Susan Hinton - The Outsiders

“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,” I 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.

THE NURSES WOULDN’T let us see Johnny. He was in critical condition. No visitors. But Two-Bit wouldn’t take no for an answer. That was his buddy in there and he aimed to see him. We both begged and pleaded, but we were getting nowhere until the doctor found out what was going on.

“Let them go in,” he said to the nurse. “He’s been asking for them. It can’t hurt now.”

Two-Bit didn’t notice the expression in his voice. It’s true, I thought numbly, he is dying. We went in, practically on tiptoe, because the quietness of the hospital scared us. Johnny was lying still, with his eyes closed, but when Two-Bit said, “Hey, Johnnykid,” he opened them and looked at us, trying to grin. “Hey, y’all.”

The nurse, who was pulling the shades open, smiled and said, “So he can talk after all.”

Two-Bit looked around. “They treatin’ you okay, kid?”

“Don’t…”—Johnny gasped—“don’t let me put enough grease on my hair.”

“Don’t talk,” Two-Bit said, pulling up a chair, “just listen. We’ll bring you some hair grease next time. We’re havin’ the big rumble tonight.”

Johnny’s huge black eyes widened a little, but he didn’t say anything.

“It’s too bad you and Dally can’t be in it. It’s the first big rumble we’ve had — not countin’ the time we whipped Shepard’s outfit.”

“He came by,” Johnny said.

“Tim Shepard?”

Johnny nodded. “Came to see Dally.”

Tim and Dallas had always been buddies.

“Did you know you got your name in the paper for being a hero?”

Johnny almost grinned as he nodded. “Tuff enough,” he managed, and by the way his eyes were glowing, I figured Southern gentlemen had nothing on Johnny Cade.

I could see that even a few words were tiring him out; he was as pale as the pillow and looked awful. Two-Bit pretended not to notice.

“You want anything besides hair grease, kid?”

Johnny barely nodded. “The book”—he looked at me—“can you get another one?”

Two-Bit looked at me too. I hadn’t told him about Gone with the Wind .

“He wants a copy of Gone with the Wind so I can read it to him,” I explained. “You want to run down to the drugstore and get one?”

“Okay,” Two-Bit said cheerfully. “Don’t y’all run off.”

I sat down in Two-Bit’s chair and tried to think of something to say. “Dally’s gonna be okay,” I said finally. “And Darry and me, we’re okay now.”

I knew Johnny understood what I meant. We had always been close buddies, and those lonely days in the church strengthened our friendship. He tried to smile again, and then suddenly went white and closed his eyes tight.

“Johnny!” I said, alarmed. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, keeping his eyes closed. “Yeah, it just hurts sometimes. It usually don’t… I can’t feel anything below the middle of my back…”