Being one of the social class, I suppose we have less to worry about, in terms of being beaten over - being jumped. Although, when it is one soc against more than triple it's number in greasers, the tables begin to turn. As I've mentioned before, I am not one for violence, or one with a hate for the greasers. You should known me well enough by now to know that I would not engage in a fight between classes.
Although, at first glance, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference. To the naked eye, I was an average, ignorant soc. Or perhaps, it was not ignorance. The socials of hate knew very well of the affair they dealt with and the pain they inflicted. It was a matter of why they concerned themselves with such things. The motive behind it all.
Was it insecurity? Self doubt? Or possibly, they were exactly how they were perceived? Just cold-hearted and vile? Nevertheless, I refused to believe that they did it just for kicks, for self pleasure. Whatever the reason was, it obtained the power to drive them to destruction.
I kept my eyes focussed on the lace of my shoe as I picked up my pace to a swift stride. Eyes were boring into my back like lasers, causing me to shudder. Keeping my head focussed downward, I collided with another body, as firm as a statue. When my head rose up, my body begun to tremble. I was face to face with the likeliness of Dallas Winston. Initially, my nerves jumped sky high. Once again, like the night I had encountered the young greaser for the first time, I'd been watching him for so long that I felt I'd known him. But he was unfamiliar of me. He was oblivious to my sustained watch of him and was naive to my title. I was the observer. But, like most other observers, I was unknown by my watched.
"Watch where you're goin', pal." Dallas hissed, grasping a firm grip on me by the front of my sweater. His alcohol soaked breath danced on the little air there was between our lips, his ice-blue eyes tantalizing my soul. I've mentioned before, in confirmation, that I am heterosexual. However, I have also made you aware of my criticized vice. My attraction to Dallas Winston.
His words hung, he awaited a reply which, I can tell you, would not come. I had a bitten tongue, it would not comply with the words that sat in my throat. "What's a soc doin' on the East side all alone, huh? Did your posy leave ya or somethin'? Huh?" the memorising greaser pressed, tightening his grasp on my sweater. My bottom lip begun to quiver. I knew what was coming next - the strike.
"Give it to 'im, Dal!" a unruly holler came from the, now gathered, crowd of greasers, swarmed around us.
Without warning - or I suppose the call out should've been a alert - Dallas pulled back his fist and it met the flesh of my face with a sudden sting of pain, as I reeled backward and he unlatched his fingers from my clothing. What was I thinking before? I shouldn't of helped the young greaser. I had been so unmindful to the hate between our classes. I had facilitated him out of ignorance. And to serve as a consequence, I was getting beaten for my ingenuous decision. You would think this would discourage me into hardening my heart against the greasers, like those of my social class but, in fact, I wouldn't have it any other way.
When Dallas brought back his fist and hit me again, I staggered backwards, blood welling from my bottom lip and staining my teeth scarlet, I felt proud in a warped sense. It was almost morbid the way I enjoyed his knuckles on my cheek. It did ache, though. But I was not cursing him. He didn't know who I was, how was I to judge him? He was unaware, essentially innocent to his actions. "Why don't you fight back, huh?" he growled at me, seeming aggravated that I did not want to brawl with him. I sucked the bitter blood from my lip and looked at him with calm eyes.
"I don't believe in fighting." I muttered breathlessly. When all fails, admit the truth. That is what I did. At first, Dallas looked helpless, almost as if he was at a loss for words. He probably had never encountered a person of my class who wouldn't fight him. And so, not being able to deal with my humbleness, he turned to the crowd and hollered.
"Do you hear this punk? Do you hear this pussy? What do ya say, I give 'im a run for his money?". The small congregate roared with a cheer and I was no longer facing Dallas, the greaser. I was now opposite Dallas the boxer, the fighter. I could see the fire in his eyes. The fire seemed to melt the ice that it held. I would no longer be proud to be his opponent. I knew that.
While I didn't believe in fighting, I sure did believe in running. In mid-swing, I set in motion to run, like a road runner, I sped out of the assumed arena. Gasps and hollers were thrown at me but I did not stop. My breath staggering and my legs yelling out in pain, I just ran. I can assure you, I was not in fear of Dallas. I was in fear of what he was capable of.