December Rumble

[cooroo]

Well, here's mine. It hasn't been edited very much because I needed to get it posted before today ends. Talk about being last minute! I hope you guys enjoy it - I've enjoyed writing it for sure.
***
Warning: There are a couple of swearwords in here.

“I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you, Curtis.” I turn away from Ponyboy and start walking away, shrugging my shoulders to get my jacket to fit better. Now where to? Home isn't an option; it never really is. I only go there when I need to, mostly when I need cash from Ma because I don't feel like jumping somebody for it. Not that she really has money most of the time either.

I could head to the Nightly Double or The Dingo, get into a good fight and pick up some broads. Some of the boys might be there, too. I could catch up on what's going on. Maybe a Soc'll be around and we could give him a good jumping.

I sigh, wondering why I'm trying to convince myself that I want to go somewhere full of people. Well, I do want to go, but I'm tryin' to kid myself that it won't be too busy, tryin' to kid myself into thinking that I won't see anybody there who knows my brother.

Yeah, that's gonna happen. Who doesn't know Tim Shepard, right? Then again, who doesn't know the Shepards, period? We're a pretty famous family, I think. Tim is... well, he's Tim Shepard – what more do you need to know? And Angela's been popular pretty much all her life. Maybe 'cause of the way she's always mouthing off to teachers, or because she's pretty and all the girls hanging around her want to be her.

Aw, whatever. Who am I kidding? Tim and I hate it, but we both know a lot of Angel's popularity is there because she's such a flirt. Or a slut, depending on how you look at it. Tim's changes his opinion daily.

And me? Well... being Tim's Shepard's kid brother is a claim to fame in itself, right? All the members of the gang know exactly who I am. People on the street recognise me. All because of who my brother is.

I soon get to The Dingo and let myself be swallowed by the noise and action. It's a good place to forget, The Dingo.

“Hey, Curly!”

At least, until this happens.

I turn. “What's goin' on, Jim?”

He grins easily at me, like he always does. “Just wanted to say hi. I'm here with some of the boys.”

I nod. “Sounds tuff.” Jim ain't part of the gang or anything, but he's a cool guy. We skip school together pretty often, but apart from that we don't hang out all that much. He has his friends, I have the gang.

He turns to glance over his shoulder as somebody yells his name. “I'd better get back to 'em.”

“Ok. See ya 'round.”

“Yeah. See you, Shepard.” He turns and walks away.

I do, too, but I only take about two steps before some jerk yells, “C'mon, Jimmy! Curly's just Curly; the real Shepard is Tim.”

I whirl around, stride back to the guy, and do what any self-respecting Shepard would do – punch the asshole as hard as I can.

The look of surprise on his face is great, but I don't get to look at it for very long because he instantly punches me in the gut.

A couple of minutes later, I'm stalking away from the drive-in, fists still clenches. I've knocked him out, but I could still beat that guy some more. “Curly's just Curly...” Asshole. He deserved everything he got. He should've gotten more.

Figuring I'm far away enough from the noise and crowds, I sink down, leaning against a tree and fumbling for a smoke. I'm so mad that my hands are shaking and it takes me three tries to light it. Who did that guy think he was, anyway? What does he know about me? Nothin', that's what. Tim might be the leader of the gang, but I'm a Shepard through 'n through. Even Tim admits it. He did a few weeks ago when I had gotten into a fight at Buck's and busted a couple of my ribs. When I got home, Tim had yelled that patching me up was getting expensive before telling me, kind of proudly, that I sure was a Shepard. Then he had told me to get the hell out of his sight.

I take a long drag, then exhale, trying to stop shaking. It's not just from anger, either. It's a chilly night. But freezing's better than listening to the yelling that I know will be going on at home. It'll either be between Tim and Angela, or Angela and Ma, or Ma and her latest man. I don't remember his name. Why would I bother? He's gonna be replaced within a week.

I huddle deeper into my jacket, tryin' to stay warm, my legs stretched out in front of me. I might be warmer if they were pulled to my chest, but what kind of hood sits like that? Not Curly Shepard, that's for sure.

Goddamn it, who was he to say I wasn't a Shepard? He wasn't even a member of the damn gang! He wasn't anybody.

So why's it bugging me so much?

Because he was right.

Sure, I am a Shepard, no doubt about it, but I'm not the Shepard, the real one.

I never have been.

I lean my head back, eyes closed, and inhale from my cigarette like it's my only lifeline. The I rip it out of my mouth, throw it to the ground, and crush it with my shoe. I shouldn't even be smoking right now. When I lit a weed the other day, someone commented on me being a 'mini Tim'.

