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The Outsiders

Day Eight

I was silent most of the way home. I was thinking

about the rumble. I had a sick feeling in my stomach

and it wasn't from being ill. It was the same kind of

helplessness I'd felt that night Darry yelled at me for

going to sleep in the lot. I had the same deathly fear

that something was going to happen that none of us

could stop. As we got off the bus I finally said it.

"Tonight, I don't like it one bit."

  Two-Bit pretended not to understand. "I never

knew you to play chicken in a rumble before. Not even

when you was a little kid."

  I knew he was trying to make me mad, but I took

the bait anyway. "I ain't chicken, Two-Bit Mathews,

and you know it," I said angrily. "Ain't I a Curtis,

same as Soda and Darry?"

  Two-Bit couldn't deny this, so I went on: "I mean, I

got an awful feeling something's gonna happen."

  "Somethin' is gonna happen. We're gonna stomp the

Socs' guts, that's what."

  Two-Bit knew what I meant, but doggedly pre-

tended not to. He seemed to feel that if you said

something was all right, it immediately was, no matter

what. He's been that way all his life, and I don't expect

he'll change. Sodapop would have understood, and we

would have tried to figure it out together, but Two-Bit

just ain't Soda. Not by a long shot.

  Cherry Valance was sitting in her Corvette by the

vacant lot when we came by. Her long hair was pinned

up, and in daylight she was even better looking. That

Sting Ray was one tuff car. A bright red one. It was

cool.

  "Hi, Ponyboy," she said. "Hi, Two-Bit."

  Two-Bit stopped. Apparently Cherry had shown up

there before during the week Johnny and I had spent

in Windrixville.

  "What's up with the big-times?"

  She tightened the strings on her ski jacket. "They

play your way. No weapons, fair deal. Your rules." 

  "You sure?"

  She nodded. "Randy told me. He knows for sure."

  Two-Bit  turned  and  started home.  "Thanks,

Cherry."

  "Ponyboy, stay a minute," Cherry said. I stopped

and went back to her car. "Randy's not going to show

up at the rumble."

  "Yeah," I said, "I know."

  "He's not scared. He's just sick of fighting. Bob."

She swallowed, then went on quietly. "Bob was his best

buddy. Since grade school."

  I thought of Soda and Steve. What if one of them

saw the other killed? Would that make them stop

fighting? No, I thought, maybe it would make Soda

stop, but not Steve. He'd go on hating and fighting.

Maybe that was what Bob would have done if it had

been Randy instead of him.

  "How's Johnny?"

  "Not so good," I said. "Will you go up to see him?"

  She shook her head. "No. I couldn't."

  "Why not?" I demanded. It was the least she could

do. It was her boyfriend who had caused it all, and

then I stopped. Her boyfriend.

  "I couldn't," she said in a quiet, desperate voice.

"He killed Bob. Oh, maybe Bob asked for it. I know he

did. But I couldn't ever look at the person who killed

him.  You only knew his bad side. He could be sweet

sometimes, and friendly. But when he got drunk, it

was that part of him that beat up Johnny. I knew it

was Bob when you told me the story. He was so proud

of his rings. Why do people sell liquor to boys? Why? I

know there's a law against it, but kids get it anyway. I

can't go see Johnny. I know I'm too young to be

in love and all that, but Bob was something special. He

wasn't just any boy. He had something that made

people follow him, something that marked him differ-

ent, maybe a little better, than the crowd. Do you

know what I mean?"

  I did. Cherry saw the same things in Dallas. That

was why she was afraid to see him, afraid of loving

him.  I knew what she meant all right. But she also

meant she wouldn't go see Johnny because he had

killed Bob. "That's okay," I said sharply. It wasn't

Johnny's fault. Bob was a boozehound and Cherry went

for boys who were bound for trouble. "I wouldn't want

you to see him. You're a traitor to your own kind and

not loyal to us. Do you think your spying for us makes

up for the fact that you're sitting there in a Corvette

while my brother drops out of school to get a job?

Don't you ever feel sorry for us. Don't you ever try to

give us handouts and then feel high and mighty about

it."

  I started to turn and walk off, but something in

Cherry's face made me stop. I was ashamed-I can't

stand to see girls cry. She wasn't crying, but she was

close to it.

  "I wasn't trying to give you charity, Ponyboy. I only

wanted to help. I liked you from the start,  the way

you talked. You're a nice kid, Ponyboy. Do you realize

how scarce nice kids are nowadays? Wouldn't you try

to help me if you could?"

