The Outsiders
Day Ten
CHAPTER 11.
I had to stay in bed a whole week after that. That
bugged me; I'm not the kind that can lie around
looking at the ceiling all the time. I read most of the
time, and drew pictures. One day I started flipping
through one of Soda's old yearbooks and came across a
picture that seemed vaguely familiar. Not even when I
read the name Robert Sheldon did it hit me who it
was. And then I finally realized it was Bob. I took a
real good long look at it.
The picture didn't look a whole lot like the Bob I
remembered, but nobody ever looks like his picture in
a yearbook anyway. He had been a sophomore that
year, that would make him about eighteen when he
died. Yeah, he was good-looking even then, with a grin
that reminded me of Soda's, a kind of reckless grin. He
had been a handsome black-haired boy with dark eyes
maybe brown, like Soda's, maybe dark-blue, like the
Shepard boys. Maybe he'd had black eyes. Like
Johnny. I had never given Bob much thought-I
hadn't had time to think. But that day I wondered
about him. What was he like?
I knew he liked to pick fights, had the usual Soc
belief that living on the West Side made you Mr.
Super-Tuff, looked good in dark wine-colored sweaters,
and was proud of his rings. But what about the Bob
Sheldon that Cherry Valance knew? She was a smart
girl; she didn't like him just because he was good-look-
ing. Sweet and friendly, stands out from the crowd-
that's what she had said. A real person, the best buddy
a guy ever had, kept trying to make somebody stop him
Randy had told me that. Did he have a kid brother
who idolized him? Maybe a big brother who kept
bugging him not to be so wild? His parents let him run
wild-because they loved him too much or too little?
Did they hate us now? I hoped they hated us, that they
weren't full of that pity-the-victims-of-environment
junk the social workers kept handing Curly Shepard
every time he got sent off to reform school. I'd rather
have anybody's hate than their pity. But, then, maybe
they understood, like Cherry Valance. I looked at
Bob's picture and I could begin to see the person we
had killed. A reckless, hot-tempered boy, cocky and
scared stiff at the same time.
"Ponyboy."
"Yeah?" I didn't look up. I thought it was the
doctor. He'd been coming over to see me almost every
day, although he didn't do much except talk to me.
"There's a guy here to see you. Says he knows you."
Something in Darry's voice made me look up, and his
eyes were hard. "His name's Randy."
"Yeah, I know him," I said.
"You want to see him?"
"Yeah." I shrugged. "Sure, why not?"
A few guys from school had dropped by to see me; I
have quite a few friends at school even if I am younger
than most of them and don't talk much. But that's
what they are-school friends, not buddies. I had been
glad to see them, but it bothered me because we live in
kind of a lousy neighborhood and our house isn't real
great. It's rundown looking and everything, and the
inside's kind of poor-looking, too, even though for a
bunch of boys we do a pretty good job of house-clean-
ing. Most of my friends at school come from good
homes, not filthy-rich like the Socs, but middle-class,
anyway. It was a funny thing, it bugged me about my
friends seeing our house. But I couldn't have cared less
about what Randy thought.
"Hi, Ponyboy." Randy looked uncomfortable stand-
ing in the doorway.
"Hi, Randy," I said. "Have a seat if you can find
one." Books were lying all over everything. He pushed
a couple off a chair and sat down.
"How you feeling? Cherry told me your name was on
the school bulletin."
"I'm okay. You can't really miss my name on any
kind of bulletin."
He still looked uncomfortable, although he tried to
grin.
"Wanna smoke?" I offered him a weed, but he shook
his head "No, thanks. Uh, Ponyboy, one reason I came
here was to see if you were okay, but you we got to
go see the judge tomorrow."
"Yeah," I said, lighting a cigarette. "I know. Hey,
holler if you see one of my brothers coming. I'll catch
it for smoking in bed."
"My dad says for me to tell the truth and nobody
can get hurt. He's kind of upset about all this. I mean,
my dad's a good guy and everything, better than most,
and I kind of let him down, being mixed up in all
this."
I Just looked at him. That was the dumbest remark I
ever heard anyone make. He thought he was mixed up
in this? He didn't kill anyone, he didn't get his head
busted in a rumble, it wasn't his buddy that was shot
down under a street light. Besides, what did he have to
lose? His old man was rich, he could pay whatever fine
there was for being drunk and picking a fight.
