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The Outsiders

Day Seven

I sat down in a daze. We couldn't get hauled off now.

Not after me and Darry had finally got through to each

other, and now that the big rumble was coming up and

we would settle this Soc-greaser thing once and for all.

Not now, when Johnny needed us and Dally was still

in the hospital and wouldn't be out for the rumble.

  "No," I said out loud, and Two-Bit, who was scrap-

ing the egg off the clock, turned to stare at me.

  "No what?"

  "No, they ain't goin' to put us in a boys' home."

  "Don't worry about it," Steve said, cocksure that he

and Sodapop could handle anything that came up.

"They don't do things like that to heroes. Where're

Soda and Superman?"

  That was as far as he got, because Darry, shaved and

dressed, came in behind Steve and lifted him up off the

floor, then dropped him. We all call Darry "Super-

man  or "Muscles" at one time or another; but one

time Steve made the mistake of referring to him as "all

brawn and no brain," and Darry almost shattered

Steve's jaw. Steve didn't call him that again, but Darry

never forgave him; Darry has never really gotten over

not going to college. That was the only time I've ever

seen Soda mad at Steve, although Soda attaches no

importance to education. School bored him. No action.

  Soda came running in. "Where's the blue shirt I

washed yesterday?" He took a swig of chocolate milk

out of the container.

  "Hate to tell you, buddy," Steve said, still flat on the

floor, "but you have to wear clothes to work, There's a

law or something."

  "Oh, yeah," Soda said "Where're those wheat jeans,

too?"

  "I ironed. They're in my closet," Darry said. "Hurry

up, you're gonna be late."

  Soda ran back, muttering, "I'm hurryin', I'm hur-

rurryin'."

  Steve followed him and in a second there was the

general racket of a pillow fight. I absent-mindedly

watched Darry as he searched the icebox for chocolate

cake.

  "Darry," I said suddenly, "did you know about the

juvenile court?"

  Without turning to look at me he said evenly, "Yeah,

the cops told me last night."

  I knew then that he realized we might get separated.

I didn't want to worry him any more, but I said, "I

had one of those dreams last night. The one I can't

ever remember."

  Darry spun around to face me, genuine fear on his

face. "What?"

  I had a nightmare the night of Mom and Dad's

funeral. I'd had nightmares and wild dreams every

once in a while when I was little, but nothing like this

one. I woke up screaming bloody murder. And I never

could remember what it was that had scared me. It

scared Sodapop and Darry almost as bad as it scared

me; for night after night, for weeks on end, I would

dream this dream and wake up in a cold sweat or

screaming. And I never could remember exactly what

happened in it. Soda began sleeping with me, and it

stopped recurring so often, but it happened often

enough for Darry to take me to a doctor. The doctor

said I had too much imagination. He had a simple

cure, too: Study harder, read more, draw more, and

play football more. After a hard game of football and

four or five hours of reading, I was too exhausted,

mentally and physically, to dream anything. But Darry

never got over it, and every once in a while he would

ask me if I ever dreamed any more.

  "Was it very bad?" Two-Bit questioned. He knew

the whole story, and having never dreamed about

anything but blondes, he was interested.

  "No," I lied. I had awakened in a cold sweat and

shivering, but Soda was dead to the world. I had just

wiggled closer to him and stayed awake for a couple of

hours, trembling under his arm. That dream always

scared the heck out of me.

  Darry started to say something, but before he could

begin, Sodapop and Steve came in.

  "You know what?" Sodapop said to no one in parti-

cular. "When we stomp the Socies good, me and Stevie

here are gonna throw a big party and everybody can

get stoned. Then we'll go chase the Socs clear to

Mexico."

  "Where you gonna get the dough, little man?" Darry

had found the cake and was handing out pieces.

  "I'll think of some thing,"  Sodapop assured him be-

tween bites.

  "You going to take Sandy to the party?" I asked, just

to be saying something. Instant silence. I looked

around. "What's the deal?"

  Sodapop was staring at his feet, but his ears were

reddening. "No. She went to live with her grand-

mother in Florida."

  "How come?"