  I would. I'd help her and Randy both, if I could.

"Hey," I said suddenly, "can you see the sunset real

good from the West Side?"

  She blinked, startled, then smiled. "Real good."

  "You can see it good from the East Side, too," I said

quietly.

  "Thanks, Pony boy." She smiled through her tears.

"You dig okay."

  She had green eyes. I went on, walking home slowly.

                            CHAPTER 9.

It was almost six-thirty when I got home. The

rumble was set for seven, so I was late for supper, as

usual. I always come in late. I forget what time it is.

Darry had cooked dinner: baked chicken and potatoes

and corn-two chickens because all three of us eat like

horses. Especially Darry. But although I love baked

chicken, I could hardly swallow any. I swallowed five

aspirins, though, when Darry and Soda weren't look-

ing. I do that all the time because I can't sleep very

well at night. Darry thinks I take just one, but I

usually take four. I figured five would keep me going

through the rumble and maybe get rid of my headache.

  Then I hurried to take a shower and change clothes.

Me and Soda and Darry always got spruced up before a

rumble. And besides, we wanted to show those Socs we

weren't trash, that we were just as good as they were.

  "Soda," I called from the bathroom, "when did you

start shaving?"

  "When I was fifteen," he yelled back.

  "When did Darry?"

  "When he was thirteen. Why? You figgerin on

growing a beard for the rumble?"

  "You're funny. We ought to send you in to the

Reader's Digest. I hear they pay a lot for funny

things."

  Soda laughed and went right on playing poker with

Steve in the living room. Darry had on a tight black

T shirt that showed every muscle on his chest and even

the flat hard muscles of his stomach. I'd hate to be the

Soc who takes a crack at him, I thought as I pulled on

a clean T shirt and a fresh pair of jeans. I wished my

T shirt was tighter I have a pretty good build for my

size, but I'd lost a lot of weight in Windrixville and it

just didn't fit right. It was a diIlly night and T shirts

aren't the warmest clothes in the world, but nobody

ever gets cold in a rumble, and besides, jackets inter-

fere with your swinging ability.

  Soda and Steve and I had put on more hair oil than

was necessary, but we wanted to show that we were

greasers. Tonight we could be proud of it. Greasers

may not have much, but they have a rep. That and

long hair. (What kind of world is it where all I have

to be proud of is a reputation for being a hood, and

greasy hair? I don't want to be a hood, but even if I

don't steal things and mug people and get boozed up,

I'm marked lousy. Why should I be proud of it? Why

should I even pretend to be proud of it?) Darry never

went in for long hair. His was short and clean all the

time.

  I sat in the armchair in the living room, waiting for

the rest of the outfit to show up. But of course, tonight

the only one coming would be Two-Bit; Johnny and

Dallas wouldn't show. Soda and Steve were playing

cards and arguing as usual. Soda was keeping up a

steady strearn of wisecracks and clowning, and Steve

had turned up the radio so loud that it almost broke

my eardrums. Of course everybody listens to it loud

like that, but it wasn't just the best thing for a

headache.

  "You like fights, don't you, Soda?" I asked suddenly.

  "Yeah, sure." He shrugged. "I like fights."

  "How come?"

  "I don't know." He looked at me, puzzled. "It's

action. It's a contest. Like a drag race or a dance or

something."

  "Shoot," said Steve, "I want to beat those Socs heads

in. When I get in a fight I want to stomp the other guy

good. I like it, too."

  "How come you like fights, Darry?" I asked, looking

up at him as he stood behind me, leaning in the

kitchen doorway. He gave me one of those looks that

hide what he's thinking, but Soda piped up: "He likes

to show off his muscles.

  "I'm gonna show them off on you, little buddy, if you

get any mouthier."

  I digested what Soda had said. It was the truth.

Darry liked anything that took strength, like weight-

lifting or playing football or roofing houses, even if he

was proud of being smart too. Darry never said any-

thing about it, but I knew he liked fights. I felt out of

things. I'll fight anyone anytime, but I don't like to.

  "I don't know if you ought to be in this rumble,

Pony: Darry said slowly.

  Oh, no, I thought in mortal fear, I've got to be in it.

Right then the most important thing in my life was

helping us whip the Socs. Don't let him make me stay

home now. I've got to be in it.

  "How come? I've always come through before, ain't

I?"

  "Yeah," Darry said with a proud grin. "You fight real

good for a kid your size. But you were in shape before.