"I wouldn't mind getting fined," Randy said, "but I
feel lousy about the old man. And it's the first time
I've felt anything in a long time."
The only thing I'd felt in a long time was being
scared. Scared stiff. I'd put off thinking about the
judge and the hearing for as long as I could. Soda and
Darry didn't like to talk about it either, so we were all
silently counting off the days while I was sick, counting
the days that we had left together. But with Randy
sticking solidly to the subject it was impossible to
think about anything else. My cigarette started trem-
bling.
"I guess your folks feel kind of awful about it, too."
"My parents are dead. I live here with just Darry
and Soda, my brothers." I took a long drag on my
cigarette. "That's what's worrying me. If the judge
decides Darry isn't a good guardian or something, I'm
liable to get stuck in a home somewhere. That's the
rotten part of this deal. Darry is a good guardian; he
makes me study and knows where I am and who I'm
with all the time. I mean, we don't get along so great
sometimes, but he keeps me out of trouble, or did. My
father didn't yell at me as much as he does."
"I didn't know that." Randy looked worried, he
really did. A Soc, even, worried because some kid
greaser was on his way to a foster home or something.
That was really funny. I don't mean funny. You know
what I mean.
"Listen to me, Pony. You didn't do anything. It was
your friend Johnny that had the knife."
"I had it." I stopped him. He was looking at me
strangely. "I had the knife. I killed Bob."
Randy shook his head. "I saw it. You were almost
drowned. It was the black-headed guy that had the
switchblade. Bob scared him into doing it. I saw it."
I was bewildered. "I killed him. I had a switchblade
and I was scared they were going to beat me up."
"No, kid, it was your friend, the one who died in the
hospital."
"Johnny is not dead." My voice was shaking.
"Johnny is not dead."
"Hey, Randy." Darry stuck his head in the door. "I
think you'd better go now."
"Sure," Randy said. He was still looking at me kind
of funny. "See you around, Pony."
"Don't ever say anything to him about Johnny," I
heard Darry say in a low voice as they went out. "He's
still pretty racked up mentally and emotionally. The
doc said he'd get over it if we gave him time."
I swallowed hard and blinked. He was just like all
the rest of the Socs Cold-blooded mean. Johnny didn't
have anything to do with Bob's getting killed.
"Ponyboy Curtis, put out that cigarette!"
"Okay, okay." I put it out. "I ain't going to go to
sleep smoking, Darry. If you make me stay in bed there
ain't anywhere else I can smoke."
"You're not going to die if you don't get a smoke.
But if that bed catches on fire you will. You couldn't
make it to the door through that mess."
"Well, golly, I can't pick it up and Soda doesn't, so I
guess that leaves you."
He was giving me one of those looks. "All right, all
right," I said, "that don't leave you. Maybe Soda'll
straighten it up a little."
"Maybe you can be a little neater, huh, little
buddy?"
He'd never called me that before. Soda was the only
one he ever called "little buddy."
"Sure." I said, "I'll be more careful."
CHAPTER 12.
The hearing wasn't anything like I thought it would
be. Besides Darry and Soda and me, nobody was there
except Randy and his parents and Cherry Valance and
her parents and a couple of the other guys that had
jumped Johnny and me that night. I don't know what
I expected the whole thing to he like, I guess I've
been watching too many Perry Mason shows. Oh, yeah,
the doctor was there and he had a long talk with the
judge before the hearing. I didn't know what he had to
do with it then, but I do now.
First Randy was questioned. He looked a little
nervous, and I wished they'd let him have a cigarette. I
wished they'd let me have a cigarette; I was more than
a little shaky myself. Darry had told me to keep my
mouth shut no matter what Randy and everybody said,
that I'd get my turn. All the Socs told the same story
and stuck mainly to the truth, except they said Johnny
had killed Bob; but I figured I could straighten that
point out when I got my turn. Cherry told them what
had happened before and after Johnny and I had been
jumped-I think I saw a couple of tears slide down her
cheeks, but I'm not sure. Her voice was sure steady
even if she was crying. The judge questioned everyone
carefully, but nothing real emotional or exciting ha-
pened like it does on TV. He asked Darry and Soda a
little bit about Dally, I think to check our background
and find out what kind of guys we hung out with. Was
he a real good buddy of ours? Darry said, "Yes, sir,"
looking straight at the judge, not flinching; but Soda
looked at me like he was sentencing me to the electric
chair before he gave the same answer. I was real proud
of both of them. Dally had been one of our gang and
we wouldn't desert him. I thought the judge would
never get around to questioning me. Man, I was scared
almost stiff by the time he did. And you know what?