  "Look," Steve said, surprisingly angry, "does he have

to draw you a picture? It was either that or get

married, and her parents almost hit the roof at the

idea of her marryin' a sixteen-year-old kid."

  "Seventeen," Soda said softly. "I'll be seventeen in a

couple of weeks."

  "Oh," I said, embarrassed. Soda was no innocent; I

had been in on bull sessions and his bragging was as

loud as anyone's. But never about Sandy. Not ever

about Sandy. I remembered how her blue eyes had

glowed when she looked at him, and I was sorry for

her.

  There was a heavy silence. Then Darry said, "We'd

better get on to work, Pepsi-Cola." Darry rarely called

Soda by Dad's pet nickname for him, but he did so

then because he knew how miserable Sodapop was

about Sandy.

  "I hate to leave you here by yourself, Ponyboy,"

Darry said slowly. "Maybe I ought to take the day off."

  "I've stayed by my lonesome before. You can't afford

a day off."

  "Yeah, but you just got back and I really ought to

stay." 

  "I'll baby-sit him," Two-Bit said, ducking as I took a

swing at him. "I haven't got anything better to do."

  "Why don't you get a job?"  Steve said. "Ever con-

sider working for a living?"

  "Work?" Two-Bit was aghast. "And ruin my rep? I

wouldn't be baby-sittin' the kid here if I knew of some

good day-nursery open on Saturdays."

  I pulled his chair over backward and jumped on

him' but he had me down in a second. I was kind of

short on wind. I've got to cut out smoking or I won't

make track next year.

  "Holler uncle."

  "Nope," I said, struggling, but I didn't have my

usual strength.

  Darry was pulling on his jacket. "You two do up the

dishes. You can go to the movies if you want to before

you go see Dally and Johnny." He paused for a second,

watching Two-Bit squash the heck out of me. "Two-

Bit, lay off. He ain't lookin' so good. Ponyboy, you take

a couple of aspirins and go easy. You smoke more than

a pack today and I'll skin you. Understood?"

  "Yeah," I said, getting to my feet. "You carry more

than one bundle of roofing at a time today and me and

Soda'll skin you, understood?"

  He grinned one of his rare grins. "Yeah. See y'all this

afternoon."

  "Bye," I said. I heard our Ford's vvrrrooooom and

thought: Soda's driving. And they left.

  "anyway, I was walking around downtown and

started to take this short cut through an alley" Two-

Bit was telling me about one of his many exploits

while we did the dishes. I mean, while I did the dishes.

He was sitting on the cabinet, sharpening that black-

handled switchblade he was so proud of,"  and I

ran into three guys. I says Howdy and they just look

at each other. Then one says We would jump you but

since you're as slick as us we figger you don't have

nothin' worth takin'.  I says Buddy, that's the truth

and went right on. Moral: What's the safest thing to be

when one is met by a gang of sodal outcasts in an

alley?"

  "A judo expert?" I suggested.

  "No, another social outcast!" Two-Bit yelped, and

nearly fell off the cabinet from laughing so hard. I had

to grin, too. He saw things straight and made them

into something funny.

  "We're gonna clean up the house," I said. "The

reporters or police or somebody might come- by, and

anyway, it's time for those guys from the state to come

by and check up on us."

  "This house ain't messy. You oughtta see my house."

  "I have. And if you had the sense of a billy goat

you'd try to help around your place instead of bum-

ming around."

  "Shoot, kid, if I ever did that my mom would die of

shock."

  I liked Two-Bit's mother. She had the same good

humor and easygoing ways that he did. She wasn't lazy

like him, but she let him get away with murder. I don't

know, though-it's was about impossible to get mad at

him.

  When we had finished, I pulled on Dally's brown

leather jacket-the back was burned black-and we

started for Tenth Street.

  "I would drive us," Two-Bit said as we walked up

the street trying to thumb a ride, "but the brakes are

out on my car. Almost killed me and Kathy the other

night." He flipped the collar of his black leather jacket

up to serve as a windbreak while he lit a cigarette.

"You oughtta see Kathy's brother. Now there's a hood.

