All The Young Punks Pt. 02

This is the prequel to Punks, Joe's story as a teen. It's PG-rated.

--- 1978 ---

Back in November of '77, when Joe kicked bass player Hector Delgado out of the band, he did it in a moment of anger without a thought or a plan. He knew another guy, but it was a long shot. Sal Mancuso was nearly three years older. Sal wasn't just older than Joe and his high school bandmates...he was cooler. Sal was a 6'2" leather-clad urban Italian American straight from central casting, with broad shoulders, thick arms, and a narrow waist. The joke in the hood was that Sal started shaving in third grade. He had thick black hair slicked back, sideburns, and DIY tattoos.

Joe always liked Sal, but they were only acquaintances. He sensed he and Sal had something in common. They were misunderstood. Nobody fucked with Sal. He had a reputation since junior high school for beating down those who wronged him, but he was no bully. Sal had a heart of gold. He just didn't take shit from anyone. Everyone on Federal Hill knew Salvator Mancuso.

Joe knew Sal played bass but never expected he would join his stupid high school garage band. After school, he simply walked into the Atwells Liquor Mart and rolled the dice. Sal was behind the counter looking at Penthouse Magazine. Joe placed a bottle of Coke and a small bag of potato chips on the counter.

Sal looked up from his magazine. "Hey, Joe. Is that it, no beer?"

"You won't serve me."

Sal smirked, "Damn right I won't, only Dickie serves you."

Joe handed him two dollars. "Hey, are you still playing?"

"On and off."

"I have a garage band, we're not great, but we jam and fuck around. We lost our bass player. If you're looking for someone to play with, give me a call."

The cash register draw rang when Sal opened it. "Where do you play?"

"My dad's garage."

"What do you play?"

"I have an old Telecaster."

"No, dummy. What music?"

"Oh, sixties rock, stuff we can handle. We do some Stones, and The Animals, and a lot of Kinks songs. I'm a Ray Davies guy. He's better than Lennon."

"Pfft," Sal scoffed as he handed Joe his change. "You're the only person who believes that."

"Nah. I think Ray Davies is with me."

Sal laughed. "Yeah. I suppose you're right. How long have you guys been playing?"

"Eight months."

"So you don't suck?"

"Oh," Joe smirked. "We definitely suck."

Sal also liked Joe. He knew him from the hood. He had younger cousins Joe's age and Joe knew Sal's cousins too well. When Sal attended the wake of Joe's little sister six years ago, Joe was moved. Everyone on Federal Hill went to Janie's wake, but that wasn't the point. He didn't expect teenage tough guy Sal Mancuso to show up.

Sal returned to his stool and opened his magazine. "You splattered Frankie's nose. I saw it. It's destroyed. You realize he's disfigured for life, right?"

Joe stepped back. "Hey man, he and Gino came at me, two-on-one. Was I supposed to lay down and take a beating?"

"Oh no," Sal smiled. "I get it. My cousins are fucking hoodlums. I see prison in Gino's future."

"It doesn't take Nostradamus to see that."

"Who?"

Sal was a good guy, but he wasn't the brightest star in the sky. He was street-smart and wise in his own way. Book smarts were not in his repertoire.

"Never mind." Joe stepped toward the door. "So, you should call me if you wanna jam."

"Ya know," Sal said while lighting a cigarette. "I got nothin' else going on. When are you playing?"

"Saturday at ten. The earliest my dad will allow."

"Okay. That gives me a couple of days to tune up. I'll be there."

At 9:55 Saturday, Peter Smith watched in astonishment as Sal unpacked his black Fender bass. Pete leaned in and whispered to Joe. "How in hell did you get Sal Mancuso?"

"I know him... enough to ask."

"We're not that good, Joe. He's not gonna stick around for our shit."

"Hey, stop being a downer. Just play. Whatever happens... happens."

The reality was; that the band was trying out for Sal more than Sal was trying out for the band. It was awkward at first, but they eventually found a grove. Sal played loudly. Pete played soft guitar. The teens had to turn it up two notches to cut through his thumping bass. They made it through eight songs, with fits and starts, before Sal gave his verdict.

"Ya know," he said, pulling his Marlboros out of his pocket. "I got nothin' else going on. I could do this for a while. We'll see how it goes."

Joe wasn't entirely sure Pete was on board with Sal joining. Pete thought Sal was playing too loud. Joe agreed, but he liked how Sal played, and Joe believed Sal's loud was better than Pete's soft. After a few sessions, once he knew their set of fourteen songs, Sal began making suggestions. They added a few new songs. Pete didn't like Sal's ideas.

