Dark Alleys and Somewhere Special - Part 2

December 15th, 1968

"Stee-rike!" Bryon yelped as the bowling pins all went crashing into one another. They were in a bowling alley for no reason at all, just sitting around. Ponyboy had been persuaded by Mark over the phone after school to sneak out because Darry had grounded him, and dumbly enough, Ponyboy did sneak out. He felt a little guilty, but he could deal with the consequences later.

Some curly-haired boy had recognized Mark and Bryon in the bowling alley and sat down with them. Ponyboy chewed on his Pepsi straw and watched him read a book.

"So, M&M—that's your name, right?" Ponyboy asked. The kid, M&M, looked up at him with strange-colored gray eyes, and nodded. Ponyboy looked him up and down. It was a no-brainer that this kid was some sort of hippie. The metal peace sign hanging on his neck was the perfect proof. This was the kind of kid people he knew would jump for kicks. He motioned with his hand toward the open book on the table. "That a good book?"

M&M seemed to think about that, long and hard, and then shrugged. "It's okay. Dialogue could be better." With that, he got up and strolled out of the place. Ponyboy frowned at the abrupt end to their short-lived conversation and watched him go. When he turned back around, Mark was staring at Ponyboy with a smirk on his face, shaking his head. Mark picked up his Coke and took a swig, and then brought a cigarette to his lips. "I like that kid," Mark said, exhaling the smoke into the air. "He's strange."

"Hell, he's a hippie." Bryon commented, stretching his bowling arm and taking a cigarette for himself. "They're all strange. You know how many times we've saved M&M's ass from that Curly Shepard?" he told Ponyboy, struggling with the lighter for a moment. The lighter flicked and a flame came up. "I don't even know why he likes hanging around us. He just does."

Ponyboy scratched his chin. "I think he's alright," he concluded, watching Mark tee up a bowling ball in his hands. Mark kissed the top of the bowling ball and sent it flying down the lane, only for it to end up in the gutter. He mumbled a choice word and shoved Bryon over when Bryon gave him a mocking look. Bryon had swept the floor with the both of them in this game.

"You guys can hustle a pool game, but I can play a mean bowling ball," Bryon gloated, finishing off his Coke. The bowling alley was almost empty. It was Wednesday afternoon and everybody was either at school doing extracurriculars or at home with their families. Lucky enough for Ponyboy, Darry had taken a Monday late shift for some extra money, so sneaking out hadn't been too hard. Sodapop had been sleeping on the sofa when he'd gone, and since Soda was so nervous lately, Ponyboy was forced to leave a note on the fridge.

Mark flicked his ashes onto the shiny hardwood floor and propped his elbows up on the table. "Speaking of hustling a pool game, I'm low on money for all those Cokes we buy down at Charlie's. He'll beat it out of us if we don't get any sometime soon."

Ponyboy took a drag off of his cigarette and shrugged. "I've got a dime. That's all I got." he stated, dropping a shiny dime onto the table with a clatter. "My brother made me pay for gas money on Saturday. I'm fresh out. Plus, I pay for my drinks. Y'all two are the only ones who twist Charlie's arm to get free Cokes."

Bryon snatched up the dime and pocketed it for himself, his dark brown eyes flashing underneath the lights of the bowling alley. "Yeah, yeah," he said, rolling his eyes so much they almost skyrocketed, "we get it. Curtis can do no wrong."

What was it with this guy? Ponyboy couldn't help but shift uneasily in his seat. Bryon was always trying to pick a fight with him for no particular reason. Whether it was backhanded comments or outright insults, he seemed to have something against him. Was it something he said a while back? Something he'd done? Maybe…

"Oh, don't go getting high and mighty, Bryon. Take a load off." Mark mediated the two of them, smiling like a cat. He polished off his Coke and then got up, stretching out his arms wide. Ponyboy ducked as ashes from the cigarette fell close to his hair. Finally regrown to its original color and shape, he was very disciplined about keeping his hair looking tuff. He didn't want another Windrixville, because he never heard the end of that one from Two-Bit or Steve.

Steve! He'd totally forgotten about Steve. Still working at the DX, fixing up cars, getting his elbows greasy, Steve was the same old guy. Except he'd gotten drafted too, but he wasn't part of much in 'Nam other than a few ambushes and a little war action. Compared to Soda's experience, Steve hadn't seen much of anything. Soda couldn't even work at the DX like Steve could. Sometimes the cars with fouled spark plugs backfired. Ponyboy remembered the day he and Sodapop were down at the DX for old time's sake, and one of the cars Steve had been working on backfired like a gunshot. Ponyboy had seen Soda once after it happened… he had been so white he was almost translucent. Even Steve looked pretty blanched himself. Soda hadn't been back to the DX since.