He's so greasy he glides when he walks. He goes to the

barber for an oil change, not a haircut."

  I would have laughed, but I had a terrific headache.

We stopped at the Tasty Freeze to buy Cokes and rest

up, and the blue Mustang that had been trailing us for

eight blocks pulled in. I almost decided to run, and

Two-Bit must have guessed this, for he shook his head

ever so slightly and tossed me a cigarette. As I lit up, 

the Socs who had jumped Johnny and me at the park

hopped out of the Mustang. I recognized Randy Ad-

derson, Marcia's boyfriend, and the tall guy that had

almost drowned me. I hated them. It was their fault

Bob was dead; their fault Johnny was dying; their fault

Soda and I might get put in a boys' home. I hated

them as bitterly and as contemptuously as Dally Win-

ston hated.

  Two-Bit put an elbow on my shoulder and leaned

against me, dragging on his cigarette. "You know the

rules. No jazz before the rumble," he said to the Socs.

  "We know," Randy said. He looked at me. "Come

here. I want to talk to you."

  I glanced at Two-Bit. He shrugged. I followed

Randy over to his car, out of earshot of the rest. We sat

there in his car for a second, silent. Golly, that was the

tuffest car I've ever been in.

  "I read about you in the paper," Randy said finally.

"How come?"

  "I don't know. Maybe I felt like playing hero."

  "I wouldn't have. I would have let those kids burn to

death."

  "You might not have. You might have done the same

thing."

  Randy pulled out a cigarette and pressed in the car

lighter. "I don't know. I don't know anything any-

more. I would never have believed a greaser could pull

something like that."

  "Greaser didn't have anything to do with it. My

buddy over there wouldn't have done it. Maybe you

would have done the same thing, maybe a friend of

yours wouldn't have. It's the individual."

  "I'm not going to show at the rumble tonight,"

Randy said slowly.

  I took a good look at him. He was seventeen or so,

but he was already old. Like Dallas was old. Cherry

had said her friends were too cool to feel anything, and

yet she could remember watchIng sunsets. Randy was

supposed to be too cool to feel anything, and yet there

was pain in his eyes.

  "I'm sick of all this. Sick and tired. Bob was a good

guy. He was the best buddy a guy ever had. I mean, he

was a good fighter and tuff and everything, but he was

a real person too. You dig?"

  I nodded.

  "He's dead-his mother has- had a nervous break-

down. They spoiled him rotten. I mean, most parents

would be proud of a kid like that-good-lookin' and

smart and everything, but they gave in to him all the

time. He kept trying to make someone say  No and

they never did. They never did. That was what he

wanted. For somebody to tell him No. To have

somebody lay down the law, set the limits, give him

something solid to stand on. That's what we all want,

really. One time,"  Randy tried to grin, but I

could tell he was close to tears" one time he came

home drunker than anything. He thought sure they

were gonna raise the roof. You know what they did?

They thought it was something they'd done. They

thought it was their fault-that they'd failed him and

driven him to it or something. They took all the blame

and didn't do anything to him. If his old man had just

belted him-just once, he might still be alive. I don't

know why I'm telling you this. I couldn't tell anyone

else. My friends-they'd think I was off my rocker or

turning soft. Maybe I am. I just know that I'm sick of

this whole mess. That kid-your buddy, the one that

got burned-he might die?"

  "Yeah," I said, trying not to think about Johnny.

  "And tonight,   people get hurt in rumbles,

maybe killed. I'm sick of it because it doesn't do any

good. You can't win, you know that, don't you?" And

when I remained silent he went on: "You can't win,

even if you whip us.  You'll still be where you were

before, at the bottom.  And we'll still be the lucky ones

with all the breaks. So it doesn't do any good, the fight-

ing and the killing. It doesn't prove a thing. We'll for-

get it if you win, or if you don't. Greasers will still be

greasers and Socs will still be Socs. Sometimes I think

it's the ones in the middle that are really the lucky

stiffs."  He took a deep breath. "So I'd fight if I

thought it'd do any good. I think I'm going to leave

town. Take my little old Mustang and all the dough I

can carry and get out."

