The Outsiders
Day One
CHAPTER 1.
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 neigh-
borhood rarely bothers to get a haircut. Besides, I look
better with long hair.
I had a long walk home and no company but I usu-
ally 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 some-
one 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 any-
body; 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.
Anyway, I went on walking home, thinking about
the movie, and then suddenly wishing I had some
company. Greasers can't walk alone too much or
they'll get jumped, or someone will come by and
scream "Greaser" at them, which doesn't make you
feel too hot, if you know what I mean. We get jumped
by the Socs I'm not sure how you spell it, but it's the
abbreviation for the Socials, the jet set, the West-side
rich kids. It's like the term "greaser," which is used to
class all us boys on the East Side.
We're poorer than the Socs and the middle class. I
reckon we're wilder, too. Not like the Socs, who jump
greasers and wreck houses and throw beer blasts for
kicks, and get editorials in the paper for being a pub-
lic disgrace one day and an asset to society the next.
Greasers are almost like hoods; we steal things and
drive old souped-up cars and hold up gas stations and
have a gang fight once in a while. I don't mean I do
things like that. Darry would kill me if I got into
trouble with the police. Since Mom and Dad were
killed in an auto wreck, the three of us get to stay to-
gether only as long as we behave. So Soda and I stay
out of trouble as much as we can, and we're careful
not to get caught when we can't. I only mean that
most greasers do things like that, just like we wear our
hair long and dress in blue jeans and T shirts, or leave
our shirttails out and wear leather jackets and tennis
shoes or boots. I'm not saying that either Socs or grea-
ers are better; that's just the way things are.
I could have waited to go to the movies until Darry
or Sodapop got off work. They would have gone with
me, or driven me there, or walked along, although
Soda just can't sit still long enough to enjoy a movie
and they bore Darry to death. Darry thinks his life is
enough without inspecting other people's Or I could
have gotten one of the gang to come along, one of the
four boys Darry and Soda and I have grown up with
and consider family. We're almost as close as brothers;
when you grow up in a tight-knit neighborhood like
ours you get to know each other real well. If I had
thought about it, I could have called Darry and he
would have come by on his way home and picked me
up, or Two-Bit Mathews-one of our gang-would
have come to get me in his car if I had asked him, but
sometimes I just don't we my head. It drives my
brother Darry nuts when I do stuff like that, `cause
I'm supposed to be smart; I make good grades and
have a high IQ and everything, but I don't use my
head. Besides, I like walking.
I about decided I didn't like it so much, though,
when I spotted that red Corvair trailing me. I was al-
most two blocks from home then, so I stared walking
a little faster. I had never been jumped, but I had
seen Johnny after four socs- got hold of him, and it
wasn't pretty. Johnny was scared of his own shadow
after that. Johnny was sixteen then.
I knew it wasn't any use though-the fast walking,
I mean-even before the Corvair pulled up beside me
and five Socs got Out. I got pretty scared-I'm kind of
small for fourteen even though I have a good build,
and those guys were bigger than me. I automatically
hitched my thumbs in my jeans and slouched, won-
dering if I could get away if I made a break for it. I
remembered Johnny-his face all cut up and bruised,
and I remembered how he had cried when we found
him, half-concious, in the corner lot. Johnny had it
awful rough at home-it took a lot to make him cry.
I was sweating something fierce, although I was
cold. I could feel my palms getting clammy and the
perspiration running down my back. I get like that
when I'm real scared. I glanced around for a pop
bottle or a stick or something-Steve Randle, Soda's
best buddy, had once held off four guys with a busted
pop bottle-but there was nothing. So I stood there
like a bump on a log while they surrounded me. I
don't use my head. They walked around slowly, silent-
ly, smiling.
"Hey, greaser one said in an over-friendly voice.
"We're gonna do you a favor, greaser. We're gonna
cut all that long greasy hair off."
He had on a madras shirt. I can still see it. Blue
madras. One of them laughed, then cussed me out in
a low voice. I couldn't think of anything to say. There
just isn't a whole lot you can say while waiting to get
mugged, so I kept my mouth shut.
