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From the time he’d been fourteen and just a kid who didn’t know much -at least about the things people told him mattered- the only thing Soda truly loved doing was riding in rodeos. Sure, he liked fighting and fixing up cars. And sure, he did love drag racing with Steve, being around his brothers and the rest of their buddies, and eventually flirting with girls, but those things all involved people. Riding saddle bronc, whether he managed to ride the natural high for the full eight seconds or got his ass handed to him, was the only extracurricular, or hobby, or whatever you wanted to call it, that was just his that he loved.
Actually, his love for it was one of the few things he knew for a fact back then. He hadn’t known how to make sense of the books he tried to read for school or the answers to damn near any of the questions his teachers asked him. But, he had known he loved his mama and daddy, his brothers, and their friends, and he had known he loved riding.
He still loves it now, two months shy of twenty, despite the knee sprain at fifteen that took a month to heal. He still loves it, even though lots of people told him he would burn out at the young age of sixteen, going out on the road on the weekends the summer after his parents died. He didn’t, and he just grew more addicted. It was a welcome distraction from keeping Darry and Ponyboy from arguing and falling apart all the time, anyhow. And besides, they needed the money. He did take a break after Johnny and Dally died and Sandy left, partly to keep the peace between his brothers (it helped when he finally admitted what their fighting was doing to him) and partly to see if it would do him any good. Whether it did or not, he’s still not sure. He just ignored the hurt by filling the time with other stuff. Mainly, working and putting on a smile for Darry and Pony. After his outburst in the park he felt like the two of them were walking on eggshells around him, and it was just easier to pretend everything was okay.
But, through it all, he still felt the itch to ride deep down in his bones. So, he started competing in the regional circuit the following spring, sometimes going south, too, or to the west. He made enough money to pay the entry fees, buy greasy meals at roadside diners, and stay in seedy motels occasionally, and he was always home for the important things like track meets and birthdays. So, it was rotten luck that his draft notice showed up in the mail on an otherwise uneventful day when he happened to be home. He wonders sometimes what would’ve happened if it came when he was gone. If Darry or Pony or Steve would’ve just thrown the letter out or something.
But, it didn’t happen that way, so he went, shipped off to Vietnam towards the end of the rodeo season. Steve had wanted to go, but one of his broken ribs never healed right after that awful rumble and so the Army didn’t want him. Two-Bit tried to say he would sign up and go with Soda, but Soda didn’t let him entertain the idea from the second it left his mouth. None of them were going over there unless they had to.
And he had to. He couldn’t make a passable conscientious objection. He just knew the Army wouldn’t believe him, not like the Mennonites in Kansas that Steve’s cousin told them about. He comforted himself at first with the thought that maybe he could make a difference, like he would be doing some good for his country or the other kids fighting. Being helpful. That way of thinking didn’t last long, though, not after the first buddy he made in boot camp got blown to pieces by a landmine after a month in the country.
His name was John, and he was followed by Michael, Frankie, and Charlie. All of them killed, just like that. So no, Soda doesn’t see what difference any of them made.
Dan and Vic made it out okay, but Soda knows he won’t see them again for a long time, if ever at all. Too many bad memories to have to avoid talking about.
Along with his four new dead friends, he also came back from Vietnam with a scar on his leg from a bullet that went right into his thigh. It happened after John, Michael, and Frankie died, so he had been waiting for a while for something to happen to him, for his luck to run out. And when Charlie died after, all Soda wondered was why it wasn’t him.
The doctor that patched him up said it was a miracle it didn’t hit any veins or arteries, just the meat. Soda doesn’t think it was a miracle. A miracle would’ve been an injury that sent him home, not one that healed easy and quick enough for him to go back to fighting. They sent him back out there for a few more months before he got to leave.
But, a worse injury would’ve meant no more riding, so at least he got lucky there. He gave it a couple of weeks after getting back to Tulsa before he started to follow the circuit again, this time with a hole in his leg that made it a little more achy than before and his own set of dog tags that he wore with his daddy’s from Korea. He’d worn them everyday between his father’s death and when he shipped out, and he didn’t quite know what to think about the sound of the metal clinking against his own.
❋❋❋
Soda spends most of his time in Oklahoma, Kansas, and Texas, but spends a decent amount of time up in Nebraska and over in Colorado and Wyoming, too. On a lonely weekend up in Cheyenne, he buys a tape off of another cowboy who’s selling them out of the back of his pickup truck. Says he wrote all the songs and cut the record himself. Soda listens to the first few tracks as he drives to the nearest rest stop that’s on the way to Denver, and they’re not half bad. Maybe a little too country for his taste (he prefers something like Johnny Cash, the stuff his parents had listened to), or maybe they just remind him too much of the songs that would play at Buck Merril’s, and the image of Dally’s disgusted face makes his chest twinge in the way he’s learned to ignore.
