"Hey, Steve, Johnny, Two-bit"
"Hey, what's up?" they all said, a wide smile on each of their faces.
"Hey Pony?" one of the boys said.
"Hey, Johnny say hi to our new friend: Sydney" Johnny looked like a...a—hmm...what did he look like? I wondered.
Then, I remembered some quote from my "The Outsiders" book written by S.E. Hinton; that said, "If you can picture a little dark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny. He was the youngest, next to me, smaller than the rest, with a slight build. He had big black eyes in a dark tanned face; his hair was jet-black and heavily greased and combed to the side, but it was so long that it fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead. He had a nervous, suspicious look in his eyes, and that beating he got from the Socs didn't help matters. He was the gang's pet, everyone's kid brother. His father was always beating him up, and his mother ignored him, except when she was hacked off at something, and then you could hear her yelling at him clear down at our house. I think he hated that worse than getting whipped. He would have run away a million times if we hadn't been there. If it hadn't been for the gang, Johnny would never have known what love and affection are."
"Hi" Johnny uttered, shyly.
"Hi" I uttered back. "So, you're Johnny Cade. Huh?" I paused, then said. "Ponyboy's told me a lot about you."
"He has?" Johnny looked stocked. "I thought he would forget about me since me & him are the shyest of the group."
"How could he forget to mention you? You're his best friend..."
"Well, for one, I'm too shy; on account of how my father is always beating me up and my mother ignores me, except when she is hacked off at something. And that one time when I got beat up by the Socs." "As far as I go, I'm just the gang's pet."
"Gang pets?" I asked.
"You know, everyone's kid brother."
"Ahhh..." I paused, then asked curiously. "If you don't mind me asking...How old are you, Johnny?"
"16" Johnny replied, flatly.
"No way; me too" I almost screamed with excitement.
Steve was next, I observed that Steve was: a tall, lean, fellow. With thick greasy hair, he kept combed in complicated swirls. He was tacky, smart. Pony had told me that, Steve was or had been Soda's best buddy since grade school. I knew from my "The Outsiders" book that: Steve's specialty was cars. He could lift a hubcap quicker and more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, but he also knew cars upside-down and backward, and he could drive anything on wheels. He and Soda worked at the same gas station- Steve part-time and Soda full time- and their station got more customers than any other in town. Whether that was because Steve was so good with cars or because Soda attracted girls like honey draws flies, I couldn't tell you. I liked Steve only because he was Soda's best friend. He didn't like me- he thought I was a tag-along and a kid; Soda always took me with them when they went places if they weren't taking girls, and that bugged Steve. It wasn't my fault; Soda always asked me; I didn't ask him. Soda doesn't think I'm a kid.
When my book said "I" I knew the book was talking about Pony, after-all it's written in a 1st person's perspective (point of view).
"Hi, I'm Steve; Steve Randle," Steve said, all outgoingy.
"H...hi," I said, shyly.
"How about me did Pony, Sodapop, or Darry; say anything about me?" "Um..." I tried to think.
"No..." it was then that a saw Steve cry, I didn't want him to be sad; so I decided to tell him all I knew from memory after-all I read their book "The Outsiders" almost a million times, plus I thought it might cheer him up to share my vast knowledge of him, with him.
I took a deep breath then blurted out. "All I know is: you're Steve: you're the tall, lean, fellow. You have thick greasy hair that you keep combed in complicated swirls. You're tacky, and smart. Pony told me that, you had been Soda's best buddy since grade school. Your specialty is cars. I know that because someone told me that you can lift a hubcap quicker and more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, but you also knew cars upside-down and backward, and you could also drive anything on wheels. You and Soda worked at the same gas station- you work part-time, and Soda, here works full time- and your station gets more customers than any other in town. Whether that was because you are so good with cars or because your best friend Soda attracts girls like honey draws flies, I couldn't tell you." Then I remembered that I was still talking to Steve, I hastily stopped. Then I thought for a minute—I decided to tell'em. "Hey, Steve...I got something to tell you."
"What? What? What is it?"
"It's a secret," I said. I leaned over to him; I whispered in his ear, "Hey, you may not like what I have to say, right now. But..."
