Chapter 7
NOW THERE WERE three of us sitting in the
waiting room waiting to hear how Dally and
Johnny were.
Then the reporters and the police came.
They asked too many questions too fast, and
got me mixed up.
If you want to know the truth, I wasn't feeling
real good in the first place.
Kind of sick, really.
And I'm scared of policemen anyway.
The reporters fired one question right after
another at me and got me so confused I didn't
know what was coming off.
Darry finally told them I wasn't in any shape
to be yelled at so much and they slowed down
a little.
Darry's kinda big.
Sodapop kept them in stitches.
He'd grab one guy's press hat and another's
camera and walk around interviewing the nurses
and mimicking TV reporters.
He tried to lift a policeman's gun and grinned
so crazily when he was caught that the policeman
had to grin too.
Soda can make anyone grin.
I managed to get hold of some hair grease
and comb my hair back so that it looked a
little better before they got any pictures.
I'd die if I got my picture in the paper with
my hair looking so lousy.
Darry and Sodapop were in the pictures too;
Jerry Wood told me that if Sodapop and Darry
hadn't been so good-looking, they wouldn't
have taken so many.
That was public appeal, he said.
Soda was really getting a kick out of all
this.
I guess he would have enjoyed it more if it
hadn't been so serious, but he couldn't resist
anything that caused that much excitement.
I swear, sometimes he reminds me of a colt.
A long-legged palomino colt that has to get
his nose into everything.
The reporters stared at him admiringly; I
told you he looks like a movie star, and he
kind of radiates.
Finally, even Sodapop got tired of the reporter---
he gets bored with the same old thing after
a time--- and stretching out on the long bench,
he put his head in Darry's lap and went to
sleep.
I guess both of them were tired--- it was
late at night and I knew they hadn't had much
sleep during the week.
Even while I was answering questions I remembered
that it had been only a few hours since I
was sleeping off a smoke in the corner of
the church.
Already it was an unreal dream and yet, at
the time I couldn't have imagined any other
world.
Finally, the reporters started to leave, along
with the police.
One of them turned and asked, "What would
you do right now if you could do anything
you wanted?"
I looked at him tiredly.
"Take a bath."
They thought that was pretty funny, but I
meant it.
I felt lousy.
The hospital got real quiet after they left.
The only noise was the nurse's soft footsteps
and Soda's light breathing.
Darry looked down at him and grinned half-heartedly.
"He didn't get much sleep this week," he said
softly.
"He hardly slept at all."
"Hhhmmmm," Soda said drowsily, "you didn't
either."
The nurses wouldn't tell us anything about
Johnny and Dally, so Darry got hold of the
doctor.
The doctor told us that he would talk only
to the family, but Darry finally got it through
the guy's head that we were about as much
family as Dally and Johnny had.
Dally would be okay after two or three days
in the hospital, he said.
One arm was badly burned and would be scarred
for the rest of his life, but he would have
full use of it in a couple of weeks.
Dally'll be okay, I thought.
Dallas is always okay.
He could take anything.
It was Johnny I was worried about.
He was in critical condition.
His back had been broken when that piece of
timber fell on him.
He was in severe shock and suffering from
third-degree burns.
They were doing everything they could to ease
the pain, although since his back was broken
he couldn't even feel the burns below his
waist.
He kept calling for Dallas and Ponyboy.
If he lived...
If?
Please, no, I thought.
Please not "if."
The blood was draining from my face and Darry
put an arm across my shoulder and squeezed
hard....
Even if he lived he'd be crippled for the
rest of his life.
"You wanted it straight and you got it straight,"
the doctor said.
"Now go home and get some rest."
I was trembling.
A pain was growing in my throat and I wanted
to cry, but greasers don't cry in front of
strangers.
Some of us never cry at all.
Like Dally and TwoBit and Tim Shepard--- they
forgot how at an early age.
Johnny crippled for life?
I'm dreaming, I thought in panic, I'm dreaming.
I'll wake up at home or in the church and
everything'll be like it used to be.
But I didn't believe myself.
Even if Johnny did live he'd be crippled and
never play football or help us out in a rumble
again.
He'd have to stay in that house he hated,
where he wasn't wanted, and things could never
be like they used to be.
I didn't trust myself to speak.
If I said one word, the hard knot in my throat
would swell and I'd be crying in spite of
myself.
I took a deep breath and kept my mouth shut.
