All The Young Punks Pt. 03

---- 1978 ----

At 10:15 PM, Joe opened the door to the kitchen and stepped in. All he saw was his dad's open hand inches from his head.

"Owwww, what the fu...?"

"What the hell is this?" Dad barked. "An F and a D on this lousy report card." He waved it in Joe's face. "What are you doing in school... nothing? Are you even going to school? Who are you ditching with? Are you at that goddamn garage all day?"

"Dad, one question at a time. That report says I'm not very bright. I can't answer so many questions at once." Joe ducked in anticipation of a second blow. Another open hand landed on the side of his head. It wasn't hard, just an attention-getting whack.

"Don't be a wise ass. Are you ditching school?"

"No, I go to school."

"Are you skipping classes?"

"Yeah, but only the D and the F. I go to classes I like. I also got an A, two B's, and a couple of C's.

In these occasional father-son exchanges they had at home, Dad never hurt Joe and Joe sort of enjoyed watching his dad struggle to play the enforcer. It wasn't in Bill Theroux's nature. He was the low-key parent. Joe tried to make him laugh. Nothing was better than seeing Dad break when he was trying to be serious. It made him angrier, which was hilarious to his only son.

"Look, son, you may not like all your classes but you need them to graduate. I know a diploma means nothing to you, but to Mom and me, and the rest of the world, it matters. You don't want to...."

"I know, I know. I don't want to work in a factory for the rest of my life, slaving for the man in a thankless job with no way out." Joe knew Dad's speech forward and backward.

Dad pointed and barked. "Sit down!"

Joe slid his butt onto a worn maple kitchen chair, the one with a wobbly leg. Dad sat across from him, his hands on the table where Joe could see them. His baby sister Jeanie peeked in from the living room. He winked at her. She smiled.

Dad lowered his voice. "We've had these talks so many times you know what I'm gonna say. That, and this report card, says you're not listening."

"If I'm not listening how can I recite your sweatshop speech like I wrote it myself? I hear you, Dad. We just don't agree on high school. I love history, science is cool, and English is great when we're doing literature. Bookkeeping and economics? Boring as fuck."

"Don't curse in this house!"

"Sorry."

"Why did you enroll in the business program if it bores you? You passed all your classes in vocational."

"I quit vocational because teachers think you're a moron if you're in a shop program. I hate their condescending bullshit if you ask a question or don't understand a lesson the first time through."

Joe left him a chance to say something. Bill had nothing.

"Plus a lot of girls are in business," Joe added. "They're the only reason I go to those shitty classes."

Dad glared at him. Joe could see the old man's armor was coming down. The son exhausted his father at times. Bill was a good guy, a hard-working blue-collar man who took care of his family. He and Joe didn't have the same plans for the future. Not that Joe had plans. He had ideas, and a head cluttered with schemes and dreams.

"I promised you I'd graduate with my class, no repeating a year, and no summer school. I'm on track for that even with that F on my report. For the record, that D is a passing grade. I aimed for 70, and I nailed it." Joe pumped his fist. Dad banged his palm on the table

"Stop! Can you imagine what grades you'd get if you went to class and applied yourself?" He leaned in with the low disappointed tone that always followed his anger. Dad never changed his playbook. "You were an honor student through Freshman year. You slipped a little last year. Now you just don't give a damn about your future. I don't understand what happened to you."

Joe sat for a moment... calculating. He couldn't tell Dad that beer, pot, punk rock, and girls had ruined his only son. That would've put a major clamp on his band practice and party schedule. Joe never skipped those classes.

Dad continued, "And look at this! Your Social Studies teacher added a note that you're disruptive in class and the typing teacher says you're not a serious student."

"My Social Studies teacher is boring. All she does is read from the textbook and give assignments. I try to have discussions in class and she isn't equipped for that. What did my economics teacher note?"

"Nothing."

"That's because Mr. McBride has a sense of humor. He encourages discussion and I amuse him with my questions."

"How could you get a D in typing? It can't be that hard."

"It's tedious. When will I ever need to type? Mrs. Boucher likes me. I think that's why she passed me with the D. It was touch and go there for a while."

Another palm slam, this one half-hearted, barely made a sound. The game was almost over.

"Why is everything a wisecrack with you, Joe? Do you think there's a future in being funny?"