"What do you mean I won't like it? I've liked everything you've said, so far. Haven't I?"
"Yes, you have...but listen." I took a deep breath again, then said. "Pony only likes you because you're Soda's best friend. You don't like Pony- you think he's a tag-along and a kid; though, Soda always takes him with, when you guys go places. That is, if you two aren't taking girls, and that bugs you. Doesn't it?" Steve looked sheepishly at me. "How do you know?"
I shrugged my shoulders, then said. "Umm...lucky guess" "very well then, continue." "What you didn't or might not have known was that; it wasn't his fault; Soda always asked him; he didn't ask Soda. Soda doesn't think Pony's a kid." I stopped, letting Steve take in his faults.
"Wow, I had no idea," Steve said, shocked.
"It's okay; you didn't know." "How old are you, Steve?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
"17," he said.
Two-Bit was last, but not the least, I remembered a quote from in my "The Outsiders" book that said. "Two-Bit Mathews was the oldest of the gang and the wisecracker of the bunch. He was about six feet tall, stocky in build, and very proud of his long rusty-colored sideburns. He had gray eyes and a wide grin, and he couldn't stop making funny remarks to save his life. You couldn't shut up that guy; he always had to get his two-bits worth in. Hence his name. Even his teachers forgot his real name was Keith, and we hardly remembered he had one. Life was one big joke to Two-Bit. He was famous for shoplifting and his black-handled switchblade (which he couldn't have acquired without his first talent), and he was always smarting off to the cops. He really couldn't help it. Everything he said was so irresistibly funny that he just had to let the police in on it to brighten up their dull lives. (That's the way he explained it to me.) He liked fights, blondes, and for some unfathomable reason, school. He was still a junior at eighteen and a half and he never learned anything. He just went for kicks. I liked him real well because he kept us laughing at ourselves as well as at other things. He reminded me of Will Rogers- maybe it was the grin."
"What about me?" Two-Bit asked.
I thought back; then the quote came into my head, then I asked. "You're Two-Bit Mathews, correct?
"Correct, I'm Two-Bit"
"I think I can round-up something about you," I said.
Then, I thought back; then the quote came into my head, for a 3rd time. As I said, "You're Two-Bit Mathews, the oldest of the gang and the wisecracker of the bunch. You're about six feet tall, stocky in build, and very proud of your long rusty-colored sideburns. You have gray eyes and a wide grin, and you can't stop making funny remarks to save your life. You couldn't shut up that guy; you always had to get his two-bits worth in. Hence his name. Even your teachers forgot your real name was Keith, and Pony, Johnny, Steve, Soda, and Darry hardly remembered that you had one. Life is just one big joke to you. You're famous for shoplifting and your black-handled switchblade (which you couldn't have acquired without his first talent), and you were always smarting off to the cops. You really can't help it. Everything you say is just so irresistibly funny that you just have to let the police in on it to brighten up their dull lives. (That's the way you explained it to Pony.) You like fights, blondes, and for some unfathomable reason, school. You were still a junior at eighteen and a half and you never learned anything. You just went for kicks. Pony likes you real well because you keep the whole gang laughing at themselves as well as at other things. You reminded Pony of Will Rogers- maybe it was the grin."
"Impressive!" Two-Bit said, as he stood over me; and patted me on the back.
Dally was last, and the least, I remembered a quote from in my "The Outsiders" book that said. "If I had to pick the real character of the gang, it would be Dallas Winston- Dally. I used to like to draw his picture when he was in a dangerous mood, for then I could get his personality down in a few lines. He had an elfish face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small, sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. His hair was almost white it was so blond, and he didn't like haircuts, or hair oil either, so it fell over his forehead in wisps and kicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind his ears and along the nape of his neck. His eyes were blue, blazing ice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. Dally had spent three years on the wild side of New York and had been arrested at the age of ten. He was tougher than the rest of us- tougher, colder, meaner. The shade of difference that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present in Dally. He was as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits, like Tim Shepard's gang.