You've lost weight and you don't look so great, kid.

You're tensed up too much."

  "Shoot," said Soda, trying to get the ace out of his

shoe without Steve's seeing him, "we all get tensed up

before a rumble. Let him fight tonight. Skin never hurt

anyone-no weapons, no danger."

  "I'll be okay" I pleaded. "I'll get hold of a little one,

okay?

  "Well, Johnny won't be there this time,

Johnny and I sometimes ganged up on one big guy-

but then, Curly Shepard won't be there either, or

Dally, and we'll need every man we can get."

  "What happened to Shepard?" I asked, remembering

Tim Shepard's kid brother. Curly, who was a tough,

cool, hard-as-nails Tim in miniature, and I had once

played chicken by holding our cigarette ends against

each other's fingers. We had stood there, clenching our

teeth and grimacing, with sweat pouring down our

faces and the smell of burning flesh making us sick,

each refusing to holler, until Tim happened to stroll

by. When he saw that we were really burning holes in

each other he cracked our heads together, swearing to

kill us both if we ever pulled a stunt like that again. I

still have the scar on my forefinger. Curly was an

average downtown hood, tough and not real bright,

but I liked him. He could take anything.

  "He's in the cooler," Steve said, kicking the ace out of

Soda's shoe. "The reformatory.

  Again? I thought, and said, "Let me fight, Darry. If

it was blades or chains or something it'd be different.

Nobody ever gets really hurt in a skin rumble."

  "Well, Darry gave in, "I guess you can. But be

careful, and if you get in a jam, holler and I'll get you

out."

  "I'll be okay," I said wearily. "How come you never

worry about Sodapop as much? I don't see you lectur-

in him."

  "Man" Darry grinned and put his arm across

Soda's shoulders "this is one kid brother I don't have

to worry about."

  Soda punched him in the ribs affectionately.

  "This kiddo can use his head."

  Sodapop looked down at me with mock superiority,

but Darry went on: "You can see he uses it for one

thing-to grow hair on." He ducked Soda's swing and

took off for the door.

  Two-Bit stuck his head in the door just as Darry

went flying out of it. Leaping as he went off the steps,

Darry turned a somersault in mid-air, hit the ground,

and bounced up before Soda could catch him.

  "Welup," Two-Bit said cheerfully, cocking an eye-

brow, "I see we are in prime condition for a rumble. Is

everybody happy?"

  "Yeah!" screamed Soda as he too did a flying somer-

sault off the steps. He filpped up to walk on his hands

and then did a no-hands cartwheel across the yard to

beat Darry's performance. The excitement was catch-

ing. Screeching like an Indian, Steve went running

across the lawn in flying leaps, stopped suddenly, and

flipped backward. We could all do acrobatics because

Darry had taken a course at the Y and then spent a

whole summer teaching us everything he'd learned on

the grounds that it might come in handy in a fight. It

did, but it also got Two-Bit and Soda jailed once.

They were doing mid-air flips down a downtown

sidewalk, walking on their hands, and otherwise dis-

turbing the public and the police. Leave it to those

two to pull something like that.

  With a happy whoop I did a no-hands cartwheel off

the porch steps, hit the ground, and rolled to my feet.

Two-Bit followed me in a similar manner.

  "I am a greaser," Sodapop chanted. "I am a JD and a

hood. I blacken the name of our fair city. I beat up

people. I rob gas stations. I am a menace to society.

Man, do I have fun!"                -

  "Greaser,  greaser,  greaser" Steve sing-

songed. "O victim of environment, underprivileged,

rotten, no, count hood."

  "Juvenile delinquent, you're no good! Darry

shouted.

  "Get thee hence, white trash," Two-Bit said in a

snobbish voice. "I am a Soc. I am the privileged and

the well-dressed. I throw beer blasts, drive fancy cars,

break windows at fancy parties."

  "And what do you do for fun?" I inquired in a

serious, awed voice.

  "I jump greasers!" Two-Bit screamed, and did a

cartwheel.

  We settled down as we walked to the lot. Two-Bit

was the only one wearing a jacket; he had a couple of

cans of beer stuffed in it. He always gets high before a

rumble. Before anything else, too, come to think of it.

I shook my head. I'd hate to see the day when I had to

get my nerve from a can. I'd tried drinking once

before. The stuff tasted awful, I got sick, had a head-

ache, and when Darry found out, he grounded me for

two weeks. But that was the last time I'd ever drink.