Six weeks later, on Joe's seventeenth birthday, they were playing in the garage with a dozen friends hanging out, mostly Sal's older friends. It was the band's first jam party.

It was an unseasonably warm winter day. The two-car garage was crowded. Joe opened the overhead doors. The music was loud. There was beer provided by the Liquor Mart, as well as weed, and complaining neighbors. Dad came out to deal with the disturbance and caught a whiff. That was the end of Joe's band playing in his father's garage. The old man at least had the decency to not embarrass his son. He quietly informed Joe of the eviction after most of their friends had left.

As the band packed up their gear, Sal was unfazed. "Don't worry about it. I'll talk to Pops. I'm sure we can use his place. It's a helluva lot bigger than this."

"The factory?" Joe asked.

"Yeah. He has his cars stored there and his buddies play cards once or twice a week, but most of the time it's empty. It'll be great."

Pete was not aware of this place. Joe explained. "Sal's dad owns a huge garage down the hill, off Eagle Street, in the mill complex."

"What does he do there?" Pete asked.

"Nothing," Sal replied. "He bought it years ago to work on his cars. He fixed it up and installed a kitchen so he could cook for his crew. They play poker and cribbage and hide from the wives."

"And you think he'll let us play there?" Pete asked.

"Yeah," Sal said as he picked up his amp and guitar case. "Pops is cool. He may even like the company."

Joe laughed, "But not the music."

Sal shrugged. "Let me talk to him. I'll let you know."

Less than a week later, the band had a practice area set up across the massive factory garage from Tony Mancuso's collection of cars and his professional-grade kitchen. As days passed, Joe was excited about the band's new hangout. He had more space between him and his life at home and he was making new friends as Sal had people coming and going. Not everyone was happy with the new arrangement.

Shortly after they moved into Pops' 140-year-old garage, shit happened. Pete never really liked Sal and he liked his ideas even less. Robby, their drummer, and Pete's best friend, was less negative but seemed to agree with Pete. Joe found himself working as the middleman, but he was siding with Sal more often as his ideas made sense to Joe. That angered Pete. They had been playing for months before Sal joined. He resented Joe for not having his back.

The band played mostly sixties garage rock, some surf rock songs, and random seventies stuff. Sal felt they needed to punch these songs up and play harder. Pete was against it. For weeks, there was this tug of war between what the band had been playing and the direction Sal and Joe wanted to go. It only got worse after they moved into the new space.

"That's not how The Kinks play the song," Pete protested after a hard and loud version of 'All Day And All Of The Night.'

"Yeah," Sal blew smoke from his waning cigarette. "That's the point. We make the song our own. Who says we have to play it like them?"

"C'mon, Pete," Joe said. "Have you heard Van Halen's You Really Got Me? It's all over the radio, and it's fucking great."

"We're not Van Halen."

"And we're not The Kinks either," Sal pointed his cigarette butt at Pete.

At school, away from Sal, Pete had been complaining to Joe that Sal was using the fact he provided their new hangout as leverage. When Joe suggested they add some punk rock to the mix, like The Ramones, Pete didn't like that either. The band was divided.

It all came to a head during a particularly rough session after Sal rode Pete for tickling his guitar strings rather than playing power chords with balls. When Sal stepped out onto the loading dock to have a smoke, Pete unplugged his guitar and amp.

Joe looked on as Pete appeared to be done for the day. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm done with this shit."

"The band?"

Pete looked up. "This is bullshit. You started this band, why don't you lead it?"

"Last summer you wanted everyone equal. Now you want me in charge?"

"Sal's taken over. He pushes everyone around. He thinks he's the boss."

"He's not pushing anything. Sal has good ideas. I like the punk edge."

"You brought him in, and now he walks all over you. You're afraid to say no to him. You're a pussy, Joe."

"Fuck you Pete. Why would I fight a plan I like? Sal's made us a better band. All you do is whine. You have some balls calling me a pussy... you fucking crybaby."

Pete slammed his guitar case shut. "Good luck with your piece of shit punk band."

"Oh, so you really are quitting? Why don't you be a man and tell Sal what you think?" Joe pointed. "He's right outside that door."

"Yeah, I fucking quit!" Pete stared at Robby sitting behind his drum kit. It was a tense moment. He wondered if his best friend was quitting with him. Wide-eyed Robby didn't say a word.

"All you do is complain," Joe added. "You bring nothing. You're a fucking drag. If you're done, shut the fuck up and get the fuck out."