"Making girls laugh in class is fun, especially the ones who think I'm a loser. They try not to laugh, but I eventually get them."

"I'm not talking about a future making out with girls! You have to be more serious about your grades. It's not a damn joke." Dad looked down at the report card. "How do you get an F in bookkeeping and a B in math?"

"I missed a couple of quizzes and didn't make them up." Joe shrugged. "It dropped my average."

"You skipped class on a test day?"

"Dad, we don't have the same idea of what the future is for me. I don't even know what that is, but I don't believe what they're teaching in high school is the key. I don't want to spend my life in a factory. Trust that I'll keep my promise, graduate, and then I'll figure out what's next."

"I hope you're not banking on this band saving you from a real job. I've heard you guys. Even good bands don't make it, and you're not good."

Joe ignored that dig, paused for a moment, leaned in, and repeated a promise he'd made a few times in the past. "I will finish high school with a diploma, I promise."

Dad's elbows were now on the kitchen table, his head in his hands staring at the worn wood finish. This was the outcome of these father-son matches since Joe turned fifteen. Dad had won every bout up to age thirteen. He was still winning most battles but Joe had honed his skills in defeat and he knew all of Dad's moves. He could withstand the smacks and beat back the old man's words with his own.

Dad spoke quietly. "You know we love you,'" he paused, "and we appreciate what you do for your sisters."

"I love you too, Dad."

"You're a good son, and we just want the best for you. Finishing school is a big step in getting what's best."

"I'll finish the job, it just won't be straight A's."

"Your mother wants me to ground you. I won't do that because I know you've sacrificed being the oldest. I'm trying to be fair." Dad got up and put his hand gently on his son's shoulder. "I'm sorry I slapped you."

He wandered off to the losing locker room trying to figure out what went wrong with his game plan. Was it the offense or defense that failed? Nothing actually went wrong. He said his words and Joe told his side. In the end, Joe repeated his promise to finish high school. That seemed like a decent outcome for Dad.

A funny thing about Dad's education speech, not once did it include college. Higher education was never a consideration. Mom and Dad didn't attend college. She did nursing school and Dad attended a trade school. None of Joe's aunts or uncles went to college. Joe once told his guidance counselor, the fetching Miss Murray, that college was something other people did. They were working class and he accepted it. He wasn't putting his family down. That's simply the way it was.

----- FAITH NO MORE -----

Mom got home at 11:50 p.m. from her hospital shift. Most nights, Joe stayed up for her. They'd talk as he helped her make school lunches and packed his sisters' Barbie and Wonder Woman lunch boxes, and then he'd go to bed. He was expecting her to rip him for going out against her wishes and skipping dinner. She was surprisingly calm. Joe explained that Dad had already scolded him and he repeated his promise to her. Mom had something else on her mind.

"When was the last time you went to mass... Christmas?"

"Yeah, Christmas and Easter. I'm on the holy holiday schedule."

"You know that's wrong. It's a sin. You must honor the sabbath."

Joe shrugged, not interested in having this talk... again. He stared blankly at his mother as she laid her Catholic guilt trip on him while making baloney and cheese sandwiches. Just like Dad, she never changed her playbook. She went on and on, over and over, again and again.

He had done everything his parents asked of him regarding the Catholic Church. He went to catechism once a week since first grade. He made his First Communion and attended mass with his family every Sunday up until high school. That's when he began to waver. Joe wasn't buying what the church was selling but that wasn't his only problem with church.

Joe's sister Janie was his best friend in the world. She was only nineteen months younger than him. When she died tragically and horribly on a summer day in 1972, it changed Joe forever. He was a mess. Eventually, his parents sought professional help from a child psychologist, Dr. Barbara Nichols.

Mom always said he was the sweetest boy, so well-behaved, always happy, and an honor student. After Janie's accident, Joe turned to the dark side. He withdrew. For nearly two years he was a walking ghost haunted by his sister's death. Dr. Nichols was very good with Joe, he trusted and confided in her, but she was no miracle worker. When he emerged from the shadow of his loss he began questioning everything and everyone, his parents, his teachers, but especially his faith.

How could a loving god take his beautiful sister away from him? They grew up together. She adored her big brother and he loved her dearly. Janie was the funniest, sweetest girl he knew... then she died, horrifically. Why was God punishing him? He was just a kid.

