All The Young Punks Pt. 04

----- APRIL 1978 -----

Joe raced home after school to check the newspaper. There was nothing in the Providence Journal regarding the bust at The Underground, likely because it happened too late at night to make the print deadline. Joe then went to the garage to see if Sal had heard anything.

"I heard the cops were crawling all over the place. They used the paddy wagon to haul hookers away."

"What about Vic?" Joe asked.

"Don't know."

"We should go over there to see what's up. If they're open for business we should be okay, right?"

Sal nodded. "Good thinking. "

Twelve minutes later, Joe and Sal walked into the bar. It was open, but barely. There were three old-timers at the bar. They asked the bartender for Vic.

"He's at the police station for questioning," she said.

"Did he get busted?"

"No. They cuffed him and made a big scene, but he wasn't arrested. They were here for the girls."

Sal looked at Joe, and then back to the bartender. "That's it?

"Yup."

"It wasn't a drug bust?"

"There are no drugs here," she said without emotion.

Sal laughed. She didn't care.

"One of the girls was out back with a john and he got rolled," she said. "He reported it, so the cops cleared out every woman in the place, even the old lady customers."

"Why's Vic being questioned," Joe asked.

"Because they accused him of being a pimp. He's not, and he's trying to clear that up. Do you want something to drink, or not?"

"No, we're just checking in to see if Vic was okay."

"How sweet of you."

The following day in school, Joe was called to the vice principal's office during morning announcements. He walked into Mr. Reed's office dreading detention. He had too much to do after school for that shit.

"Joe, I understand Mrs. Monaghan sent you to the office yesterday but you never showed up."

"She did it right before the bell went off. I had to decide if I should come here and be late for Science, or go to my next class. I like Science."

"That's not your decision. She told me what you said. You were out of line."

Mr Reed gave Joe a speech about being disrespectful to teachers and disruptive in class. He went on a little too long. Joe was now late for Economics.

"She thinks any student asking a question is disruptive," Joe said. "All she wants to do is read from the textbook. Her idea of teaching is the Monaghan monotone monologue."

Mr. Reed smirked a stifled smile. "That's enough, Joe."

"I stand by my opinion that the profession has passed her by."

"That's not the point."

"So you agree with me?"

"I didn't say that."

Mr Reed rambled on a little more. When he stopped talking, Joe made a move to get up, hoping he dodged detention.

"Sit down. I'm not done with you."

Joe flopped back into the chair.

"I heard what happened between you and John Russo."

"Nothing happened."

"Don't be obtuse, Joe. I saw his face. You left a mark."

"That was three weeks ago." Joe paused. "Do you know why?"

"I'm fully aware of your problem with Russo. That's why I didn't come after you. I understand the situation, but I'm warning you for the last time. You have two strikes. One more fight and you're expelled. We can't have this talk again."

Joe nodded, "Okay. Is that it?"

"You have another year, Joe. Can you go a full year without fighting?"

He shrugged. "I guess we'll see. Can I go to class now?"

"Yes. I'm giving you one hour of detention, and you'll serve it today."

There was no point in protesting. Joe figured Reed was giving him a break and didn't want to press the issue and have him reconsider. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Over three years he had several run-ins with Mr. Reed but he didn't think he was a hard ass like many kids did.

---- PUNCH THE CLOCK ----

On the day of the show, Joe had a hard time staying focused at school. He skipped his last class and walked to the garage. Nate had broken down his drum kit the night before. Sal's gear was ready. They were waiting for Pops to drop off the van.

"You're early," Sal noted.

"I know. I'm a little nervous. My mind is going a hundred miles an hour. I feel like I'm forgetting something."

"How about a name for the band?"

"Not that."

"We know the set, even your dumb songs. We'll be fine."

Joe was more than a little nervous. He was feeling genuine anxiety that made his stomach turn. He knew Sal was correct, the band was ready for this, but Joe expected something would go wrong. This was a big night for him. His bandmates doubted his game plan. He wanted it to go off without a hitch.

When Johnny and Nate arrived, Pops was in the kitchen. He handed Sal the keys to his work van. "You better lock her up. That's a bad area."

"Pops, it's less than a mile away," Sal laughed. "It's our neighborhood."

"Bullshit." Pops gave him a dismissive wave. "Olneyville is trash."

Joe pointed south. "Olneyville is right there. It's a short walk."

Tony grumbled something about druggies and whores and walked away. Sal ran out to pick up a pizza. When he returned, the guys ate their first slice as they began loading the van. Then they sat in the garage to finish their pies. Pops emerged from his office.