And Two-Bit! He'd finally made it out of high school. He got lucky and his number wasn't picked for the draft, so he got a semi-steady course down at the community college. It was kind of a thing to be proud of him for. He'd really turned his life around at that point, planning on getting an associate's degree, going to a trade school, and getting a good old blue-collar job. If he couldn't use his brains, he could certainly use his hands. Ponyboy's and his paths didn't diverge as often as they used to. Sure, Pony saw him around and all, but Two quit bumming around the Curtis house as often.

"Curtis is really a space cadet, isn't he? If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was high off weed or something." Bryon's voice was a harsh reminder of the here and now. Pony snapped out of his thoughts instantly and took another drag off of his cigarette, his eyes slightly narrowing at Bryon. If this guy's goal was to make Ponyboy dislike him, he sure was achieving it.

Ponyboy squinted at the time on the large clock hanging on the cotton-candy blue wall of the bowling alley. 5:35. Darry would be home soon, and he couldn't even muster up enough emotion to really care. He was seventeen now, right? Darry couldn't ground him, he couldn't tie him down like a caged bird forever. Ponyboy would always flap against him, no matter how tight the ropes Darry set on his wings were. He'd get loose someday, and he was starting to think he'd never look back.

But on the other hand, wasn't it just a sign that Darry cared enough about him to be worried about his whereabouts? It wasn't unfair that he got grounded. He deserved that grounding and then some, really. Staying out until 12:00 A.M. on a school night was going against one of the rules Darry had laid down the foundation for when his parents died: Don't skip curfew. So in reality, Darry was being as fair as he could get. And here Ponyboy was, breaking his rules once again. It was a wonder how Darry hadn't split the vein in his forehead yet.

"Let's go out cruising," Mark said suddenly, sitting up from where he was laying on the plastic cushioning of the booth they were sitting at. Ponyboy looked around the empty bowling alley and shrugged. He didn't really want to go home all that much anyway. Darry could get as mad at him as he wanted to. Ponyboy would simply refuse to conform. Darry could lock every door in that house and he still wouldn't be able to tie him down. The pure will of a seventeen-year-old boy was too much for even Darry to contain. Or at least, that's what Ponyboy thought.

Bryon shook his head and started in on another smoke. "I'm going to go out looking for Angela or something. See if she wants to hang out."

"Oh, come on man," Mark groaned, "give her up already. She's already got her eyes on another guy or something. You're old news."

For some reason, Bryon's eyes suddenly grew hard and his steely gaze fixated on Ponyboy. Totally oblivious, Ponyboy just stared at him with the classic hey-what-did-I-do look. Bryon sighed, agitated, and tossed away his still-fresh cigarette, grumbling as he walked out of the bowling alley.

"What got up his ass?" Ponyboy muttered, watching Bryon cross the street through the glass front doors of the bowling alley. "That was a perfectly good smoke."

Mark just shrugged and bent down to tie his shoe. He squinted up at Ponyboy as he looped the shoe strings together. "Bryon… well, he's alright if you know him like I do. He's just too touchy, y'know? You can't get too bent out of shape over stuff like he does or else you'll never enjoy your life." Mark finished tying his shoelace and stood up, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I've been trying to tell him that for as long as I've known him."

Mark really was the coolest guy Ponyboy knew. He coasted through his life as if he knew what was happening next, but he hardly ever did. That's why people just gravitated toward Mark. He was a people-magnet.

The two of them left the deserted bowling alley for something better. The soles of their shoes scuffed against the cold pavement as they walked toward the Ribbon. Ponyboy couldn't find much reason why they were going to the Ribbon at 6 o'clock on a Wednesday, but he shrugged and followed Mark anyway.

"I would get a beer or two," Mark said as they were walking down Peoria Avenue that led to the Ribbon, "but they all sell this three-two stuff. I know places where I could get better beer. I can't stand that three-two law. It's idiotic."

Ponyboy simply shrugged. At fourteen, he hadn't had much of a taste for beer, but when he was sixteen, he got his first real taste and thought it was pretty okay so long as he drank it responsibly. Getting buzzed made you feel alright for a few hours, but getting drunk had its consequences. He couldn't stand the dopes at those parties that got absolutely wasted and then acted like they didn't know a damn thing for the rest of the night. A slight buzz was okay, but getting shitfaced? That wasn't real high on his list of things he wanted to do.

"I know a few guys around here," Mark had been explaining. Ponyboy realized he had tuned him out, all caught up in his thoughts about three-two beer and idiotic parties. "They've got a car they'll let us use. We can go out on the freeway or something and drive around for a while."

