the outsiders imagines

stories i'd never tell my friends - ponyboy

Note: "Stories I'd Never Tell My Friends" is a series I created to delve into the backstories of the Outsiders characters. Each installment will feature a member of the gang and a part of their backstory as imagined by me. The stories will be told from the point of view of the character.

Darry yells at me a lot because he thinks I don't use my head enough. He's always saying that I should study more, and not spend so much walking around Tulsa or watching movies. He thinks my hobbies are a waste of time, 'cause he sees potential in me or something.

The thing is though, I don't go to the movies to watch films.

It all started a couple months ago, when I was hangin' around the theater looking for something to do. It was a little after our parents died, and so I was just bumming around the place feeling sorry for myself. I know, it was pathetic, but what else was a kid supposed to do?

Anyhow, I found myself kicking rocks at the trash cans in front of the theater. That's when Mr. Wilburn, the man who owns the place, walked out and saw me. He started yelling at me, saying I was leaving dents in his trash cans. Then he suddenly stopped screaming and just looked at me, real hard. He told me to come inside with him, and I did. I was just scared that he was gonna call the fuzz or something. Or worse, Darry. So I just kept my mouth shut and went in. He took me to the back, his office I think, and told me to sit down on this old stool in the corner. I discreetly brushed the dust off the stool and sat down, folding my hands in my lap.

Mr. Wilburn started giving me this lecture about responsibility and respect, and to be honest, I stopped listening after the first five minutes. The next thing I knew, he was talking about my parents so I started listening again.

"It's a real shame what happened to your parents, kid. I used to go to school with them, you know. Your mom was real bright, and your dad was popular. Such a shame." I didn't know what to say to that, so I just nodded my head. That's what I usually do when people say stuff like that about my parents.

"And it's a shame about your brother, too. Having to raise two of you by himself." Mr. Wilburn shook his head. "Shame." He opened the door for me and gestured for me to walk out. "See you later, kid. Watch out for yourself."

Then suddenly, I found myself opening my mouth. "Hey, Mr. Wilburn. You lookin' to hire a ticket boy?"

And that's how I started working part time at the movie theater. So Darry can yell at me all he wants about "not prioritizing school" and "watching too many movies." But the next time he opens his wallet and finds a few extra dollars in there, like he does every time I get my paycheck, he should thank me.

——

When I went back to school after everything happened with the church and the kids, Cherry acted like she didn't know me.

On the first day of school, I said hi to her. When I looked at her, it felt like time had stopped, you know? She's real beautiful. She mouthed "hi" back, and I thought that things had changed, that maybe she didn't care about labels and how she's a Soc and I'm a greaser. That maybe the labels didn't matter anymore.

But then she turned and walked away with her friends, and that's how I knew that it still mattered.

I guess it's unreasonable for me to expect things to change so quickly. I mean, if people thought she was a "greaser sympathizer" she'd probably lose all her friends. It's kind of like how some of the gangs in Tulsa won't associate with Italian people or black people or Asian people or Hispanic people like the Shepards, because even if they're not racist, their friends are. And when you're poor, your friends are all you have. I'm not saying that's right, because it's not. And it's not that they don't know better, because they do. It's just sad how people can't just see people as people and that they need to pretend to be bigoted to feel accepted. It's dumb and I hate it.

I guess I'm not upset with Cherry, per se. I guess I'm upset with myself.

I hate how naive I am sometimes. Like, did I really expect things to get better? Just because Johnny died and Dallas killed himself and we had that rumble? Sometimes, I think Darry's right and that I am real stupid. That I don't use my head. Because what kind of grown up believes in fairy tales like that?

A lot of times I cry myself to sleep at night. Soda thinks it's because I miss Mom and Dad, but really it's because I hate living in this shitty world where everyone needs to compete against each other. I hate it because I'd much rather live in a world where everyone is loved and people don't care about how much money you have or the color of your skin and actually care about the type of person you are and whether or not you have morals. But I guess that kind of world doesn't exist and there's nothing we can do about it.

——

I think about what happened at the church a lot. It forces its way into my dreams. When I think about it, I can almost feel the flames eating at my clothes, the adrenaline rushing through my mind, the hands of those kids clutching at my neck. It's like I relive it, like some horrible repeating nightmare that renders me paralyzed every time.

Other times, I think about what we could've done differently. Like how I could have prevented that stupid beam from falling on Johnny. Maybe I should have seen it coming, warned him. Or maybe we should've listened to Dally and stayed out of the whole thing.

Or maybe, it should have been me that died.

Sometimes, I wish it had been me. Because at least then Johnny would still be here and Dallas wouldn't have gone crazy. But then if I think about it, maybe Dallas would have lost it if it was me anyway. And then Sodapop and Darry would have too. And if Sodapop lost it, then Steve would. I don't know. I don't know how things would have been different.

I also think about Johnny a lot. He told me before he died that it was worth it, that it was worth saving those kids. But was it? How were their lives anymore valuable than his? Or Dallas'?

I visit them both at the cemetery once a week. I usually wait until Darry and Soda fall asleep, then I sneak out. I never like going with the rest of the gang, because I like sitting in front of their tombstones, alone, and telling them what's been going on. A stupid joke Two Bit told or something dumb Steve and Soda have been up to. Or that Darry pulled his back again and is refusing to spend money on a chiropractor. I like telling them about school, especially Dallas because he was never interested about my stories of school when he was still here. When I'm at the cemetery, I can almost hear their laughter, and their arms around my shoulder. And if I'm there long enough, it feels like the whole gang is there, like their old selves. Like the seven of us are reunited, together again, laughing and talking and joking like old times. But the Sodapop that's there isn't broken inside. The Steve isn't all bruised and cut up from his dad's beatings. Darry isn't stressed, and Two Bit isn't a drunk. We're all just ourselves, how we would have been if the world wasn't beating on us all the time. If we weren't greasers and we were treated based on the "content of our character" like that Reverend Martin Luther King guy said in his speech on the television last week. If it didn't matter where you came from, all that mattered was who you were as a person. If the world was fair.