When his father's mother, Joe's Memere, said it was part of God's plan, he thought, "Screw God and his cruel plan."

Joe became that kid the nuns smacked with a ruler for questioning dogma and doctrine. At home, he rarely spoke of his loss of faith. His parents heard of it from the nuns. He was always in trouble at catechism.

By age twelve, Sister Mary Agnus had enough of Joe. He asked a simple question, seeking a logical answer, but she was not equipped to handle his query.

"In geography, I learned that South America is thousands of miles away from the holy land, like ten thousand miles. You just said Noah collected two of every insect. In science, Mr. Jameson said there are ten thousand species of beetles in the Amazon. How did Noah go ten thousand miles and collect twenty thousand bugs?"

"He had the arc," Mary Agnes said.

"No. He collected the animals before the rain." Joe said argumentatively. "The arc was built on dry land."

"You must have faith. This was God's work. He can do anything."

"Then why didn't he build the arc himself?"

"Joseph Theroux." She glared at him, stepping between classroom desks, closer to Joe. All young Catholic eyes were on him. "That's enough."

"And how could he tell the male beetles from the females?"

Out came the ruler. Joe pulled his hands back and folded his arms. His hands went into his armpits. It was the perfect defense against the nun ruler. It does however leave your head vulnerable. He took two whacks on the noggin. Two days later there was a dreadfully painful parent-nun conference. Mom was angry, but she was mostly embarrassed. Sister Mary Agnes had a way of making people feel small, like sinners. Mom took the blame for Joe's behavior, and she hated it.

For years after Janie's death, he went through the motions, Sunday mass, and catechism. In freshman year he started skipping here and there and then more and more. After he made his Confirmation in tenth grade he stopped attending mass. Mom and Dad pecked at him. He explained that he had made his holy sacraments for them, not himself. He was now old enough to make up his own mind. Mom never gave up, she was always on him about his godlessness. Tonight's lecture was just the latest.

"Mom, it's not a sin in my heart. I don't lie. I don't cheat or steal. I love you, Dad, and the girls. I believe in the Golden Rule. I don't need a church to teach me right from wrong, so I'm not going anymore. Guilting me won't change my mind."

She rambled on for another minute repeating the same lines she always used, "Your faith will guide you. You'll need it someday... and God will be there for you."

"Like he was there for Janie?"

Mom sighed, put her hand on his, "You can't be angry about that forever."

"Oh yeah, just watch me."

The mother knew her son. Joe bringing up his sister was him ending the talk. He would not be moved. She had one last thing to say. "Do your father a favor. When Memere visits on Easter Sunday, come to church with us. It would kill her to know you've gone astray."

"Why do you think I attend Christmas and Easter mass? Memere is always with us. Dad asked me that favor long ago. I promise Super Catholic Memere will never know."

Alice Theroux kissed her son on the cheek, "I pray that someday you'll come back. Life is hard, Joseph. You'll need your faith someday."

"Not today."

-- THE F CHORD --

In the middle of a song, Joe hit a bad chord, struggled to get back in rhythm, stepped away from the mic, and finally, quit playing altogether.

"I fuck up that F chord every time. I can't make a smooth transition from G to F."

Johnny took a drag off his cigarette. "We get it, you screwed up, but never stop playing, man." He stepped closer to Joe pointing with the fingers his cigarette was nestled between. "You have to learn how to plow through those mistakes. You know this. We talk about it all the time."

"It's hard when I can't get back on the tracks," Joe said in a less agitated tone. "I tried to catch up, but I was lost."

"You don't have to play catch up. Think of the next best place to join back in; at the beginning of a new bar, the chorus, whatever it is, and jump back in."

Sal offered his two cents. "We didn't hear your fuck up. I'm doing my thing, focusing on my job." He pointed at Johnny and Nate. "We don't hear your little mistakes, only the big ones... like quitting in the middle of a song!"

"And your volume is set lower for that reason, not just because I'm lead guitar," Johnny added. "We keep it lower to manage the situation."

"You mean the fact I can't play for shit... that situation?" Joe said, stating the obvious.

"No. You play fine." Johnny corrected him. "You're still learning. You know all your parts on every song. You just need to keep working. You'll be even better in two weeks."

