Chapter Text
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 my mother.
My mama and I used to love movies. We'd go every weekend to see whatever new film was playing, discussing the actors and themes as if it were a second language we’d always known. We both loved Paul Newman, so we always used to end up watching something starring the guy.
I say used to, though, because six months ago today, my mother died in a freak car accident when she was driving over train tracks to the east side of the city. It still hurts to think about it, but I go to the movies every time this day passes and think of her the whole time.
As I walk down the street, slowly making my way back to the empty, shell of a house I live in, I start to get nervous, thinking about whether my dad might be home from work. After Mama died, Dad completely changed from the standard all-American, sporty, kind father he was before to an alcoholic who only ever interacted with his son when he was hollering at me. So if he was home, that always meant trouble.
I didn’t know what I hated more: the times my father drilled into my brain that he saw me as nothing but the dirt on his shoes, or the silence that got left in its place. After all, I was an only child, so with mom gone, there was no one else in the world who seemed to give a damn about me anymore. I know I shouldn’t complain about that sort of stuff, I mean, every parent yells at their kid. Even so, it still hurts like hell to hear the slurred cries from my father, yet see the man who used to play football with me and afterward help me with my homework. He changed too much.
I consider myself an okay person, though. My name was Michael Ponyboy Miller, and I was fourteen years old, living on the west side of Tulsa, Oklahoma, which means I was what's called a “soc”. I used to have auburn-brown hair, but I bleach it now, because that’s what’s in style nowadays, I guess. My wardrobe is fairly standard for where I live, as I typically wear polos and khakis with the latest name-brand sneakers I get for track, thanks to the generous allowance I have access to. I also skipped a grade and am the first freshman to make it onto my school’s varsity track team, so sometimes I adorn a basic letterman jacket with a track patch sewn on. I think I’m fairly popular because of that, or at least no one hates me, anyway.
I have been told I’m too soft, though. I really liked sappy stuff like movies, reading, poetry, and sunsets. No one else understands that sort of thing like I do, and because of that, I always felt a bit out of place when I hung around most kids my age, despite the popularity that came with being a track star and soc. I always felt like these interests kept me unique and happy, though, no matter what happened, like a lantern in a dark forest.
I didn’t really do much better than my dad after everything that happened, though. It was the first time I had lost that spark. I became so quiet that some people thought I was mute. All the people I thought were my real friends isolated me because I wasn’t “fun” anymore. That part stung a lot because here I’d been thinking people genuinely liked me for who I was, but whatever. Feeling things wasn’t a soc trait; everyone just ignored their problems around here. The only thing that stayed constant was my grades. I never let them slip, no matter what. I didn’t know if it was because I just liked school or if it was because Mama had always been so proud of every A I brought home. We used to go out for ice cream and everything, and Dad would pat me on the back real hard, making pride seep into my spine.
That doesn’t happen anymore, obviously.
I lost everything in that car crash, and all that was left was a house so big I could hear the silence echo off the polished floors and luxury furniture.
I suppose it could be worse. Even though I barely have a father anymore, he’s still present enough to keep me from going to a boys' home or something. Or worse, the streets. I still have enough money to never have to worry about buying anything, and a social status that keeps me safe to walk the town at night.
That’s what I tell myself, at least. I may feel like shit 24/7, but at least I’m not what this city calls a “greaser”, a low-life, poor, aggressive animal that lives on the east side. They were dirty and always had long, greasy hair, which is where they got their name. They would often try to pick fights with us socs, usually because they refused to stay on their turf.
Speaking of which, ironically, I had gotten so lost in thought that I hadn’t noticed I had been going the opposite direction from my house. I didn’t come back to my senses until after I’d managed to walk past those godforsaken train tracks and into the side of the city that took my mother away from me. What brought me back was seeing the sign of the DX, a gasoline station so run down and gross it couldn’t possibly be from the West Side.
I stopped in my tracks, silently cursing myself for getting so caught up in my mind yet again. I really needed to use my head more, like my mom had always said.