"Is everything good?" he asked.

"Yeah," Sal said. "We're packed and ready to roll."

"Why is the garage door open?"

"So we can see the van. Our gear is in there."

"And Olneyville is right there!" Joe added, pointing south.

"You young punks have no clue what goes on in this city."

"Sure we do," Joe said, "You Italians have been running the show for so long that we now live in a mafia state."

Pops pointed at Joe. "Don't include me with those Italians. I run a legitimate business."

"C'mon Pops," Sal said. "You know all the boys and they know you. You can't pretend you don't play ball with," Sal made air quotes, "those Italians."

"And that's why I resent them. No matter how clean you try to be, they're gonna find a way to get to you. Let me give you some advice. Don't ever accept a favor from them. If you do, they'll own you. You will never even the score. They keep coming back."

"How did they get you?" Joe asked while grabbing another slice.

"Nineteen sixty-four," Pops said under his breath. "My store was broken into four times. They stole all the meat in my cooler and my Hobart meat slicers. I put in an alarm system after the first break-in. They defeated it. After the fourth break-in, I went to the boss."

"Patriarca?" Joe asked

"Yeah. I reached him through a friend."

"My Dad?" Johnny asked, knowing John Senior had connections.

"Yeah. He knew some guys. So the boss put the word out that my butcher shop was protected and I..."

"Started paying," Sal said.

"Yes. I did. And the break-ins stopped. Years later I learned Patriarca's boys were the thieves. I refused to do business with them, so they created a problem only they could solve. They learned how to defeat my alarm from the guy who installed it for me. They have their dirty hooks in everyone."

"And that's how this city is run," Joe added. "It's just another racket."

"What does this have to do with Olneyville?" Nate asked.

"Yeah," Johnny said with a mouthful of crust.

"Look," Pops said. "The mob is trash. They're not my friends, but they keep the neighborhood clean. There are no drug dealers on The Hill and don't see any street walkers on Atwells Ave. They keep that business away from us... in the West End and South Providence, in the projects."

"We're in the West End," Joe noted.

"We're on the border," Sal corrected him.

"Close enough."

As the guys wrapped up their pre-show meal, Nate poked fun at Joe's plans. "Tony, what do you think of Joe's silly songs?"

"They're no worse than the other crap you play."

"C'mon, man. You can't be serious. They're ridiculous."

Joe ignored him. When no one went along with his ball breaking, Nate changed the subject. Still poking at Joe. "What about your girlfriend...will she be there?"

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Claire. She seems like your girl, except for the fact she's not fucking you."

Sal laughed with a mouthful of crust. "No college girl is going bang a high school jailbait."

"Jailbait!" Nated roared. "There's your band name."

"Give the kid a break, will ya." Johnny glared at Nate.

Nate scowled at Johnny. "Yessir. We wouldn't want to hurt Joey's feelings on his big night."

"Don't call me that," Joe pushed Nate's shoulder.

"Sorry, Joey," Nate smirked. "So what is the name of this band of yours?"

Joe ignored him again. As they cleared the table, he went over instructions regarding his plans for the show. The guys listened, offering no input or dumb comments. Joe knew they expected his ideas to bomb. It was entirely up to him to make it work. If not, Nate would lead the mutiny against his sideshow.

-- THE NASTIEST DIVE BAR IN TOWN --

The Underground was a dark and dank basement-level bar below a neighborhood market also owned by Vic's uncle. The band enlisted their most trusted hoodrat, Denny, to help them set up, but also to keep an eye on things. No gear could be left unattended, not for a moment. Denny was pushing thirty and had served an apprenticeship as an electrician. He was a very handy friend.

The only patrons in the bar were the sketchy regulars, fewer than twenty, and a handful of hoodrats who'd arrived early. The regulars gave the band the side eye as they hauled amps and drums down the stairs, across the room to the small stage. Sal insisted one of them stay with the van at all times.

Sal gestured toward the riff-raff. "It looks like our kind of crowd."

"You mean assholes?" Joe said low.

"No, punks and rockers."

"There are no punks here. I hate this bar."

"Joe, what the fuck are you gonna call the band?"

Joe pretended to not hear him.

The bar was a long and narrow-ish room, six steps below street level, with small windows near the ceiling that barely let light in, because they hadn't been cleaned since the sixties. The main space was a little over thirty feet wide. They placed their gear on the riser in the very back of the room, a stage that was only eighteen inches above the floor.

