All The Young Punks Pt. 01

-- This is the origin story of my main character from Punks, Joe Theroux. Way back, when I decided to rewrite and adapt Punks to Lit I was not sure where to start. Since my aim was to make my story more erotic, I chose Joe at age thirty. Now I'm going back to Joe's youth. My biggest regret in Punks was having to cut his sisters and family in Providence from the story. They, and the city, are central in All The Young Punks.

Joe's story is rated PG because he's just a punk in high school. There are far more music and culture references in this tale than sex references. If that's not your thing...

---- MARCH 1978 ----

Dr. Barbara Nichols leaned forward, adjusting her skirt, then leaned back in her chair. She crossed her legs. Joe sat passively on the couch across from her, watching and waiting. She glanced at her notes on her lap, and then at Joe. "Let's talk about this fight you had a few months ago. Have you had any trouble with those boys since?"

"No."

The doctor stared at Joe, waiting for more information. None was offered. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Don't you think my saying there's no problem is enough? If there was still trouble I'd have more to say."

"Have you had any fights since?"

"No. I have two strikes against me. If I get into another... scuffle, I'll be expelled."

"That was more than a scuffle."

Joe shrugged.

The doctor waited again. Over years of treating Joe she had become accustomed to his short answers and long silences, and she knew pushing him to talk more often had the opposite effect.

"Is there anything troubling you these days?"

"Yes. I'm sick of people making a fuss about the fights. I've had a few scrapes. It's not like I'm constantly brawling."

"I recall you once telling me you'd been in ten fights, and you've had another since."

"And that's over eight years, and I have never started a fight."

"You were bullied."

"Yes, you know that because we've talked about it too many times. There's no reason to discuss it further. No one bullies me anymore."

"And you believe that's because you have a reputation as a tough kid."

"No, I have a reputation for not taking shit from bullies. It took me years to learn that fighting back is the only way to end it."

"That's not true. You could always go to the principal."

Joe laughed, "Maybe that's how it was in the fifties when you were a kid in bobby socks." He paused for a reaction. The doctor gave him nothing. "But that's not how it works at my school. Mr. Reed calls the jerk into his office for a lecture and then that kid will come after you for ratting him out."

"Did that happen to you?"

"Yes!" Joe said, exasperated. "We've been over this before. I've answered all these questions. If you can't remember the discussions we've had and I have to keep telling you the same stories... I have to wonder if these sessions are worth my time."

The Doctor scribbled in her notepad. Joe continued.

"Yes, I got my ass beaten a couple of times for reporting a bully. Ya know... when I say I've been in ten fights, that includes me getting beaten up." Joe steeled his eyes. "The problem with teachers is they never have a clue what happened... and they don't bother to ask. They see two students fighting and assume both are troublemakers."

"I sense your anger, Joe. That anger is one reason you're here."

"I'm not angry. I'm annoyed that we have the same talks over and over and I don't think it's helping me."

"Your mother told me you don't want to come here anymore."

"I've told you that myself, and why. Having to repeat myself is frustrating and makes me question if you're listening."

"I am listening, Joe. Sometimes it helps when you retell stories. I can then determine if your perception has changed. For example, when you first came here it was for the trauma you experienced over your sister's death. You could barely speak of it six years ago, you'd break down in tears. Now you can discuss it like a young man. From your retelling of that terrible day, I witnessed healing and growth on your part."

Joe didn't respond. He stared at Dr. Nichols. She shifted her position again. He admired her long shapely legs. Joe had been thinking for some time that he should end his therapy. One reason he kept coming was Dr. Nichols herself. He guessed that she was a little older than his Mom, but she seemed younger. Maybe because she didn't give birth to five children. She was attractive, dressed well, and had full and fabulous brunette hair. Those long legs stretching out from her skirts and dresses were worth the stinky ride on the Ten Bus across town. Joe especially enjoyed it when he made her smile because she was hard to crack.

The problem was, as the years passed talking to Dr. Nichols was becoming more like talking to his mother. When he was younger and needed therapy, she was thoughtful, and caring while handling a sixth grader. She listened and these visits were good for his soul. Now she was like Mom, pecking at the same questions, expressing the same concerns, and it didn't feel like he was being heard.

"If I've grown and matured and you believe those wounds have healed, maybe I'm done here."