I'd seen too much of what drinking did for you at

Johnny's house.

    Hey, Two-Bit," I said, deciding to complete my

survey, "how come you like to fight?"

  He looked at me as if I was off my nut. "Shoot,

everybody fights."

  If everybody jumped in the Arkansas River, ol'

Two-Bit would be right on their heels. I had it then.

Soda fought for fun, Steve for hatred, Darry for pride,

and Two-Bit for conformity. Why do I fight? I

thought, and couldn't think of any real good reason.

There isn't any real good reason for fighting except

self-defense.

    "Listen, Soda, you and Ponyboy," Darry said as we

strode down the street, "if the fuzz show, you two beat

it out of there. The rest of us can only get jailed. You

two can get sent to a boys home.

  "Nobody in this neighborhood's going to call the

fuzz," Steve said grimly. "They know what'd happen if

they did."

    "All the same, you two blow at the first sign of

trouble. You hear me?"

    "You sure don't need an amplifier," Soda said, and

stuck out his tongue at the back of Darry's head. I

stifled a giggle. If you want to see something funny, it's

a tough hood sticking his tongue out at his big brother.

    Tim Shepard and company were already waiting

when we arrived at the vacant lot, along with a gang

from Brumly, one of the suburbs. Tim was a lean,

catlike eighteen year old who looked like the model J D

you see in movies and magazines. He had the right

curly black hair, smoldering dark eyes, and a long scar

from temple to chin where a tramp had belted him

with a broken pop bottle. He had a tough, hard look

to him, and his nose had been broken twice. Like

Dally's, his smile was grim and bitter. He was one of

those who enjoy being a hood. The rest of his bunch

were the same way. The boys from Brumly, too. Young

hoods-who would grow up to be old hoods. I'd never

thought about it before, but they'd just get worse as

they got older, not better. I looked at Darry. He wasn't

going to be any hood when he got old. He was going to

get somewhere. Living the way we do would only make

him more determined to get somewhere. That's why

he's better than the rest of us, I thought. He's going

somewhere. And I was going to be like him. I wasn't

going to live in a lousy neighborhood all my life.

  Tim had the tense, hungry look of an alley cat-

that's what he's always reminded me of, an alley

cat-and he was constantly restless. His boys ranged

from fifteen to nineteen, hard-looking characters who

were used to the strict discipline Tim gave out. That

was the difference between his gang and ours-they

had a leader and were organized; we were just buddies

who stuck together-each man was his own leader.

Maybe that was why we could whip them.

  Tim and the leader of the Brumly outfit moved

forward to shake hands with each of us-proving that

our gangs were on the same side in this fight, although

most of the guys in those two outfits weren't exactly

what I'd like to call my friends. When Tim got to me

he studied me, maybe remembering how his kid broth-

er and I had played chicken. "You and the quiet

black-headed kid were the ones who killed that Soc?"

  "Yeah," I said, pretending to be proud of it; then I

thought of Cherry and Randy and got a sick feeling in

my stomach.

  "Good goin', kid. Curly always said you were a good

kid. Curly's in the reformatory for the next six

months." Tim grinned ruefully, probably thinking of

his roughneck, hard-headed brother. "He got caught

breakin into a liquor store, the little."  He went on

to call Curly every unprintable name under the sun-

in Tim's way of thinking, terms of affection.

  I surveyed the scene with pride. I was the youngest

one there. Even Curly, if he had been there, had

turned fifteen, so he was older than me. I could tell

Darry realized this too, and although he was proud, I

also knew he was worried. Shoot, I thought, I'll fight so

good this time he won't ever worry about me again. I'll

show him that someone besides Sodapop can we his

head.

  One of the Brumly guys waved me over. We mostly

stuck with our own outfits, so I was a little leery of

going over to him, but I shrugged. He asked to borrow

a weed, then lit up. "That big guy with y'all, you know

him pretty well?"

  "I ought to, he's my brother," I said. I couldn't

honestly say "Yes." I knew Darry as well as he knew

me, and that isn't saying a whole lot.

  "No kiddin'? I got a feelin he's gonna be asked to

start the fireworks around here. He a pretty good

bopper?"

  He meant rumbler. Those Brumly boys have weird

vocabularies. I doubt if half of them can read a

newspaper or spell much more than their names, and it

comes out in their speech. I mean, you take a guy that

calls a rumble "bop-action," and you can tell he isn't

real educated.

  "Yep," I said. "But why him?"