In New York, Dally blew off steam in gang fights, but here, organized gangs are rarities- there are just small bunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare is between the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, is usually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happen to bring their friends along. Oh, there are a few named gangs around, like the River Kings and the Tiber Street Tigers, but here in the Southwest, there's no gang rivalry. So Dally, even though he could get into a good fight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rival gang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matter how hard you try, because they've got all the breaks and even whipping them isn't going to change that fact. Maybe that was why Dallas was so bitter."
"What about me?" Dally asked.
I thought back; then the quote came into my head, then I asked. "You're Dallas Winston, correct?
"Correct, I'm Dallas...but you can call me Dally."
"I think I can round-up something about you," I said. Then, I thought back; then the quote came into my head, for a 3rd time. As I said, "If Ponyboy, Sodapop, and Darry...mainly Ponyboy had to pick the real character of the gang; it would be you, dally. Pony used to like to draw your picture, when you were in a dangerous mood, for then he could get your personality down in a few lines. In that few lines Pony could see that you have: an elfish face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small, sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. Your hair was almost white it was so blond, and you don't like haircuts, or hair oil either, so it fell over your forehead in wisps and kicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind your ears and along the nape of your neck. Your eyes are blue, blazing ice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. You have spent three years on the wild side of New York and had been arrested at the age of ten. You're tougher than the whole gang- tougher, colder, and meaner. The shade of difference that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present in you. You are as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits, like Tim Shepard's gang." I paused, to take a breath; then I continued. "In New York, you blew off steam in gang fights, but here, organized gangs are rarities- there are just small bunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare is between the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, is usually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happen to bring their friends along. Oh, there are a few named gangs around, like the River Kings and the Tiber Street Tigers, but here in the Southwest, there's no gang rivalry. So you, even though you could get into a good fight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rival gang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matter how hard you try, because they've got all the breaks and even whipping them isn't going to change that fact. Hmm...Maybe that's why you're so bitter."
"Impressive" Dally said, as he stood over me; and patted me on the back.
"Impressive, indeed," Ponyboy said, as he stood over me; and patted me on the back. "You really know Johnny, Steve, and Dally." Just then, silence took over.
Then, I could hear Pony, Sodapop, and Darry—all talking at once. "What about us?" I thought back; then I remembered a quote about Ponyboy from in my "The Outsiders" book that said. "WHEN I STEPPED OUT into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman- he looks tough and I don't- but I guess my own looks aren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because I hate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be content with what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front and sides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better with long hair. I had a long walk home and no company, but I usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watch movies undisturbed so I can get into them and live them with the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second -oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel, who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them. And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way I do. For a while there, I thought I was the only person in the world that did. So I loned it. Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more than Darry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he's never hollering at me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if I was six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've ever loved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarely grins at all. But then, Darry's gone through a lot in his twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one of these days."
Then I asked. "You're Ponyboy, correct?
He laughed, then said. "Correct, I'm Ponyboy"
"I think I can round-up something about you," I said. Then, I thought back; then the quote came into my head, for a 2nd time. As I said, "You're Ponyboy, you like movies, you wish you looked like Paul Newman- you think he looks tough and you don't- but you guess your own looks aren't so bad. You have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. You wish they were more gray, because you hate most guys that have green eyes, but you have to be content with what you have. Your hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in the back and long at the front and sides, but you're a greaser and most of your neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, you look better with long hair. One day, you found yourself having a long walk home and no company, but you usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that you like to watch movies undisturbed so you can get into them and live them with the actors. When you see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. You're different that way. I mean, your second -oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks open a book at all, and your oldest brother, Darrel, who you and the gang call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so you're not like them. And nobody in your gang digs movies and books the way you do. For a while there, you thought you were the only person in the world that did. So you loned it." I stopped, trying to catch my breath—then I continued. "...and, Soda; you try to understand, at least, don't you?"
"Why, of course" he paused, then said. "I try to understand anything and everything...especially when it comes to Pony"
"Oh, barf...thankfully I don't have any problems"
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. Darry"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing, you fine"
"I'm more than fine, I'm perfect."
