THE ROOFER

My brain has lined up with the rhythm of my hammering. Currently I'm going over my grocery list. "Dish soap, hot dogs, macaroni" floats through my head in staccato pattern, perfectly timed to the pounding.

All at once my thoughts are dispersed by a heavy rain drop and then another. The plump drops fall sporadically on my back and around me, working their way to their own syncopated rhythm. "Shit", I mutter through clenched teeth as I draw my arm up high and come down on the shingle nail with a final, tremendous strike.

Leaning back on my heels I squint and eye those swirling clouds with malice. I hear the foreman call out "Quittin' time!" from way down below and we all gather our tools and work quickly to throw the tarp over our half-finished work.

Climbing in my truck while the other guys are happily plotting their free afternoon, I drive away feeling defeated, just as the skies open up and show us mere people down here who really holds the power in this world. And the truck feels crowded with just me and all of my worries over money, the money I don't have, the money that was snatched from my hands when the weather stole my hours from me once again.

My hands grip the wheel. Like some prize fighter, three out of five knuckles on my left hand are taped, protecting where my skin has split and been made raw from laying the rugged tiles. My right wrist is wrapped tight with white gauze, to keep the spent joint supported while I hammer. I notice I'm shaking my head, to myself, to nobody, as I'm driving through town, and I see the people running into the shops for shelter. Shops. "Might as well hit the grocery," I think andpull into a space as close to the front as I can. I run through the small parking lot while I'm wrangling with my raincoat.

It is in the canned goods aisle that I hear it. The whispered conversation of two checkout girls about my age who eyed me when I walked in. "That's Darry Curtis," I make out and then, "He's still lookin' fine." I smile somewhere inside myself as I'm holding two cans, trying to decide between chicken noodle or vegetable soup.

Then I hear something about "that wreck…been two years ago now" and "such a shame" and "he's roofin' I think" and suddenly the cans I'm holding weigh 50 pounds and I slowly drop them to my sides. I let out my breath in a sigh and replace the soup. Raking my hand through my overgrown, greaseless hair, I think "to hell with this," and I am completely abandoning my basket of items in aisle two.

The girls have spotted me so they hold their tongues and try to look busy. As I walk past I can tell they are scrambling to get me to notice them. One is twirling her hair and the other stands in such a way that her chest is displayed like the melons that are on sale today in the fruit department. A syrupy southern drawl calls out to my retreating back, "Have a good day, ya hear."

I start up the truck and curse because damnit, that little brunette was just my type. In better days, an overheard conversation would sound more like "Did you see his touchdown Friday?" and "I heard he's on the market again". I wouldn't have hesitated to approach, get the hot one's number and leave the both of them flustered, in all the right ways. But then, in better days, I wouldn't have been at Elmer's Grocery in the first place.

It's late Saturday afternoon so it's no surprise our house is empty. The bathroom is all mine and I shower away the grime of the day. The mirror squeaks when I wipe away the steam and I stare back at deep-set eyes, their ice blue offset by skin too tanned from a brutal sun. I peer into them and wonder, "What am I gonna do?"

The bell to the hardware store door jingles as another customer enters. He is middle aged but is built like a mack truck. I am at the counter buying new hinges so I can attempt to fix that god-awful slamming screen door. I feel the guy studying me while I pay. Once I get my change and turn he says, "You're Darrel Curtis's boy aintcha?"

"Yes sir, I am," I answer and hold out my hand. He shakes it vigorously with two rough hands wrapped around it while he jovially tells me his name and how much I look like my dad. So much so he could pick me out in a lineup. He goes on to say how highly he thought of Dad and I do all the appropriate smiling and head nodding and thank him for the kind comments. He then gets serious and looks me right in the eyes. He tells me there are some night shift openings down at the oil rigs where he works and the job is as good as mine once he puts in a good word.

"I won't lie. The grunt work is labor intensive," he tells me. "Not for the weak, but I can see right now you're a strappin' young man. Far from delicate," he is chuckling and slapping me on the back.

I tell him thanks, that I'll think about it, take his card and I close the store door on the friendly manand his job offer.

I throw the business card in the glove compartment and don't give it a second thought, because I have been keeping us afloat, lined up with roofing jobs as far as the eye can see. And besides, there is no way I am going to work nights, leaving Pony and Soda on their own.

But that was in the beginning. Before I realized what went into raising two boys. Before I watched the bills pile up and eat away at our bottom line. Before I watched us sink so far below the bottom line I had to look way, way up to even see it.

