the outsiders imagines

stories i'd never tell my friends: two bit

Note: "Stories I'd Never Tell My Friends" is a series I created to delve into the backstories of the Outsiders characters. Each installment will feature a member of the gang and a part of their backstory as imagined by me. The stories will be told from the point of view of the character. Enjoy!

When I was a kid, I used to be pretty stupid. I used to believe in anything my parents told me: Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. I was probably the most gullible kid there ever was. But I think the biggest lie that my parents told me was that there is a God. Yeah, I know a lot of people believe in God, and that's fine. I respect that. For me, there's no way there's a God up there. How could there be? How could there be someone up there, watching over us, allowing terrible things to happen in this world? Allowing kids to go hungry, allowing people to get murdered, allowing crime to happen?

I think the biggest thing that made me stop believing in God was my old man leaving us. He left us right after my sister was born. I don't know why. I don't think I'll ever know why, either, 'cause I don't want to ask my mom. I think that would break her heart, and my dad already did enough to her.

When I was ten, I used to walk around Tulsa looking for him. I was real dumb, like I said. I thought maybe he was just hiding and waiting for me to find him. So I walked and walked, going into grocery stores and restaurants, hoping to see him. One time, there was a guy who looked exactly like him. I swear, he had the same color hair and eyes, and was about the right height. I went up to him and tapped him on the shoulder, but when he turned around I knew for sure it wasn't him. The man I saw had a kind look in his eyes, the type of look that makes you feel at home even in the middle of a hardware store. My father never looked like that. If you looked my father in the eye, all you'd see is a damn alcoholic who never gave a shit about anyone but himself. If you looked into my father's eyes, you'd see the devil staring right back at you. That's why I don't believe in God, but I believe in the devil. Because I lived with him for eight whole years.

—

No one really knows why I love Mickey Mouse so much, and the truth is, I didn't always love it.

My friend Sodapop, one of my best buddies, used to have this horse. I think Soda was twelve around the time, and I was fourteen. That was four years ago. Its name was Mickey Mouse, and it lived at the stables Soda always used to hang around. I'd never seen the horse, but from what I hear, it was a real pretty horse. Real mean too, since Soda had all kinds of bruises on his ankles from getting kicked. But he loved it. The horse wasn't even really his, but Sodapop acted like it was.

One day, the real owner of Mickey Mouse sold the horse to some stable in Kansas. Sodapop was heartbroken. I didn't really understand why, since I've never really liked animals. Anyhow, Sodapop was crying and bawling over this horse. Nothing I said or anybody said comforted him. He locked himself up in his room for a couple days and just kept crying. Mrs. Curtis tried bribing him to come out with his favorite chocolate cake, but he still refused to leave his bedroom.

Eventually, he started to get over it. I think the other guys thought he'd forgotten about the horse, but I knew better. Every time we'd go to a rodeo or barrel race, I'd notice Soda's eyes gazing at the horses, like he was looking for Mickey Mouse. I didn't say anything to him, but I felt real bad about it. I know what it's like to love something or someone, only for them to get snatched away from you.

We were sitting in the Curtis's house together one time, Soda and I. We were waiting for the other guys to come over, and the TV was on. All of a sudden, we saw a black and white mouse wearing pants running around on the screen. We'd heard of this cartoon before, but neither of us had actually seen it. Anyway, we were watching it, and I'll never forget the look on Sodapop's face. He was grinning, real wide, 'cause it was the cartoon his horse was named after. It was the first time in a while I'd seen him that happy, and that made me real happy. I'm that kind of guy, you know. I get happy when other people are happy.

Soda and I, we've got an unspoken tradition. We watch Mickey Mouse together whenever we can. I'll be hanging around the Curtis house when Soda'll yell, "Hey Two Bit! Mickey's on TV!" and I'll come into the living room and plop down next to him. I like seeing his eyes light up, 'cause that's how I know he's thinking about that horse and remembering all the good times he had with it. I guess it's my way of showing him that I care, and that I don't think it's stupid that he still cares about that horse even after all these years.

Mickey's my favorite cartoon now, but not because of the graphics or anything like that. I like it 'cause it makes one of my best pals smile, and that makes me real happy.

—

I steal more than the average guy. I guess the average guy doesn't steal much anyhow. The gang says I'm a kleptomaniac, which I heard means that I get high off of shoplifting. I think the fact that they call me that goes to show that they don't know why I do it.

To be honest, I didn't even know why I was doing it until it hit me a couple months back. I was talking to my mama, before one of her work shifts, when I finally realized it.

"When're you comin' home?" I asked her.

"At 7. Stay at home and watch your sister," she told me. She pointed her finger at me and gave me a stern look. "And don't be out stealin' again."

"How do you know 'bout that?"

She gave me a sarcastic smile and shook her head. "There's no such thing as a secret in Tulsa."

I watched her as she walked towards the front door and stepped outside. I was about to turn around to chat with my sister when I heard my mom add something else. "You don't want to be like your father, do you?"

That's when I remembered. When I was young, my dad would come home with all sorts of stuff, toys and beer and clothes. The funny thing is, my dad didn't even have a job because he was too busy being drunk all the time. He'd go to stores and shoplift, and bring back what he got. Sometimes, I'd be with him and I'd see him slip something into his pocket. I looked up to him a lot, 'cause he never got caught. That's a pretty shitty thing to look up to, but I was pretty young. When you're young, your parents are like God.

So what I'm trying to say, I think, is that maybe deep down inside, there's a reason that I like stealing things. I think I do it because of my old man. I absolutely hate that that's the reason. I'd much rather believe that I do it because it's fun or I get kicks out of it or something. If I'm being real honest with myself, I steal because it makes me feel closer to my father. Trust me, I never ever want to be anything like my father. I'd rather die than be like him. But I can't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, my father's out there. Maybe he's looking for me, and maybe if I'm like him, he'll be proud of me. Because that's all I've really ever wanted. For my father to be proud of me.