  He shrugged. "Why anybody else?"

  I looked our outfits over. Most greasers don't have

real tuff builds or anything. They're mostly lean and

kind of panther-looking in a slouchy way. This is

partly because they don't eat much and partly because

they're slouchy. Darry looked like he could whip any-

one there. I think most of the guys were nervous

because of the no weapons rule. I didn't know about

the Brumly boys, but I knew Shepard's gang were used

to fighting with anything they could get their hands on

bicycle chains, blades, pop bottles, pieces of pipe,

pool sticks, or sometimes even heaters. I mean guns. I

have a kind of lousy vocabulary, too, even if I am

educated. Our gang never went in for weapons. We're

just not that rough. The only weapons we ever used

were knives, and shoot, we carried them mostly just for

looks. Like Two-Bit with his black-handled switch.

None of us had ever really hurt anybody, or wanted to.

Just Johnny. And he hadn't wanted to.

  "Hey, Curtis!" Tim yelled. I jumped.

  "Which one?" I heard Soda yell back.

  "The big one. Come on over here."

  The guy from Brumly looked at me. "What did I

tell ya?"

  I watched Darry going toward Tim and the leader of

the Brumly boys. He shouldn't be here, I thought

suddenly. I shouldn't be here and Steve shouldn't be

here and Soda shouldn't be here and Two-Bit

shouldn't be here. We're greasers, but not hoods, and

we don't belong with this bunch of future convicts. We

could end up like them, I thought. We could. And the

thought didn't help my headache.

  I went back to stand with Soda and Steve and

Two-Bit then, because the Socs were arriving. Right on

time. They came in four carloads, and filed out Si-

lently. I counted twenty-two of them. There were

twenty of us, so I figured the odds were as even as we

could get them. Darry always likes to take on two at a

time anyway. They looked like they were all cut from

the same piece of cloth: clean-shaven with semi-Beatle

haircuts, wearing striped or checkered shirts with

light-red or tan-colored jackets or madras ski jackets.

They could just as easily have been going to the movies

as to a rumble. That's why people don't ever think to

blame the Socs and are always ready to jump on us. We

look hoody and they look decent. It could be just the

other way around-half of the hoods I know are pretty

decent guys underneath all that grease, and from what

I've heard, a lot of Socs are just cold-blooded mean-

but people usually go by looks.

  They lined up silently, facing us, and we lined up

facing them. I looked for Randy but didn't see him. I

hoped he wasn't there. A guy with a madras shirt

stepped up. "Let's get the rules straight-nothing but

our fists, and the first to run lose. Right?"

  Tim flipped away his beer can. "You savvy real

good."

  There was an uneasy silence: Who was going to start

it? Darry solved the problem. He stepped forward

under the circle of light made by the street lamp. For a

minute, everything looked unreal, like a scene out of a

JD movie or something. Then Darry said, "I'll take on

anyone."

  He stood there, tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles

taut under his T shirt and his eyes glittering like ice.

For a second it looked like there wasn't anyone brave

enough to take him on. Then there was a slight stir in

the faceless mob of Socs, and a husky blond guy

stepped forward. He looked at Darry and said quietly,

"Hello, Darrel."

  Something flickered behind Darry's eyes and then

they were ice again. "Hello, Paul."

  I heard Soda give a kind of squeak and I realized

that the blond was Paul Holden. He had been the best

halfback on Darry's football team at high school and

he and Darry used to buddy it around all the time. He

must be a junior in college by now, I thought. He was

looking at Darry with an expression I couldn't quite

place, but disliked. Contempt? Pity? Hate? All three?

Why? Because Darry was standing there representing

all of us, and maybe Paul felt only contempt and pity

and hate for greasers? Darry hadn't moved a muscle or

changed expression, but you could see he hated Paul

now. It wasn't only jealousy-Darry had a right to be

jealous; he was ashamed to be on our side, ashamed to

be seen with the Brumly boys, Shepard's gang, maybe

even us. Nobody realized it but me and Soda. It didn't

matter to anyone but me and Soda.

  That's stupid, I thought swiftly, they've both come

here to fight and they're both supposed to be smarter

than that. What difference does. the side make?

  Then Paul said, "I'll take you," and something like

a smile crossed Darry's face. I knew Darry had thought

he could take Paul any time. But that was two or three

years ago. What if Paul was better now? I swallowed.

Neither one of my brothers had ever been beaten in a

fight, but I wasn't exactly itching for someone to break

the record.