Rebel Without a Cause

by Robert M. Lindner

  I never stole a car in my life but I rode in a lot of them. I mean actually take one from the street and drive it away. We drove them until they were out of gas, until the gas tank was empty, then we’d leave it where it stopped. One time I left a car, a stolen car, near my cousin Joe’s house. I told him I left the car there and he didn’t like the idea of my putting a stolen car right in front of his house because he had been in the reformatory and different prisons and he thought the police might make some connection. When I came here he was doing time for holding up a truck with hardware. I guess the whole load must have been worth between a thousand and two thousand dollars. He got caught but the other fellows with him got away. Joe, he always seemed broke, but I always had a feeling that he had money hidden away. I remember one time he pulled a roll out of his pocket. It was about one inch in diameter and there was a twenty-dollar bill on top. I guess he stole it somewhere. He’d gamble a lot, gamble and let his wife and kid go hungry, gamble everything away.

  We played pool a lot, and cards when we didn’t have anything to do. When we had no money and wanted to buy whiskey or go to the show we’d get in a card game and cheat if necessary. That way we’d get five or six dollars and then we’d get drunk. Riggs would do the cheating most of the time. One time I actually caught him cheating. We were playing pinochle and he cheated me out of a dollar or so. But that was nothing.

  O, I don’t know … I used to get so sick of everything when I was on the outside. I’d leave home whenever I felt like it, then I’d come back. I didn’t like to ride freight trains though. Too dirty, too many bums on them. I’d go hitch-hiking or catch a hitch on a truck.

  L: ‘Harold, if you had caught your cousin cheating, what would you have done?’

  O, the gun was just to scare him. I don’t think I would have shot; there were too many people around. The other fellows, the fellows we were playing with, they had guns on them and they didn’t like the idea of my putting my gun on the table. I just wanted to show him that he couldn’t cheat. I wouldn’t have shot him in front of everybody. I guess he was alright but I should have known better, even when I was going to High School, than to hang around with him. One time I broke into a house and stole six dollars and I told him about it. We had a good time for about two weeks on it and I had one dollar left, so I hid it away. When I came afterwards to look for it, it was gone. He was the only one who knew about it. I always felt that he had stole it from me. I never had any direct proof that he did steal it; he never admitted it to me. He repaid me that dollar many times over, though, in giving me money when we went to the show. When I had money I would take him, and when he had money he would buy.

  A kid named Skinny hung around with us. One time when I was going with Lila he wanted me to bring her around. Whenever one of those guys wanted her and when I didn’t want to, he said, “That’s right; keep it all to yourself.” If I had gotten into a fight with him I would have killed him.

  L: ‘Why?’

  I hate to fight with people. I hate to get hurt. I like to get them on the floor and hit their head on the floor. I don’t hate them enough so I would purposely kill them; I just think I want to save myself. I’m not afraid if I know there’s trouble and that I have to fight. It just comes if it comes. I hate to get the worst of it and I never got the worst of it. When I was about sixteen or seventeen I got in a fight with a big kid. He weighed about fifty pounds more than I did. And I was really afraid of him. The reason was that he said something about my sister so I went to pick a fight with him and when I started to fight I was afraid of him. I bumped into him; we both fell down; he grabbed me around the neck and I turned and he fell and hit the steps of the porch with his head. I just forgot everything until somebody pulled us apart. I started cursing him. I wanted to get him off from where we were fighting so I cursed him out and told him to get off the property. When we went off I was afraid and so I sic-ed the dog on him. He called me a yellow bastard. I put my hands down and ran right into him and hit him in the chest with my shoulder. I was standing on the porch talking to this kid that told me what he had said about my sister; so he denied saying anything about my sister. I was on the porch steps about one step higher than he was, and when he denied that he said it and the kid said it was true that he did say it, I just forgot everything.

  L: ‘What did he say about your sister?’

  He said that she was in bed with a kid named Fred. It wasn’t true. Fred was such a shy and bashful kid. My sister used to tease him, put her arms around him and kiss him. Whether it was true or not he had no business telling it. Why should it come back to me? Why should he say it to people that know me and bring it back to me? Besides, he was trying to make my girl, and that was another reason.