"Are you, are you. Really?...or do you just think you're perfect" Darry stood there, puzzled. "You think you're perfect, but actually you have many flaws." "Let me just tell you something."
"Kay" "at least Soda tries to understand," I paused, then said. "He tries to understand anything and everything...especially when it comes to Pony..."
"So..., who cares?"
"So..., you should care" I paused, then said. "At least Soda tries to understand, which is more than you. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he never hollers at Pony; all the time. The way you do, or treating Pony as if he was six instead of fourteen. Pony loves Soda more than he's ever loved anyone, even his Mom and Dad. Soda's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while you are always hard and firm, and you rarely grin at all. But then, you've gone through a lot in your twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. Pony doesn't know which way's the best. I guess he'll find out one of these days." Everyone looked at me.
"Wow, you sure do know us"
"I know isn't it awesome!" I said, with great enthusiasm.
"Well, smartypants...do you want a tour or not?"
"Oh, I do...I do want a tour of Tulsa" I paused, then asked; out of the blue. "Do you live in or near the countryside?"
"That's a weird question," Pony said. "In fact, I use to ride out to the countryside with my folks"
"Hey, we were there too!" Sodapop & Darry said, angrily.
"Oh...right, right." He paused, then quickly added. "I always forget that"
"It's O.K. Pony"
"Um...hello, remember me?!" I said, angrily.
"Oh, yes...Sydney; what is it?"
"Oh, nothing; except..."
"Except, except what?"
"Except...you still didn't answer my question"
"Oh...yeah, your question..." he said, looking dumbfounded.
"Do you live in or near the countryside?" I said, with more force.
"Oh, oh...yes, yes. We do! Follow me"
"Hey, Steve, Johnny, Two-bit"
"Hey, what's up?" they all said, a wide smile on each of their faces.
"Hey Pony?" one of the boys said.
"Hey, Johnny say hi to our new friend: Sydney" Johnny looked like a...a—hmm...what did he look like? I wondered.
Then, I remembered some quote from my "The Outsiders" book written by S.E. Hinton; that said, "If you can picture a little dark puppy that has been kicked too many times and is lost in a crowd of strangers, you'll have Johnny. He was the youngest, next to me, smaller than the rest, with a slight build. He had big black eyes in a dark tanned face; his hair was jet-black and heavily greased and combed to the side, but it was so long that it fell in shaggy bangs across his forehead. He had a nervous, suspicious look in his eyes, and that beating he got from the Socs didn't help matters. He was the gang's pet, everyone's kid brother. His father was always beating him up, and his mother ignored him, except when she was hacked off at something, and then you could hear her yelling at him clear down at our house. I think he hated that worse than getting whipped. He would have run away a million times if we hadn't been there. If it hadn't been for the gang, Johnny would never have known what love and affection are."
"Hi" Johnny uttered, shyly.
"Hi" I uttered back. "So, you're Johnny Cade. Huh?" I paused, then said. "Ponyboy's told me a lot about you."
"He has?" Johnny looked stocked. "I thought he would forget about me, sense me & him are the shyest of the group."
"How could he forget to mention you? You're his best friend..."
"Well, for one, I'm too shy; on account of how my father is always beating me up and my mother ignores me, except when she is hacked off at something. And that one time when I got beat up by the Socs." "As far as I go, I'm just the gang's pet."
"Gang pets?" I asked.
"You know, everyone's kid brother."
"Ahhh..." I paused, then asked curiously. "If you don't mind me asking...How old are you, Johnny?"
"16" Johnny replied, flatly.
"No way; me too" I almost screamed with excitement.
Steve was next, I observed that Steve was: a tall, lean, fellow. With thick greasy hair he kept combed in complicated swirls. He was tacky, smart. Pony had told me that, Steve was or had been Soda's best buddy since grade school. I knew from my "The Outsiders" book that: Steve's specialty was cars. He could lift a hubcap quicker and more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, but he also knew cars upside-down and backward, and he could drive anything on wheels. He and Soda worked at the same gas station- Steve part time and Soda full time- and their station got more customers than any other in town. Whether that was because Steve was so good with cars or because Soda attracted girls like honey draws flies, I couldn't tell you. I liked Steve only because he was Soda's best friend. He didn't like me- he thought I was a tag-along and a kid; Soda always took me with them when they went places if they weren't taking girls, and that bugged Steve. It wasn't my fault; Soda always asked me; I didn't ask him. Soda doesn't think I'm a kid.