But, as soon as that thought’s gone, he’s thinking about how much Pony would dig this cowboy singer. How he’d marvel at the cowboy’s toughness (Soda saw him ride and was glad he rode bareback, not saddle bronc. He was damn good. Tuff.) and his ability to write his feelings down in a song at the same time. Then all he has in his mind is how cool his little brother went and got -much cooler than Soda- and how sometimes he wishes Pony was still fourteen. Then again, things weren’t exactly easy or simple back then, either.
He thinks about how he should call home. There’s a pay phone at the rest stop, but as soon as he parks, he leans against the door and stretches out across the seat because it’s too cold to sleep in the bed.
❋❋❋
The time away from riding hasn’t done Soda any good. He’s not the same rider he was once and he knows it. The broncs in Denver are some of the toughest he can remember, but he ought to be able to handle it. At least, that’s what he tells himself, climbing up over the chute and trying to recall the confidence he had in him at fifteen. Hell, the kid who went before him can’t be more than a fresh nineteen, and he lasted a full ride. He ought to be able to do it.
He manages to pull the rope tight against his hand despite the horse moving like crazy already. He takes a breath. His mind is drawn to the cool touch of the dog tags against his skin under his shirt. To the energy racing through his body and the horse’s and how it feels the same. He gives a nod. “Let’s go, boys! Let’s go!”
The gate busts open, and it’s everything he dreams about. It’s all he can do to hold on, but he does, gripping the rope so hard he can’t feel his hand and jerking his shoulders back and forth so fast his head doesn’t know where he is. It’s rough and it’s fast and it’s everything he’s ever known. And then it’s over. The bronc gives its body an almighty twist and sends him flying.
The board says 7.54. He smiles at the crowd and waves his hat, just like he’s always done, but when he turns around his shoulders sag. The pickup men calling out to him, “Good ride, cowboy,” does nothing to make him feel better. It’s his best ride in weeks and it’s not enough. He sees the line of cowboys waiting their turn to have a go at the lightning, every one of their faces looking younger than the one before, and Soda wonders when he started to feel so old.
Afterwards, he heads to a nearby bar he’s been to before. Plenty of other cowboys are there, too, but anymore the only friends he has are the lonely women and cheap glasses of bottom shelf whiskey.
Buckle bunnies are what they call the women. And Soda supposes that’s an accurate name, but he figures they’re no worse than anyone else, just looking for a little fun and someone to spend time with. He’s two glasses in when a cute blonde perches on the stool next to him. She says a few words and her name, neither of which he catches because she’s got blue eyes. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, and after a couple of minutes she’s got her hand on his knee.
“You got a real pretty smile,” she tells him. He’s got his back against the headboard of the bed she led him to in a room above the bar. Vaguely, he remembers he came to the bar in the first place because it reminds him of Buck’s. He closes his eyes and he can see himself back there, barely sixteen and trying to make sure Dally and Steve and Two-Bit don’t overdo it.
The girl’s hand is on his knee again, sliding higher. The bad booze has warmed his body, and he feels good, even if he knows it’ll only be for a moment. “Y’know,” he murmurs, the words falling clumsily off his lips, “people never mention my pretty smile anymore.”
“Really?” she asks. It seems genuine.
He nods, and for what it's worth, it’s true. As a kid, he got notes sent home to his parents from teachers all the time telling them how he talked too much in class, but they really appreciated the smile he always had on his face.
It was the same story with his boss at the DX. “You just keep flashin’ that smile that draws in customers, Curtis, and I won’t care that you cause the line of cars to back up from talkin’ so much.”
Hell, even the occasional Soc in a fight would mention it, right before Soda punched him. “Wipe that smirk off your face, grease.”
And all his girlfriends in high school, ending with Sandy. “Don’t smile like that, Soda. You know what it does to me.”
“Really,” he slurs. “I ain’t heard anythin’ like that for a long time.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“Aw, it’s alright.” He focuses on her the best he can, grabbing hold of her shoulders and kissing her. He finally rolls them over and lets himself fall into her, wondering when her eyes turned brown.
❋❋❋
Two months later, after repeating the events of that evening in Denver week after week -the mediocre ride and buckle bunny and all- Sodapop Curtis turns twenty years old in Kansas City. He celebrates by getting bucked off the meanest bronc he’s ever climbed on top of. Then, he gets in a fight.