"Need a haircut, greaser?" The medium-sized blond
pulled a knife out of his back pocket and flipped the
blade open.
I finally thought of something to say. "No." I was
backing up, away from that knife. Of course I backed
right into one of them. They had me down in a sec-
ond. They had my arms and legs pinned down and
one of them was sitting on my chest with his knees on
my elbows, and if you don't think that hurts, you're
crazy. I could smell English leather shaving lotion
and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would
suffocate before they did anything. I was scared so bad
I was wishing I would. I fought to get loose, and al-
most did for a second; then they tightened up on me
and the one on my chest slugged me a couple of times.
So I lay still, swearing at them between gasps. A blade
was held against my throat.
"How'd you like that haircut to begin just below the
chin?"
It occurred to me then that they could kill me. I
went wild. I started screaming for Soda, Darry, any-
one. Someone put his hand over my mouth, and I bit it
as hard as I could, tasting the blood running through
my teeth I heard a muttered curse and got slugged
again, and they were stuffing a handkerchief in my
mouth. One of them kept saying, "Shut him up, for
Pete's sake, shut him up!"
Then there were shouts and the pounding of feet,
and the Socs jumped up and left me lying there, gasp-
ing. I lay there and wondered what in the world was
happening-people were jumping over me and run-
ning by me and I was too dazed to figure it out. Then
someone had me under the armpits and was hauling
me to my feet. It was Darry.
"Are you all right, Ponyboy?"
He was shaking me and I wished he'd stop. I was
dizzy enough anyway. I could tell it was Darry though
partly because of the voice and partly because Dar-
ry's always rough with me without meaning to be.
"I'm okay. Quit shaking me, Darry, I'm okay."
He stopped instantly. "I'm sorry."
He wasn't really. Darry isn't ever sorry for anything
he does. It seems funny to me that he should look just
exactly like my father and act exactly the opposite
from him. My father was only forty when he died and
he looked twenty-five and a lot of people thought Dar-
ry and Dad were brothers instead of father and son.
But they only looked alike-my father was never rough
with anyone without meaning to be.
Darry is six-feet-two, and broad-shouldered and
muscular. He has dark-brown hair that kicks out And
front and a slight cowlick in the back-just like Dad's,
but Darry's eyes are his own. He's got eyes that are
like two pieces of pale bluegreen ice. They've got a
determined set to them, like the rest of him. He looks
older than twenty-tough, cool, and smart. He would
be real handsome if his eyes weren't so cold. He
doesn't understand anything that is not plain hard
fact. But he uses his head.
I sat down again, rubbing my cheek where I'd been
slugged the most.
Darry jammed his fists in his pockets. "They didn't
hurt you too bad, did they?"
They did. I was smarting and aching and my chest
was sore and I was so nervous my hands were shaking
and I wanted to start bawling, but you just don't say
that to Darry.
"I'm okay."
Sodapop came loping back. By then I had figured
that all the noise I had heard was the gang coming to
rescue me. He dropped down beside me, examining
my head.
"You got cut up a little, huh, Ponyboy?"
I only looked at him blankly. "I did?"
He pulled out a handkerchief, wet the end of it
with his tongue, and pressed it gently against the side
of my head. "You're bleedin' like a stuck pig."
"I am?"
"Look!" He showed me the handkerchief, reddened
as if by magic. "Did they pull a blade on you?"
I remembered the voice: "Need a haircut, greaser?"
The blade must have slipped while he was trying to
shut me up. "Yeah."
Soda is handsomer than anyone else I know. Not
like Darry-Sodas movie-star kind of handsome, the
kind that people stop on the street to watch go by.
He's not as talI as Darry, and he's a little slimmer, but
he has a finely drawn, sensitive face that somehow
manages to be reckless and thoughtful at the same
time. He's got dark-gold hair that he combs back-
long and silky and straight-and in the summer the
sun bleaches it to a shining wheat-gold. His eyes are
dark brown-lively, dancing, recklessly laughing eyes
that can be gentle and sympathetic one moment and
blazing with anger the next. He has Dad's eyes, but
Soda is one of a kind. He can get drunk in a drag race
or dancing without ever getting near alcohol. In our
neighborhood it's rare to find a kid who doesn't drink
once in a while. But Soda never touches a drop-he
doesn't need to. He gets drunk on just plain living.