  L: ‘Each time you went up to your aunt’s place, isn’t it true that you went there to run away from yourself?’

  I was up there three years. When I quit school, that was my excuse and all winter I hung around and didn’t do anything. I went up again the next year. I was doing nothing but drink, drink, drink. I got sick of it, sick of everything; so I went up there and stayed all summer. When I got back I was just hanging around and—so—I went up again. I went up there and stayed a couple months. When I came back I guess I didn’t know what to do. I did six months for something and I came out of the jail in April. I stayed around for a few months. I was doing alright. I got a little money but I had to go away, go up there, to get away from everything. I wanted to get away. It got so—monotonous. I went up there and stayed until January. When I came back things went wrong for about a year. I just got a little money here and there and for about a year everything went from bad to worse, bad then good again and bad once more. I didn’t care what happened. I got sick of everything, just sick of living. When I was up there I was looking for a few places in S——; some places we might hold up in that town. I got two fellows from around home that were going to do the jobs with me. I went up to S—— alone and stopped at the R—— Hotel and after three days I sent a telegram to these fellows to come up. I got sick of just sitting around drinking and I tried to read, read anything; but I’d always see this gun that I laid on the dresser, and something kept telling me to shoot myself …

  L: ‘Was this after or before …’

  It was after my little—accident …

  L: ‘After your accident? As a matter of fact, Harold, that was why you went to your aunt’s place, was it not?’

  I guess so. I guess so. I just wanted to get away from people, or maybe better to get away from me, from Harold, because every place I went I found myself there. I always seemed to be with myself. I couldn’t get away from myself. When I’d look in the mirror I’d see myself, I mean really see myself—not just what was looking back at me. After three or four months up there I guess everything started to go better and things began to smooth out. So I started casing for some places where I could get some money. I went to different places and wound up at S—— in that hotel.

  I saw the gun. I kept seeing that gun on the bureau for about three days. I couldn’t … I bought some whiskey but I couldn’t even drink it. Everytime I was reading the newspapers, reading the funnies, it would be there. I don’t know why I didn’t hide it. It always seemed to be staring me in the face and something kept telling me, “Shoot yourself! Shoot yourself!” I’d try to fight these thoughts, but I know if I’d stayed there a little longer I would have shot myself.

  Then one time somebody knocked on the door. It was the maid. She was coming in to change the towels and she saw the gun on the dresser. I tried to pick it up and put it in my pocket, real quick. I checked out of the hotel right away. She didn’t say anything, but I know she saw it. I went to the railroad station and took the first train out of there. I went about four stations then stopped and got off the train. Then I waited about two or three hours for another train. Before I got to the train the second time I threw the gun away. It was so heavy in my pocket. I wanted to pull it out and shoot all the bullets out of it but I threw i
t away. I didn’t want it anymore. I went back on the train. Both of the other fellows went up there the next day. When they came back they wanted to know what was the matter. I just told them something went wrong. I didn’t tell them that I threw the gun away, that I was afraid of it. I stopped at this town, about four stations below S——, and got off the train. I was afraid maybe the maid told the cops something. I passed three stations and got off. I left my suitcase in the station and walked around the town. It was January and there was snow on the ground. I walked along this country road. The gun was in my left-hand hip pocket. It was so heavy, heavy, heavy. I walked about three or four miles. I finally woke up. I didn’t know where I was but I knew which way I was walking. I was afraid. It was so heavy. I wanted to pull it out and shoot all the bullets out of it. I threw it away and walked back to the railroad station.…

  When I was hanging around for a year after that I pulled a few hold-ups and got some money. I carried a gun then but I never had the feeling I wanted to shoot myself again. I used to think about it and when I’d think about it I’d force the thoughts out of my mind. I’d say to myself I was crazy.

  L: ‘Is that the only time you ever thought of committing suicide?’

  No. It wasn’t. The other time … About a month or so before I was arrested on this charge I was thinking that everything was going wrong and I had no money, so I started talking to some of the guys I was hanging around with and we pulled some hold-ups together. But, I don’t know; one was married, the other two didn’t like the idea, and so the whole thing fell through.