Some of the other guys he sees out on the circuit are nice, some aren’t. Those guys give him a hard time every once in a while, usually when he greases his hair again, accusing him of being “all hat, no cattle,” or some city kid who doesn't know what he’s doing.
Sure, he’s never actually worked with cattle, but anyone who’s ever seen him around a horse knows he’s no white collar cowboy. And that’s what he says to the man who picks the fight with him on this night.
“Oh sure,” the other guy sneers. “I forgot, you’re some sorta horse whisperer.”
“Damn right I am,” and Soda throws himself at him, because that’s just what he feels like doing right now. He figures the guy is going to remember the last time they fought and Soda kicked at his legs, trying to get him with his spurs, but he’s not worried. He’s got other tactics. And what Ponyboy wrote in his theme all those years ago is still true. Soda’s never lost a fight.
When it’s over, his knuckles bloodied and shirt disheveled, he feels like drinking some more cheap whiskey. But something in the back of his mind nags at him, right up until he’s standing in the doorway of the bar. Instead of going through, he veers to the pay phone outside the building.
It is his birthday, after all, and he promised Darry he’d call.
He doesn’t know what time it is, but he knows it’s late. Still, Darry picks up on the second ring. Soda can picture him sitting in the old armchair next to the phone, just like he did the whole week when Pony and Johnny were gone.
“Soda?” his brother’s voice comes over the line, rough but just like he remembers it.
“Hey, Darry.”
“Happy birthday, little buddy.”
I’ve been to war , Soda thinks, but I’ll never stop bein’ little buddy . The thought almost gets through to him, through the ache in his chest that’s been there for a while. “I’m sorry I made ya wait up.”
“That’s okay. Just make sure you call tomorrow and catch Pony. He’s got a college visit in the mornin’ and was worried about not gettin’ enough sleep. Kid’s not used to wakin’ up early enough, I guess.” The humor in Darry’s voice falls flat, and Soda can’t say anything. “Where’re ya at?” Darry asks, finally.
“Kansas City.” His voice is small because he knows he should’ve just kept on driving south.
“Oh, how’s it goin’?”
“It’s. . .” Lie . Lie and tell him you’re doing great and you see a point to all of it . “Oh, you know how it is. Tough broncs and tough competition.”
He can’t even say that he likes it. It’s easy enough to like -to love, even- when he’s on the back of a horse, drunk on the power he feels beneath him and just the thought of making a full ride. But then that part ends, and what does he have after that? That’s what he can’t bring himself to like.
He scrapes the toe of his boot against the wall, the sound mixing with Darry’s ragged sigh. “I wish you’d come home, Soda. We miss you.”
Do you ? he wants to ask. Do you even know who you’re missin’? Because I don’t know if I’m the same and- “I’m sorry, Dar, I just wanna make some more money before I come back, maybe see how far I can make it. Look, I gotta go. I’ll call tomorrow, alright?”
“Sure, Soda. Okay.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Forty five minutes go by and all he’s managed to do is eat all the ice cubes from his glass of whiskey. He stares at the dark liquid, lost, just barely noticing when a girl sits down next to him. He can see her brown hair out of the corner of his eye, and he knows he’s not drunk enough -not drunk at all, actually- to pretend it’s blonde.
Still, he tells her his name when she asks. “That’s cute,” she giggles. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you here before. You new?”
His knee throbs, the muscles above it aching where the bullet went through. He rubs a finger over the calluses on his hand and can feel the effort it’s taking to keep his back straight. “No, I ain’t new.”
“Well, that’s okay. I bet I can still show ya a good time.” She leans in close. “You might have more fun than ever.”
And God help him, Soda follows her. He follows her back out the door and to a pickup truck she says she borrowed for the night from her cousin. They don’t even drive anywhere, just sit there in the parking lot where anyone could see them.
He’s got his tongue down her throat because that’s just what he feels like doing right now, but when he pulls back and the moonlight shines through the window, he sees how wide her pupils are.
“You’re drunk.” He leans back even farther, away from her.
She giggles again. “So?”
“I don’t- um, I think I’m gonna turn in for the night, anyway. I’m pretty tired.”
“Oh, I see.” Her voice is soft, not annoyed or hurt. “You’re one of the good ones, ain’t ya?”
He feels cold all of a sudden, his back against the passenger door, ready to leave. “I ain’t good.”
“Sure you are. There ain’t many of you, but I know a good one when I see ‘em.”
“You don’t know me.” The words come out with more force than he means for them to. “And I ain’t good.”
