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Dad always enjoyed a beer after supper. He would sit at the head of the table, bottle of beer in his grasp, watching his family with a fond twinkle in his eye. Dad loved his family more than anything; he built it from the bottom up.
Darry, too, loved his family. Almost as much as Dad. Though, unlike Dad, he has lived long enough to watch it fall apart.
With Sodapop dead and buried somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam, and with Ponyboy away at college, Darry often finds himself grasping for straws. Sometimes, within the silence of the house, he imagines that they are all together, pretends that nothing has changed. It is Soda’s turn to cook dinner, and the end result will inevitably be something colorful, and Ponyboy will be delighted like he is still thirteen years old, and he himself will breathe out a laugh and shake his head.
He knows this is not the case, of course, but sometimes he cannot help himself. This is how he is able to cope, and that is all a man can do.
Darry hadn’t gone to the bar when he turned twenty-one. Why would he, when he’d had a taste for alcohol beforehand anyway, thanks to Dad? Besides, he’d hardly had time to focus on something so trivial when his kid brother (who really wasn’t much of a kid anymore, was he?) was on the brink of being sent to war.
Of course, Two-Bit had encouraged him to at least drink something as a celebration, and so he’d caved. It had been nothing special; Two-Bit brought him a bottle of cheap beer from his forever growing stash, and he drank it once the boys retired to bed for the night.
“How’s it feel, Dar?” Two-Bit had asked him, clapping him on the back.
“Tastes like shit,” Darry answered honestly. “Can’t believe you like this crap.”
Two-Bit only shrugged, chuckling. His shoulders rose and fell with each breath. “What can I say? It’s an acquired taste, Dar.”
“Uh-huh,” he muttered. “Kinda like you.”
Two-Bit’s laughter grew louder, as it always did, because everything was funny to Two-Bit Mathews.
But of course, a year and a half later, he would end up dead on his bedroom floor. The result of asphyxiation from choking on his vomit in a drunken stupor.
Since then, Darry hadn’t gone so far as to even glance at any kind of alcohol.
But tonight, his head is swimming, and he needs a drink. Badly.
Darry drives up to the bar, and it is all so unfamiliar. A year ago, if someone would have told him he would end up at the bar, he would have laughed in their face and insulted their intelligence. But now, he is walking through the door, and he is sitting alone on one of the stools, his shoulders hunched. .
The bartender is a thin woman with dirty blonde hair. She hardly regards him, only asking him what he wants and stepping away before he can even finish. He just orders a beer, since it is the only thing he’s had to drink, and he is not a particularly adventurous man. And anyway, he still needs to take himself home.
For a long while, he only sips at the drink here and there, frowning at the taste. This is why he does not drink.
When the pint is gone, he requests another one, and he knows he does not have the money to squander on luxuries like this, but he cannot bring himself to care. His kid brother is dead. His other kid brother is miles away.
His head feels strange, and he thinks that it is because he is beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. So when he hears his name being called out from somewhere else in the bar, he does not react. It’s got to be in his head. Nobody would think him to be here. But then he hears it again, and then a third time, the last of which is more insistent and even aggressive. He turns. And there is Tim Shepard, with his long scar and his hard expression, some of his boys with him.
“Darry Curtis!” he grins. He approaches the bar counter, waving off the rest of his group. “Well, I’ll be damned!” He claps Darry on the shoulder roughly. “What’s a fella like you doin’ here? I ain’t never seen you drinkin’ before.”
“Yeah, well,” Darry sighs, and does not finish his sentence.
“What’cha drinkin’? Beer, huh? Yeah, sounds about right. How ya been, Darry?” And before Darry can even think of a response, Tim is sitting down next to him. “You know, my dipshit kid brother got himself thrown in jail. Again. And I ain’t bailin’ him out this time. He can just rot in there until his time is up. Serves him right, the pain in my ass. And my whore of a sister Angela got herself knocked up again. You know, Darry, you’re damn lucky that you ain’t got yourself a kid sister to look after all the time. Christ, I ain’t made of fuckin’ money.” He shakes his head, laughing. His laugh is harsh and bitter, and Darry cannot tell if it’s the alcohol or Tim that is making his cheeks grow warm.
