OoO

Today – morning, sometime

Somewhere, far away, a car alarm is going off. The Weee-eee weee-eeee makes my skull flash bright hot white as a cool breeze brushes over me. A groan passes from my lips. On my side, I curl into a fetal position, willing the sound away. I'm about ready to slam my fist down on my alarm clock when I realize I'm not in my bed. A metal surface of rivulets crunch beneath me.

Rolling over onto my back, I open my eyes, staring up at the sky.

The sky.

Not a white crack-lined ceiling. The gustery bleary sky of a Tulsa December. Stunned, I sit up, fast, and the blood rushes to my face. Moaning, I cover my face and then look up again. I'm in the bed of an unfamiliar pick-up truck, parked in the middle of a field of dead grass and wheat. A grove of trees line the perimeter of the field, the rush of highway traffic sounds off in the distance. "Oh god." I press a hand to my head. Look again.

"Oh god." My shoes are gone. Brown – what used to be white – socks stare back at me. I wriggle my toes, making the scenario even more real. There's a yellow notepad on my right side, a pen on my left. A bag of skittles and five poker chips near my waist. Birds caw in the distance.

I think back to last night, my mind racing to recall. I was at the house…borrowed the truck…. That's about as far as I get as my heart sinks. "Oh, glory…" My voice is loud in the still morning air, the noise making my head hurt again. The truck. More importantly, Darry's truck.

Hands fly to my pockets, panting frantically. "Shit, shit, shit, shit!" I don't have the keys. Worse than that, I have no idea where the hell my older brother's truck is. Or where I am. Or what happened.

I spit over the truck's frame. The inside of my mouth tastes like an ashtray and alcohol. Vomit too. I pull myself on my knees, wobbly, but balancing okay. That's when I notice the duct tape wrapped around my throbbing, red-tinged bicep.

I frown. "What the f—"

"Sorry about the handiwork," a voice says as a man suddenly appears. He's dressed in jeans, a white t-shirt and a black leather jacket. There's a pack of cigarettes in his hands. Approaching the truck, he rests his elbows on the side. "Best we could do last night."

"Last night?"

I can see my reflection in the dark lenses of his sunglasses. My eyes wider than wide. He waits, the corners of his mouth fighting a smirk. And when I see that smile – that smirk – I remember.

"Oh, no."

He hands me a cigarette. "Oh, yeah."

OoO

Last Night – 5pm

"Darry?"

He looks at me over his newspaper. "What?"

"Can I borrow the truck?"

Darry shakes the paper out, folds it up once, then twice. He sets it aside. "I don't really want you out driving on the icy streets, Pone. 'Sides," he says, smiling his stoic-Darry-smile, "I have plans tonight."

"Well, be still my heart," Soda says, jumping out of the kitchen, hand pressed against his chest. "You got a date."

"I didn't say it was a date, Sodapop."

"It's a date though, right, Dar?" Squinting, I point at him. "I mean, you're spruced up. Been smelling better than normal lately…"

Laughing, Darry stands and swats me on the top of the head with the folded paper. "You're something else these days. I don't know if it's Two-Bit or what but you're just plain goofy, Ponyboy."

"It's puberty." Sodapop nods my way. "College. The weather and winter break's coopin' you up."

I think about these things. They're both right. Lately, things have just been good. The days of feeling cursed, like an outsider, seem far in the past.

Instead, I shrug, "Maybe, maybe not. I don't know." I peer at my older brother. "So?"

"So, what?"

"The keys?"

"Pony, I told you—"

"An hour, Dar. I just gotta run an errand." When he frowns, I say, "When's your date?"

Darry hesitates and then sighs, giving it up. "Seven."

"See? I'll be back with plenty of time to spare." I hold a hand out. "Please?"

His face relents and digging the keys out of his right pocket he throws them my way. I catch them and flash him a smile. "Thanks a lot."

"Jacket. And be home in an hour, Ponyboy. I mean it."

Nodding, I grab up my things – a backpack and a hooded jacket – as Soda starts in on Darry. "Man, I don't know why you try to hide it…we all know you ain't a saint…I mean, if your bedroom walls could talk—"

I bite off a laugh as I exit the house. The cold envelops as I shrug my jacket on. Winter in Tulsa means two things. Cold temperatures and an early, lingering dark.