When my book said "I" I knew the book was talking about Pony, after-all it's written in a 1st person's perspective (point of view).
"Hi, I'm Steve; Steve Randle," Steve said, all outgoingy.
"H...hi," I said, shyly.
"How about me did Pony, Sodapop, or Darry; say anything about me?" "Um..." I tried to think.
"No..." it was then that a saw Steve cry, I didn't want him to be sad; so I decided to tell him all I knew from memory after-all I read their book "The Outsiders" almost a million times, plus I thought it might cheer him up to share my vast knowledge of him, with him.
I took a deep breath then blurted out. "All I know is: you're Steve: you're the tall, lean, fellow. You have thick greasy hair that you keep combed in complicated swirls. You're tacky, and smart. Pony told me that, you had been Soda's best buddy since grade school. You're specialty is cars. I know that because someone told me that you can lift a hubcap quicker and more quietly than anyone in the neighborhood, but you also knew cars upside-down and backward, and you could also drive anything on wheels. You and Soda worked at the same gas station- you work part time, and Soda, here works full time- and your station gets more customers than any other in town. Whether that was because you are so good with cars or because your best friend Soda attracts girls like honey draws flies, I couldn't tell you." Then I remembered that I was still talking to Steve, I hastily stopped. Then I thought for a minute—I decided to tell'em. "Hey, Steve...I got something to tell you."
"What? What? What is it?"
"It's a secret," I said. I leaned over to him; I whispered in his ear, "Hey, you may not like what I have to say, right now. But..."
"What do you mean I won't like it? I've liked everything you've said, so far. Haven't I?"
"Yes, you have...but listen." I took a deep breath again, then said. "Pony only likes you because you're Soda's best friend. You don't like Pony- you think he's a tag-along and a kid; though, Soda always takes him with, when you guys go places. That is, if you two aren't taking girls, and that bugs you. Doesn't it?" Steve looked sheepishly at me. "How do you know?"
I shrugged my shoulders, then said. "Umm...lucky guess" "very well then, continue." "What you didn't or might not have known was that; it wasn't his fault; Soda always asked him; he didn't ask Soda. Soda doesn't think Pony's a kid." I stopped, letting Steve take in his faults.
"Wow, I had no idea," Steve said, shocked.
"It's okay; you didn't know." "How old are you, Steve?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
"17," he said.
Two-Bit was last, but not the least, I remembered a quote from in my "The Outsiders" book that said. "Two-Bit Mathews was the oldest of the gang and the wisecracker of the bunch. He was about six feet tall, stocky in build, and very proud of his long rusty-colored sideburns. He had gray eyes and a wide grin, and he couldn't stop making funny remarks to save his life. You couldn't shut up that guy; he always had to get his two-bits worth in. Hence his name. Even his teachers forgot his real name was Keith, and we hardly remembered he had one. Life was one big joke to Two-Bit. He was famous for shoplifting and his black-handled switchblade (which he couldn't have acquired without his first talent), and he was always smarting off to the cops. He really couldn't help it. Everything he said was so irresistibly funny that he just had to let the police in on it to brighten up their dull lives. (That's the way he explained it to me.) He liked fights, blondes, and for some unfathomable reason, school. He was still a junior at eighteen and a half and he never learned anything. He just went for kicks. I liked him real well because he kept us laughing at ourselves as well as at other things. He reminded me of Will Rogers- maybe it was the grin."
"What about me?" Two-Bit asked.
I thought back; then the quote came into my head, then I asked. "You're Two-Bit Mathews, correct?
"Correct, I'm Two-Bit"
"I think I can round-up something about you," I said.