Pete stormed out the heavy-duty steel factory door, struggling with his amp and guitar on the loading dock where Sal was finishing his smoke. Sal blocked his path, leading to an awkward dance as the seventeen-year-old tried to get past the much larger and intimidating man. Then Joe and Sal watched as Pete put his shitty guitar in his shitty car, slammed the door, and drove off trying to leave rubber, but failing... because Pete drove a piece of shit AMC Gremlin. Then he hit a giant pothole filled with last night's rain, going too fast, and the undercarriage of the car banged hard on the broken asphalt. It nearly stopped the car.

"Ohhhh!" Sal shouted. "That's gonna cost ya." He laughed. "Hey, I know a guy."

"How could he not see that?" Joe laughed. "It's a goddamn lake."

Sal didn't care about Pete quitting. "Fuck him," he took the last drag and tossed his cigarette off the dock. "He's not that good and I'm sick of his complaining. You are too. Look, I know you're pals. Are you okay with this?"

Joe shrugged, "We're kinda friends at school. We went to a few concerts at the Civic Center. I just don't have another guy who..."

"I know a guy. He's way better. Pete's a baby. He's so not cool."

"Who do you know?"

"Johnny."

Joe's eyes widened. "Johnny Bucci?"

"Yeah. He's looking for something to do."

"He's at URI. I'm pretty sure he's busy."

Sal leaned in. "Don't tell anyone, but he's bombing and wants to drop out."

"His dad will murder him."

"I don't think so. Senior will be more pissed off if Junior burns another year of tuition partying instead of studying. Some people aren't cut out for college, like us." Sal put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "Are we gonna need a new drummer too? Robby and Pete are pretty tight."

Robby assured Sal and Joe he was staying. That proved to be just him not having the balls to quit on the spot. Two days later, Joe walked into the garage to find the drum set gone. Pops was in the kitchen making himself lunch.

"Hey Pops," Joe called over. "Were you here when Robby packed up?"

Pops didn't look up. "Yup."

"Did he say anything?"

"Not much. He just said, 'Tell Joe I'm done."

"Fuck. Does Sal know?"

"Yup. He told me to tell you it's not a problem. He knows a guy. And Johnny's back from school... for good."

"What a fucking mess."

"You'll be fine," Pops said as he sat at the kitchen table. "Sit down. I made some nice Venda ravioli and meat gravy. C'mon, eat."

Joe joined Tony for a plate of pasta and sauce. In the few weeks they'd been playing at the garage Joe had become fond of Pops. Sal was correct. The old man liked having the kids around, even when they were banging on their instruments too loudly for his taste. As they sat down, Sal showed up.

"Just in time," he smiled wide, clapping his hands once, happy to see food on the table.

"So, Pops," Joe said while serving himself. "What's the deal with this place? Sal said it was a horse stable back in the day..." Joe smirked. "when you were a young punk."

Sal laughed

"Very funny, kid." Pops spread meat sauce over his ravioli. "It was a stable before the Civil War. They actually made Union uniforms right here," Tony pointed north, across the parking lot. "The Strand Textile Company used horses and wagons to move goods. When trucks took over, around World War One, they converted it to a garage for their new fleet."

"Cool." Joe took a bite of pasta. "I like local history."

"Pops is full of it," Sal chuckled. "He knows all the boring details of Providence."

"It's not boring Sal," Joe pointed at him. "Not if you think of history as a story."

"I can't never remember the dates, and the years. I just forget," Sal stuffed a ravioli in his mouth.

"You don't need to remember the dates, just the people and places... the stories."

Joe shared a glance with Pops. The old man shook his head, knowing this kid Joe understood what he had realized years ago. His son was a meathead.

"This place was pretty run down when I bought it in seventy-one," Tony said. "The company fell on hard times and stopped maintaining it. I had to put on a new roof and replace those windows." He pointed. "As well as the bay doors. The electrical and plumbing was ancient, long out of code."

Sal sprinkled parmesan on his bowl of pasta. "Pops spent more money on repairs and upgrades than he paid for the place."

Joe looked around while eating. He loved this place. The building had an extra wide garage door at the front loading dock as well as two bay doors on the side where Tony moved his cars in and out. Pops was a loyal GM man. At the opposite end of the factory garage, away from the dock, were four of his babies; a '55 Chevy Bel Air, a '61 Chevy Impala, a '65 Pontiac GTO, and his favorite, a '68 Cadillac Eldorado. He still drove that car often, but his everyday ride was a '75 Coupe Deville.

"I put in the kitchen and fixed up the bathrooms and showers. This place doesn't look like much, but it has good bones."

"I'm glad you kept the lockers," Sal said. "Those are handy."