I take a minute to survey the unfamiliar area, eyes falling on a guy who must be a few years older than me and who was definitely a greaser. I scrunched up my face in disgust. Just great.
I was just going to turn around and try and make it home, but my glare met the eyes of the hood, and I guess the boy took it as a threat because he was glaring right back and looking like he was ready to knock me upside the head.
Goddammit.
“What do you want, soc?” the boy spits. “Come to flex your money or somethin’?”
He starts to stalk towards me, and I’m hit with an image of a lion sizing up its next meal.
I just scowl, hoping to mask the uneasiness I’m starting to feel. “No, I wouldn’t lower myself to talk to hoods like you,” I sneer with practiced confidence. I learned to fake it pretty well when I moved up a grade. People did not like having classes with a so-called “little kid”.
The guy looked to be around 17 and had thick, brown hair combed back with what would be impressive swirls if it wasn’t ruined by all the grease he seemed to have loaded on. He wore a light blue jacket with the DX logo on it, and I assumed it was the uniform for this place. There was a worn-out spot near the logo that I figured should have had a nametag attached, but didn’t, so I had no idea who this guy was. Other than that, his face seemed unwelcoming, but I didn’t know if that was because of what I just said or if he’s just always like that. Either way, the boy snarls at my comment. I don't usually get into it with greasers, so I don't know what's gotten into me today.
I’m kind of weird like that. Most kids my age, well, most socs my age would jump at the chance to take their jabs at “lowly Tulsa Trash,” but I never really saw the appeal in beating anyone up just because you could. The people I hung around with didn’t think like that, though, and I never had the guts to tell them no or just not join them in places I was sure trouble could be found. So while I’d never actually gone around in my dad’s Mustang picking on the first boy I saw, I also didn’t do anything to help and often hovered near the back whenever anyone did jump a greaser around me.
After I lost most of my friends, the number of fights I’d seen went down. I only ever had to bite my cheek, now, when I was with this guy named Robert Sheldon, who usually went by Bob. I wasn’t friends with him, not really. Well, I mean, I guess I was pretty close to him a while ago, but he changed a lot for the worse, so we haven’t truly talked in a long time. But I sort of had to stick around him because I was still close to his girlfriend, Sherri Valance, who everyone called Cherry due to her bright red hair. She was different from all the other socs and dug the things I did, like movies and sunsets and stuff, and I had known her since I was pretty young. We had been neighbors for 10 years.
Ever since she started dating Bob, though, I had to buddy up with him again to keep my head firmly planted on my shoulders and my pulse active, if you know what I mean. He was a very jealous man. He was also mean, spiteful, and a drunk, some of the many reasons I didn’t like him anymore. Cherry swore up and down he was still a good guy, but I thought she was crazy every time she said it. She always seemed to think there was this side of him he kept like a secret, and she wished one day I’d be able to see it too. But the fact is that Bob Sheldon was a true mystery, and I would only ever know half of it.
Cherry made sure he was nice to me, though. She got him to pick me up and drop me off at school since I couldn’t drive. I already mentioned I lived right next to Cherry, and he usually picked her up anyway, which I guess is how she convinced him. I appreciated the gesture, but it was in those moments, when I was a prisoner to his sleek Mustang, that I had to watch him beat on poor greasers, biting my cheek until it bled to keep myself from bolting or making a fool outta of myself.
You gotta believe me when I say that most socs aren’t like that, though, and even if they are, they never usually go that far. They’re not as bad as most greasers make them out to be. If a grease ever got jumped, I’m sure he had probably done something earlier. Sure, Bob tended to take it too far on… some occasions… but really, usually, he’s just evenin' a score or something, so the hoods always have it coming.
He says that if we don’t do this, then it’ll just make things worse. That we’re doing the right thing.
I shiver at the path my mind had started to go down and realize that I had been spacing out again while the greaser was trying to say something I didn’t catch. He looked like he was in the middle of yelling at me, but was cut off by another boy coming out of the store before I could register what he had even been saying.