Then, I thought back; then the quote came into my head, for a 3rd time. As I said, "You're Two-Bit Mathews, the oldest of the gang and the wisecracker of the bunch. You're about six feet tall, stocky in build, and very proud of your long rusty-colored sideburns. You have gray eyes and a wide grin, and you can't stop making funny remarks to save your life. You couldn't shut up that guy; you always had to get his two-bits worth in. Hence his name. Even your teachers forgot your real name was Keith, and Pony, Johnny, Steve, Soda, and Darry hardly remembered that you had one. Life is just one big joke to you. You're famous for shoplifting and your black-handled switchblade (which you couldn't have acquired without his first talent), and you were always smarting off to the cops. You really can't help it. Everything you say is just so irresistibly funny that you just have to let the police in on it to brighten up their dull lives. (That's the way you explained it to Pony.) You like fights, blondes, and for some unfathomable reason, school. You were still a junior at eighteen and a half and you never learned anything. You just went for kicks. Pony likes you real well because you keep the whole gang laughing at themselves as well as at other things. You reminded Pony of Will Rogers- maybe it was the grin."
"Impressive!" Two-Bit said, as he stood over me; and patted me on the back.
Dally was last, and the least, I remembered a quote from in my "The Outsiders" book that said. "If I had to pick the real character of the gang, it would be Dallas Winston- Dally. I used to like to draw his picture when he was in a dangerous mood, for then I could get his personality down in a few lines. He had an elfish face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small, sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. His hair was almost white it was so blond, and he didn't like haircuts, or hair oil either, so it fell over his forehead in wisps and kicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind his ears and along the nape of his neck. His eyes were blue, blazing ice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. Dally had spent three years on the wild side of New York and had been arrested at the age of ten. He was tougher than the rest of us- tougher, colder, meaner. The shade of difference that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present in Dally. He was as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits, like Tim Shepard's gang.
In New York, Dally blew off steam in gang fights, but here, organized gangs are rarities- there are just small bunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare is between the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, is usually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happen to bring their friends along. Oh, there are a few named gangs around, like the River Kings and the Tiber Street Tigers, but here in the Southwest there's no gang rivalry. So Dally, even though he could get into a good fight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rival gang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matter how hard you try, because they've got all the breaks and even whipping them isn't going to change that fact. Maybe that was why Dallas was so bitter."
"What about me?" Dally asked.
I thought back; then the quote came into my head, then I asked. "You're Dallas Winston, correct?
"Correct, I'm Dallas...but you can call me Dally."
"I think I can round-up something about you," I said. Then, I thought back; then the quote came into my head, for a 3rd time. As I said, "If Ponyboy, Sodapop, and Darry...mainly Ponyboy had to pick the real character of the gang; it would be you, dally. Pony used to like to draw your picture, when you were in a dangerous mood, for then he could get your personality down in a few lines. In that few lines Pony could see that you have: an elfish face, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, small, sharp animal teeth, and ears like a lynx. Your hair was almost white it was so blond, and you don't like haircuts, or hair oil either, so it fell over your forehead in wisps and kicked out in the back in tufts and curled behind your ears and along the nape of your neck. Your eyes are blue, blazing ice, cold with a hatred of the whole world. You have spent three years on the wild side of New York and had been arrested at the age of ten. You're tougher than the whole gang- tougher, colder, and meaner. The shade of difference that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't present in you. You are as wild as the boys in the downtown outfits, like Tim Shepard's gang." I paused, to take a breath; then I continued. "In New York, you blew off steam in gang fights, but here, organized gangs are rarities- there are just small bunches of friends who stick together, and the warfare is between the social classes. A rumble, when it's called, is usually born of a grudge fight, and the opponents just happen to bring their friends along. Oh, there are a few named gangs around, like the River Kings and the Tiber Street Tigers, but here in the Southwest there's no gang rivalry. So you, even though you could get into a good fight sometimes, had no specific thing to hate. No rival gang. Only Socs. And you can't win against them no matter how hard you try, because they've got all the breaks and even whipping them isn't going to change that fact. Hmm...Maybe that's why you're so bitter."
"Impressive" Dally said, as he stood over me; and patted me on the back.
"Impressive, indeed," Ponyboy said, as he stood over me; and patted me on the back. "You really know Johnny, Steve, and Dally." Just then, silence took over.