  "Running away won't help."

  "Oh, hell, I know it," Randy half-sobbed, "but what

can I do? I'm marked chicken if I punk out at the

rumble, and I'd hate myself if I didn't. I don't know

what to do."

  "I'd help you if I could," I said. I remembered

Cherry's voice: Things are rough all over. I knew

then what she meant.

  He looked at me. "No, you wouldn't. I'm a Soc. You

get a little money and the whole world hates you."

  "No," I said, "you hate the whole world."

  He just looked at me,  from the way he looked he

could have been ten years older than he was. I got out

of the car. "You would have saved those kids if you had

been there," I said. "You'd have saved them the same

as we did."

  "Thanks, grease," he said, trying to grin. Then he

stopped. "I didn't mean that. I meant, thanks, kid."

  "My name's Ponyboy," I said. "Nice talkin' to you,

Randy."

  I walked over to Two-Bit, and Randy honked for his

friends to come and get into the car.

  "What'd he want?" Two-Bit asked. "What'd Mr.

Super-soc have to say?"

  He ain't a Soc," I said, "he's just a guy. He just

wanted to talk,"

  "You want to see a movie before we go see Johnny

and Dallas?"

  "Nope," I said, lighting up another weed. I still had

a headache, but I felt better. Socs were just guys after

all. Things were rough all over, but it was better that

way. That way you could tell the other guy was human

too.

                  CHAPTER 8.

The nurses wouldn't let us see Johnny. He was in

critical condition. No visitors. But Two-Bit wouldn't

take no for an answer. That was his buddy in there

and he aimed to see him. We both begged and pleaded,

but we were getting nowhere until the doctor found

out what was going on.

  "Let them go in," he said to the nurse. "He's been

asking for them. It can't hurt now."

  Two-Bit didn't notice the expression in his voice. It's

true, I thought numbly, he is dying. We went in,

practically on tiptoe, because the quietness of the

hospital scared us. Johnny was lying still, with his eyes

closed, but when Two-Bit said, "Hey, Johnny kid," he

opened them and looked at us, trying to grin. "Hey,

y'all."

  The nurse, who was pulling the shades open, smiled

and said, "So he can talk after all."

  Two-Bit looked around. "They treatin' you okay,

kid?" 

  "Don't "  Johnny gasped "don't let me put

enough grease on my hair."

  "Don't talk," Two-Bit said, pulling up a chair, "just

listen. We'll bring you some hair grease next time.

We're havin' the big rumble tonight."

  Johnny's huge black eyes widened a little, but he

didn't say anything.

  "It's too bad you and Dally can't be in it. It's the

first big rumble we've had-not countin' the time we

whipped Shepard's outfit."

  "He came by," Johnny said.

  "Tim Shepard?"

Johnny nodded. "Came to see Dally."

  Tim and Dallas had always been buddies.

  "Did you know you got your name in the paper for

being a hero?"

  Johnny almost grinned as he nodded.  "Tuff

enough," he managed and by the way his eyes were

glowing, I figured Southern gentlemen had nothing

on Johnny Cade.

  I could see that even a few words were tiring him

out; he was as pale as the pillow and looked awful.

Two-bit pretended not to notice.

  "You want anything besides hair grease, kid?"

  Johnny barely nodded. "The book" he looked at

me, "can you get another one?"

  Two-Bit looked at me too. I hadn't told him about

Gone with the Wind.

  "He wants a copy of Gone with the Wind so I can

read it to him," I explained. "You want to run down to

the drugstore and get one?"

  "Okay," Two-Bit said cheerfully. "Don't y'all run

off."

  I sat down in Two-Bits chair and tried to think of

something to say. "Dally's gonna be okay," I said

finally. "And Darry and me, we're okay now."

  I knew Johnny understood what I meant. We had

always been close buddies, and those lonely days in the

church strengthened our friendship. He tried to smile

again, and then suddenly went white and closed his

eyes tight.

  "Johnny" I said, alarmed. "Are you okay?"

  He nodded, keeping his eyes closed. "Yeah, it just

hurts sometimes. It usually don't,   I can't feel

anything below the middle of my back."