  Once in a while, when I was carrying a gun, I would think of that time up in S——, in the hotel, and I’d try to force it out of my mind. I figured I didn’t want to shoot myself. If I was going to die, I’d die an easier way. If somebody would shoot me, o.k. But I felt that I wanted to go to sleep and never wake up. I kept thinking about my father’s garage. I was going to go in there and close the doors from the inside and start the motor; make sure that there was enough gas in the tank for running it about five or six hours. I don’t know why I didn’t want to do it. I just never got around to it, I guess. Things started popping. Some guy made a connection to buy a machine gun and there was a chance to hold up a bank and get enough money to leave the country. One day I wanted to go in the garage and start the car, then I’d set the date ahead to the next Tuesday. Tuesday would come and something would happen. One time about eight in the morning a fellow came over and told my mother he wanted to see me. I guess my mother figured it was about a job or something. This fellow, I guess he felt bad, so we went out and got drunk; so I didn’t do it then. I was going to wait until Thursday that time, but when Thursday came I had to do something around the house. I never got around to it. Then I was figuring maybe I’d get that machine gun and we’d hold up a bank or maybe a couple armed guards on those armored trucks. I always wanted to do that. They have guns but you can’t see them, you know what they got, and you see the bags of money. It seemed easy. Sometimes they’d walk forty or fifty feet from the truck, and you know they wouldn’t do anything with a machine gun pointed at them, even if they had guns. But I always thought about going into the garage. I knew the carbon monoxide would kill me. I’d set it a day ahead and then when the time come I’d change it. I’d say to myself, “Wait a few days more, something will happen.” And when the next day came I’d want to wait a few more days.

  I was in the garage one time to get a file or a hacksaw to cut a shotgun barrel and the car was standing there. Everything was so quiet; it didn’t make any noise. The door was shut. I got afraid when I was in there so I just left the hacksaw and ran out and closed the door with a bang. I know one thing: I ran out of there so fast that I slammed the lock on the door. I put the keys in my pocket and I looked back. I was afraid of staying in there. You see, I always felt that something would happen, something would come up, and I’d get a few thousand dollars, enough to leave. I never got the few thousand. I don’t know why I was afraid of that car when I went in there. My father had a bench at one end of the garage and the car was at the other end. I started looking around the bench. He had a small mirror there and I didn’t like to look at the mirror. I don’t know whether I looked in it or not. Then I turned around and saw the car. Everything was so quiet. I became conscious of the car. Everything was so quiet and peaceful. It wasn’t very dark, a little light was coming in through the door. I looked at the car and ran out and closed the door real fast, slamming the lock. I didn’t want to go back there anymore. I don’t think I’ve been in the garage since then. I’m afraid of the car. It seemed to me like a monster then.

  I don’t know what to say. It seems—every day—I just pushed the day away. That’s the only two times I ever wanted to kill myself. I was afraid both times. I believe in my own mind that someday I might die by my own hands. I might live long—but—when I die—I think—I’ll kill myself. That’s the way I’ll die, or at least I imagine that’s the way I’ll die.

  I tried to read a newspaper and everything but I couldn’t get interested. I couldn’t even read the funnies. I couldn’t drink the whiskey. I always saw that gun. If the maid hadn’t come in I might have shot myself. It was a small gun. It wouldn’t have hurt me much: I wouldn’t have felt it much. A small gun. I could almost hide it in the palm of my hand. It would fit in my vest pocket. It was just a little gun. I paid ten dollars for it. It wouldn’t have hurt me if I didn’t want it to. When I was walking on that road it felt so heavy, heavy, heavy: it felt as if it weighed ten pounds in my pocket. I—it was cold. I didn’t feel the cold. I guess there was snow in my shoes—but—I—I—my feet felt as if they were on a hot plate. The cold must have been stinging them. When I was walking along—walking—walking—walking—the gun—so heavy—so heavy. I stopped. I—I didn’t know—what—what was going on. I was afraid of the gun. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to give away all the bullets in the gun. I took it out of my pocket and flung it away. I don’t know where it landed. It landed in the snow somewhere. I knew what I was doing then. I threw the gun away. Then I started walking fast. I walked for an hour, an hour or more, and when I got back to the station I took my shoes off and shook the snow out of them and got on the train and went home …