They didn't ask me a thing about Bob's getting killed.
All the judge did was ask me if I liked living with
Darry, if I liked school, what kind of grades I made,
and stuff like that. I couldn't figure it out then, but
later I found out what the doctor had been talking to
the judge about. I guess I looked as scared as I really
was, because the judge grinned at me and told me to
quit chewing my fingernails. That's a habit I have.
Then he said I was acquitted and the whole case was
closed. Just like that. Didn't even give me a chance to
talk much. But that didn't bother me a lot. I didn't
feel like talking anyway.
I wish I could say that everything went back to
normal, but it didn't. Especially me. I started running
into things, like the door, and kept tripping over the
coffee table and losing things. I always have been kind
of absent-minded, but man, then, I was lucky if I got
home from school with the right notebook and with
both shoes on. I walked all the way home once in my
stocking feet and didn't even notice it until Steve made
some bright remark about it. I guess I'd left my shoes
in the locker room at school, but I never did find them.
And another thing, I quit eating. I used to eat like a
horse, but all of a sudden I wasn't hungry. Everything
tasted like baloney. I was lowing up my schoolwork,
too. I didn't do too badly in math, because Darry
checked over my homework in that and usually caught
all my mistakes and made me do it again, but in
English I really washed out. I used to make A's in
English, mostly because my teacher made us do compo-
sitions all the time. I mean, I know I don't talk good
English (have you ever seen a hood that did?), but I
can write it good when I try. At least, I could before.
Now I was lucky to get a D on a composition.
It bothered my English teacher, the way I was
goofing up, I mean. He's a real good guy, who makes
us think, and you can tell he's interested in you as a
person, too. One day he told me to stay in after the rest
of the class left.
"Ponyboy, I'd like to talk to you about your grades."
Man, I wished I could beat it out of there. I knew I
was flunking out in that class, but golly, I couldn't
help it.
"There's not much to talk about, judging from your
scores. Pony, I'll give it to you straight. You're failing
this class right now, but taking into consideration the
circumstances, if you come up with a good semester
theme, I'll pass you with a C grade."
"Taking into consideration the circumstances"
brother, was that ever a way to tell me he knew I was
goofing up because I'd been in a lot of trouble. At least
that was a roundabout way of putting it. The first
week of school after the hearing had been awful.
People I knew wouldn't talk to me, and people I didn't
know would come right up and ask about the whole
mess. Sometimes even teachers. And my history teacher
she acted as if she was scared of me, even though I'd
never caused any trouble in her class. You can bet that
made me feel real tuff.
"Yessir," I said, "I'll try. What's the theme supposed
to be on?"
"Anything you think is important enough to write
about. And it isn't a reference theme; I want your own
ideas and your own experiences."
My first trip to the zoo. Oh, boy, oh, boy. "Yes sir," I
said, and got out of there as fast as I could.
At lunch hour I met Two-Bit and Steve out in the
back parking lot and we drove over to a little neigh-
borhood grocery store to buy cigarettes and Cokes and
candy bars. The store was the grease hang-out and that
was about all we ever had for lunch. The Socs were
causing a lot of trouble in the school cafeteria, throw-
ing silverware and stuff, and everybody tried to blame
it on us greasers. We all got a big laugh out of that.
Greasers rarely even eat in the cafeteria.
I was sitting on the fender of Steve's car, smoking
and drinking a Pepsi while he and Two-Bit were inside
talking to some girls, when a car drove up and three
Socs got out. I just sat there and looked at them and
took another swallow of the Pepsi. I wasn't scared. It
was the oddest feeling in the world. I didn't feel
anything, scared, mad, or anything. Just zero.
"You're the guy that killed Bob Sheldon," one of
them said. "And he was a friend of ours. We don't like
nobody killing our friends, especially greasers."
Big deal. I busted the end off my bottle and held on
to the neck and tossed away my cigarette. "You get
back into your car or you'll get split."
They looked kind of surprised, and one of them
backed up.