Soda was awake by then, and although he looked
stony-faced, as if he hadn't heard a word
the doctor had said, his eyes were bleak and
stunned.
Serious reality has a hard time coming through
to Soda, but when it does, it hits him hard.
He looked like I felt when I had seen that
black-haired Soc lying doubled up and still
in the moonlight.
Darry was rubbing the back of my head softly.
"We'd better go home.
We can't do anything here."
In our Ford I was suddenly overcome by sleepiness.
I leaned back and closed my eyes and we were
home before I knew it.
Soda was shaking me gently.
"Hey, Ponyboy, wake up.
You still got to get to the house."
"Hmmmmm," I said sleepily, and lay down in
the seat.
I couldn't have gotten up to save my life.
I could hear Soda and Darry, but as if from
a great distance.
"Oh, come on, Ponyboy," Soda pleaded, shaking
me a little harder, "we're sleepy, too."
I guess Darry was tired of fooling around,
because he picked me up and carried me in.
"He's getting mighty big to be carried," Soda
said.
I wanted to tell him to shut up and let me
sleep but I only yawned.
"He's sure lost a lot of weight," Darry said.
I thought sleepily that I should at least
pull off my shoes but I didn't.
I went to sleep the minute Darry tossed me
on the bed.
I'd forgotten how soft a bed really was.
I WAS THE FIRST ONE up the next morning.
Soda must have pulled my shoes and shirt off
for me; I was still wearing my jeans.
He must have been too sleepy to undress himself,
though; he lay stretched out beside me fully
clothed.
I wiggled out from under his arm and pulled
the blanket up over him, then went to take
a shower.
Asleep, he looked a lot younger than going-on-seventeen,
but I had noticed that Johnny looked younger
when he was asleep, too, so I figured everyone
did.
Maybe people are younger when they are asleep.
After my shower, I put on some clean clothes
and spent five minutes or so hunting for a
hint of beard on my face and mourning over
my hair.
That bum haircut made my ears stick out.
Darry was still asleep when I went into the
kitchen to fix breakfast.
The first one up has to fix breakfast and
the other two do the dishes.
That's the rule around our house, and usually
it's Darry who fixes breakfast and me and
Soda who are left with the dishes.
I hunted through the icebox and found some
eggs.
We all like our eggs done differently.
I like them hard, Darry likes them in a bacon-and-tomato
sandwich, and Sodapop eats his with grape
jelly.
All three of us like chocolate cake for breakfast.
Mom had never allowed it with ham and eggs,
but Darry let Soda and me talk him into it.
We really didn't have to twist his arm; Darry
loves chocolate cake as much as we do.
Sodapop always makes sure there's some in
the icebox every night and if there isn't
he cooks one up real quick.
I like Darry's cakes better; Sodapop always
puts too much sugar in the icing.
I don't see how he stands jelly and eggs and
chocolate cake all at once, but he seems to
like it.
Darry drinks black coffee, and Sodapop and
I drink chocolate milk.
We could have coffee if we wanted it, but
we like chocolate milk.
All three of us are crazy about chocolate
stuff.
Soda says if they ever make a chocolate cigarette
I'll have it made.
"Anybody home?"
a familiar voice called through the front
screen, and Two-Bit and Steve came in.
We always just stick our heads into each other's
houses and holler
"Hey" and walk in.
Our front door is always unlocked in case
one of the boys is hacked off at his parents
and needs a place to lay over and cool off.
We never could tell who we'd find stretched
out on the sofa in the morning.
It was usually Steve, whose father told him
about once a week to get out and never come
back.
It kind of bugs Steve, even if his old man
does give him five or six bucks the next day
to make up for it.
Or it might be Dally, who lived anywhere he
could.
Once we even found Tim Shepard, leader of
the Shepard gang and far from his own turf,
reading the morning paper in the armchair.
He merely looked up, said "Hi," and strolled
out without staying for breakfast.
Two-Bit's mother warned us about burglars,
but Darry, flexing his muscles so that they
bulged like oversized baseballs, drawled that
he wasn't afraid of any burglars, and that
we didn't really have anything worth taking.
He'd risk a robbery, he said, if it meant
keeping one of the boys from blowing up and
robbing a gas station or something.
So the door was never locked.
"In here!"
I yelled, forgetting that Darry and Sodapop
were still asleep.
"Don't slam the door."
They slammed the door, of course, and Two-Bit
came running into the kitchen.