He leaves the truck in such a hurry he forgets that his own is in the same parking lot. He’s a quarter mile down the road when he remembers and has to walk back. The tires squeal as he pulls away from the bar, and for a second he half expects to see Steve in the passenger seat, goading him to go faster like he did when they were in high school.
You’re one of the good ones . It reminds him too much of a conversation he had with Steve when he got back.
Without much of a thought, Soda drives back to the rodeo. He abandons the truck farther from the entrance than necessary, needing to feel the cool night air. To get to the stables he has to climb over a fence, and when his feet touch the ground it’s like he’s eleven years old again, not yet working at the stables at home and sneaking in to see Mickey Mouse. He’s chilled to the bone, too, but he doesn’t mind. The horses don’t, either, as he walks up and down the line of stalls, talking to them in the way that people tell him is crazy.
He finds the bronc he rode earlier. The crudely made sign hanging on the stall door says its name is Ragin’ Lunatic. “Well, that suits you just fine, don’t it?” he whispers. “Probably just misunderstood, though.”
The horse whinnies, making him laugh. “See? I knew it.”
And then the horse makes another noise and nudges Soda’s hand with its nose. Soda leans against the stall door, taking the weight off of his bad leg. “Alright, alright. I won’t bother you for too long. I just- I ain’t good, y’know? No matter what Steve or Darry or any of the girls say.”
He’s met with silence. Somehow, after all these years, he still has a sliver of hope that he might get a response one day.
“I don’t know how to make ‘em see that I’m not the same person anymore.”
His mind keeps going back to the day he returned home. Well, actually, it was the day after. His brothers didn’t let him leave the house that first afternoon. Steve and Two-Bit came over and spent the night like they used to when they were younger. It was that next morning when Steve let Soda drive his old beater out to the country, where they stopped on the side of a lonely dirt road and tried to sum up the previous year apart.
“It sure was weird here without ya,” Steve had told him. He ended up doing most of the talking. Soda can’t remember a time when it’d been that way.
“I’m surprised me and Two-Bit didn’t turn into full on hoods without you to keep us in line.”
Soda shifted in his seat. “It ain’t like I’m an angel.”
“Yeah, but, you’ve always been the best of us.”
“If I remember right,” Soda tells the horse, “I snapped at him, said our buddy Johnny was the best of us. But, he’d been dead for a long time before then.”
He can’t understand why Steve would say that about him. Not when he felt, and still feels, jealous of Steve and his broken rib, even though he couldn’t help it. Not when his understanding starts to wane at times and he gets mad at Darry and Pony for fighting. And not when he’s killed people. Unlike Johnny, he can’t say he killed all of them in self defense.
“The person they’re missin’ is gone. Darry and Pony and Steve and Two-Bit, they don’t really know me anymore,” he chokes out. “There’s no way they could, and that scares the hell outta me. I never imagined a world like that.”
“I mean, what if I go back and they don’t like what I am?” He drops his head. For the first time in a long time, he feels like crying. It’s soon replaced by surprise when the horse nudges him again, this time softly hitting his chest with its nose and keeping it there. It makes him laugh again and he leans into the gentle touch.
“Yeah, you’re a ragin’ lunatic if I ever saw one. Sure.”
Deep down, Soda knows he can’t go on like this. Another glance at the calluses on his hands and he can feel it in his bones just how tired he is. “I sure would like another shot at ya,” he says, rubbing behind the bronc’s ears. “But, I think it’s time for me to go. It ain’t very fun anymore, and it’s time for me to stop runnin’.”
Darry’s voice is in his head, telling him that they miss him. “It would be real good to see my brothers and friends again. I love ‘em all a whole lot, and I guess maybe it’s time to let them love me.”
Ragin’ Lunatic snorts, and Soda swears he sees the horse nod. His legs feel a little heavy as he walks back to his truck, but he knows they’ll feel lighter one day. He settles into the driver's seat without so much as a glance back towards the rodeo grounds and starts heading south.
❋❋❋
There’s a saying Soda’s heard once or twice from the old guys who hang around the rodeos. They say that if you work real hard at something and love it a lot, you’ll hold on to the rope longer and let it burn until the tide changes.
He’s about halfway home when he thinks of it. By the time he gets there, he’ll still have a few hours before Pony and Darry wake up. He thinks maybe he’ll crash on the couch so they’ll see him when they come out of their rooms, but he’s still got plenty of time to plan. Then they can all go on Pony’s college visit together.
It's not going to be easy to face everyone at home and the pain he's been avoiding for as long as he can remember, but then again, neither is chasing the rodeo. And he figures he’s held on to the rodeo and let it burn for long enough. He figures it’s about time that he holds on to his brothers and his friends just as tight.