Johnny looked overhead. "Hey, where did these Klieg lights come from? They weren't here before."

"I forgot to tell ya," said Sal. "Vic said he had a strip of cans from back when they had music here. He had them put back up."

"I did the work," Denny said, as he set down Nate's bass drum. "They're safe but hot."

The strip of six lights was barely two feet above Johnny's head over the front edge of the stage. Joe reached up and touched them. "Fuck, they're hot."

Johnny laughed, "Dummy."

Denny shook his head. "I just told you that."

"We're gonna cook up here with those beating down on us," Johnny noted.

"We need the light," said Nate. "You can't see your hand in front of your face in this fucking dungeon."

From the stage, the bar was to the left. Behind the bar was a side room with pool tables. Green billiards lamps provided an Irish glow on that side of the bar. A small group of townies were shooting pool. Most people would be standing directly in front of the stage where tables and chairs had been cleared out to fit more patrons. They'd be standing all the way to the far wall near the front entrance, sixty feet away. As the band set up, more hoodrats filed in.

Sal was optimistic. "If everyone we expect shows up, this place is gonna be packed."

"What's the capacity here?" asked Nate.

"The Fire Marshall says 165," Joe answered.

"How the fuck do you know that?"

"It's posted above the front door in every bar or restaurant. I wanted to know how much Vic is pulling in with a two-dollar cover charge. All of our friends will be here and we won't earn a fucking dime."

"Vic will squeeze in one-eighty," said Sal, "and if he does, we'll get paid."

Nate looked up from his half-assembled drum kit. "You really think we can draw one-eighty?"

"I do," Joe said. "I'm just not convinced he'll pay us."

When your name is Vic 'The Trick' Petrillo, you may not be the most trustworthy guy in town. His uncle Guido was connected to Tony Meats and his wiseguys. He gave Vic the job of running the joint after he got out of prison hoping his nephew would go straight. He did not.

Vic was in his late thirties, had long-ish but thinning hair, slicked back, and a pockmarked face. His reputation as a sleazeball was deserved. Imagine actor James Woods... only more sketchy and slimey. Jimmy Woods, by the way, grew up in Warwick, just south of Providence. He was a young up-and-comer in Hollywood with ten film credits at the time.

Sal vouched for Vic. No one knew why. As he walked over from the bar area, Vic patted a waitress on her ass. "So, Sal says you can give me three hours." He looked at Joe. "Is that right?"

"Yeah," Joe replied. "Ninety minutes, a set break, and then ninety more. We'll play past midnight."

"Good. The later the better." Vic nodded at the other guys. "If you need anything to take the edge off, let me know."

"Maybe a beer," Sal said, "nothing else."

"Speak for yourself," Johnny said. He turned to Vic. "What have you got?"

"You're not getting high, Johnny." Sal glared at him. "We don't need an episode."

"Fuck you, Sal," Johnny flipped him off. "I'm clean."

"Let's keep it that way," Sal said, not looking up from his amp.

Joe didn't know what that exchange was about but he knew Vic dealt drugs, ran book from his backroom office, and fucked his waitresses. Whatever vice you had, Vic could hook you up. Sal insisted he was a good guy. Joe wasn't so sure. When Pops first heard they were playing The Underground, he had one word of advice. "Keep it strictly business, music business."

Vic watched the band set up, eyeballing their gear. That was enough to make Joe uncomfortable. The crowd had filled the front stage area and lines were forming at the bar. As the number of kids from Joe's high school grew, it was apparent Vic wasn't carding anyone because it was doubtful they all had fake IDs. The ages ran from sixteen to fifty, with some rough-looking older townies at the bar, men and women. Joe figured some were the class of '49... if they even got that far.

Joe moved closer to Vic, making eye contact. "We're gonna pack this place tonight."

Vic smiled, "Good to know."

Joe leered at him. "I get that we're doing a free gig for exposure, but that doesn't mean we don't know we're getting fucked."

Vic leaned back. "Whoa, what's with the hostility?"

"He's annoyed we're not getting paid," answered Sal.

"No!" Joe snapped. "I'm annoyed he's gonna rake in close to four bills on our labor, plus the bar."

Sal shot Joe a look as if telling him to shut up. Joe wasn't having it. He never liked the idea of a free gig. In his opinion, the band should always get the door.

"You'll be begging us to come back after you see how many show up tonight."

"Jesus," said Vic. "He's a cocky little brat."

