……………………………………Last Train to Clarksville
I had my stuff packed and sat at the train station. I was outta here.
Getting shot wasn't like it was on T.V. You're better the next episode. No. The pain went on and on. The gift that kept on giving.
I'd failed. So what? I accepted it, as I accepted I'd never have full use of my arm and shoulder again, that I sucked as a lawyer. Sucked.
I left my bags at the station and went to a bar. I bet I'd make a damn good alcoholic.
"Martini," I said, realizing that I shouldn't mix my narcotic pain meds with gin and vermouth but not caring. Maybe I should just slice through my veins and arteries like Johnny did, get this sucker over with. 27 years old and throwing in the towel. I sipped my drink.
"Dean?" It was Clyde, of course. The voice of my conscience. My little Jiminy Cricket.
"What?" I said, not turning from my drink, not wanting to hear whatever it was he might say.
"I went to your hotel. They said you checked out. How come?" He took the stool next to me, motioned the bartender over with one classy finger.
"Because I checked out,"
He sighed, ordered his drink, and waved the bartender away. He elegantly lit a cigarette and puffed on it delicately.
"Yes. I know you checked out. Why?"
………………………………………Going Into It
I didn't want to go into it. I downed my drink, ordered another. Did I actually think I could save Johnny? I didn't think that kid wanted to be saved.
Going to that hospital had bothered me. I felt helplessly responsible for Johnny's drugged out stare.
"Look, what's the point? The trial's blown to smithereens, I don't even know if he's competent anymore to even stand trial, I, look, there's no point,"
The pointlessness of it seemed lost on Clyde, and he stared at me cautiously. A look I had seen just recently. I wracked what little gray matter was left of my mind. Where had I seen that look? And it came to me. That's how Ponyboy had looked at Johnny in his hospital room.
Oh, fuck a duck. Clyde's disappointment and cautious stare was more than I could take.
"Alright, Clyde. What do you want me to do?"
…………………………………….Clyde's Suggestions
He wanted me to go back to the hospital and talk some sense into Johnny, to go to the judge and respectfully request getting the trial back on track.
I explained, as gently as I could, that Johnny was actively suicidal and pumped full of drugs and had never seemed to listen to me anyway…
"Who does he listen to?" As usual Clyde cut through the bullshit to get to resolutions.
"Who does he listen to? Uh, I guess he listens to Dallas,"
"So there you go. Get Dallas to tell him what to do, then talk to the judge,"
And it was somehow out of my hands and into Clyde's. I didn't feel very capable of much anymore besides blindly following whatever instructions I got. I set out to find Dallas Winston.
…………………………The Curtis'
I found myself at the Curtis', half drunk and pumped full of narcotics and still the bullet wound pulsed and throbbed with pain.
I saw, somewhat unnervingly, that I'd become a hero to these kids, because I took the bullet meant for Johnny. I was offered the best chair, the one that faced the door that Darry usually sat in. I was brought pepsi with ice and little snacks.
Ponyboy looked up from homework at the kitchen table, his hair two inches of reddish brown and the rest the strange yellow Johnny had dyed it.
Soda and Darry both had a work weary air and I raised the glass of pepsi to my lips, the alcohol and pills making me feel nauseous, and I thought gripping the porcelain sides of a toilet bowl wouldn't be that bad right about now.
"Where's Dallas?" I said.