I guess I can't be mad about that. I started smoking to be like Tim in the first place. He started when he was twelve, and I took it up less than a year later, just because he was lighting up every hour.

But that's how it's always been, right? Me doin' what Tim was. He started smoking, I started smoking. He got a girlfriend, I stared flirting. He became leader of a gang. I wanted to lead a gang.

I didn't get the last one. Obviously. Who'd listen to Tim Shepard's kid brother, anyhow? I guess it's the one way that I'm unlike Tim.

Goddamn it!

What the hell is wrong with me? Why am I suddenly feeling so crappy about this? I manage to ignore it most days, but today ... I suddenly can't think of anything else. It hasn't left my mind all day. But it wasn't getting to me this badly. That only happened when the jerk at The Dingo opened his big mouth. “Not the real Shepard...” It's so bloody true. I never have been and I never will be. I'll never be anything more than Shepard's kid brother, a mini Tim.

I shiver again. It's getting even colder out here. I pull my knees to my chest and, figuring I might as well screw looking like a tough hood, rest my forehead on my knees. It's doesn't matter anyway. Nobody ever comes around here. I inhale cold hair and laugh bitterly. How pathetic. And to think it's all because of my big brother.

And even weirder though is knowing that a couple of years ago I would've given anything to be known as a mini Tim. He was the greatest thing in the world back then.

He kinda still is, actually. I wouldn't ever admit it to no one, but Tim's still the guy I look up to. I still want to be him. But ... well, that ain't possible so I want to be the furthest thing from him. I don't want to be second best anymore. I want ...

I slam my fist onto the floor. It's concrete and it makes my hand hurt like hell. Good. I'm hoping it'll distract me because, damn it, I don't want to think about this. I can't think about this. I've known ever since I was a kid that it ain't no use dreaming, not when you're a greaser. Socs, they can do anything. They just have to put some cash down and their dream comes true. When you're a greaser, it's impossible. Greasers are greasers – there's no changing that.

But that's not the point! I don't mind being a greaser at all. Well, apart from the cash and dreams thing. But who wants to be a stinkin' Soc, anyhow? Not me. Being a lousy hood works just fine for me. But being Tim Shepard's brother? Not so much.

I'm just sick of it. I'm sick of going through each and every day knowing that I'm never gonna be anything other that what I was yesterday – Tim Shepard's kid brother. I'm not ever going to be anything more. Not a gang leader. Not a feared rumbler.

Not Tim Shepard.

Doesn't make very much sense, does it? Yeah, my thoughts never do. I can't stand being told I'm like Tim and yet I want to be him. I guess I just don't want to be Curly Shepard. Not in a million years. I want to be ...

What do I want to be? Tim, but ... Glory, is my entire life based around my broher? I guess it kind of is. And I'm sick of it. I'm just so bloody sick of it!

I suddenly feel my eyes burning and I press my hands hard against them. Greasers don't cry. Tim doesn't cry.

Damn it!

I pull my hands away and rest my forehead on my knees, letting the years. And the moment they do, they turn into gut-wrenching sobs. When was the last time I let myself do this? I don't even remember.

Actually, that's a lie. I do remember. It was a little more than a month again. And two weeks before that I had cried, too.

It's pathetic, isn't it? But, glory, I needed it. And I need it now, too, I need it so much ... and I don't give a damn. I can't do this anymore, I just can't. I'm through with it. I'm done.

I really mean it. This is it. I'm done being plain old Curly Shepard. I'm done being part of the Shepard gang. I'm done following my brother in everything he does. I'm going to...

Well, I don't know what I'm going to do exactly. But I know what I'm going to be. I'm going to be something more. More than a greaser. More than Curly. More than even Tim. I don't know how, but I'm gonna do it. I have to do it.

I'm gonna show them all.

I press my lips together and make sure my eyes are dry before I stand up and start walking away. It's starting now. I'm going to be different from now on. It's going to start with me no longer wanting to be Tim. It's going to end with me being so much more than him. He's going to want to be me.

About five minutes of confident striding and dreaming, I slow down. Why the hell am I doing this to myself/. Why do I always do this to myself? This is why I don't cry. It makes me all hopeful and makes me forget that I'm a greaser and my dreams don't come true. It's the same thing every time I cry. It starts the same way, with anger, and the middle's full of hope, and it ends with disappointed. Every time.

It's time I remember who I am, what I am. My dreams don't come true. I'm never going to be more than Tim. Hell, I'll never be more than a greaser/ If I was a Soc, things'd be different.