"I mean it." I hopped off the car. "I've had about all
I can take from you guys." I started toward them,
holding the bottle the way Tim Shepard holds a switch
out and away from myself, in a loose but firm hold. I
guess they knew I meant business, because they got
into their car and drove off.
"You really would have used that bottle, wouldn't
you?" Two-Bit had been watching from the store
doorway. "Steve and me were backing you, but I guess
we didn't need to. You'd have really cut them up,
huh?"
"I guess so," I said with a sigh. I didn't see what
Two-Bit was sweating about-anyone else could have
done the same thing and Two-Bit wouldn't have
thought about it twice.
"Ponyboy, listen, don't get tough. You're not like the
rest of us and don't try to be."
What was the matter with Two-Bit? I knew as well
as he did that if you got tough you didn't get hurt. Get
smart and nothing can touch you.
"What in the world are you doing?" Two-Bit's voice
broke into my thoughts.
I looked up at him. "Picking up the glass."
He stared at me for a second, then grinned. "You
little sonofagun," he said in a relieved voice. I didn't
know what he was talking about, so I just went on
picking up the glass from the bottle end and put it in a
trash can. I didn't want anyone to get a flat tire.
I tried to write that theme when I got home. I really
did, mostly because Darry told me to or else. I thought
about writing about Dad, but I couldn't. It's going to
be a long time before I can even think about my
parents. A long time. I tried writing about Soda's
horse, Mickey Mouse, but I couldn't get it right; it
always came out sounding corny. So I started writing
names across the paper. Darrel Shaynne Curtis, Jr.
Soda Patrick Curtis. Ponyboy Michael Curtis. Then I
drew horses all over it. That was going to get a good
grade like all git-out.
"Hey, did the mail come in yet?" Soda slammed the
door and yelled for the mail, just the way he does every
day when he comes home from work. I was in the
bedroom, but I knew he would throw his jacket toward
the sofa and miss it, take off his shoes, and go into the
kitchen for a glass of chocolate milk, because that's
what he does every day of his life. He always runs
around in his stocking feet-he doesn't like shoes
Then he did a funny thing. He came in and flopped
down on the bed and started smoking a cigarette. He
hardly ever smokes, except when something is really
bugging him or when he wants to look tough. And he
doesn't have to impress us; we know he's tough. So I
figured something was bothering him. "How was
work?"
"Okay."
"Something wrong?"
He shook his head. I shrugged and went back to
drawing horses.
Soda cooked dinner that night, and everything came
out right. That was unusual, because he's always trying
something different. One time we had green pancakes.
Green. I can tell you one thing if you've got a brother
like Sodapop, you're never bored.
All through Supper Soda was quiet, and he didn't eat
much. That was really unusual. Most of the time you
can't shut him up or fill him up. Darry didn't seem to
notice, so I didn't say anything.
Then after Supper me and Dairy got into a fuss,
about the fourth one we'd had that week. This one
Started because I hadn't done anything on that theme,
and I wanted to go for a ride. It used to be that I'd just
stand there and let Darry yell at me, but lately I'd been
yelling right back.
"What's the Sweat about my Schoolwork?" I finally
shouted. "I'll have to get a job as soon as I get out of
school anyway. Look at Soda. He's doing okay, and he
dropped out. You can just lay off!"
"You're not going to drop out. Listen, with your
brains and grades you could get a Scholarship, and we
could put you through college. But schoolwork's not
the point. You're living in a vacuum, Pony, and you're
going to have to cut it out. Johnny and Dallas were
our buddies, too, but you don't just stop living because
you lose someone. I thought you knew that by now.
You don't quit! And anytime you don't like the way
I'm running things you can get out."
I went tight and cold. We never talked about Dallas
or Johnny. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? You'd like
me just to get out. Well, it's not that easy, is it, Soda?"
But when I looked at Soda I stopped. His face was
white, and when he looked at me his eyes were wide
with a pained expression. I suddenly remembered
Curly Shepard's face when he slipped off a telephone
pole and broke his arm.
"Don't, Oh, you guys, why can't you." He
jumped up suddenly and bolted out the door. Darry
and I were struck dumb. Darry picked up the envelope
that Soda had dropped.
"It's the letter he wrote Sandy," Darry said without
expression. "Returned unopened."