  He lay breathing heavily for a moment. "I'm pretty

bad off, ain't I, Pony?"

  "You'll be okay," I said with fake cheerfulness. "You

gotta be. We couldn't get along without you."

  The truth of that last statement hit me. We couldn't

get along without him. We needed Johnny as much as

he needed the gang. And for the same reason.

  "I won't be able to walk again," Johnny started,

then faltered. "Not even on crutches. Busted my back."

  "You'll be okay," I repeated firmly. Don't start

crying, I commanded myself, don't start crying, you'll

scare Johnny.

  "You want to know something, Ponyboy? I'm scared

stiff. I used to talk about killing myself." He drew

a quivering breath. "I don't want to die now. It ain't

long enough. Sixteen years ain't long enough. I

wouldn't mind it so much if there wasn't so much stuff

I ain't done yet and so many things I ain't seen. It's not

fair. You know what? That time we were in Windrix-

ville was the only time I've been away from our

neighborhood."

  "You ain't gonna die," I said, trying to hold my

voice down. "And don't get juiced up, because the doc

won't let us see you no more if you do."

  Sixteen years on the streets and you can learn a lot.

But all the wrong things, not the things you want to

learn. Sixteen years on the streets and you see a lot.

But all the wrong sights, not the sights you want to see.

  Johnny dosed his eyes and rested quietly for a

minute. Years of living on the East Side teaches you

how to shut off your emotions. If you didn't, you

would explode. You learn to cool it.

  A nurse appeared in the doorway. "Johnny," she

said quietly, "your mother's here to see you.

  Johnny opened his eyes. At first they were wide with

surprise, then they darkened. "I don't want to see her,"

he said firmly.

  "She's your mother."

  "I said I don't want to see her." His voice was rising.

"She's probably come to tell me about all the trouble

I'm causing her and about how gIad her and the old

man'll be when I'm dead. Well, tell her to leave me

alone. For once," his voice broke, "for once just to

leave me alone?  He was struggling to sit up, but he

suddenly gasped, went whiter than the pillowcase, and

passed out cold.

  The nurse hurried me out the door. "I was afraid of

something like this if he saw anyone."

  I ran into Two-Bit, who was coming in.

  "You can't see him now," the nurse said, so Two-Bit

handed her the book. "Make sure he can see it when he

comes around." She took it and closed the door behind

her. Two-Bit stood and looked at the door a long time.

"I wish it was any one of us except Johnny," he said,

and his voice was serious for once. "We could get along

without anyone but Johnny."

  Turning abruptly, he said, "Let's go see Dallas."

  As we walked out into the hall, we saw Johnny's

mother. I knew her. She was a little woman, with

straight black hair and big black eyes like Johnny's.

But that was as far as the resemblance went. Johnny-

cake's eyes were fearful and sensitive; hers were cheap

and hard. As we passed her she was saying, "But I

have a right to see him. He's my son. After all the

trouble his father and I've gone to to raise him, this is

our reward! He'd rather see those no-count hoodlums

than his own folks."   She saw us and gave us such a

look of hatred that I almost backed up. "It was your

fault. Always running around in the middle of the

night getting jailed and heaven knows what else."

I thought she was going to cuss us out. I really did.

  Two-Bit's eyes got narrow and I was afraid he was

going to start something. I don't like to hear women

get sworn at, even if they deserve it. "No wonder he

hates your guts," Two-Bit snapped. He was going to

tell her off real good, but I shoved him along. I felt

sick. No wonder Johnny didn't want to see her. No

wonder he stayed overnight at Two-Bit's or at our

house, and slept in the vacant lot in good weather. I

remembered my mother, beautiful and golden, like

Soda, and wise and firm, like Darry.

"Oh, lordy!" There was a catch in Two-Bit's voice

and he was closer to tears than I'd ever seen him. "He

has to live with that."

  We hurried to the elevator to get to the next floor. I

hoped the nurse would have enough sense not to let

Johnny's mother see him. It would kill him.

  Dally was arguing with one of the nurses when we

came in. He grinned at us. "Man, am I glad to see you!

