Susan Hinton: The Outsiders

“Not that I know of,” I said. “I think he’s got a piece of pipe, but he busted his blade this morning.”

“Good. Tim’ll fight fair if Dally don’t pull a blade on him. Dally shouldn’t have any trouble.”

Cherry and Marcia were staring at us. “You don’t believe in playing rough or anything, do you?”

“A fair fight isn’t rough,” Two-Bit said. “Blades are rough. So are chains and heaters and pool sticks and rumbles. Skin fighting isn’t rough. It blows off steam better than anything. There’s nothing wrong with throwing a few punches. Socs are rough. They gang up on one or two, or they rumble each other with their social clubs. Us greasers usually stick together, but when we do fight among ourselves, it’s a fair fight between two. And Dally deserves whatever he gets, ’cause slashed tires ain’t no joke when you’ve got to work to pay for them. He got spotted, too, and that was his fault. Our one rule, besides Stick together, is Don’t get caught. He might get beat up, he might not. Either way there’s not going to be any blood feud between our outfit and Shepard’s. If we needed them tomorrow they’d show. If Tim beats Dally’s head in, and then tomorrow asks us for help in a rumble, we’ll show. Dally was getting kicks. He got caught. He pays up. No sweat.”

“Yeah, boy,” Cherry said sarcastically, “real simple.”

“Sure,” Marcia said, unconcerned. “If he gets killed or something, you just bury him. No sweat.”

“You dig okay, baby.” Two-Bit grinned and lit a cigarette. “Anyone want a weed?”

I looked at Two-Bit admiringly. He sure put things into words good. Maybe he was still a junior at eighteen and a half, and maybe his sideburns were too long, and maybe he did get boozed up too much, but he sure understood things.

Cherry and Marcia shook their heads at his offering of cigarettes, but Johnny and I reached for one. Johnny’s color was back and his breathing was regular, but his hand was shaking ever so slightly. A cigarette would steady it.

“Ponyboy, will you come with me to get some popcorn?” Cherry asked.

I jumped up. “Sure. Y’all want some?”

“I do,” said Marcia. She was finishing the Coke Dally had given her. I realized then that Marcia and Cherry weren’t alike. Cherry had said she wouldn’t drink Dally’s Coke if she was starving, and she meant it. It was the principle of the thing. But Marcia saw no reason to throw away a perfectly good, free Coke.

“Me too,” said Two-Bit. He flipped me a fifty-cent piece. “Get Johnny some, too. I’m buyin’,” he added as Johnny started to reach into his jeans pocket.

We went to the concession stand and, as usual, there was a line a mile long, so we had to wait. Quite a few kids turned to look at us — you didn’t see a kid grease and a Socy cheerleader together often. Cherry didn’t seem to notice.

“Your friend — the one with the sideburns — he’s okay?”

“He ain’t dangerous like Dallas if that’s what you mean. He’s okay.”

She smiled and her eyes showed that her mind was on something else. “Johnny… he’s been hurt bad sometime, hasn’t he?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Hurt and scared.”

“It was the Socs,” I said nervously, because there were plenty of Socs milling around and some of them were giving me funny looks, as if I shouldn’t be with Cherry or something. And I don’t like to talk about it either — Johnny getting beat up, I mean. But I started in, talking a little faster than I usually do because I don’t like to think about it either.

It was almost four months ago. I had walked down to the DX station to get a bottle of pop and to see Steve and Soda, because they’ll always buy me a couple of bottles and let me help work on the cars. I don’t like to go on weekends because then there is usually a bunch of girls down there flirting with Soda — all kinds of girls, Socs too. I don’t care too much for girls yet. Soda says I’ll grow out of it. He did.

It was a warmish spring day with the sun shining bright, but it was getting chilly and dark by the time we started for home. We were walking because we had left Steve’s car at the station. At the corner of our block there’s a wide, open field where we play football and hang out, and it’s often a site for rumbles and fist fights. We were passing it, kicking rocks down the street and finishing our last bottle of Pepsi, when Steve noticed something lying on the ground. He picked it up. It was Johnny’s blue-jeans jacket — the only jacket he had.

“Looks like Johnny forgot his jacket,” Steve said, slinging it over his shoulder to take it by Johnny’s house. Suddenly he stopped and examined it more carefully. There was a stain the color of rust across the collar. He looked at the ground. There were some more stains on the grass. He looked up and across the field with a stricken expression on his face. I think we all heard the low moan and saw the dark motionless hump on the other side of the lot at the same time. Soda reached him first. Johnny was lying face down on the ground. Soda turned him over gently, and I nearly got sick. Someone had beaten him badly.

We were used to seeing Johnny banged up — his father clobbered him around a lot, and although it made us madder than heck, we couldn’t do anything about it. But those beatings had been nothing like this. Johnny’s face was cut up and bruised and swollen, and there was a wide gash from his temple to his cheekbone. He would carry that scar all his life. His white T-shirt was splattered with blood. I just stood there, trembling with sudden cold. I thought he might be dead; surely nobody could be beaten like that and live. Steve closed his eyes for a second and muffled a groan as he dropped on his knees beside Soda.

Somehow the gang sensed what had happened. Two-Bit was suddenly there beside me, and for once his comical grin was gone and his dancing gray eyes were stormy. Darry had seen us from our porch and ran toward us, suddenly skidding to a halt. Dally was there, too, swearing under his breath, and turning away with a sick expression on his face. I wondered about it vaguely. Dally had seen people killed on the streets of New York’s West Side. Why did he look sick now?

“Johnny?” Soda lifted him up and held him against his shoulder. He gave the limp body a slight shake. “Hey, Johnnycake.”

Johnny didn’t open his eyes, but there came a soft question. “Soda?”

“Yeah, it’s me,” Sodapop said. “Don’t talk. You’re gonna be okay.”

“There was a whole bunch of them,” Johnny went on, swallowing, ignoring Soda’s command. “A blue Mustang full… I got so scared…” He tried to swear, but suddenly started crying, fighting to control himself, then sobbing all the more because he couldn’t. I had seen Johnny take a whipping with a two-by-four from his old man and never let out a whimper. That made it worse to see him break now. Soda just held him and pushed Johnny’s hair back out of his eyes. “It’s okay, Johnnycake, they’re gone now. It’s okay.”

Finally, between sobs, Johnny managed to gasp out his story. He had been hunting our football to practice a few kicks when a blue Mustang had pulled up beside the lot. There were four Socs in it. They had caught him and one of them had a lot of rings on his hand — that’s what had cut Johnny up so badly. It wasn’t just that they had beaten him half to death — he could take that. They had scared him. They had threatened him with everything under the sun. Johnny was high-strung anyway, a nervous wreck from getting belted every time he turned around and from hearing his parents fight all the time. Living in those conditions might have turned someone else rebellious and bitter; it was killing Johnny. He had never been a coward. He was a good man in a rumble. He stuck up for the gang and kept his mouth shut good around cops. But after the night of the beating, Johnny was jumpier than ever. I didn’t think he’d ever get over it. Johnny never walked by himself after that. And Johnny, who was the most law-abiding of us, now carried in his back pocket a six-inch switchblade. He’d use it, too, if he ever got jumped again. They had scared him that much. He would kill the next person who jumped him. Nobody was ever going to beat him like that again. Not over his dead body…