I am sitting on the edge of my bed just going over my next move as I flex my fingers and my wrist, trying to coax them out of stiffness. I take a breath and then stand up, throw on a shirt and pull out a ten dollar bill from my sock drawer and stuff it in my wallet. I'm nodding to myself, because I know what I have to do.

The rain has not let up and the windshield wipers are whipping furiously when I pull up to the Shepard's sagging house. Ponyboy told me he'd be hanging at Curly's today and from what I can tell, so is every teenage boy on the whole east side. The Rolling Stones are spilling out of the windows as I make my way to the termite eaten porch. From somewhere inside I hear, "Hey Curly, some big dude's comin up your walk'," and then not a second later, "Shit man, that's Darry Curtis. Somebody tell Pony."

When I knock, the music stops with the sound of a needle scratch, and the door flies open, and there's Curly and his stupid smirk. "Hello Darry."

I don't bother waiting for an invitation I'll probably never get, and I sidestep in, brushing past him with a simple "Curly".

JDs and hoods are milling about and the air is thick with smoke. The unmistakable smell of grass is blended in, but that doesn't mean anything. I've noticed the Shepard house permanently smells like that.

"Little early for a party, Curly," I say, looking down at him.

"What? This ain't no party," he says with a half grin.

As I walk off to look for Ponyboy, I say, "Good. Then you won't mind if I mention it to your big brother."

The music and shouting starts up again and Mick Jagger is telling me my 19th nervous breakdown is coming. He may be right. I finally spot him, in some back room stacked with boxes. My little brother sits at a table, with a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth and a hand of fanned out cards. I don't hear what he's saying but I can tell he's trash talking an opponent with a cool calm and it isn't lost on me how much he seems to fit in with his present company.

Just as he finishes up his smart mouth comment he notices me with surprised eyes. I can see his wheels are moving double time in that brain of his, trying to figure out if he's done anything wrong. He hasn't. True, I'd rather he not hang with this bunch of riff raff, but I trust him. His head's on straight, despite my hounding him.

I simply put on the stare I have mastered, and without words point at him, then use the same bandaged finger and beckon him with it. Without hesitation he hops to, puts his cigarette down his coke bottle and he is following me as we weave our way out of this messy Shepard jungle.

We dash through the rain and Ponyboy has his hood up when we climb in the truck, but I can see him side-eying me when I take off, afraid he's in trouble. "We're gonna go get Soda," I say making a u-turn. "He's off at six."

In the time it takes to get to the DX, Ponyboy has worked up his nerve to say, "I didn't know there would be that many people at Curly's today. Swear," he says with both hands in front of him, palms out.

I look over at him, his hood down now displaying his too long, messy hair. "I can't tell you not to hang with those kind of people, Pony," I say honestly. "It wouldn't be fair, cause, well, then you'd have no friends." He smiles at this. Because it is true. There are no other kind of people on this side of town.

Firmly I say, "My only rule is to beat it out of there when shit goes down. Drugs, fights, whatever." He is nodding as I talk. "I think you're smart enough to know how big the consequences are."

I've pulled up to the gas tank and hold his gaze, my hand on his shoulder. "One small stumble, Pony, and you could be shipped out of here."

He looks down and with a small voice says, "I know. I promise."

I hate throwing that in his face every day, but it is my worst fear. A fear that wakes me up at night and leaves me quaking in my sheets. And the fact that tomorrow I'm signing up for the oil rig doesn't help my worry. Now I won't be around most nights to keep everybody in line. I swallow down the unease which has crept up my throat.

I see Steve in the store and he has noticed it's only me at the pumps. He turns back around, walking away, I'm sure to find Sodapop. Steve ain't gonna come out here and risk screwing up that hair.

Soda bounds into the car and we are off, all three of us tucked into the front, used to the close quarters. "Thanks for picking me up," Soda says. "This ain't let up since after lunch," and he takes off his hat and rubs his hair with both hands, making the strands stand in all their different directions.

I tune out their conversation over who's turn it is to make dinner and think on this change that's getting ready to pounce on all of us. I will wait until tomorrow to go over the logistics with the boys. I am thinking this should go over alright with the social worker, when she finds out, since it means much more money and the state seems to put all the emphasis on collection calls and bounced checks as my ultimate failure.