I could tell the new stranger was a greaser right off the bat due to his hair and scuff alone, but there was something about him that was gentler than the guarded lion in front of me. He looks around the same age as the other and has similarly greasy hair, his being closer to a dark gold than brown and less styled. The boy was a sure lot more handsome than the other, too, with a sort of movie-star glam I’m sure girls went crazy for. He was wearing the same blue DX jacket, and he actually had a nametag on it reading Sodapop, which sent me into the third spiral that afternoon.
To most, the name should be weird, unbelievable, or a head-turner at the least, but to me, all it did was remind me of my middle name. Mama originally wanted to name me Ponyboy, but Dad wouldn’t have it, saying it sounded like a hood’s name. She was dead set on it for some reason, though, and made it my middle name instead. I’ve grown used to the strange name now because it's just another thing that reminds me of her, even if I didn’t know where her unyielding attachment came from.
As Sodapop stepped out of the store, he didn't seem to notice me at first, instead chatting to his coworker, which knocked me out of what would’ve been another long moment lost in my head.
“Yo Steve,” he starts, which must be the name of the other guy, “do we still have Pepsi, or are we out? I promised Two-Bit I’d snag him one on my way out.”
Steve takes a minute, stalling a bit to send a harsh glare my way. Soda follows his eyes, cocking an eyebrow, but looks back towards Steve when he responds, “No, the truck didn’t show up this week, and our last one from the previous stock was sold a few minutes ago.”
“Damn,” Sodapop sighs, “I guess he’ll just have to live without it. I was just hoping I’d be able to keep him from chugging another beer for at least a little while.”
The nicer grease looks like he’s about to go back inside when he remembers the heavy tension still thick in the air. I’m sure he’s either been around enough rumbles or just around Steve long enough to realize a fight is about to happen. “What’s Blondie doing over here?” He asks, and I can feel his once-welcoming demeanor start to fade when he addresses me specifically. It’s not enough to overshadow a sense of customer service, but I’m still a little more on edge because of it. “Looks too shiny to be on this side of town and not be looking for trouble.”
“Dunno,” Steve bites, clearly not caring to maintain the same level of professionalism as his co-worker, “Was just trying to ask him that same question, but he’s ignoring me. Must think he’s too special.”
I stare at the two for a second, not wanting to get deeper into this mess, I know I will regret it come tomorrow.
I sigh and respond, though. “My name's Michael, not that you need to know,” I spat, which did not help.
The greaser named Steve chuckles bitterly at that, “Well, la-dee-da. Isn’t there some party you should be at or something?”
I roll my eyes and turn to walk away. I could tell I was startin’ to sweat something fierce, and my palms were getting all clammy, something that always happened whenever I got real nervous. I’m trying hard not to look it, but I’m mighty scared of these two. I know greasers don’t typically jump people all that often, but they still had a bigger criminal record than all the socs combined for a reason. They were dangerous hoodlums, and I had just given them a reason to be mad. I had just poked the lion with a stick.
“Where ya going, pretty boy?” Steve taunts, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you any manners?”
I tensed at that comment, stopping in my tracks. No greaser gets to talk about my mother.
“Lay off him, Steve,” Sodapop interjects. “He’s leaving, and we don’t need to fight on the clock again. The boss’s gonna kill us.”
“No, I want to know what this dirty hood wants to say about my mother.” I snap, turning around and stomping towards the hood. I really should just go, but I’m getting all worked up now. All this thinking I’ve been doing was making me raw.
Steve puffs out his chest and leans in, getting in my face. “I bet she’s some rich whore who spends her day buying purses more expensive than what I get paid in a year and kissing half the town,” he literally spits.
I barely listened to anything he said after “whore”, my vision swimming with red hatred. I wipe the spit off my face and throw a mean right hook before I can think better of it.
Despite not being that strong, I still managed to knock him back a bit. My victory is short-lived, though, because both he and Sodapop are now charging me. Soda pushes me back, and Steve goes to sock me in the face, connecting his knuckles with my jaw with such force that his fist feels like fire against it. I fell to the ground and started to crawl away, but I concluded that Steve was the overly aggressive type because he didn’t seem to want to let me get off so easily.
