That Was Then, This Is Now

Angela came into the store once wearing short shorts and a tight blouse. It was funny, but she looked even better with short hair. I guess I'll never see a girl as good-looking as she is. She came through my counter, staring at me coolly, daring me to say something. Poor little chick. I didn't hate her any more than I loved Cathy. I felt sorry for her.

"How've you been, Angel?" I said, but not smartlike. I really wanted to know.

"Well enough. I hear you dumped little what's-her-name on Curtis. Well, they deserve each other."

I just shrugged and rang up her stuff. She was going to be bitter all her life, and all that beauty was wasted.

"You know, I'd thought for a long time you were really low, Bryon," she was saying, "but what you did to Mark really proved it."

"Angel, you look really good with short hair," I said, and I don't know whether or not it scared her, but she shut up.

*

One night when I was lying on the floor reading a book, Mom came in and sat down. "Bryon, you got even with Mark for Cathy, then you got even with Cathy for Mark. When are you going to stop getting even with yourself?"

I rolled over and got up and went for a drive. I couldn't talk to Mom, especially when she was telling the truth.

Finally, at the end of August, I got to see Mark. He couldn't leave the reformatory, so I had to go in. He had been in so much trouble that the authorities considered my visit a last-ditch effort to straighten him out. If it didn't work, they were going to send him to the state prison. They told me they hoped I could influence him.

They didn't say how.

I thought we'd have to talk through a wire dealie, like you see in prison movies, but instead we were left alone in a room which I remember as strangely empty.

"Hi ya, buddy," Mark greeted me. "Slumming?"

I couldn't speak. I had a real bad pain in my throat. Mark had changed. He had lost a lot of weight, but somehow it had stretched his skin over his bones and slanted his eyes. He hadn't lost his looks, but exchanged them. He looked dirty somehow, and hard, things I had never seen in him before. His strangely sinister innocence was gone, and in its place was a more sinister knowledge. He seemed to be pacing, like an impatient, dangerous, caged lion.

"How goes it?" I managed finally. "What's the action like in here?"

"If I told you how it was in here," he said, "you'd be sick." There was a silence. Then he continued, "I didn't have to see you. I wanted to, though. I had to make sure."

"Make sure of what?"

"Make sure I hated you."

I suddenly remembered that time, so long ago, when Cathy had looked at Mark and for a moment I had hated him. I wondered what it felt like to experience that feeling all your life--to hate the person you loved best.

"Mark . . ." I began miserably. "Mark, I didn't know what I was doing . . ."

"Can it, buddy." He glanced around. "Groovy place, ain't it? Seems like home now."

"I hear you've been causing trouble."

"Yeah. I don't seem to be able to get away with things any more."

I thought I would break down and cry then, but I didn't. "Listen," I said, "you straighten up and they'll let you out early on probation or parole or whatever it is, and you can come home. I'll get you a job at the store--"

"Like hell you will," Mark said, in the same, easy, pleasant voice he had used all along. "I ain't never goin' back there again. When I get outa here, you ain't never going to see me again."

"We were like brothers," I said, desperate. "You were my best friend--"

He laughed then, and his eyes were the golden, hard, flat eyes of a jungle animal. "Like a friend once said to me, 'That was then, and this is now.'"

I broke out in a sweat and was suddenly glad of the walls and the guards and the bars. I think if he could have, Mark would have killed me.

*

I haven't tried to see Mark since then. I heard in a roundabout way that he was sent to the state prison. I've just been sort of waiting around for school to start, not much caring whether it does or not. I don't seem to care about anything any more. It's like I am worn out with caring about people. I don't even care about Mark. The guy who was my best friend doesn't exist any longer, and I don't want to think about the person who has taken his place. I go over everything that happened last year, trying to figure out what I could have done different, what I would do different if I had the chance, but I don't know. Mostly I wonder "what if?" What if I had found out about Mark some other time, when I wasn't half out of my mind with worry about Cathy? What if I hadn't met her in the first place, would I still have grown away from Mark? What if M&M had had a good trip instead of a bad one? What if someone else had turned Mark in--would there still be hope for him?

I am too mixed up to really care. And to think, I used to be sure of things. Me, once I had all the answers. I wish I was a kid again, when I had all the answers.

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A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

I was eighteen years old in 1967 when my first novel, The Outsiders, was published.

Needless to say, I was excited. I was invited to New York to do some publicity, was interviewed on radio and TV, and had a review in the New York Times.

I was in my first year of college at the University of Oklahoma, and was madly in love with my boyfriend. And, of course, I had to study.

Naturally, all of this took up time. Naturally, it would be a little while before I would get back to writing. But I had been writing ever since I learned how, since grade school. It was not only what I loved to do, it was, in a serious way, what I had to do.

But when I got around to it again, I found out something pretty shocking.

I couldn't write.

I had been writing all my life and now I couldn't even use the typewriter to write a letter.

Some people don't believe in writer's block. Believe me, it does exist. I have had times in my life when I didn't feel like writing. I have had times when I could force myself to write even if I didn't feel like it. I have had times in my life when there were things I would MUCH rather do, like raising my son.

There even have been times when I had nothing to say. I realize that doesn't stop a lot of writers but it certainly puts a damper on me.

But being blocked is different.

For the first time in my life I was aware of my audience. I had always written for myself alone, and I still believe that is the best way for any artist to work.

But after The Outsiders, I felt like there were people peering over my shoulder, whispering, "What is she going to do next?" The thought of it paralyzed me. It was very depressing.

This went on for years. Finally, my boyfriend--who is now my husband--said to me, "You have to start writing again. I don't care if you get published or not, but you've got to start writing. Just do two pages a day. Nobody has ever dropped dead of two pages."

Spoken like a true non-writer.

So he would come over to take me out, and if I hadn't done my two pages, he'd just sit down and start reading the paper.

And I would sit down and start writing two pages.