OoO

Last Night – 5:49pm

Errands completed, I stop at a 7/11, fueling up Darry's truck for his evening with his non-existent date. I wonder if my older brother will ever admit he has a life. For some reason, I think he still carries guilt. Although I'm not sure why. I'm in college, Soda's working and happy, all of us finally free of the state. Maybe Darry just doesn't know how to adjust.

The pump clicks off and I shelve the nozzle. Door chimes jingle from somewhere as I screw the gas cap back on. I climb in, slamming my door shut. Another door slams. A guy wearing dark sunglasses sits in the passenger seat of the truck. His stare is unnerving. His hands shake. He looks about to be mid-20s with short, shaggy brown hair and an easygoing grin.

"Hey man, I don't—" The guy pulls out a gun. "Want any trouble…" I finish unnecessarily. I slam my hands against the steering wheel. Just perfect.

The guy waves his .45. "Start it up."

I'm too annoyed to be scared. Years of dealing with the antics of my friends and brothers have hardened me against the bullshit. "Ah, c'mon man, what the hell is this?" Besides, all I can think about is Darry's face getting redder by the second as the seconds tick by because it just as hell figures that something like this would happen.

"I don't remember askin' you to play 20 questions."

I hold my hands up. "Look, I'll drop you anywhere you want. I just can't be late tonight."

"You know…you remind me of a young Holden Caulfield."

I blink, caught off guard. Then, I frown. "I'm older than him, man."

"Just start the damn truck." The guy coughs. "Name's Joe, by the way."

"Are you for real?"

"Bet your ass, kid." He waves the gun. "You know what else is real?" He jams the muzzle against my ribs.

"I don't believe this," I mutter as I stick the keys in the ignition.

OoO

Last Night – 6:29pm

Think. Think of a plan, Ponyboy. Think.

My brain tries to goad me on but all I can think about is Darry. Darry and his date. It sounds like a bad Hardy Boys mystery.

"So what'd you come up with?" Surprised, I glance to my right and see Joe smirking. "You know? A plan of escape?"

"What? No. No—don't talk to me." But I scowl, hating to know my emotions show clear as day. I think about ramming the truck into the next building I pass and making a break for it but I don't think Darry'd like that much.

"I don't know about you kid, but haven't you ever thought about the day when you'd be held at gunpoint?"

I balk. "When? Don't you mean if?"

Joe shrugs. "To each his own."

"No. No to each his own. This is not normal."

"Like you'd know normal. So what's your name? Wait – don't tell me….you look like a Paul. Maybe a Chris."

I shift, pull my wallet out of my back pocket and throw it at him. Raising an eyebrow, he opens it, reads and then chuckles. "I was close."

"So where am I going?"

The guy looks surprised, like maybe he expected me to argue with him, but instead says, "Head south, take a right on Faris Street."

The junkyard.

OoO

Last Night – 6:48pm

"I don't believe this."

"Look at it this way, Dar, it's like you have a chauffeur. You know…maybe it'll impress her…"

"Not funny, Sodapop."

"Hell, I ain't laughing either," Steve says. "I had better things to do tonight than drive you all the way the hell out to BFE. No offense, Darrel." I hold a hand up to show I understand. He rolls his eyes. "Although, who's really surprised. With that kid and the shit he pulls."

I smear my hair back, too pissed off to reprimand him for ripping on Ponyboy. I notice Sodapop doesn't launch into it either. This isn't what I wanted for tonight. Crammed like a sardine into Steve's truck with him and Sodapop, as he drives me to my date's house. It was either that or cancel and neither seemed like a good option.

"Take a right," I mutter and Steve turns. "It's the house on the left." Pulling up on the curb, Steve cuts the truck's engine and the three of us sit in the cab, our breath white in the cold air. The tiny house has the porch light on, an available car sitting in the driveway.

"You could have at least kept the engine on," Sodapop gripes.

"I feel like a stalker," Steve says. "Get out, Darrel. Tell her your truck's in the shop. Your shithead of a brother couldn't fix it in time." Soda snorts.

I exit and slam the door shut. Turn back and eye Sodapop. "I don't care what his excuse is – this time, Sodapop, I don't want to hear it."

Soda's biting his lip, abashed, like I've just scolded him. "Yeah, I know. But Dar, I was thinking what if—"

"Darry?"

Rachel's standing on her front porch, arms crossed against her chest. She smiles curiously. "You coming in? Everything all right?"