  I knew how cold it was; but when I was walking away from the station I didn’t feel the cold. Only when I was coming back. Only when I was coming back …

  THE THIRTY-EIGHTH HOUR

  It’s pretty hard for me to think of a lot of the things I have missed. There’s a lot of things I forgot completely. Yesterday was one of those times. You make me talk about things I forgot I even knew. My mind seems up against a stone wall. It’s hard for me to put myself in a position in the past: like walking along the road and throwing the gun away. I guess I forgot about that almost completely. That’s a long time ago.…

  I had a funny dream yesterday. I dreamed my sister married to some fellow, he was one of these jitterbugs, always dancing and singing. He was supposed to go to Hollywood and get a job as a music director in the movies, and he couldn’t make the choice between going to Hollywood or marrying my sister. My sister looked different, older. This fellow—I can’t seem to place him anywhere—this fellow seemed torn between my sister and going to Hollywood for this job. He didn’t know which to take. The meaning of this is do what you want to do. Or it may mean something else …

  L: ‘Whom would this person represent?’

  He was a good-looking fellow. Well-built. His clothes were the typical jitterbug type. I was trying to talk him into writing some music instead of trying to be a music director or orchestra leader. That way he could do the thing he wanted to do and marry my sister too. I can’t place the fellow. The way I wanted it he could stay married to my sister. I—O—I see. The fellow represents me. My sister—that’s this treatment. He wanted—I wanted to give it up, but there is a way of doing both. Or maybe my sister, she represents what’s wrong with me and I don’t want to know it? I kept impressing on this fellow to st
ay where he was. He could still write music. I think I see. It was what you said was a resistance dream? Here I am in a position where I am going under treatment and something interferes with my treatment. For the last few times I have been in that position. Now I have to make up my mind whether I am going to continue under conditions where that—that incident—that accident will be talked about. Does that seem right? Are you willing to accept that interpretation, Doc?

  L: ‘Alright, Harold. Go ahead.’

  Well, the girl in the dream seemed so different. She looked the same as my sister but she acted different. My sister is kind of dizzy: this girl was older and my sister doesn’t act like that, so serious. O, she is a very fine girl; very pretty, about twenty now and working, making about thirty dollars a week. I think she is doing all right. She never said anything about getting married to anyone when she saw me. She doesn’t go out with anyone steadily. We always got along. Of course we had some fights when we were small. One time I brought Lila to the house. I met Lila on the street and took her home. When I opened the door I left the key in the lock. We came in and I closed the door. We were in there about an hour. We got some beer out of the icebox and I guess we were making love. My sister came home and she found the key in the door. She couldn’t open the door so she got mad. After about an hour I opened the door and let her in. She saw Lila there and she was real mad. “After all, what is the idea of locking me out? I’ve got some rights here: I live here, don’t I?” We didn’t argue about it but she sure kidded me. She used to say that I was picking the ugliest girls. She liked me though. We’d go to shows together and some nights we’d go out. Many times when I needed a little money she’d loan me a dollar or two. She’d give it to me and never ask it back. She never got it back. When I was about twelve or thirteen I used to have a lot of blank checks and dice and things like that in my drawer. She’d search for these things and give them to my mother. I got a lot of beatings for it, so finally I started hiding things, scattering them all around so she couldn’t find them altogether. But she’d search everything. She didn’t want me to keep it. She’d tell my mother if I went in swimming when I wasn’t supposed to. I couldn’t keep her quiet on anything. She’d just run and tell my mother. I know she’s a good girl all the way through. I remember all the ways back when she started to walk. She looked funny. I tried to help her but she’d sit on the floor and cry when I bothered her too much. My father used to pet her a lot when she was young. She was just like a little wild cat: she’d scratch and pull out everybody’s hair. Later she didn’t like the idea of my going with girls. She had a girl friend she wanted me to go out with but I never liked her girl friends. She always insinuated that her girl friends were better than anyone I could find. She liked this girl Amy, the one up at my aunt’s place. My mother liked her a lot too.