So that was what had been bugging Soda all after-
noon. And I hadn't even bothered to find out. And
while I was thinking about it, I realized that I never
had paid much attention to Soda's problems. Darry
and I just took it for granted that he didn't have any.
"When Sandy went to Florida, it wasn't Soda,
Ponyboy. He told me he loved her, but I guess she
didn't love him like he thought she did, because it
wasn't him."
"You don't have to draw me a picture," I said,
"He wanted to marry her anyway, but she just left."
Darry was looking at me with a puzzled expression.
"Why didn't he tell you? I didn't think he'd tell Steve
or Two-Bit, but I thought he told you everything."
"Maybe he tried," I said, How many times had Soda
started to tell me something, only to find I was day-
dreaming or stuck in a book? He would always listen
to me, no matter what he was doing.
"He cried every night that week you were gone,"
Darry said slowly. "Both you and Sandy in the same
week." He put the envelope down. "Come on, let's go
after him."
We chased him clear to the park. We were gaining
on him, but he had a block's head start.
"Circle around and cut him off," Darry ordered.
Even out of condition I was the best runner. "I'll stay
right behind him."
I headed through the trees and cut him off halfway
across the park. He veered off to the right, but I caught
him in a flying tackle before he'd gone more than a
couple of steps. It knocked the wind out of both of us.
We lay there gasping for a minute or two, and then
Soda sat up and brushed the grass off his shirt.
"You should have gone out for football instead of
track."
"Where did you think you were going?" I lay flat on
my back and looked at him. Darry came up and
dropped down beside us.
Soda shrugged. "I don't know. It's just, I can't
stand to hear you all fight. Sometimes I just have to
get out or it's like I'm the middleman in a tug of
war and I'm being split in half. You dig?"
Darry gave me a startled look. Neither of us had
realized what it was doing to soda to hear us fight. I
was sick and cold with shame. What he said was the
truth. Darry and I did play tug of war with him, with
never a thought to how much it was hurting him.
Soda was fiddling with some dead grass. "I mean, I
can't take sides. It'd be a lot easier if I could, but I see
both sides. Darry yells too much and tries too hard and
takes everything too serious, and Ponyboy, you don't
think enough, you don't realize all Darry's giving up
just to give you a chance he missed out on. He could
have stuck you in a home somewhere and worked his
way through college. Ponyboy, I'm telling you the
truth. I dropped out because I'm dumb. I really did try
in school, but you saw my grades. Look, I'm happy
working in a gas station with cars. You'd never be
happy doing something like that. And Darry, you
ought to try to understand him more, and quit bug-
ging him about every little mistake he makes. He feels
things differently than you do." He gave us a pleading
look. "Golly, you two, it's bad enough having to listen
to it, but when you start trying to get me to take sides
Tears welled up in his eyes. "We're all we've got
left. We ought to be able to stick together against
everything. If we don't have each other, we don't have
anything. If you don't have anything, you end up like
Dallas and I don't mean dead, either. I mean like
he was before. And that's worse than dead. Please, he
wiped his eyes on his arm," don't fight anymore."
Darry looked real worried I suddenly realized that
Darry was only twenty, that he wasn't so much older
that he couldn't feel scarcd or hurt and as lost as the
rest of us. I saw that I had expected Dairy to do all
understanding without even trying to understand him.
And he had given up a lot for Soda and me.
"Sure, little buddy," Darry said softly. "We're not
going to fight anymore.
"Hey, Ponyboy" Soda gave me a tearful grin
"don't you start crying, too. One bawl baby in the
family's enough."
"I'm not crying," I said. Maybe I was. I don't
remember. Soda gave me a playful punch on the
shoulder.
"No more fights. Okay, Ponyboy?" Darry said.
"Okay," I said. And I meant it. Darry and I would
probably still have misunderstandings, we were too
different not to but no more fights. We couldn't do
anything to hurt soda. Sodapop would always be the
middleman, but that didn't mean he had to keep
getting-pulled apart. Instead of Darry and me pulling
him apart, he'd be pulling us together.
"Well," Soda said, "I'm cold. How about going
home?"
"Race you," I challenged, leaping up. It was a real
nice night for a race. The air was clear and cold and so
clean it almost sparkled. The moon wasn't out but the
stars lit up everything. It was quiet except for the
sound of our feet on the cement and the dry, scraping
sound of leaves blowing across the street. It was a real
nice night. I guess I was still out of shape, because we
all three tied. No. I guess we all just wanted to stay
together.