Plus in the hours I am gone, the boys will mostly be asleep. I hope. I will have a long discussion with Sodapop on his new role, because I will essentially be handing all of my dirty work over to him, forcing him to be the hands-on guide for Pony, and perhaps in some cases, the disciplinarian. He will hate it. But I know he will step in seamlessly. He won't rule with an iron fist like me. He has a different approach of getting things done. And I know Pony will respond to it and fall into line, because all it takes is a look from Soda and his touch of the silent treatment and Ponyboy comes undone.

But, that's for tomorrow. Tonight is about other things. When I pass the turn to our street, their little tiff over Spaghettios versus Chef Boyardee is now silenced and both of their puzzled faces turn to me in unison.

I look over at them. "Tonight, we are treatin' ourselves to dinner," I say, a slow grin forming, as I step on the clutch and shift the truck into third.

A lightness has filled the cab and we head for the strip as twilight rushes in, and Pony and Soda are now discussing where we should eat. "Let's go to Gino's," Soda suggests but Pony shakes his head. "Naw, their pizza crust is either burnt or doughy. It's never right."

So Soda lists off all the usual places while he fixes his hair in the rearview, and Pony shoots every one of them down with his picky reasons. "Their french fries are soggy" and "Nope, cokes are flat" and "Lord no, their booths smell like cat piss" which makes Soda and I shoot up our eyebrows and look at him strangely.

While they are busy dissecting local restaurants I turn into an old familiar hangout. The parking lot is already filled and the place seems hopping. "We're going to Creekside Alley?" Soda asks in a hopeful voice. "Wow!" Pony exclaims. "I'm liking this new Darry."

Soda reaches his arm behind Pony and squeezes my shoulder. "Just like old times, huh Dar?" and I know he misses the old days too. When I was a teenager right along with him and we both ended up at the same hangouts and served each other as wingman or backed each other in a fight.

We roll out of the truck and now that the rain has mercifully stopped we are stripped of our raincoat, hoodie and filling station shirt, just three guys in t-shirts and jeans. We cross the parking lot and I can't help but notice my two little brothers sauntering beside me. Both have perfected their own walks, and I laugh on the inside. If I didn't know what goofballs they really are, I might even consider them dangerous looking. Ponyboy gets the medal for transforming into cool. Though lean, he knows exactly how to move himself in ways that make him look like he's ready to lunge at anything. He can look downright surly. Hell, the kid grew up around Dallas Winston. It would be crazy to think that nothing stuck.

When we enter the diner someone calls out "The Curtises are in the building!" followed by a whoop.

Never able to hold his tough guy look for long, Soda's hard face has broken into a radiating smile and just like that he becomes the Sodapop Curtis that nobody can resist. "Hey Hawkins!" he calls back and heads over to say hello to his old buddy. Ponyboy asks for a dime for the jukebox and I slide into the booth, claiming the last available table.

As I look over the menu, I feel a weight has somehow lifted. True, tomorrow a whole new back breaking job awaits me, but tonight is what we need right now. I've spent the last two years parenting my brothers, nagging about school and messy bedrooms, nursing stomach aches and winding my way through grocery aisles. Meanwhile, I'm neglecting my brotherly duty of shooting the shit, taking them on, making them tough. The kind of tough that makes a big brother proud. The kind of tough that can handle East Side Tulsa.

I hear the next song gearing up, the familiar guitar riff and a distinct voice sing "You know she come around here. Just about midnight" I can already tell this is Ponyboy's choice, as he used to play it in his room constantly. As soon as G-L-O-R-I-A has been all spelled out and the drums take off, Pony and Soda round the corner and are now walking side by side across the length of the restaurant to join me, and with Gloria blasting in the background, they might as well be in slow motion, walking straight off a movie screen. I watch the mask of their faces as they strut, eyes straight ahead, both cocky and sure that every eye in the place is on them. And they are. I think, "Dear God, maybe I did do my job as a brother." They look strong. Even Ponyboy. Especially Ponyboy. I now feel sure we three are capable of handling this. All of it.

They fall into seats across from mine and they're back to their antics, the furthest things from cool. We sit in the red booth and eat the best burgers in town, while many visit our table throughout the evening, giving us friendly slaps on backs or greaser handshakes. The three Curtis brothers showing up all together is now a novelty. And I am enjoying every second. How far I've come from just this afternoon. In this space in time, I am not a roofer. I am not a soon to be oil rigger. I am not a guardian. I am not an orphan. I am a Curtis brother.

A/N: The Outsiders by SE Hinton, 19th Nervous Breakdown by The Rolling Stones, and Gloria by Them (featuring Van Morrison), a nod to the movie.

I won't lie, it intimidated me to write for Darry Curtis. I hope I did him justice.