Ponyboy wondered why these were the things his generation did. Speeding around in a convertible, getting real well-known with the girls, and drinking beers. What was the point of it all? For a second, he almost found himself wondering what he would do when he got out of high school and convertibles and girls no longer mattered. It felt like every day was some preamble to something better, and in that moment, Ponyboy pledged himself to live in the moment for at least a day. So, he shook off his troubled mind and focused on his and Mark's feet matching stride on the pavement, and the cold air of a freezing December.

"His name's Terry Jones," Mark rattled on as the familiar Pennington's Drive-In, the place to be at night on the Ribbon, came into view. "I think you'll like him. He's alright."

"Terry? Yeah, I know the guy," Pony mumbled as he stared at all of the shops and drive-ins that were so lively at night. Right now, in the evening sun, the Ribbon looked a little abandoned, what without the tens of hundreds of cars cruising up and down the strip. There were a few cars on the street, but they were mostly family cars, like station wagons. They didn't look like cars that a teenager would proudly go sporting on the Ribbon. It was the running errands hour for most of the adults in Tulsa, anyway.

The two boys walked past the more populous part of the Ribbon and toward the downtown neighborhoods, where Ponyboy assumed that Terry Jones lived. Downtown was much rougher than the East side, because all the hoods hung out around there. Most of the apartments down there were in disrepair—cracked sidewalls, old scaffolding in the alleys, and weeds growing out of any crack there was. What was it with plants and cracks in the pavement?

They came to this cream-colored door. Ponyboy and Mark hopped up the cement steps leading up to said door and Mark knocked a few times. He did it in a very specific pattern, probably to let this Terry guy know it was just him.

It took a few moments, but the lock on the inside of the door clicked and Terry opened the door, peering at the two of them. Recognition came into his eyes and his defensive demeanor dropped instantly. He stuck out his hand for Mark to slap it, did the same to Ponyboy, and then asked, "What're y'all o'er here for?"

Mark kept his hands firmly in his pockets as he asked, "Mind if we use the old Plymouth for a minute? I'm itchin' for a drive but I don't wanna get caught with no stolen cars again, like me 'n Bryon did last night."

That certainly got Ponyboy's attention. He turned to Mark, surprised, and hissed, "You didn't return that car last night like you said you would?"

"Cool it, man. I didn't rat you out. I just had to go visit my probation officer at lunch hour during school. I said I got it covered. Everything's fine," Mark assured, acting as if it were a daily occurrence to get caught by the police, and then he turned back to Terry. "So, we can use it, right?"

Terry, who honestly looked a little soused, shrugged his shoulders limply. "I'm not using it. But you better bring it back tomorrow. Don't go getting it into any accidents, you hear? I worked real hard on that car."

Ponyboy glanced around at the car parked in the driveway next to his apartment door. It looked like he worked hard on it, all right. It was a '50s model, but he'd souped the thing up so much that it looked like the ones they sold in the dealerships, despite being a little weather-beaten. It was dark black, shiny, with rust around the edges. It had some dents here and there, and was starting to show its wear and tear, but it was a pretty fine looking car for being from '58.

"I don't plan on getting into any accidents. It'll be fine." Mark said smoothly. Terry went back inside his house, shuffled around for a moment, and tossed the keys to him. He caught them in his hands and flashed a grin at Terry. "Thanks, man."

Ponyboy and Mark both hopped down the cement stairs, which were kind of slick with frost, and popped open the car door. They got in the car, which was no warmer than the temperatures outside. The leather seats were freezing on Ponyboy's skin, so he covered his hands with the ends of his shirtsleeves. Even inside the car, he could see his breath. Mark turned around and backed the car out onto the main road, and then turned left back on to Peoria.

"So, Curtis," Mark said as he drove, "you planning on getting a job soon?"

Ponyboy, caught slightly off guard by Mark's sudden question, lifted an eyebrow and shrugged. "I don't know. My brother wants me to, but I just wouldn't be happy working at that gas station like my middle brother was. An' I don't know any other places around here to get a job."

Mark glanced over at him from the driver's seat and adjusted the radio volume, which was set to a station playing My Generation by The Who. "I've got some connections, if you know what I mean. I know a few guys around here who like to drop acid. People pay tons of money for dope." Mark explained smoothly. Ponyboy shifted uneasily in his seat. Mark made him a bit nervous, to tell the truth. Selling dope for cash? Now that was no expertise that Ponyboy even wanted to fraternize with, let alone do. Suddenly, as he glanced at him, Mark didn't seem so cool anymore.