But I'm not. I'm just Curly Shepard, a dumb hood. That's all. I have is dreams that won't come true.

But, when I cry, I can dream that they will.

[Nittanylizard]

I really liked that very deep look into Curly's head. The conflict was great, how he wants to be Tim, but at the same time, doesn't want to be anything like him. It was neat seeing him progress with his thoughts, and try to figure them out as they popped into his head.

Great job, I really enjoyed it.

[Tensleep]

Cooroo: Curly Shepard - always the shadow, always the second thought to Tim. I thought that was a great look into his head and what makes him tick. Kudos, since Curly is one character I will never be able to get into the head of. I loved how conflicted he was, how resentful, and so sad all at the same time. You're the first person to ever make me say "Poor Curly".
Keep on with the great work!

[Tensleep]

Alright, here is the last thing I will write in 2008. It only took me about an hour, so ignore any glaring errors. Happy New Year, all!

My Favorite Time of the Day
By Tensleep

You know, on the days when you can just wander around town, you see some mighty interesting things. For instance, there’s this strange occurrence where at noon it looks like everyone stops working. I think that’s my favourite time of the day. Lunch is one of those very important meals, you know. Right after second breakfast and before snack. It also meant that people who actually worked for a living, like my friends, all could take a few minutes to talk to me without worrying about silly things like bosses and keeping their jobs and the like. I thought about getting a job at one point, just to fit in, but that would just ruin my rep.

So it was after doing a whole morning of nothing that I decided to break for lunch like everyone else and wander into the Pickett Variety Store. Now, this store was always one of my favourite places to lift things from until Ponyboy Curtis went and did something awful and got a job there. That didn’t mean I didn’t take things still, it just meant I didn’t do it while Pony was working so there was plausible deniability. Perry Mason used that excuse last week on this episode with a cute blonde, so I kinda remembered it. Anyways, for reasons I didn’t get, that job was important to him, Pony not Perry, and he wanted to keep it. I thought Darry and Sodapop worked enough for all three of them and this whole job business left me with no one to bum around with on these hot summer days. This summer was really turning into one big yawn. There was no action around here with Tim in the slammer and everyone else working. But I wasn’t about to let it get me down.

So I put a bright smile on my face as I wandered into the back room and spied my favourite person taking inventory on a two-step ladder, not that he needed it. I was willing to bet he could have seen the back of the top shelf if he stood on the tips of his toes. He was pretty funny looking in that smock with that serious look on his face. I’d joked about it before, but our little boy was growing up.

“Hey Kid.”

Pony glanced up from where he was ticking off things on his clip board with a small smile.

“Hey Two-Bit.”

“Come on down from there, Jolly Green, and we’ll get something to eat.”

Pony scowled at his new nickname. He had sprouted up a couple inches in this past year so he was eye to eye with Darry, but missing all the muscle that made the man intimidating. He looked like a giraffe with all the grace of four left feet. Still, all he needed was to start tending vegetables and he would be the Jolly Green Giant. I smirked at the thought. Knowing the kid like I did, he was going to do so much more than tend vegetables for a living. He was barely seventeen, graduated, working the summer before he hit College, you know, one of those driven people you hear so much about. As it was, he would be gone in another month so he could make something of himself. That meant I had to get all my teasing until Christmas in before he took off for the far off land of Academia. I wasn’t sure where that was, but Soda got a kick out of saying “the land of Academia” so hopefully one of us knew what the other was talking about. If not, it was funny anyway.

“It’s not my lunch break yet,” he replied, climbing down from the ladder and towering over me.

“The rest of this town is eating,” I pointed out. “Besides, just shed some of that six foot whatever shadow over your boss and he’ll let you go.”

Mr. Johnson was shorter than I was. He was clearly intimidated by Pony, but Ponyboy seemed to be the only one who didn’t notice it. Go figure.

“Knock it off, ok? Ten more minutes and I’ll be all done with this and we can go,” Pony informed me and I sighed.

Ten whole minutes of this? Was he kidding me? I mean, I suppose he did things like this all day, but it just seemed so repetitive and boring. It was too much like…well, work.

“Ok, but don’t think I’m gonna help you, Stretch.”

“That’s ok with me.” Pony gestured to where there was an upturned milk crate on the floor and I took that as my invitation to sit. “The last time you helped, I worked over time to fix everything again.”

I grinned. “You should have known better.”

He nodded because he knew it was the truth just as well as I did. I just wasn’t cut out for this work stuff. There was a time I had considered it, but that ship had long sailed.

“You know, I thought about getting a job once,” I said because
the silence just didn’t seem to be working for me.