"Yeah," I say. "It's a long story..." I stalk away, crossing in front of the car, in time to hear Sodapop yell—

"Don't forget to use protection. Remember, no glove, no love!"

OoO

Last Night – 6:55pm

We stop to swap vehicles. Joe makes me pile into a pea-green Chevy Impala. A big busted boat of a car, I slide across the front seat, keeping as much distance as I can between myself and him.

"I don't have any money," I say as Joe pulls out of the junkyard, the gun still trained my way. Behind me, we leave Darry's truck sitting; my wallet and the Christmas gifts I had bought this afternoon on the front seat. So much for errands.

"I didn't figure as much judging from the look of your clothes."

"Hey, screw you," I snap, suddenly self-conscious of my hand-me-down hoodie. It used to be Sodapop's; still smells like gasoline.

"But don't worry, I don't want money anyway," Joe says, smirking.

I open my mouth to ask what he wants and then shut it. I don't want to know.

Joe pulls onto Main Street and it's alive with Friday night buzz. My hand twitches to unlock the door and bolt but Joe still has the pistol stuck in my side, using his left hand to steer the wheel.

We pull up to a streetlight and idle next to a bowling alley. It's quiet and awkward but I don't know the etiquette on making petty conversation with kidnappers. A few people cross in front of the car as the signal flashes WALK WALK WALK. One of the passers-by is Two-Bit; a six-pack of beer in his gloved hands, no doubt the beer's meant for my house. Seeing me, he stops in the middle of the crosswalk and mouths, Ponyboy?"

Like an idiot, I wave at him.

I just wave.

When the light turns green, Joe peels out and around Two-Bit leaving him standing in the middle of the road.

OoO

Last Night – 7:15pm

It's when Joe takes the exit to Pike's Peak that reality sets in and I start to get scared. I watch the yellow dividing lines flash and disappear – and I think of my brothers. I envision the cold, lead barrel brushing my temple and my life exploding into a cloud. Random memories flood me. I think of Johnny. Of Dal. Of my mom and her famous blueberry pies. Of my dad and the loud records he'd play in the garage. Of the great Christmas disaster of '66. Of Two-Bit's dares and Steve's grumpy banter.

Tires crunch gravel. Joe pulls off down a long stretch of dark road. He turns the car off; the headlights go dead, plunging us further into darkness. Around me I can hear crickets chirp; it's hard to believe it's only seven, still early. If it was any normal day I'd be getting home from classes and starting dinner, maybe headed to the track to practice.

Pike's Peak is a deserted lookout on the outskirts of Tulsa. Kids come out here to neck and score smack. Although, in my case it might be the first time someone's ever been shot out in these boonies.

Joe unbuckles his seatbelt, the ziiing of the strap calling me back to the present. "Look," I ramble, pressing back against the door, trying to feel for the lock. "You don't have to do this. I won't say anything I swear. We can just go home and forget this ever happened. I don't think you're in the business of killing—I mean not that you're a hit man or a murderer or anything like that but I know if you have problems—"

Joe raps the muzzle of the gun against my knee. "Shut up."

"Okay."

Squeezing my eyes tight, I see blackness and wait for the pop. When there's nothing I quirk an eye open. Joe looks amused.

"Relax. I ain't gonna shoot you."

"Right."

"Honest. Scout's honor. I could never shoot anyone."

"Well, ain't that a relief." Red flashes before my eyes. "So…based on that…what in the hell am I doing out here? You like kidnapping for kicks or something?"

"I just wanted some company." Joe's voice is wounded.

"Company?" I laugh. "Yeah, I'll tell you where you can get some company. Tulsa Penn." I frown. "I mean, are you kidding me?" I flip the door lock up, grip the handle.

"Not really." Joe shrugs. "It's the last night of my life; I wanted to spend it with someone. And you looked remotely interesting." He lets out a chuckle, waving the gun. "Besides, you don't gotta worry. This thing ain't even loaded."

"This is ridic—wait, what?"

OoO

Couldn't resist. A fun idea came to me – inspired by The Hangover and other things – one that doesn't involve tons of angst or Ponyboy whump (shocking I know). I'm not planning this to be a long story…just a short piece but we'll see. Please review; let me know how you like it. It's a new take so I'll see how I do. Maybe it's too silly.

Pardon typos.

XO,

Feisty