"The fuck ups come when I'm playing and singing," Joe confessed. "I have a hard time doing both."

"Well," Johnny took another drag and blew the smoke. "That's because you must have one part committed to muscle memory. If you know the words and melody without flaw, you can sing it without even thinking. Then you focus on the guitar parts."

"Get the singing down first," Nate added. "None of us can do that."

"And you can skip playing any parts you struggle with." Johnny leaned in close. "You'll be great when it all clicks. Until then, fake it til' you make it; and never stop in the middle of the song."

"So my guitar really does become a prop."

"Hey man, that was your joke about yourself," Sal laughed. "We can't help that it's funny."

"It's not a prop if you're playing it," Johnny added, "And you're playing ninety percent of what we need. The rest will come."

Johnny stubbed out his cigarette and lit another while stepping back to his mic. Joe gathered himself and strummed a few chords, D, G, and that fucking F chord. It didn't ring out. It was a bit muted but close enough.

The song they were playing was not difficult, but that F chord always tripped Joe up. He stepped up to the mic. "Okay, ready. One and a two and a three and a four." Johnny's guitar led the band back to the number they'd been rehearsing all morning.

As Joe began singing, he glanced at Johnny, the coolest guy in the band. Joe had grown to like and trust Johnny. Playing with a superior guitarist was exactly what he needed. Without saying so, Johnny took him under his wing. He became his guitar mentor, and he taught Sal a few things too. Johnny didn't say much, but he knew what to say and when to say it. The band's best musician showed nothing but patience and a willingness to guide Joe. Johnny was kind and thoughtful, unusually so for a cool guy.

The band got through the song almost without error. Joe fucked up his F chord a couple of times, played through it, and recovered. At the end of the song, he skipped it once, because he wanted to belt out the final lyrics.

"See what you did there at the end," Johnny pointed a finger at Joe. "You reached up for the mic to emphasize your singing. No one would ever know you were taking a break on guitar. That's what I mean by fake it 'til you make it."

"That was a good take," Nate said. "Can we play something else now? I'm a little sick of that song."

After a rough start, when Joe was not sure about Nate, he came around to liking him. He just wasn't sure he could trust him. Nate was the oldest band member, almost twenty-two. He came to Providence from New York City as a kid, after mom and dad divorced. Mom was from Rhode Island, so she returned home for family support. Nate hated the move. Starting over at age eleven was tough, so his granddad bought him a drum set to keep him out of trouble. At age fifteen he joined a band with thirteen-year-old Sal. That began an on and off again friendship that revolved around music. They were in two high school bands together. Back then, Johnny played in better bands but sometimes jammed with Sal and Nate

Nate was as average a guy as you could imagine. 5 '9 " medium frame, not particularly handsome but not ugly. He had reddish blonde hair, shaggy, wavy, and curly. He graduated high school, joined the Navy, and was out after two years. Johnny went to URI. Sal went to work for his old man. Now they were in a band Joe started.

As they continued to practice, playing a few songs close to perfect, Sal's dad walked into the back of the factory garage with shopping bags. It seemed that every time Pops showed up he was carrying groceries, booze, or both.

"Hey, the boys are coming over for poker tonight," he shouted across the garage. "There'll be none of this noise."

"That's fine," Sal said, "We're almost done for the day."

Tony went to work in his impressive kitchen with commercial-grade appliances, butcher block countertops, and the old dining set from the 1950s with red Naugahyde cushions. The kitchen was Tony's home away from home because his wife was in charge of the house and did the cooking there.

The young men were permitted to use their corner of the garage opposite the kitchen for band practice, but once Tony arrived they had to, "Turn that shit down." The old man didn't appreciate punk rock, garage rock, "or whatever the fuck you call that noise."

The band lowered the volume a little and finished the song they were in the middle of when Tony arrived, then Sal called it quits.

"Hey Pops," Sal called out across the large room, "Are you cooking?"

"Yeah, the guys are coming over." Tony pulled pots from an overhead rack. "I just told you. That crap you play is making you deaf."

"Excellent, I'm starving." Sal smiled at the guys. "You hungry?"

"I am." Joe said, "But I have to go home. I promised Mom I'd have Sunday dinner with my sisters, and I have homework to do."

Nate laughed, and in a mocking voice, taunting Joe. "Little Joey has homework."