"I'm confident our friends will support us, and I don't like my band getting screwed."

As Vic turned to get back to the bar, he saw what Joe was seeing from the stage. The bar was more than three-quarters full and people were still flowing in.

"Let's get a beer before we go on," Joe said, stalling for time.

Sal nodded: "What are you gonna call the band, Joe?"

They walked not far to the bar, having to push through as people were crowding in, from the back of the room to the stage. They got greetings and "good luck" from friends as they moved through the punks.

"What are you gonna call the band Joe?"

"It'll come to me. I don't have to say it right away."

"It's gotta sound punk."

"Oh shit!" Joe slapped his forehead. "We're a punk band." He rolled his eyes. "Thanks for the tip."

Johnny was already at the bar. He overheard them and leaned in. "Be positive, Joe. I bet whatever you say at that moment will be good. I can feel it. "

"Thanks for the encouragement, Johnny."

"You're gonna nail it tonight, kid." He pointed his long, bony guitarist finger at the Joe. "You're good at this."

Other than his setlist, Joe gave the band only one pre-show instruction. "When I yell 'punk rock', we go hard on that first song."

He felt someone behind him, close. A pair of hands reached around and covered his eyes. They were feminine hands. She smelled nice. He knew the scent.

"Carla? Sandy? Lisa?"

"Oh, aren't you funny?" Claire uncovered his eyes and pushed him from behind.

"Claire, of course." He smiled. "I knew it was you. You were my next guess."

"I'm skipping work to be here tonight. It better be worth it, and you better be happy to see me."

"Of course I am." Joe leaned against her. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't make it."

She gave Joe a peck on the cheek. Sal noticed and gave Joe a smirk.

"We're about to go up. Wish me luck."

Claire smiled. "Don't fuck this up."

"Thanks for that."

As they walked back to their moment of truth, Joe noticed there was still a line of people out the door paying cover, and the place was already crowded. The back wallflowers were mostly high school kids he knew. A few waved. He tried to do a low-key punk wave. It was awkward. 'Punks shouldn't wave,' he thought. 'From now on, it'll be side eye contact with a barely perceptible head nod.'

Sal pulled Joe to the side of the stage and leaned close. "Hey," he said lowly. "If you see Vic hanging around Johnny, let me know."

"What's going on?"

"I don't want him buying drugs."

"Is there a problem?"

"Not if he doesn't get high."

Johnny was strapped in first. Nate hadn't left his stool since he set up, making adjustments. Joe and Sal stepped on stage, placing their beers down and strapping in. Joe plugged his beat-up old Telecaster and flipped on his amp, fingers crossed. Johnny and Sal were fiddling with notes and chords getting warm. Nate popped a few light beats on his snare. Joe's amp hummed. He turned his volume way up and stomped on his Rat distortion pedal. With his back to the crowd, he let loose one loud raking A chord, followed by two thumping power chords

The crowd responded. He lowered the volume to where Johnny said it should be, between six and seven, to hide any imperfect play. When he turned to the standing mass, it appeared to exceed P.F.D. recommendations. 'Fuck,' he thought. 'I know nearly everyone here.' The moment he had imagined for years had finally arrived. In that second, he made a decision.

"Hey! Hoodrats! Thanks for coming out to The Underground for our very first gig."

They hooted and cheered.

"Especially our friends, we love you guys."

Joe glanced at Sal and Johnny and nodded. They were ready. He looked back at Nate. He was set to go.

"We're The Young Punks. We make everything... PUNK ROCK!"

Nate started the pounding drum thunder intro to the theme song for the television show 'Hawaii Five-O' transforming the room from just a shitty bar to a nightclub. Johnny, Sal, and Joe slammed the chords and notes that were horns on the original. 'Five-O' was one of the stunt songs Joe had convinced them to try. They jammed the two-minute instrumental, a nice warm-up number, and when they got to the cymbal crashing crescendo finale, they went straight into the next song, The Ramones' 'Cretin Hop'.

When Joe stepped up to the mic the words just came out. He wasn't thinking of lyrics or chords as he had when practicing in the garage. After so many months, it was becoming automatic, like someone else was in his body and he was watching from another place. Joe scanned faces, dozens of teens and young adults looking up at him, smiling, dancing in place because they were jammed in tight. The band zipped through the first four songs, all hard, uptempo tracks, before taking a breath.

"Thank you." He let the noise fade. "So, we play punk rock, but what we really do is take any song we like and turn it into punk. It doesn't matter what the original was, we make it punk. Like this one."