"I know," Joe agreed. "I like having a place where I can leave my stuff. You did a good job, Pops. This place is great.'

"Thanks."

Tony was a businessman, and like his son, everyone on Federal Hill knew Tony 'Meats' Mancuso. Some locals thought Tony was in the mob. Joe's Dad assured him that Tony was not a made man, at worst, he was mob-adjacent. If you were Italian and lived on The Hill, you probably knew a few of the boys. If you owned a business, you eventually had to deal with the Patriarca Family.

---- THIS YEAR'S MODEL ----

Joe sat on the Ten Bus at Kennedy Plaza waiting for a bus driver shift change. His sister Jeanie was at his side. Occasionally, on Saturdays, he'd take her or Jules on his East Side record shop adventure. He only took one sister at a time to avoid them bickering. It was more enjoyable one on one.

Jeanie was a bundle of energy, excited to be hanging out with her big brother. They had just hopped off the bus and ran across the plaza to grab a bag of French fries from a food truck parked in front of Providence City Hall. As the bus left the plaza, an older man seated across from them smiled at Jeanie, her hand inside the grease-stained brown paper bag.

"Is that Haven Brothers?" He asked.

Jeanie nodded, "They're the best fries." She shoved dark potato sticks in her face.

"I like how they overcook them," the man said.

"Me too," Jeanie held the bag out. "Would you like some?"

"That's sweet, but no thank you. Is this your brother?"

"Yes, this is Joey."

Joe nodded. The man smiled.

"We're going to the record store," she said.

"Very nice."

The old man seemed harmless enough, but his staring at his sister was getting creepy as city blocks passed behind them. Joe was very protective of his sisters, almost overly so, especially since Janie's death. Joe had a few fries, but not many. The last time Jeanie pigged out on Haven Brother's greasy fries she had a tummy ache that made her day with Joe less fun. He warned her before they bought this bag, but Jeanie couldn't help herself. She devoured the fries.

Walking on Thayer Street on the East Side, Jeanie tugged on Joe's leather. He looked down.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"You just did."

"Do you smoke pot? Mom thinks you smoke pot."

"Mom thinks a lot of things that aren't true."

"I heard you talking to Dad about it."

"Because you're a spy for Mom. Is that how she found out?"

"So you do smoke pot?"

"No, but some of my friends do."

"You told Dad you tried it."

"Yeah, I did. I don't think I like it."

"Good. You shouldn't take drugs."

"Okay, you little narc."

"What's a narc?"

"Never mind," Joe said as he opened the door to Victory Records. "...but don't be one."

"Hey, Jeanie!" The clerk at the front desk smiled. "How's the belly feeling today?"

"She just scarfed another bag of Haven Brothers," Joe shrugged, "we'll see."

"What are you looking for today?"

"I'm getting the new Blondie," Jeanie said excitedly. "Where is she?"

The clerk pointed. "In The Punk Pit." Diane was a record shop veteran, keeping her weekend shift even after graduating college. She knew Joe when he was a pimple-faced fourteen-year-old hanging on the words of college kids as they talked music.

Joe watched Jeanie run off to the back of the store. He stopped at the front desk.

"How's that band working out, Joey?" Diane knew that name annoyed him. She heard the sisters call him Joey and thought it was cute.

"It's fucked at the moment. My guitar and drums quit on me, but we have a new guitarist coming soon and we're looking for a drummer."

"That sucks, but it's part of the business. My boyfriend has gone through four drummers in three years, and three guitarists. There's always a new guy."

"I'm the only one left. Everyone will be new, whenever they get here. I better go check on the brat."

Thirty minutes later, Jeanie placed her Blondie record on the counter, Joe added Elvis Costello's new release, This Year's Model, and Warren Zevon's Excitable Boy."

"These are both great records," she smiled at Joe.

"I was looking at Van Halen. Those guys are gonna be huge. Maybe next time."

"I know what you like, Joey. These are good picks."

"What about mine?" Jeanie asked.

"I have it at home." Diane smiled. "It's great." She turned to look at the wall of pins and stickers behind the counter and removed a pin. "Here, I'll give you this Blondie pin to wear to school so all the kids will know you're cool."

Jeanie's smile made the entire day worthwhile. She turned to Joe. "Can you put this on my coat?"

Joe handed Diane cash, "Thank you," then leaned down to poke the pin into Jeanie's jean jacket.

Walking back to the bus stop, Joe had a favor to ask of Jeanie. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Don't be a spy for Mom."

"I'm not."

"Yes, you are. You and Jules tell her everything you see and hear."

"I don't, not everything... but Julie does."