And he understands everybody.
He looked at me more closely. I looked away hur-
riedly, because, if you want to know the truth, I was
starting to bawl. I knew I was as white as I felt and I
was shaking like a leaf.
Soda just put his hand on my shoulder. "Easy, Pony-
boy. They ain't gonna hurt you no more."
"I know," I said, but the ground began to blur and
I felt hot tears running down my cheeks. I brushed
them away impatiently. "I'm just a little spooked,
that's all." I drew a quivering breath and quit crying.
You just don't cry in front of Darry. Not unless you're
hurt like Johnny had been that day we found him in
the vacant lot. Compared to Johnny I wasn't hurt at
all.
Soda rubbed my hair. "You're an okay kid, Pony."
I had to grin at him-Soda can make you grin no
matter what. I guess it's because he's always grinning
so much himself. "You're crazy, Soda, out of your
mind."
Dairy looked as if he'd like to knock our heads to-
gether. "You're both nuts."
Soda merely cocked one eyebrow, a trick he'd picked
up from Two-Bit. "It seems to run in this family."
Darry stared at him for a second, then cracked a
grin. Sodapop isn't afraid of him like everyone else
and enjoys teasing him. I'd just as soon tease a full-
grown grizzly; but for some reason, Darry seems to
like being teased by Soda.
Our gang had chased the Socs to their car and
heaved rocks at them. They came running toward us
now-four lean, hard guys. They were all as tough as
nails and looked it. I had grown up with them, and
they accepted me, even though I was younger, because
I was Darry and Soda's kid brother and I kept my
mouth shut good.
Steve Randle was seventeen, tall and lean, with
thick greasy hair he kept combed in complicated
swirls. He was cocky, smart, and Soda's best buddy
since grade school. 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 be-
cause 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 tagalong 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.
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 realname was Keith, and we hard-
ly 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. Ev-
erything 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 rea-
son, 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 re-
minded me of Will Rogers-maybe it was the grin.
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 ar-
rested at the age of ten. He was tougher than the rest
of us-tougher, colder, meaner. The shade of differ-
ence that separates a greaser from a hood wasn't pres-
ent in Dally. He was as wild as the boys in the down-
town 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 armed gangs around, like the Riv-
er 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.
He had quite a reputation. They have a file on him
down at the police station. He had been arrested, he
got drunk, he rode in rodeos, lied, cheated, stole,
rolled drunks, jumped small kids-he did everything.
I didn't like him, but he was smart and you had to re-
spect him.
Johnny Cade was last and least. 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 al-
ways beating him up, and his mother ignored him, ex-
cept 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 affec-
tion are.
I wiped my eyes hurriedly. "Didya catch em?"
"Nup. They got away this time, the dirty."
Two Bit went on cheerfully, calling the Socs every
name he could think of or make up.
"The kid's-okay?"
"I'm okay." I tried to think of something to say. I'm
usually pretty quiet around people, even the gang. I
changed the subject. "I didn't know you were out of
the cooler yet, Dally."
"Good behavior. Got off early." Dallas lit a ciga-
rette and banded it to Johnny. Everyone sat down to
have a smoke and relax. A smoke always lessens the
tension, I had quit trembling and my color was back.
The cigarette was calming me down. Two-Bit cocked
an eyebrow. "Nice-lookin' bruise you got there, kid."
I touched my cheek gingerly. "Really?"
Two-Bit nodded sagely. "Nice cut, too. Makes you
look tough."
Tough and tuft are two different words. Tough is
the same as rough; tuft means cool, sharp-like a tuff-
looking Mustang or a tuff record. In our neighbor-
hood both are compliments.
Steve flicked his ashes at me. "What were you doin',
walkin' by your lonesome?" Leave it to good old-Steve
to bring up something like that.
"I Was comin' home from the movies. I didn't
think.
"You don't ever think," Darry broke in, "not at
home or anywhere when it counts. You must think at
school, with all those good grades you bring home,
and you've always got your nose in a book, but do you
ever use your head for common sense? No sirree, bub.