"They never fully heal, Joe, and you do have other issues."

"I just told you I'm no longer bullied and I'm not fighting. What else do you have?"

"Joe, your last fight was months ago, not years. You have this propensity to seek out bullies and take matters into your own hands. That's a cycle of violence you must end. You claim you never start fights, but if you go after a boy for picking on a classmate, that's not your business. You are picking a fight with that boy."

"I don't see it that way, and neither do the kids who are being preyed on."

"You do realize this is all tied to your sister's death, correct?"

"That's what my Mom tells you... because I was such a good boy before Janie died."

"Yes, trauma has deep effects on people, especially children. I agree with her that your sister's death changed you. The fighting started not long after she passed."

"Yeah, because I realized nothing really matters."

"How does fighting solve that?"

"It doesn't, but getting my ass kicked wasn't working, so I started fighting back."

"Because you were angry."

Joe stared blankly.

"That doesn't work either, Joe."

"It totally worked. No one fucks with me anymore. That's all I want, to be left alone."

Dr. Nichols gave Joe a disapproving glare for his language. "And that's the other thing that worries your mother, that you've withdrawn."

"That's not true. I just don't want to talk about the same crap every day and listen to her tell me how worried she is about me, or how much I've disappointed her. She never stops. Ya know, if anyone in my family needs therapy, it's her. She's like Chicken Little, the sky is always falling."

"Yes, your mother suffers from anxiety."

"Yes, among other things, and she's always dumping her problems onto me and my sisters. If you want to help me, treat my Mom."

"What about your father?"

"What about him?"

"Does he annoy you as your mother does?"

"Not at all. Dad is the sane parent until Mom makes him so crazy and he has to deal with whatever she's prattling on about."

"Do your siblings feel the same frustration as you?"

"Jackie does. We talked about it. She's a goodie-two-shoes... and she does a better job of hiding her feelings. I can only take so much."

"Do you argue with your mother often?"

"It's not usually an argument. I never yell at her. She rags and nags until I've had enough and I shut her down... with a joke or some comment that makes fun of what she's carrying on about. She'll get huffy and walk away, disappointed in me... again."

"Does that make you feel good?"

"No, it just makes the nagging stop."

Dr. Nichols scanned her notes, then flipped back a few pages. She looked up at Joe. "Are you still journaling, writing down your thoughts to process them?"

"Yeah, but not as much. I write other stuff."

"Like what?"

"Ideas I have for my band, and song lyrics. I do a lot of doodling."

"Writing can be therapeutic as long as what you write is positive."

"Yeah, I like it." Joe met her eyes. "In six years, it's the best advice you've given me, thank you."

Dr., Nichols tried to hide her smile, but Joe saw her slightly blush. She closed her notebook. "Okay, we're almost done for today. As always, I'd like to end on an up note. Tell me what's good in your life, something that makes you happy."

Joe stared at her. She adjusted her legs again. He watched her, pretending he was pondering her question. She moved her hair out of her face. Joe wanted to tell her he loved her curly bob hairstyle, especially the big curls that she had to keep pushing aside.

"And don't say your sisters," she smiled. "I know all about them."

"My band. That's what I look forward to."

"Yes, I know about your band, too, and how much you love music. Is there anything else?"

"No. Why would there be? That's what makes me happy. You're always saying I must focus on the positive, that's what music is. It's all positive... even when it's not."

"What does that mean?"

"A song about injustice may not sound positive and hopeful, but challenging injustice in art is itself positive."

Dr. Nichols exhaled. "You have a way of thinking that intrigues me, Joseph."

"Please don't call me that. Only my mother calls me Joseph." Joe found her eyes again. "You don't want to sound like my Mom. That would be bad for business."

He made her smile again, and that's what these sessions were all about. Joe had a six-year relationship with an empathetic, educated, emotionally intelligent, attractive woman... roughly his mother's age. Dr. Nichols wanted to close with what's positive in Joe's life, and there were two things, his sisters and his band.

"When I learn a new song or even just a simple guitar riff, I feel like I've accomplished something. I don't get that with anything else. I have a focus and determination with music that I don't have anywhere else.

"Not even in school."

"Especially not in school. Music is the best therapy, no offense intended."

She smiled, "None taken."