I still didn't want to do my homework that night,
though. I hunted around for a book to read, but I'd
read everything in the house about fifty million times,
even Dairy's copy of The Carpetbaggers, though
he'd told me I wasn't old enough to read it. I thought
so too after I finished it. Finally I picked up Gone
with the Wind and looked at it for a long time. I knew
Johnny was dead. I had known it all the time, even
while I was sick and pretending he wasn't. It was
Johnny, not me, who had killed Bob, I knew that too.
I had just thought that maybe if I played like Johnny
wasn't dead it wouldn't hurt so much. The way Two-
Bit, after the police had taken Dally's body away, had
griped because he had lost his switchblade when they
searched Dallas.
"Is that all that's bothering you, that switchblade?"
a red-eyed Steve had snapped at him.
"No," Two-Bit had said with a quivering sigh, "but
that's what I'm wishing was all that's bothering me."
But it still hurt anyway. You know a guy a long
time, and I mean really know him, you don't get used
to the idea that he's dead just overnight. Johnny was
something more than a buddy to all of us. I guess he
had listened to more beefs and more problems from
more people than any of us. A guy that'll really listen
to you, listen and care about what you're saying, is
something rare. And I couldn't forget him telling me
that he hadn't done enough, hadn't been out of our
neighborhood all his life-and then it was too late. I
took a deep breath and opened the book. A slip of
paper fell out on the floor and I picked it up.
Ponyboy, I asked the nurse to give you this book
so you could finish it. It was Johnny's handwriting. I
went on reading, almost hearing Johnny's quiet voice.
The doctor came in a while ago but I knew anyway.
I keep getting tireder and tireder. Listen, I don't mind
dying now. It's worth it. It's worth saving those kids.
Their lives are worth more than mine, they have more
to live for. Some of their parents came by to thank me
and I know it was worth it. Tell Dally it's worth it. I'm
just going to miss you guys. I've been thinking about
it, and that poem, that guy that wrote it, he meant
you're gold when you're a kid, like green. When you're
a kid everything's new, dawn. It's just when you get
used to everything that it's day. Like the way you dig
sunsets, Pony. That's gold. Keep that way, it's a good
way to be. I want you to tell Dally to look at one. He'll
probably think you're crazy, but ask for me. I don't
think he's ever really seen a sunset. And don't be so
bugged over being a greaser. You still have a lot of
time to make yourself be what you want. There's still
lots of good in the world. Tell Dally. I don't think he
knows. Your buddy, Johnny.
Tell Dally. It was too late to tell Dally. Would he
have listened? I doubted it. Suddenly it wasn't only a
personal thing to me. I could picture hundreds and
hundreds of boys living on the wrong sides of cities,
boys with black eyes who jumped at their own shad-
ows. Hundreds of boys who maybe watched sunsets
and looked at stars and ached for something better. I
could see boys going down under street lights because
they were mean and tough and hated the world, and it
was too late to tell them that there was still good in it,
and they wouldn't believe you if you did. It was too
vast a problem to be just a personal thing. There
should be some help, someone should tell them before
it was too late. Someone should tell their side of the
story, and maybe people would understand then and
wouldn't be so quick to judge a boy by the amount of
hair oil he wore. It was important to me. I picked up
the phone book and called my English teacher.
Mr. Syme, this is Ponyboy. That theme-how long
can it be?"
"Why, uh, not less than five pages." He sounded a
little surprised. I'd forgotten that it was late at night.
"Can it be longer?"
"Certainly, Ponyboy, as long as you want it"
"Thanks," I said and hung up.
I sat down and picked up my pen and thought for a
minute. Remembering. Remembering a handsome,
dark boy with a reckless grin and a hot temper. A
tough, towheaded boy with a cigarette in his mouth
and a bitter grin on his hard face. Remembering-and
this time it didn't hurt-a quiet, defeated-looking
sixteen-year-old whose hair needed cutting badly and
who had black eyes with a frightened expression to
them. One week had taken all three of them. And I
decided I could tell people, beginning with my English
teacher. I wondered for a long time how to start that
theme, how to start writing about something that was
important to me. And I finally began like this: 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.