And if you did have to go by yourself, you should
have carried a blade."
I just stared at the hole in the toe of my tennis shoe.
Me and Darry just didn't dig each other. I never
could please him. He would have hollered at me for
carrying a blade if I had carried one. If I brought
home Bs, he wanted A, and if I got A he wanted
to make sure they stayed A If I was playing football,
I should be in studying, and if I was reading, I should
be out playing football. He never hollered at Sodapop
not even when Soda dropped out of school or got
tickets for speeding. He just hollered at me.
Soda was glaring at him. "Leave my kid brother
alone, you hear? It ain't his fault he likes to go to the
movies, and it ain't his fault the Socs like to jump us,
and if he had been carrying a blade it would have
been a good excuse to cut him to ribbons."
Soda always takes up for me.
Darry said impatiently, "When I want my kid
brother to tell me what to do with my other kid broth.
er, I'll ask you-kid brother." But he laid off me. He
always does when Sodapop tells him to. Most of the
time.
"Next time get one of us to go with you, Ponyboy,"
Two-Bit said. "Any of us will."
"Speakin' of movies Dally yawned, flipping away
his cigarette butt. "I'm walkin' over to the Nightly
Double tomorrow night. Anybody want to come and
hunt some action?"
Steve shook his head. "Me and Soda are pickin' up
Evie and Sandy for the game."
He didn't need to look at me the way he did right
then. I wasn't going to ask if I could come. I'd never
tell Soda, because he really likes Steve a lot, but some-
times I can't stand Steve Randle. I mean it. Sometimes
I hate him.
Darry sighed, just like I knew he would. Darry nev-
er had time to do anything anymore. "I'm working to-
morrow night."
Dally looked at the rest of us. "How about y'all?
Two-Bit? Johnnycake, you and Pony wanta come?"
"Me, and Johnny'll come," I said. I knew Johnny
wouldn't open his mouth unless he was forced to.
"Okay, Darry?"
"Yeah, since it ain't a school night." Darry was real
good about letting me go places on the weekends. On
school nights I could hardly leave the house.
"I was plannin on getting boozed up tomorrow
night," Two-Bit said. "If I don't, I'll walk over and
find y'all."
Steve Was looking at Dally's hand. His ring, which
he had rolled a drunk senior to get, was back on his
finger.
"You break up with Sylvia again?"
"Yeah, and this time it's for good. That little broad
was two-timin' me again while I was in jail."
I thought of Sylvia and Evie and Sandy and Two-
Bit's many blondes. They were the only kind of girls
that would look at us, I thought. Tough, loud girls
who wore too much eye makeup and giggled and
swore too much. I liked Soda's girl Sandy just fine,
though. Her hair was natural blond and her laugh
was soft, like her china-blue eyes. She didn't have a
real good home or anything and was our kind-
greaser-but she was a real nice girl. Still, lots of times
I wondered what other girls were like. The girls who
were bright-eyed and had their dresses a decent length
and acted as if they'd like to spit on us if given a
chance. Some were afraid of us, and remembering Dal-
las Winston, I didn't blame them. But most looked at
us like we were dirt-gave us the same kind of look
that the Socs did when they came by in their Mus-
tangs and Corvairs and yelled "Grease!" at us. I won-
dered about them. The girls, I mean. Did they cry
when their boys were arrested, like Evie did when
Steve got hauled in, or did they run out on them the
way Sylvia did Dallas? But maybe their boys didn't get
arrested or beaten up or busted up in rodeos.
I was still thinking about it while I was doing my
homework that night. I had to read Great Expecta-
tions for English, and that kid Pip, he reminded me of
us, the way he felt marked lousy because he wasn't a
gentleman or anything, and the way that girl kept
looking down on him. That happened to me once.
One time in biology I had to dissect a worm, and the
razor wouldn't cut, so I used my switchblade. The
minute I flicked it out, I forgot what I was doing or
I would never have done it, this girl right beside me
kind of gasped, and said, "They are right. You are a
hood." That didn't make me feel so hot. There were a
lot of Socs in that class, I get put into A classes be-
cause I'm supposed to be smart, and most of them
thought it was pretty funny. I didn't, though. She was
a cute girl. She looked real good in yellow.
