California Girls |The Outsiders|

|chapter 3| Boys and Bars

We were greeted at the door by a tall blond. He introduced himself as the one and only Buck before ,oh, so very graciously inviting us in(he put out a cigarette by spitting on it before stepping out of the doorway.)
The place was littered outside with broken bottles, cigarette butts, even a few slashed tires, but the house inside seemed to be nearly gleaming. Guess first impressions aren't really this guy's thing. Behind the counter, a tall brunette stood wiping up a stain. Buck called over to him, "Ya almost done, Dal?"
"Yeah, almost, man." A heavy New York accent responded. Buck turned back to face us.
"You can leave your suitcases downstairs for now if you want, I'll have Dally carry 'em up later," he said, jerking a thumb toward the boy working lazily in the kitchen. "He gets to stay here as long as he helps clean the place up."
I snuck a second look at the boy. His dark features contrasted against the bright sunlight still pouring in from outside. He was tall and lean, with black jeans and a white wifebeater on. From here, I could just barely make out his light freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. He looked up at me and for a second my gaze lingered before I pulled myself away to follow my father up the stairs.
The room was small, yet somehow spacious. The walls were long, and led up to a high, tobacco-stained ceiling. From where I was standing, I could make out three or four cobwebs already. at least, I hoped they were cobwebs.
The window curtains were drawn open, revealing a bright, blue skyline bordering the town outside. It felt odd to look far into the distance and not see water.
I sat down heavily on the bed, exhausted from the car ride. The heat of the vehicle seemed to follow me even into this room, which seemingly had no air conditioner. The only hope of cooling myself down would be a cold bath in the small washroom by our dresser, but I didn't much like taking baths in stranger's houses.
My father trudged up the stairs with Buck following him, carrying an old duffel bag that my dad had filled with toiletries. Shampoo, conditioner, razors, toothbrushes, the whole deal. People assume I'm dirty because of how I live, but it's always been a priority in my family to care for our bodies.
Buck set the bag on the floor in front of the bed, turning to my father. "Alright," he grumbled. "There's drinks and food downstairs. If you need extra blankets you can ask Dal. And if you need it, there's another bathroom just down the hall."
    I think I would've rather frozen to death than asked that absolute hazard of a man for a blanket. 'Excuse me, big, scary boy. Could you possibly grab me the fluffiest blanket you have. Thanks so much!' Yeah, I'd rather die.
    My father thanked him, paying him for tonight's stay and shaking his hand. I looked at the small clock on the wall. It was about 3pm.
After changing my clothes into something less sweaty, I returned to where my dad was unpacking some of our stuff. "You think I could go look around for a bit? Like just go for a walk." I asked my dad.
He nodded, "be careful."
When I returned to the ground floor, "Dal" was no where to be seen. Instead, in his place, was the small, damp towel he was using earlier. I headed for the door, $5 still in my back pocket.
I was wearing a flare sleeved shirt that cut off just at the waist of my shorts. A small mother Mary necklace hung gently upon my collarbone, providing a light, chilled feeling upon my pulse. I wasn't catholic, but my father had several friends with daughters who had given him their old clothes after they had grown out of them. This was the reason I had so much "girly" clothing , as people put it, despite my father's money supply being insufficient for shopping. I wore several crystal rings upon my fingers, my favorite being my opal ring. Large, square sunglasses sat atop my head, and I topped it all off with a pair of wedged sandals that easily added 1 or 2 more inches to my height.
My body seemed to hold itself uncertainly upon the new terrain. The city was lined with small chain shops, parks, tall buildings, houses, and cars. Lots and lots of cars. Old ones, new ones, ones that didn't even look like they should be able to run. I mean, I had never been into cars, but the endurance some of these showed was just impressive.
Circling many of the cars, of course, were people. Teens, specifically. The farther I had wandered from our hotel, the nicer the cars got, along with the owners. The boys standing parallel to one of the newer-looking cars caught my attention. They wore expensive, almost gleaming jackets and polo shirts. Their clothes looked iron pressed. Their hair was clean. They looked like ken dolls.