Joe exhaled. "Sometimes I think you talk to my Mom too much and you see things her way." Joe adjusted his butt on the chair and looked at Dr. Nichols. "I get that she has rights, but what about my right to privacy? I don't think I want her knowing what we talk about."

"Yes, this is another point we come back to over and over." Dr Nichols smirked while scribbling in her notebook. "I thought you were sick of talking about the same things."

'Touche', Joe thought, with a smile Dr. Nichols noticed. He liked that she did that. The doctor could play the game.

"Okay, so let's talk about your band. It's not all positive. Your good friends quit the band. I guess that worked itself out?"

"Yes, it's better than working out. It's great. We have new guys who are better." Joe paused, "Pete was never my best friend."

'Joe," Dr Nichols looked over her glasses. "He was your first bandmate. I remember how excited you were when he came to your garage to play."

"That seems so long ago, but it's not. My life has changed so much. I've told you this before. It's how we end every session."

"And this is why. You leave thinking about what's good in your life and I worry less about you."

"It's not your job to worry about me. That's my Mom's job... and she's working overtime."

Dr. Nichols smiled again. Joe was on a roll. "Well, Joe. After all these years you'll have to forgive me for being invested."

Near the end of the session, Dr. Nichols handed Joe a card with his next appointment written on it. He looked at the date, four weeks away. He was done with therapy. There was a time when talking to her was extremely helpful, but that was years ago. This work was no longer yielding the same benefits. Joe felt he owed Dr. Nichols courtesy of telling her face to face, rather than pulling a no-show next month.

He exhaled audibly. "I don't think I'm coming back."

"You've said this before, a few times, and then you always come back."

"Yes, because you convinced me to come once a month rather than weekly," he shrugged. "That was a fair compromise."

"It's never good to end these treatments abruptly. A gradual weaning is better. You say you're done but then you have a day when you realize these sessions are useful in some way. Who else in your life can you talk to like this?"

Joe shrugged. "I don't talk a lot."

"But you do with me. That's why I don't believe you're quitting."

"Yeah, well, this time it's for real. You have been very helpful, Dr. Nichols. I appreciate what you've done for me. I just don't feel I need this anymore. As I've gotten older I think I can manage my issues."

Dr. Nichols chuckled with a smile.

"Why is that funny?" Joe asked.

"You're seventeen, Joe. I find it amusing any time a teenager tells me they're all grown up. I hear it often."

"Thank you, Dr. Nichols."

"You have my card. I'll hold that appointment. You can call any time."

Another reason Joe continued visiting Dr. Nichols was the fact her office was on the East Side of Providence, near Brown University and only two blocks from his favorite record store. He enjoyed hanging out on College Hill and talking with the staff and patrons in the shops, mostly Brown and RISD students. He often slipped into the Brown Bookstore to read stuff he couldn't afford to buy. If it weren't for the bookstores, Victory Records, and Dr. Nichols' legs, he would have quit therapy long ago.

------ OUR HOUSE ------

Joe's feet had barely crossed the threshold of the house when his sister Jeannie called out. "Mom, Joey's home!"

Eight-year-old Jeanette was seated at the kitchen table doing homework. Her sandy-colored hair was in pigtails Joe helped her with before school that day. He kissed the top of her head. Sister Jackie was at the counter chopping the pointy ends off green beans. She looked up at her big brother, "You're late."

Seconds later, Mom stormed into the kitchen in her nurse uniform. "You're late!"

Joe didn't react. He reached into the refrigerator for a drink, pulled the foil top off a glass milk jug, and took a long sip.

"Don't drink from the bottle!" Mom barked, reaching for the milk. Joe turned away, blocking her move with his shoulder, and took a second drink. Mom glared at him as he placed the bottle back in the fridge.

"I'm not late if you're still home." He smiled with a milk mustache, then wiped it with his hand.

"Where were you? You promised to help Julie with her science project. I'm guessing you were doing nothing useful at that damn garage."

"Ma," Joe smirked at her. "Watch your language... or you'll get the soap."

"Don't be a smart ass."

"That's two strikes, potty mouth." Joe winked at thirteen-year-old Jacqueline. She smiled at him, amused at his mocking mother.

"Where have you been, goofing off with Sal?"

"No! I had an appointment with Dr. Nichols. I got out of school early and did my talky thing."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did, Mom. You don't listen because you're always talking." Joe looked at Jackie.