“Sounds rough,” Darry comments.
“Damn right it is. Hey, how’s your kid brother? Ponyboy? Been a while since we seen him last.”
Darry shrugs. “You know, college and all that. Haven’t heard from him in a while. Busy studyin’ his head off, I reckon. He’s going to be a journalist.”
Tim nods approvingly. “Good for him, good for him. Hey, how much have you had to drink? You ain’t lookin’ too hot.”
“I’m fine,” he mutters. His head aches. He massages his temple idly. “I’ve had like, two pints.”
Tim laughs. “You know, Curtis, for a big guy like you, I didn’t think you’d be such a lightweight. C’mon, why don’t we get you home?”
“I’m fine,” he repeats, and he tries to roll his eyes, but it hurts his head. “And I can handle myself just fine, thanks.”
“Sure. Where’s your truck?”
“Why? You wanna slash my tires? Hotwire it?”
Tim laughs, and unless Darry is mistaken, which he’s almost positive he’s not, it is genuine. “C’mon. How ‘bout you pay and let’s get out of here, huh?”
Darry huffs, and scrounges up enough cash to cover his bill. He leaves it on the counter and stands up without seeing the bartender. When he stands, he sways a little, and Tim supports him while chuckling. His voice is so raspy, and Darry catches himself wishing he could hear it forever.
The car ride is not silent, unfortunately. Darry slides in the passenger seat (or, rather, he’d been pushed in, because he refused to let Tim drive). And Tim, swinging the keyring around his index finger and whistling some improvised tune, hops into the driver’s seat.
“All right,” he says, twisting the key into the ignition. “Where to first, Curtis? Wanna go the county over? How ‘bout Texas? Arkansas?”
“ God, just take me home,” Darry groans. “And I swear, Tim, if you so much as scratch my truck, I’ll beat your ass into next week.”
“Re lax . I know how to drive. This ain’t my first time, believe it or not.”
“Not warnin’ you again,” Darry mumbles.
“Heard ya loud and clear, Curtis. Don’t you worry. Been drivin’ a long time. Probably longer than you, even.”
Tim keeps talking. And Darry wishes he would shut up because his head hurts, but he also wishes that Tim would keep talking forever. He wants to hear his voice until he can’t hear anything anymore.
Once Tim pulls into the driveway, Darry sits up straighter, but he does not exit the truck right away. For a long while, he gazes at Tim, admiring the way his jaw curves sharply, the way his nose is contorted out of shape as a result of all the times it had been broken (he can imagine the way blood would have flowed from it, and the way that Tim would have cussed, spit on the ground, and wiped the blood away).
Tim turns to face him, eyebrow raised. “What? I didn’t bang up your truck.”
Darry laughs. “No,” he agrees softly, “you didn’t.”
“So, what’re you starin’ at me for?”
“Nothin’. No reason. Just wanted to look at you, is all.”
Tim hums in reply, and his deep blue eyes meet Darry’s own. He licks his bottom lip briefly before turning away, gazing out of the window. “Well,” he says, heaving a sigh, “guess I should head out now, huh?”
And Darry doesn’t know if it is the alcohol within him, or if it is his desire, authentic and raw, but before he can catch himself, he answers, “Y’know, you’re supposed to kiss your date ‘fore you go.”
He regrets it as soon as it leaves his mouth, but Tim only cracks up into laughter, his shoulders rising and falling with each breath. “Okay, okay, Curtis. You want me to walk you up to the front door, too? My arm ‘round yours? Like a real gentleman?”
“No,” he says. “I just want you to kiss me.”
And Tim does. His lips are surprisingly soft, and he is, much less surprisingly, a very good kisser. Darry himself is much more inexperienced; he hasn’t had a girlfriend since high school. When Tim pulls away, his cheeks are dusted pink. Darry’s own face is warm.
“Well, there you go, Curtis. Happy now?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Very.”
Tim pats his shoulder before sliding out of the truck.