We deserve a lot of our trouble, I thought. Dallas
deserves everything he gets, and should get worse, if
you want the truth. And Two-Bit-he doesn't really
want or need half the things he swipes from stores. He
just thinks it's fun to swipe everything that isn't
nailed down. I can understand why Sodapop and
Steve get into drag races and fights so much, though-
both of them have too much energy, too much feeling,
with no way to blow it off.
"Rub harder, Soda," I heard Darry mumbling.
"You're gonna put me to sleep."
I looked through the door. Sodapop was giving Dar-
ry a back-rub. Darry is always pulling muscles; he
roofs houses and he's always trying to carry two bun-
dles of roofing up the ladder. I knew Soda would put
him to sleep, because Soda can put about anyone out
when he sets his head to it. He thought Darry worked
too hard anyway. I did, too.
Darry didn't deserve to work like an old man when
he was only twenty. He had been a real popular guy
in school; he was captain of the football team and he
had been voted Boy of the Year. But we just didn't
have the money for him to go to college, even with the
athletic scholarship he won. And now he didn't have
time between jobs to even think about college. So he
never went anywhere and never did anything any-
more, except work out at gyms and go skating with
some old friends of his sometimes.
I rubbed my cheek where it had turned purple. I
had looked in the mirror, and it did make me look
tough. But Darry had made me put a Band-aid on the
cut.
I remembered how awful Johnny had looked when
he got beaten up. I had just as much right to use the
streets as the Socs did, and Johnny had never hurt
them. Why did the Socs hate us so much? We left
them alone. I nearly went to sleep over my homework
trying to figure it out.
Sodapop, who had jumped into bed by this time,
yelled sleepily for me to turn off the light and get to
bed. When I finished the chapter I was on, I did.
Lying beside Soda, staring at the wall, I kept re-
membering the faces of the Socs as they surrounded
me, that blue madras shirt the blond was wearing: and
I could still hear a thick voice: "Need a haircut,
greaser?" I shivered.
"You cold, Ponyboy?"
"A little," I lied. Soda threw one arm across my
neck. He mumbled something drowsily. "Listen,
kiddo, when Darry hollers at you. he don't mean
nothin'. He's just got more worries than somebody his
age ought to. Don't take him serious, you dig,
Pony? Don't let him bug you. He's really proud of you
cause you're so brainy. It's just because you're the
baby-I mean, he loves you a lot. Savvy?"
"Sure," I said, trying for Soda's sake to keep the sar-
casm out of my voice.
"Soda?"
"Yeah?"
"How come you dropped out?" I never have gotten
over that. I could hardly stand it when he left school.
"Cause I'm dumb. The only things I was passing
anyway were auto mechanics and gym."
"You're not dumb."
"Yeah, I am. Shut up and I'll tell you something.
Don't tell Darry, though."
"Okay."
"I think I'm gonna marry Sandy. After she gets out
of school and I get a better job and everything. I
might wait till you get out of school, though. So I can
still help Darry with the bills and stuff."
"Tuff enough. Wait till I get out, though, so you
can keep Darry off my back."
"Don't be like that, kid. I told you he don't mean
half of what he says."
"You in love with Sandy? What's it like?"
"Hum." He sighed happily. "It's real nice."
In a moment his breathing was light and regular. I
turned my head to look at him and in the moonlight
he looked like some Greek god come to earth. I won-
dered how he could stand being so handsome. Then I
sighed. I didn't quite get what he meant about Darry.
Darry thought I was just another mouth to feed and
somebody to holler at. Darry love me? I thought of
those hard, pale eyes. Soda was wrong for once, I
thought. Darry doesn't love anyone or anything, ex-
cept maybe Soda. I didn't hardly think of him as
being human. I don't care, I lied to myself, I don't
care about him either. Soda's enough, and I'd have
him until I got out of school. I don't care about Dar-
ry. But I was still lying and I knew it. I lie to myself
all the time. But I never believe me.