"He told us last week," Jackie nodded. "And he mentioned it yesterday."

"And what's that?" She pointed at an obvious vinyl purchase.

"It's the new Talking Heads record."

"So you had time to waste at the record shop?"

"Yes, I did," Joe smirked. "I'm staying in tonight. I'll work with Jules after dinner."

"That's good." Mom pointed north. "Go see her. She's in her room making a mess of things... and whining."

"She's always whining," Joe laughed. "Let me know when she's not. That'll be news."

Again, Jackie smiled at her brother.

Jeanie got up and hugged her brother. "Can you help me with my math?"

"Sure, let me check on Jules first." He walked over to Jackie. "Are you good? You got this?"

"Yes, but can you pull the gizzards out of the bird and rinse it? I hate the slimey guts. The oven is almost up to temp."

Joe washed his hands at the kitchen sink, pulled the innards from the bird cavity, rinsed it, and placed it in a large, oven-worn, Corningware baking dish that was older than he was. He painted the bird with olive oil."

"Don't cut so much of the tips off those beans," he lightly elbowed Jackie. "They're expensive." He leaned closer. "You don't want canned vegetables again... do you?"

Jackie stuck a gag-inducing finger in her mouth and looked at Joe, "I cried every time she made green beans, or spinach... or anything green."

"We don't want to go back to the canned ages, so make good use of the fresh stuff."

Jackie smiled a third time, looking up at him. "The canned ages?"

He shrugged. After sprinkling salt, pepper, and rosemary inside and out, he opened the oven and slid the bird in.

He washed his hands again. "Let me go check on Jules."

Joe walked in on ten-year-old Juliette coloring a styrofoam ball with markers. "How's it going?" he asked, then kissed the top of her head.

"I suck at this," she said. "Look at Jupiter. It's so stupid."

"Good thing no one's ever been to Jupiter. They won't know the difference."

"Can you do Earth? Everyone knows what that looks like."

"Sure. After dinner. I'm gonna help Jeanie with her math first."

Mom walked in, "My ride's here." She kissed Joe, kissed Julie, "Be good." She turned to Joe, "Help her."

Joe raised his hands, exasperated. "Why do you think I'm in here?"

This was Joe's life through his teens. He was seventeen, the oldest, and was expected to help around the house. Every day he'd come straight home from school to do his chores and help with his sisters. Through his formative years, this daily routine made it difficult for Joe to have a social life outside of school. Things were much easier now that Jackie was old enough to help with the cooking.

When the sisters were younger, Joe would meet Jeanie and Jules at their elementary school and walk them home. Mom would then go over the dinner plan. He'd help her prepare and then Joe would cook the meal after she ran off to her nursing job at Rhode Island Hospital. Dad rolled in from his machine shop gig around 5:45, as dinner was being served. Joe, Dad, and the girls dined every night. If Dad worked late, a plate would be waiting in the oven. In those days, Jackie did the dishes while Joe helped with baths, and then got the little ones ready for bed. The days of telling bedtime stories were mostly over, but he still read to Jeanie when she asked.

Once Jackie became old enough to help in the kitchen prepping dinner, Joe's responsibilities relaxed a bit. He still came home to help, but she usually had dinner prep under control. That change happened around the time Joe started his band with three other high school kids, about a year ago.

From age twelve, Joe was given a weekly allowance. With few friends and no social life to speak of, he didn't have many activities to spend money on. On Saturday he'd take the bus to the East Side and hang out at Victory Records. He'd flip through racks of vinyl and talk to the staff about music. Some days he'd walk to Wickenden Street Books to browse and talk to the old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kraus, holocaust survivors happy to be in America.

Music, reading, writing, drawing, baseball, and basketball were his interests. He collected baseball cards and comic books as a kid but records pushed them out as his number one obsession. He accumulated albums, but he saved most of his allowance for what he wanted more than anything.

On his fourteenth birthday, two weeks after Christmas, he opened cards with cash from his grandparents. Joe finally had enough to purchase a bone-white 1966 Fender Telecaster from a pawn shop in South Providence. Dad then drove him to Ray Mullins Music in Pawtucket to buy a used 40-watt Fender Champion amplifier. Dad kicked in a few bucks for a book and chord charts. From that day on Joe's free time was spent in his basement bedroom, studying and learning guitar, listening to his records, and trying to play the songs he loved.