He caught me by the upper arms and swung me
around, ignoring the fact that I had two uncooked
eggs in my hand.
"Hey, Ponyboy," he cried gleefully, "long
time no see."
You would have thought it had been five years
instead of five days since I'd seen him last,
but I didn't mind.
I like of Two-Bit; he's a good buddy to have.
He spun me into Steve, who gave me a playful
slap on my bruised back and shoved me across
the room.
One of the eggs went flying.
It landed on the clock and I tightened my
grip on the other one, so that it crushed
and ran all over my hand.
"Now look what you did," I griped.
"There went our breakfast.
Can't you two wait till I set the eggs down
before you go shovin' me all over the country?"
I really was a little mad, because I had just
realized how long it had been since I'd eaten
anything.
The last thing I'd eaten was a hot fudge sundae
at the Dairy Queen in Windrixville, and I
was hungry.
Two-Bit was walking in a slow circle around
me, and I sighed because I knew what was coming.
"Man, dig baldy here!"
He was staring at my head as he circled me.
"I wouldn't have believed it.
I thought all the wild Indians in Oklahoma
had been tamed.
What little squaw's got that tuff-lookin'
mop of yours, Ponyboy?"
"Aw, lay off," I said.
I wasn't feeling too good in the first place,
kind of like I was coming down with something.
Two-Bit winked at Steve, and Steve said, "Why,
he had to get a haircut to get his picture
in the paper.
They'd never believe a greasy lookin' mug
could be a hero.
How do you like bein' a hero, big shot?"
"How do I like what?"
"Being a hero.
You know"--- he shoved the morning paper at
me impatiently---"like a big shot, even."
I stared at the newspaper.
On the front page of the second section was
the headline: JUVENILE DELINQUENTS TURN HEROES.
"What I like is the 'turn' bit," Two-Bit said,
cleaning the egg up off the floor.
"Y'all were heroes from the beginning.
You just didn't 'turn' all of a sudden."
I hardly heard him.
I was reading the paper.
That whole page was covered with stories about
us--- the fight, the murder, the church burning,
the Socs being drunk, everything.
My picture was there, with Darry and Sodapop.
The article told how Johnny and I had risked
our lives saving those little kids, and there
was a comment from one of the parents, who
said that they would all have burned to death
if it hadn't been for us.
It told the whole story of our fight with
the Socs--- only they didn't say "Socs," because
most grownups don't know about the battles
that go on between us.
They had interviewed Cherry Valance, and she
said Bob had been drunk and that the boys
had been looking for a fight when they took
her home.
Bob had told her he'd fix us for picking up
his girl.
His buddy Randy Adderson, who had helped lump
us, also said it was their fault and that
we'd only fought back in self-defense.
But they were charging Johnny with manslaughter.
Then I discovered that I was supposed to appear
at juvenile court for running away, and Johnny
was too, if he recovered.
(Not if, I thought again.
Why do they keep saying if?)
For once, there weren't any charges against
Dally, and I knew he'd be mad because the
paper made him out a hero for saving Johnny
and didn't say much about his police record,
which he was kind of proud of.
He'd kill those reporters if he got hold of
them.
There was another column about just Darry
and Soda and me: how Darry worked on two jobs
at once and made good at both of them, and
about his outstanding record at school; it
mentioned Sodapop dropping out of school so
we could stay together, and that I made the
honor roll at school all the time and might
be a future track star.
(Oh, yeah, I forgot--- I'm
on the A-squad track team, the youngest one.
I'm a good runner.)
Then it said we shouldn't be separated after
we had worked so hard to stay together.
The meaning of that last line finally hit
me.
"You mean..."--- I swallowed hard---"that
they're thinking about putting me and Soda
in a boys' home or something?"
Steve was carefully combing back his hair
in complicated swirls.
"Somethin' like that"
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
scraping 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 "Superman" 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 that 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
hurryin'."
Steve followed him and in a second there was
the general racket of a pillow fight.
I absentmindedly watched Darry as he searched
the icebox for chocolate cake.
"Darry," I said suddenly, "did you know about
the juvenile court?"
Without fuming 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 particular.
"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 somethin'," Sodapop assured
him between 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 grandmother 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,
PepsiCola."
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 consider 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 social 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 bumming
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 just 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 Adderson, 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 Winston 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 anymore.
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
breakdown.
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 fighting and
the killing.
It doesn't prove a thing.
We'll forget 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," h 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.