These hospital people won't let me smoke, and I

want out!"

  We sat down, grinning at each other. Dally was his

usual mean, ornery self. He was okay.

  "Shepard came by to see me a while ago."

  "That's what Johnny said. What'd he want?"

  "Said he saw my picture in the paper and couldn't

believe it didn't have  Wanted Dead or Alive under it.

He mostly came to rub it in about the rumble. Man, I

hate not bein' in that."

  Only last week Tim Shepard had cracked three of

Dally's ribs. But Dally and Tim Shepard had always

been buddies; no matter how they fought, they were

two of a kind, and they knew it.

  Dally was grinning at me. "Kid, you scared the devil

outa me the other day. I thought I'd killed you."

  "Me?" I said, puzzled. "Why?"

  "When you jumped out of the church. I meant to

hit you just hard enough to knock you down and put

out the fire, but when you dropped like a ton of lead I

thought I'd aimed too high and broke your neck." He

thought for a minute. "I'm glad I didn't, though."

  "I'll bet," I said with a grin. I'd never liked Dally-

but then, for the first time, I felt like he was my buddy.

And all because he was glad he hadn't killed me.

  Dally looked out the window. "Uh"  he

sounded very casual "how's the kid?"

  "We just left him," Two-Bit said, and I could tell

that he was debating whether to tell Dally the truth or

not. "I don't know about stuff like this,  but.

well, he seemed pretty bad to me. He passed out cold

before we left him."

  Dally's jaw line went white as he swore between

clinched teeth.

  "Two-Bit, you still got that fancy black-handled

switch?"

  "Yeah."

  "Give it here."

  Two-Bit reached into his back pocket for his prize

possession. It was a jet-handled switchblade, ten inches

long, that would flash open at a mere breath. It was

the reward of two hours of walking aimlessly around a

hardware store to divert suspicion. He kept it razor

sharp. As far as I knew, he had never pulled it on

anyone; he used his plain pocket knife when he needed

a blade. But it was his showpiece, his pride and

joy-every time he ran into a new hood he pulled it

out and showed off with it. Dally knew how much that

knife meant to Two-Bit, and if he needed a blade bad

enough to ask for it, well, he needed a blade. That was

all there was to it. Two-Bit handed it over to Dally

without a moment's hesitation.

  "We gotta win that fight tonight," Dally said. His

voice was hard. "We gotta get even with the Socs. For

Johnny."

  He put the switch under his pillow and lay back,

staring at the ceiling. We left. We knew better than to

talk to Dally when his eyes were blazing and he was in

a mood like that.

  We decided to catch a bus home. I just didn't feel

much like walking or trying to hitch a ride. Two-Bit

left me sitting on the bench at the bus stop while he

went to a gas station to buy some cigarettes. I was kind

of sick to my stomach and sort of groggy. I was nearly

asleep when I felt someone's hand on my forehead. I

almost jumped out of my skin. Two-Bit was looking

down at me worriedly. "You feel okay? You're awful

hot."

  "I'm all right," I said, and when he looked at me as

if he didn't believe me, I got a little panicky. "Don't

tell Darry, okay? Come on, Two-Bit, be a buddy. I'll be

well by tonight. I'll take a bunch of aspirins.

  "All right," Two-Bit said reluctantly. "But Darry'll

kill me if you're really sick and go ahead and fight

anyway."

  "I'm okay," I said, getting a little angry. "And if you

keep your mouth shut, Darry won't know a thing."

  "You know somethin'?" Two-Bit said as we were

riding home on the bus. "You'd think you could get

away with murder, living with your big brother and

all, but Darry's stricter with you than your folks were,

ain't he?"

  "Yeah," I said, "but they'd raised two boys before

me. Darry hasn't."

  "You know, the only thing that keeps Darry from

bein' a Soc is."

  "I know," I said. I had known it for a long time. In

spite of not having much money, the only reason Darry

couldn't be a Soc was us. The gang. Me and Soda.

Darry was too smart to be a greaser. I don't know how

I knew, I just did. And I was kind of sorry.