Chapter 16: Snowy Delights
If there was a season that was bad for the greasers, it was winter. Winter meant darkness, slippery roads, persistently intruding hobos at the tenements, uncooperative machinery and hair, and very cold nights. Considering both the internal and external circumstances, it was very hard for a greaser to not be at least a bit depressed.
Johnny Vincent was sick of it all. To make matters worse, the prefects had spontaneously decided that there would be no more smoking in the auto shop area, period. They were all too eager to bust someone enjoying a cigarette there, and as a passionate smoker, Johnny wasn't pleased. He would usually have a nice peaceful drag behind the oil barrel stack, but not any more, thanks to some moral panic about fire safety or some such nonsense.
So, the greasers had been forced to find shelter elsewhere. They had opted for the now empty hobo haven behind the trashed school bus since it was close. Johnny snickered as he remembered how Dr. Crabblesnitch was going to have the vehicle fixed until his band of merry greasers had detached every valuable part off the old thing and smashed the rest. Good times.
As Johnny looked around him to check if there were prefects lurking about and stepped inside the wrecked old bus, he wondered what had happened to the hobo himself. He had simply vanished one day. Word on the street said that he had become one of Edna's victims, and really, at least that would explain the occasional toenail you were bound to find from her meatloaf.
Johnny poked his head out of the other end of the bus and noticed that someone was in the hobo haven, but it wasn't the old crook himself. It was Lefty, having a smoke. Norton was keeping him company.
"Hey guys. Havin' a good one, are we?" he asked sardonically, very well aware that Lefty was just as annoyed by their restricted smoking schedule as he was.
"Yeah boss, a really good one", the short, black-haired greaser grumbled and shuddered in the sudden cold breeze.
Without further ado, Johnny dug out his pack of smokes and leaned against the creaky wooden fence surrounding the haven. After getting a burning nicotine stick between his lips, the tension melted away a bit: his face smoothed out upon seeing the almost artistic puffs of smoke drifting away with the air flow. The three boys were in total silence for a good while, everyone looking into nothingness. This had been the default setting of any greaser gathering for a while now.
Johnny decided that it was time to talk. And not just about any meaningless thing.
"Y'know what guys...", he started, gathering his friends' attention.
"I always thought we greasers were one big, happy family", stated he, blowing out another cloud of smoke. Lefty and Norton looked at each other hesitantly.
"Well, aren't we, sort of?" Norton carefully asked. Johnny's lips twitched, discontent.
"I thought so, some time ago. I was obviously holdin' my head too high", Johnny said and sniffed, trying to clear his somewhat stuffy nose.
"Some leader I turned out to be", he added.
"Oh c'mon boss, don't be so hard on yourself. You ain't bad", Lefty comforted sincerely, although an edge of annoyance was detectable in his voice. He didn't want to talk about anything that'd make himself feel any gloomier.
"Oh yeah? We're all mopin' like there's no tomorrow. Lola won't speak to anyone, much less me. I'm pretty sure it ain't just what I did, it's also because of her folks at home or somethin'. But, she don't want to tell me. And Larry, I let him go, just like that – I shoulda been more persistent. We coulda sorted things out, maybe."
The two other greasers sighed and remained quiet, sort of agreeing. To Johnny, the silence was deafening. He hated it.
"I... I always thought we'd be better than our folks, y'know? That we'd show 'em. I mean, what's this world comin' to, huh? Families don't stick together no more, almost none of our folks do. People don't know their neighbors and streets ain't safe. I wanted to change that by ourselves, us real Bullworth kids together", Johnny rambled.
After he stopped, it was quiet for a moment again. But, this time Johnny could see that the sourness was bubbling to the surface. Shortly after, Lefty picked it up from there.
"Yeah. Gangs are all about drugs and violence and nobody knows how to fix anythin'. Nobody appreciates hard, honest work no more. And those damn cars – they ain't built to last nowadays. Who needs 'em", he said, bitterly.
Norton nodded in an agitated manner.
"And if you have a heart, enjoy music that actually has a message, or read a damn book, you're gay", he mumbled, scattering a pile of snow with a half-hearted kick.
The three greasers looked at each other, scowling. The same thought probably went through their minds: they couldn't let go of this. This was why they had become greasers to begin with. The clique could not sink, not like this.
"Y'know what guys. I have an idea. We'll do somethin' fun, all of us guys together", Johnny said, grinning.
"We'll go for a slide, at the usual place", he announced.
Without as much as a cough, the greasers were put into motion one Saturday evening in the end of January, seeming to be preparing for an operation of some sort. They departed from school grounds at the same time, carrying tools, flashlights, fire crackers, plastic bags, and a couple of cheap plastic sleds. They pedaled their way to New Coventry and from there to Blue Skies in smaller groups to avoid arousing too much suspicion as they passed the trailer park.
Their destination? The Chem-O-Lot chemical plant. It had been closed some time before the complete mayhem of Bullworth Academy due to the old, run-down factory not meeting the health and security standards of today. So, even now that its condition and possible renovation possibilities were being evaluated by engineers, it was left standing there with only a few regular workers who were left to maintain and guard it until it got a judgment of some sort. Perfect for greasers to mess around with. The security doors and elevator controls were a breeze if you knew what made them tick.
Their real problem were the workers. Workers like the sadistic and ever-cranky Omar Romero. He pedaled towards the trailer park, cursing under his breath like a sailor.
"Yo, Clint!" panted Omar when he saw the similarly tall and muscular townie, sitting on his snowy porch with his beloved bat.
"Where's the fire, Omar?" he sneered as his pal struggled to stop his bicycle on the trampled snow.
"Cut it out man, I'll kick yer fuckin' teeth in", the more serious townie snarled while trying to catch his breath. When he did that, he quickly sputtered:
"Listen, dude, we need all our guys at the chem plant, asap. The greaseballs broke in and a lot of us are wasted, some of us are pretty high too. If someone calls the cops, we're in deep shit man, deep shit."
"Well if it's just greasers, what's the problem? They're effin' pathetic fighters", Clint grumbled.
"They're all there, moron! And they have fire crackers 'n' shit! Gotta get rid of those sonuvabitches fast, so get a fuckin' move on and alert the others!"
"Alright, jeez!" Clint moaned, standing up and grabbing one of his bicycles like it was the most demanding thing he'd ever had to do. When he and Omar were about to start pedaling to the direction of the factory, Clint halted.
"Wait a sec, the new kid's got a night shift, right? I've got an idea, man", he said with a mean grin.
Author's Notes: Eh, I don't really like the 50's.