“Oh yeah?” Pony hummed, still counting boxes with the eraser end of his pencil.

“Yep. I was going to be a fireman,” I told him proudly.

“After you started the fires?”

“Well, look at you making jokes!” I chuckled and Ponyboy took it farther by giving me a look that said he hadn’t been joking. He was getting good at this. “And for your information, Steve is the one who likes to set things on fire.”

“I recall,” he scowled, probably remembering last Fourth of July when he lit the picnic table on fire trying to get the barbeque hotter with a bottle of Bourbon. Good old Stevie...

“Well, he would have given me something to do, anyways. If I were a fireman, you can bet they’d let me run the siren and spray with the hose.” I grinned.

“That’s about all they’d let you run,” Pony muttered and I laughed.

“You’re channelling Steve today. He and I rode in a fire truck once, you know.”

“When was that?” He asked, writing something down and moving to an even higher shelf.

“That was the year you decided Santa wasn’t real.”

He frowned over at me, but didn’t pry. He probably thought I was making things up again or something. This was one of my true stories, though. I remembered that Christmas well. Ponyboy was ten and cute. Now he was seventeen and not cute, but still clueless about when Soda, Steve and I tromped all over the roof that Christmas night. We got stuck up there and Mrs. C called a friend who brought a fire truck and the ride home had brought to life all the dreams of a five year old me. Of course, they hadn’t run the siren and I was disappointed, but the thrill of being in the truck made up for it. I’d wanted to be a fireman more than anything when I was a precocious little boy – and those were the exact words my mother liked to use when she let her memory wander. Heck, it was the only job I ever wanted to have. I thought about pursuing it when I was older, but by then, I was old and jaded and too lazy.

“Gosh, I must have been about six or seven when Bobby Schumacher told me Greaser kids couldn’t be firemen,” I mused. “I socked him in the nose for that and then the teacher screeched at me and told me I was never going to amount to anything. Well, I showed her. Look at me now.”

Ponyboy raised an eyebrow, something I taught him, and went back to writing things. Gosh, how long had it been since he said ten minutes? It had to be at least seven. Maybe even fifteen. All I knew was he had five more minutes before I started eating things. There was a bin of penny candies out there with my name on it. I could feel the belly ache that would give me already and sighed to myself. Ok, maybe I could wait for a burger or something over at the Dingo.

“You know, I might become a fireman someday. The girls go for firemen.” I smiled. “And they get lots of time off, lots of poker games, lots of time just sitting on their butts waiting for a fire, and a dog. I could enjoy a dog. You could take care of it for me.”

Pony nodded and I grinned. He was too easy.

“Alright. I’m done,” the kid announced, setting the clipboard down on the desk in the back.

“Great. Lunch is on me!” I announced in return. “Hey, speaking of which, can I bum a couple bucks? My wallet’s a little light after date night. Darla and I ended up over at that new dance place on the Ribbon and there was a cover charge – if you can believe that. I wouldn’ta paid, but the look she gave me promised she’d pay me back later, and boy she did – with interest.”

Ponyboy had that blush going. He only ever did that when I told him about a particularly good time I’d had. I smiled. No matter how old, or tall, he got, I was going to always be able to make him blush.

“How about we just say lunch is on me, ok?” He sighed and I grinned.

“Well, if you insist.”

“Just no more stories, ok?”

I laughed. “Just as long as I never have to watch you work again. That was the longest ten minutes of my life.”

“It only took me six,” Pony replied.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” I shrugged. “Either way, it took too damn long.”

“Yeah, a whole story’s worth. I never knew you wanted to be a fireman,” he mused. “That would be something to see.”

“Let’s head on over to the DX. Maybe Stevie will light something on fire for us and I’ll show you exactly what it means to be a fireman.”

Ponyboy just sighed and ushered me out the door. Like I said, this whole lunch thing was my favourite part of the day.

- End

Alright, and I am off to go drinking. Should be fun. See you all in '09 for our next Rumble!

[Nittanylizard]

Tens, I completely missed this! Well, almost, hahah.

I love how you write Two-Bit, with his thoughts sort of wandering all over the place. He really comes off as laid-back and fun, in his head as well as out of it. At the same time, I could see how he could make somebody frustrated, hahah.

Good read. And I like lunchtime, too .

Liz

[Two-Bitty]

I had mentioned on the January Rumble that I had completed the December Rumble too late, and Tens told me to go ahead and post it. Hopefully it's up to par; I started at like 11 PM on the 31 and typed real fast.