Then, I could hear Pony, Sodapop, and Darry—all talking at once. "What about us?" I thought back; then I remembered a quote about Ponyboy from in my "The Outsiders" book that said. "WHEN I STEPPED OUT into the bright sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind: Paul Newman and a ride home. I was wishing I looked like Paul Newman- he looks tough and I don't- but I guess my own looks aren't so bad. I have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. I wish they were more gray, because I hate most guys that have green eyes, but I have to be content with what I have. My hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in back and long at the front and sides, but I am a greaser and most of my neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look better with long hair. I had a long walk home and no company, but I usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that I like to watch movies undisturbed so I can get into them and live them with the actors. When I see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. I'm different that way. I mean, my second -oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks a book at all, and my oldest brother, Darrel, who we call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so I'm not like them. And nobody in our gang digs movies and books the way I do. For a while there, I thought I was the only person in the world that did. So I loned it. Soda tries to understand, at least, which is more than Darry does. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he's never hollering at me all the time the way Darry is, or treating me as if I was six instead of fourteen. I love Soda more than I've ever loved anyone, even Mom and Dad. He's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while Darry's hard and firm and rarely grins at all. But then, Darry's gone through a lot in his twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. I don't know which way's the best. I'll find out one of these days."
Then I asked. "You're Ponyboy, correct?
He laughed, then said. "Correct, I'm Ponyboy"
"I think I can round-up something about you," I said. Then, I thought back; then the quote came into my head, for a 2nd time. As I said, "You're Ponyboy, you like movies, you wish you looked like Paul Newman- you think he looks tough and you don't- but you guess your own looks aren't so bad. You have light-brown, almost-red hair and greenish-gray eyes. You wish they were more gray, because you hate most guys that have green eyes, but you have to be content with what you have. Your hair is longer than a lot of boys wear theirs, squared off in the back and long at the front and sides, but you're a greaser and most of your neighborhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, you look better with long hair. One day, you found yourself having a long walk home and no company, but you usually lone it anyway, for no reason except that you like to watch movies undisturbed so you can get into them and live them with the actors. When you see a movie with someone it's kind of uncomfortable, like having someone read your book over your shoulder. You're different that way. I mean, your second -oldest brother, Soda, who is sixteen-going-on-seventeen, never cracks open a book at all, and your oldest brother, Darrel, who you and the gang call Darry, works too long and hard to be interested in a story or drawing a picture, so you're not like them. And nobody in your gang digs movies and books the way you do. For a while there, you thought you were the only person in the world that did. So you loned it." I stopped, trying to catch my breath—then I continued. "...and, Soda; you try to understand, at least, don't you?"
"Why, of course" he paused, then said. "I try to understand anything and everything...especially when it comes to Pony"
"Oh, barf...thankfully I don't have any problems"
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure. Darry"
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing, you fine"
"I'm more than fine, I'm perfect."
"Are you, are you. Really?...or do you just think you're perfect" Darry stood there, puzzled. "You think you're perfect, but actually you have many flaws." "Let me just tell you something."
"Kay" "at least Soda tries to understand," I paused, then said. "He tries to understand anything and everything...especially when it comes to Pony..."
"So..., who cares?"
"So..., you should care" I paused, then said. "At least Soda tries to understand, which is more than you. But then, Soda is different from anybody; he understands everything, almost. Like he never hollers at Pony; all the time. The way you do, or treating Pony as if he was six instead of fourteen. Pony loves Soda more than he's ever loved anyone, even his Mom and Dad. Soda's always happy-go-lucky and grinning, while you are always hard and firm, and you rarely grin at all. But then, you've gone through a lot in your twenty years, grown up too fast. Sodapop'll never grow up at all. Pony doesn't know which way's the best. I guess he'll find out one of these days." Everyone looked at me.
"Wow, you sure do know us"
"I know isn't it awesome!" I said, with great enthusiasm.
"Well, smartypants...do you want a tour or not?"
"Oh, I do...I do want a tour of Tulsa" I paused, then asked; out of the blue. "Do you live in or near the countryside?"
