry so much. They aren't going to torture you," I said lightly.
They didn't trust the cops, I knew that. I was sure I didn't help by drilling it into them not to say anything. But that was important. I didn't want these Barney Fifes getting any sort of confession.
The miles sped by and houses began to dot the landscape, and we passed pastures of cows and horses.
The loaded gun they had at the church was now in the glove compartment. Dallas had wanted to leave it at the church.
"No, Dal," Johnny had said, "some little kid might find it,"
I wish I had unloaded it. Johnny kept fiddling with the little handle on the glove compartment.
"Quit it," I snapped, not meaning to sound so harsh. Johnny flinched and quit playing with the handle.
I couldn't help thinking about things. Like a stream of consciousness going out the window with the boys' cigarette smoke. They smoked like it was going to be outlawed tomorrow. Nerves. I understood.
I thought about the cops in Boston. Irish, by and large. On the Foley side of the old Williams family tree I had a cousin or two who wore the blue uniform. There were a few bad ones, as in everything, but for the most part the Boston cops drank hard, tried to keep your kids safe, and came when you called them.
Ponyboy and Dallas didn't like cops, that was clear. But Johnny feared them. I figured it had to do with authority. Who's the ultimate authority figure for a kid? The father. And Johnny feared his father. That fear must have bled to everything and everyone that hinted of authority.
I thought of what Dallas had said, that I didn't understand. But he didn't understand the ideal of justice that underlies the courts. It's not ideal, of course, nothing run by men is, or could be. But I thought Dallas didn't know that concept, that he didn't realize the system works toward the ideal despite sometimes going against it. Therin the hope lies.
I'd seen his face, his old 17 year old face with the flat eyes. He didn't have that hope.