And I pictured Buck to be a person who had anything a kid like him would want, who would want to be like his father. (I secretly like Buck, wahaha) Oh well, on with the show.

---

It started out like all bad letter do. Dear So-and-So, We’re sorry to inform you… blah, blah, blah. He thought, when the letter first came, that they were taking his bar. He wondered, as he had opened it, how he was going to manage the bills after this. The blond figured he hadn’t done anything wrong in the last few months. Rent was paid, everything was in order. Now it started to bother him. So he slowly opened the letter and read.

Dear Mr. Merrill,

We’re sorry to inform you of this dreadful event through mail. On the eve of December 31, 1965, your father, William ‘Billy’ Merrill was tragically killed in battle…

At that point the letter fell to the ground and Buck caught his breath. He fell into the wall behind him, sliding to the floor in utter silence. The bar was silent, or so he thought. No sounds made it to his ears. Everyone was talking in mute, a hallow sound. Things slowed and he stared at the letter on the floor in front of him. In his throat was a stinging, choking sort of sensation. His hand flew to his mouth, covering and muffling his gasping, gasping to keep his tears from rolling down his cheeks. It didn’t help.

Everyone left after a while, not noticing his position on the floor. No one cared anyways. The blond got to his feet, looking around to see if any other people lingered. From what he saw, no one was. Buck was alone. So he sat at the bar, after retrieving the letter from the floor, and placed the paper in front of him. He didn’t want to read it anymore. Silently he sat, staring at the wall across the room, eyes blank.

“Dad?” Buck didn’t recognize his own voice; it was a different tone that he reserved for… well, nothing. He never used that voice before. That needy, pleading voice a five year old would use after a pet hamster or rat died. “D-dad?” Now it was shaking, and he was getting scared. A tear fell to the paper, and black ink spread around the liquid. His head lowered.

Buck was only twenty-three; he was still a kid. Everyone was still a kid in their twenties, no matter what anybody said. But he was supposed to be tough. No twenty-three year old cried around these parts. If you cried you were a wimp.

In public.

But he was alone.

And he cried.


“Dad?”

“Yeah, son?”

“Do you have to go?”

“I was drafted, Buck. You know better.”

Buck grew quiet. Then, with urgency, he stated, “I’ll go instead! I’ll drop out and go in your place. You have to stay here and take care of Mom.”

William listened to his son talk with something fierce in his eye. And he smiled. “Buck, you’re only sixteen. You’re going to stay in school and take care of the house.”

But Buck wouldn’t have it. “No! If you go, I’ll leave too and never come back!”

Damn it, don’t you talk that way to me.”

“Then don’t leave.”

William kept his hands on his things, pressing them into the suitcase. His son looked at him, anger now replacing the fierce determination in his eyes moments ago. Then, the older man closed the stuffed suitcase, and said in a voice that would end any conversation, “I’m leaving.”

But Buck wasn’t one to end a conversation just like that. “If you’re gone in the morning, so am I.”

That morning, William left in his Army Issued uniform, his belongings in a suitcase by his side, and Buck left with jeans and a black t-shirt on, his belongings in a bag thrown over his shoulder.


Now, Buck felt terrible for everything that went on in that old house. If he could, he would go back and make everything right before his father left that morning. Now he would never have the chance to right the wrong. The phone laid next to his hand, and his mother’s number was still etched into his brain.

Slowly his long fingers grabbed the phone from the receiver and he dialed the seven familiar numbers.

On the third ring, she picked up. “Hello?” She had been sobbing. Hell, he didn’t care, he had been too.

“M…mom?”

There was silence. She was breathing heavy. But she was a forgiving woman. “Oh, Buck…” she sobbed harder. “Oh, Buck… I’m so sorry…”

Buck sniffed. “I… got a letter about… dad.”

His mother continued. “We both did. I’m so sorry, baby.”

“I just feel… horrible for leaving like that and not doing anything about it.”

“That’s okay, that’s okay… You were angry, and you had the right. I was angry. But that’s the past, baby.”

He rested his head on the counter in front of him, still listening to his mother rack tears. “I wanted to be just like him.”

She was silent for a moment. “You are just like him.”

Then, he hoarsely said, “I don’t want to be like him anymore, Mom.”

[Tensleep]

Wow! Two-Bitty, that was so worth the post! Honestly, I wasn't expecting to feel bad for Buck Merrill tonight. But the way you bring out his family life and the crushed dream of being like his tough as nails dad only to discover he already was...it worked really well. I liked it! Great job!

[dramaholic74]

That was really good! Like another person, I didn't know who the guy was until Bobby said Dallas. Anyway, awesome fic!