Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns The Outsiders. I'm making no profit from this story.

Dedication: This one goes out to everybody who, at some point between the ages of 13 and 20, figured their parents didn't really care much about them.

Stupid Kid

Roy used the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt to mop a greasy streak of sweat from his temple. "Goddamn, it's hot today."

"Gettin' old there, Roy?" Frank said with a grunt as he hopped to the ground from three rungs up.

"Ain't never gonna get as old as you, buddy." Roy took a few seconds to squint up at the rig apparatus that towered above them before falling into step beside his coworker. "Wonder how the new kid's doing."

Frank gave his head a shake. "Stupid kid. Three weeks on the job, and he still couldn't listen for shit." His tone was harsh, but Roy had known the man long enough to understand that his anger was laced with concern.

"Wasn't nobody's fault," Roy said. "Damned stupid kid. My kid would never do something that stupid." My kid will never be stuck in this dry hell tripping pipe, if I have anything to say about it.

Frank gave him a pat on the shoulder as they approached the toolpusher's trailer. "Let's grab some of the guys, go get a beer."

Roy grinned. "The old lady ain't gonna chew your ass out for coming home late?"

"Hell," Frank said, "I can do whatever the hell I feel like. I wear the pants in the family, and she damn well knows it."

"She playin' gin tonight?"

Frank laughed. "Yep."

#

Roy leaned into the bar and wrapped his hand around the icy mug. I ain't old, he told himself. Hell, I will never be as old as these guys. They were old and rough and hard, and the barmaids just joked about their big bellies and rough hands instead of leaning in for a breath of raw young energy.

"You drinking that, or teasing it?"

He blinked at Maria and gave a wry grin. "Hey there, sweetie. You gettin' sick of all these rowdy roughnecks yet?"

She ran a hand along his thigh and winked. "Roy boy, I will never get sick of this old roughneck."

He turned back to his drink. "Old, huh?" The part of him that held tight to his vanity stepped aside for an instant to allow for a quick calculation. "I been working those rigs for twelve years, Maria. You know that? Twelve years. Started as a leadhand when I was twenty-one."

She leaned in closer. "And you don't look a day past twenty-three. You put all these boys to shame with them looks of yours. The girls are always sayin' you could've gone to Hollywood, been in all the magazines."

He knew she was right. Half the time, people thought he was his own kid's older brother. But somehow, tonight, things looked different. I've got to shake this off. Roy pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, set it between his lips, and waited for the younger woman to pick a matchbook off the bar. Jesus, she's a younger woman, and she's something like twenty-five. He drew in a calming breath when Maria held the flame to the end of his cigarette. "When the hell did I get old?"

Maria extinguished the burning match with a snap of her wrist and leaned forward to set her elbow on the bar. "How's the kid? The one who got hurt today?"

He shrugged. "Arm was half torn off. Stupid kid." He could still hear the guys calling out warnings that the chain had broke, but the kid had just looked around like he didn't know English. Move, move, move! Instead, he'd turned to see what they were pointing at. Stupid kid. Only nineteen years old, and missing an arm. Maybe even dead. Just married, too. Stupid kid.

"Hey Roy," Frank said with a nudge from behind him, "that your kid over there?"

Roy leaned forward and focused his gaze on the other end of bar. "Looks like it."

"How'd he get in here?"

"Hell do I know? Probably got hold of a fake ID." He gave an inward grin. There was one kid who would never get his arm sliced off from being stupid. I taught him better than that.

Frank leaned in next to Roy and gave a disapproving look that sent a stiff annoyance through Roy. "Kid don't think much of rules, does he?"

It was their one point of contention, but Roy had enough respect for his older comrade that he tried not to make much of it. "He knows how to take care of himself," he said.

"That's about the only one he knows how to take care of."

Don't say something stupid. "I ain't gonna do to that kid what my old man did to me," he answered with stiff finality. He remembered clearly his father's irritation at everything he said and did, and he could hear the words like they'd been spoken just yesterday – "Stupid shit, you deserve to work your fingers to the bone raising the little bastard. It's your own fault. Never listened to me for shit."

That was the last time they'd ever spoken to each other.

Jan had taken off with the kid a few years later to live up north with some cousins, but even so, Roy had sent her some money out of every paycheck. He figured it was the only decent thing to do, even though he was sure that Jan was using the money for herself. Never could make that bitch happy. Why can't you get a decent job? Are they ever gonna give you a raise? Why the hell you gotta work so many hours?

Roy had told her before she left that it was a bad idea, that she'd never be able to raise the kid without him, but she was too damn stubborn to listen. By the time the kid was eleven, it was like sweet justice when Jan figured out that she really couldn't do it on her own and sent the kid back down to Roy. By then, he was wild as a mustang and mean as a hornet. Roy smiled. He's just the kind of kid I always knew I'd have. He's who I used to be, before I went stupid over Jan.

Roy shook his head and took a long swallow of beer. I will never take over my kid's life. He wants to do something, he can damn well go ahead and do it, and I ain't going to tell him he's a screw-up.

He tapped his cigarette against the edge of the ashtray and watched the kid move through the crowd like he owned the place. They respected him. They feared him. Roy felt an inward glow of pride. That kid would never be dumb enough to get some stupid broad pregnant at sixteen. He knew the score. He knew how to look out for number one.

Roy stood up and stretched when the kid wandered over his way. "What the hell you doin' here?" he asked, just for the sake of formality.

Dallas gave him an even stare with those eyes that were just a little too close to being exactly like Jan's. "The hell do you care?"

Roy shrugged. "Thought you were in juvie." He wondered vaguely who the kid had called to sign him out.

"Got out." Dallas was tapping his hand on his jeans and glancing around. He clearly had things to do, people to see. "You know," he said, "you could've come down there. Said hi or something."

"I work for a living. That place don't let people in past five." Didn't figure you'd want to see me, anyhow, he thought. Roy vividly remembered how painfully humiliating it had been to have his own old man come visit him in jail. The bastard hadn't even said anything, just gave him that look to let him know how bad he'd messed up. Roy didn't need to be making his own kid feel like that, no matter what he did. "Where you staying?"

Dallas gave one shoulder a subtle shrug. "Around."

You can come stay at the house, he wanted to say, but Dallas knew where home was. He'd come back if that was what he wanted. He didn't need his daddy hovering around, questioning his every move and telling him what a stupid kid he was. That'd be exactly what would send the kid off running, getting some stupid broad pregnant and having to trip fucking pipe on an oil rig for the next forty years. No way, Pop. Not my kid. I ain't messing up with him like you did with me.

When Dallas turned and strode through the crowd toward the door, Roy sank onto his stool and drained the rest of his beer in one gulp. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth at the image of his son mingling with older kids and catching the eye of half the broads in the place. The kid ain't so much different from me, he thought again, only he's got it better. He's not just younger. He's tougher. He's smarter.

That sure as hell is one kid who will never get old.