It made me wonder what Tulsa had to do for fun around here with so many kids just standing by their cars. I passed by a few small stores lined evenly along the concrete. Barbers, tanning salons, shoe stores with outrageous prices, but soon enough, adjacent to them, I noticed a small, white gas station.
The sign outside labeled the store "DX." It was much smaller than the other one we had been to, and seemingly older. Out front, there were gas pumps and attached to the side of the small convenience store was a car garage. The store was likely meant to be used for car repairs more than snacks, but considering that I didn't own a car, this proved to be irrelevant to me.
With the blaring heat and dryness of the land, I assumed a cold Pepsi couldn't hurt me, especially since I didn't get a drink earlier. I walked past the pumps, where an irritated-looking girl was filling the gas tank to her red mustang.
The door opened, but this time without a bell. I looked up to find a vacant string where I assumed one used to be. The store was empty, save for the numerous amount of shelves holding what seemed to be a barely-touched array of junk food.
I navigated over to the sodas, picking up a Pepsi and carrying it to the small, dusty counter that held the cash register. This place smelled like oil and fresh dirt. I would almost enjoy it if the heat outside didn't make it nauseating.
I leaned over the counter, peering around for a cashier. The stool behind the table held a light blue button-up shirt with the DX symbol on the breast pocket. On the other side, was a name tag."Sodapop." I raised an eyebrow.
When I didn't seem to be able to see anyone in the agape garage doorway, I directed my attention to the small service bell sitting on the table. I rang it more times than I could count. I was there for maybe five minutes just ringing that bell.
Finally, a tall, tough looking boy appeared in the door, causing me to jump. He looked annoyed. He distractedly pulled his work uniform on, saying, "Look, Sodapop ain't here today-"
I cleared my throat. His face shifted from his previous aggravation, to confusion, then finally rested on curiosity as he settled behind the cash register.
His pale face was smeared with oil and dust. His features were heavy and dark, complimenting his black, greased hair, which fell into complicated swirls and patterns upon his crown. His teeth seemed to be crooked, but I couldn't judge anyone for this, considering how pronounced my canines are. He was tall, but not skinny. Not to say he was big, but he looked healthier than many of the boys I had seen like him along the streets.
"I'm not looking for "Sodapop"," I explained dryly. "I'm just looking for decent customer service."
"Well, what's a pretty lil' thing like you doing' all alone in Tulsa?"
I rolled my eyes. I gave a push to the Pepsi can. "Can you just ring me up,... "Steven?" I asked, reading his name tag. If there was any way to make workers uncomfortable, it was to use their name in conversation without ever talking to them before. I'd learnt that from experience.
"If yah give me yer' name, sweetheart."
"I won't give you my name, but I can tell you. It's Willow. I'm new here."
"Really? From where?" He asked, ringing me up for my single soda can.
"California."
He looked me up and down. "You look like you're from California. Fifteen cents."
"Thank you?" I took my can after paying him, opening it almost immediately to the satisfying hissing sound of the can. "My dad just got a job here."
He raised his eyebrows. "Really? A job in Tulsa? Work is pretty scarce right now. My buddy almost got fired from his roofing gig for being sick two days in a row. His boss's an ass." He scoffed.
"Weird. My dad just got a roofing job down here." I stared distractedly into my soda can, watching the bubbles seize and release. It was still a wonder to me how they carbonated drinks.
"Hm," he hummed, leaning his body onto his arms, which he propped lazily upon the counter. "Maybe you and your folks could visit sometime? It'd be good for my buddy to hang out with people more."
"Workaholic?"
"Yep."
I nodded. "Maybe we could make that happen."
I wrote my phone number down on his forearm in sharpie before leaving the store, telling him to give me a call when he's free so we could meet up. Usually I'm opposed to handing out my phone number, but since he wasn't interested in a date, I obliged.
Our trailer had a phone installed into the wall, and though it was fuzzy-sounding and old, it was better than nothing. I hoped he called after we moved back into our trailer, otherwise it would go unanswered.
As I stepped out into the warm sunlight from the shade of the gas station, I had only two things on my mind: America's declining ability to provide work for it's citizens, and a ride home.