Immediately, all the fights I had before vanished into thin air as my mind recited all the times I cowered in fear below my screaming father, thinking he really was going to hit me. How lousy is that? Being scared of a fight that never really happened.
I tried to keep my dignity for a little bit longer as the greaser moved to hit me again, but my resolve crumbled fast, and I just let out a pathetic whine, “Please stop, I’m sorry, I’ll go! I didn’t mean nothin'!”
Steve didn’t seem to care about my pathetic cries, but luckily, the other guy had a bit more heart. Sodapop grabbed Steve by the collar and pulled him back seconds before his fist collided with my already bruising jaw again.
“Just get out of here, soc,” Sodapop sighs. Steve is glaring at me from Sodapop’s hold, but doesn’t fight the boy for freedom.
I quickly get up and scramble away as fast as I can. I’m grateful the whole thing ended so fast because I could feel red-hot tears forming behind my eyes, and I might’ve actually passed away out of embarrassment if I cried in front of two greasers.
I start to jog back to the right side of town, not wanting to stay in this risky area any longer. While I run, tears finally dry on my face, and the pain in my jaw starts to mellow out into an itchy pulsing. When I close my eyes, it's like I see lightning, but I hope that’ll go away soon.
Man, I’m so pathetic. I got punched once, and here I am, bawling like a baby.
I finally make it back to the West Side, and as I make my way up the driveway to the empty mansion I have to call home, I pause before turning the doorknob to the entrance. I can see my father through the windows beside the door and spot four beer bottles strewn around him as he watches football on the TV in the living room. I let out an exasperated sigh. This was the one thing I had been trying to avoid. You already know he’s bad, but the actual events that come from wrath are never something that can be brushed over, at least to me. They can range from him screaming at me for being out late, sobbing, and telling me I’m the reason mom died, or ignoring his feelings and looking like he was literally on the verge of death, which terrified me something awful. So, to hopefully avoid any of those possibilities, I try to sneak in as quietly as possible and avoid his gaze. I really don’t want to add another reason to the growing list of why this is such a lousy day.
Thankfully, he’s already pretty knocked out and doesn’t notice me sneaking up the stairs and into my room. I hold my breath the whole way up to make myself all the more unimpactful, though I usually do that anyway. I mean, even if the old man isn’t here. It’s because to get to my room, I have to pass another door. One that holds painful memories. The one where, once upon a time, mother and father slept peacefully inside.
Once I’m finally alone and sinking into my bed, I release a painful breath that seems to have been holding all my emotions in the back of my throat, making it raw and tight. Apparently, I wasn’t quite done with being a baby, too, as tears started to leak from my eyes again. I roll over and look at the picture I have on my nightstand. It's one of me, my dad, and my mom, back from when everything was still okay. I look at my mom’s happy face and let out a pathetic-sounding noise somewhere between a sob and a squeak. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn onto my back. I’m so exhausted from all that happened today that I neglected getting changed or nursing my bruise at all, instead slowly trying to sink into a shallow sleep while still on top of my soft blankets. I can tell tonight will either be laced with nightmares or a dreamless oblivion.
It’s in moments like these that I wish I had someone who still cared about me. A sibling, or friend, or a parent who could hold me while I cried, or sleep with me through the night. I’m not dumb enough to believe that will ever happen, though. There ain’t no one out there who will ever look at me like my mom used to ever again.
As I fall into unconsciousness, I feel more alone than I have in weeks, but for some reason, I can’t get those two greasers off my mind. Especially the nicer-looking one who had an equally strange name as I could’ve. Even after I had messed up and gotten into it with his coworker, he still let me go scott-free and even seemed a bit sorry for me. Something nice stirred in my chest, but I quickly stamped it out and tried to give in to the tiredness I could feel settling into my bones.
I hope I don’t ever run into him again because I don’t think I could take it to be on the receiving end of that look of hatred that he gave me today again. It would just serve as another reminder of how I always make everything worse, and how there is no one on my side anymore.