"I think I'll pass," Ponyboy answered just as smoothly as Mark had proposed. Mark laughed slightly and scratched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, alright man. But it makes serious dough, I'm telling you. And hey, you better not breathe a word of what I'm doin' to anyone else, unless they want to buy some from me. You got that? I can't have the police on me any more than they already are." Mark told him, his voice suddenly a whole octave lower than it had been before. When Ponyboy looked at him, his dark gold eyes were hard and serious. Ponyboy put up his hands like a criminal at gunpoint.

"I wasn't planning on saying nothin', man. Cool off." he said simply. Mark seemed pleased with that answer and bounced right back to his friendly-lion self. Unnerved, Ponyboy watched him for a moment more before staring straight ahead at the yellow light. Mark pulled the car to a stop. Ponyboy looked to his left, and to his surprise, there were some Socs in the car opposite to them. Socy, rich-kid groups had been getting strange. It seemed that the style was to dress like a greaser. They walked around with their shirttails out, their hair combed like Ponyboy used to do his. What a bunch of phonies.

The phony Socs' eyes caught his and they started jeering at the two boys in the car. Mark's eyes simply flickered over to theirs and he put his foot on the gas, giving the engine a slight rev. Ponyboy knew this all too well from his days of watching the drag races.

"You're seriously going to race them?" Ponyboy asked as he stared ahead at the almost-empty strip of road in front of them. Mark grinned like a cat as the Socs did the same. It was almost like anticipation as they waited for the light to change. Ponyboy's nerves were so on edge that his fingertips felt like ants were crawling all over them.

Green. Mark gunned the car so hard that Ponyboy's back was pressed flat against the seat, the cold wind from the half-open window whipping his hair as they took off down the street. He watched bewilderedly as the Socs held neck and neck with them… and then slowly faded back. Then he turned to Mark, who was still pressing his foot down on the gas pedal. He's not going to stop, he thought suddenly as the light in front of them turned yellow. The speedometer hit eighty-five and kept climbing. They were going so fast that the wheels of the car were skimming over the road, that everything was a blur. The wind was rushing so loudly past his ears that Roger Daltrey's voice screaming the words 'talkin' 'bout my generation' from the radio was lost in the whipping noise of the wind that filled the car. His heart was hammering so hard against his chest that he thought it was about to climb up his throat.

He half-thought the engine would give out, seeing as it was an old car and all, but it kept going strong. Mark's eyes were wild as he zoomed through the red light, and finally, when traffic appeared before them, Mark slammed on the brakes. The car had no seatbelts, so all Ponyboy could do was grip the dash for dear life. The car slowed to a stop just in time to hear the end of the song. It seemed all he could hear was My Generation and the pounding of his heart. He bet that The Who could've used his heartbeat as a metronome, it was going so fast.

"Holy shit," Ponyboy breathed in the silence of the car. Mark turned to him, a wild look in his eyes.

"Wasn't that just a rush?" he said as the light turned green and the cars in front of them began moving. They'd gone from the beginning of the street to the end of it in a matter of seconds, but those seconds were the longest seconds of Ponyboy's life.

"I think you should drop me off at my house now," was all Ponyboy said, his heart still going way too fast for his liking. Mark laughed, almost crazily, and started going toward their side of the town.

"I love it when I can hit ninety on the Ribbon," Mark explained as they meandered over to the East side, "it's so exhilarating, y'know? That's why you gotta live in the moment, man. Stop thinking about tomorrow and just think about now."

Ponyboy found himself actually finding meaning behind his words. He shot Mark a half-grin as they pulled up to his corner of the street. "Yeah, I guess so. Catch me tomorrow or something, if my brother doesn't ground me until the end of eternity."

He got out onto his street. Mark stuck a peace sign out the window, just to be funny, and sped off, probably doing about sixty-five in a neighborhood zone. It was a wonder how that idiot hadn't gotten into a car accident yet.

Similar to the night before, Ponyboy took his sweet time walking to his house. Even at seventeen, the wrath of an angry older brother was something to be feared. And tonight, he could rest assured that Darry would be angry as hell. He approached his house, undid the gate lock, and slowly, slowly walked up his porch steps. Darry's truck was in the driveway, so Ponyboy knew he was home. As if it were routine, he peeked into the blinds. Darry, like always, was in his recliner. This time he didn't look just annoyed. He looked mad.

Ponyboy swallowed and turned the door handle. The hinges creaked as he opened the door and stepped into the warmth of his home. The warm air was a relief from the freezing cold outside, but he knew it wasn't going to feel this warm for long. Darry's ice-blue eyes fixated on him as soon as the door shut behind him and narrowed like a fighting cat's. He stood up, the vein already popping out of his forehead, and growled, "I thought I grounded you."

A/N: Getting to the point of the story... sorry if it's a little slow.

Songs used: My Generation by The Who.