All The Young Punks Pt. 08

—- TRUST —-

Joe sat in his Science class, his assignment complete, scribbling on his brown paper textbook cover. Abigail Bonner, stretched to see what he was drawing. He noticed and looked over.

"Why do you cover your book covers with drawings?" she asked.

"Why do you cover your books with floral gift wrap?"

"I dunno. It looks nice?"

"I guess I see a blank piece of paper as my canvas. I've been doing this since..."

"I know," Abby smiled. "I remember in eighth grade when Mrs. Tedesco confiscated your book because you drew a cartoon of her. She was so mad."

"And when she brought me to the principal's office with my book, he laughed, and she was really mad."

Abby put her hand out. "Can I see that?"

Joe peeked to see if the teacher was looking, then handed Abby his Science book. She looked at his scribblings and drawings. Turned the book over and checked the other side.

"Are these people you know?" She pointed at cartoon characters with Mohawks and face piercings."

"We play in a bar in Worcester with some serious punks. They look like something like that."

She handed his book back. "You're a good artist."

"I'm okay," he smiled. "How come you've never come to the garage to see my band? I invited you months ago."

"I know." she shrugged. "I'm not a punk. I don't think I would fit in."

"Most of the kids who show up aren't punks. They just like the music. You should come by sometime."

Abby smiled. "Maybe I will."

Joe always liked Abby. She was a nice girl, smart, and always nice to him. She was a little shy, but not so much that she didn't have friends or boyfriends. Abby was very cute, blonde, petite, and popular with boys.

When Joe was reprimanded for drawing cartoons of teachers with dialogue and thought bubbles, the middle school principal sent a note home informing Mom that all his books must be covered new. Joe didn't care. It was just a fresh canvas to him. Mom told Dr. Nichols of his latest brush with the law.

Dr Nichols suggested he use notebooks for his musings, especially to write his thoughts to process his feelings; Mom immediately bought Joe a stack of Mead Composition notebooks. A writer was born.

He started keeping a journal. That led to short poems, and then stories. Those journal pages captured his thoughts. Dr Nichols was correct. The simple act of writing his feelings was therapeutic because he had to think and articulate to himself his thoughts and emotions. Over time he filled those notebooks and had to buy more.

There were lists and updated lists of his favorite things: bands, songs, singers, films, books, foods, and drinks. His love of history and geography gave Joe a natural wanderlust. He wanted to see the world. He had a list of places he wanted to travel to. Eventually, those pages were filled with ideas for his band, songs he wanted to cover, lyrics to future songs, and ideas for his sideshow.

These notebooks piled up in his bedroom as he accumulated thoughts, emotions, and ideas written several times a week. They were very tempting to prying eyes.

When he was sixteen, he caught Mom red-handed, in his room, sitting on his bed, reading his most recent entries. She looked up at him. Joe's eyes were ablaze. She immediately realized she had made a mistake, but tried to spin her way out of it.

"What is this?" She held the notebook out. "Why are you writing about Dr. Nichols?"

"It's none of your business! What are you doing in my room? How many times have you..." Joe seethed, searching for his words. "... violated my privacy?"

"I'm your mother and I have a right to..."

"You have no right to be in here reading my journal!"

"This is full of filth!"

Joe stepped closer, grabbed his notebook, and pointed at the door. "Get the hell out of my room!"

Mom stood and adjusted her blouse, "Don't use that language with me."

"Okay." Joe steeled his eyes, glaring intensely down at his mother, "Get the fuck out of my room."

She sidestepped around him. "You're father will hear about this."

"I don't give a fuck... fuck, fuck, fuck!" Joe slammed the door behind her. "I'm getting a lock!"

Mom immediately called Dad at work. Bill hated it when his wife did that, especially when it was over family drama. She expected him to come home and discipline his children for their behavior while Alice was the on-duty parent. He resented it. Her demands often resulted in him not taking her side. This was one of those cases.

After Joe explained his point of view, how angry he was, and that he would never trust his mother again; Dad tried to talk him off the ledge.

"I understand how you feel and I tend to agree with you. She never should have read your journal. That doesn't mean it's acceptable for you to yell and cuss at her. Did you really say fuck... four times?"

"It may have been five," Joe said, "but I don't care. I don't trust her. She uses the girls to spy on me and now she's going in my room and snooping in my personal stuff."

"I will speak with her. That will never happen again."

"Damn right, it won't, because I'm getting a lock for my room."

"That's not necessary. I will handle this." Dad put his hand on his son's shoulder. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Let me talk to her. I'll make it clear that she was wrong."

Joe didn't speak to his mother for several days after that incident. When he finally did, he was curt, not hiding his contempt. His cold shoulder cast a cloud over the house. It took weeks for their relationship to normalize, but that wound never truly healed.

Joe had trust issues with adults, not just strangers; his mother, the nuns, and some teachers. Aside from his father, Dr. Nichols was the only adult in his life Joe truly trusted. She was a rare exception of an adult Joe would let his guard down for. Not long after the incident with Mom, Dr. Nichols joked that she had him figured out.

"You're a young man living in your own head," she said, with her long legs crossed, just two feet from Joe's knees.

"Well. Bravo." Joe smiled and clapped. "That's a brilliant analysis. I hope it didn't take you all these years to get here. I've known it all along."

Barbara Nichols was acquainted with Joe's teenage brat sense of humor. "We'll, I sensed it the day we met, and I can't say it's changed much."

"Someday, Doc." Joe focused on her eyes. "I'll come out. When I'm ready."

"How's your writing? Are you doing it every day?"

"No, maybe five days a week. The thing is, one of those days could be a marathon. I was up past midnight twice last week, just opening the spigot to my brain on paper."

"Good. I hope it's positive writing."

"It's honest writing... and I'm not the most positive kid on the block."

"How are you and Mom, since the..."

"Violation? Not great." Joe's eyes never left hers. "Ya know. I sometimes want to tell you things but I filter myself knowing you speak to her, pretty regular."

"It's not very often." Dr Nichols leaned forward. Joe admired the two open buttons at the top of her blouse and her lightly freckled neck. "I am obligated to speak to guardians. Many of my patients don't have loving parents. Some are in foster care. I must share what I know, but I don't have to be specific." She shifted her bottom in her chair. "I'll make a deal with you. If you'd like to share something and keep it from your mother, just say so beforehand, and I will honor that."

Joe accepted her offer by saying, "I was really pissed off that day, and I don't think I will ever trust her again. I wanted to put a lock on my room, but she won that case with Dad. I'm over it as best I can be, but I'm keeping her on notice by wearing this suit of coldness. It's better that way."

"She knows you're angry." Dr Nichols smiled, "and using teenage rage as a tool to control a parent was not invented by you."

"I'm training my sisters. Jackie will be a problem someday, I hope."

"Do you think they snoop in your room?"

"Pfft," Joe rolled his eyes. "More than Mom, but they don't look in the books. They promised me they wouldn't."

"And you trust them?"

"Yes, until they show me I can't... I'll always trust them."

A year and a half after that violation, Joe still didn't trust Mom.

—-- BAD ATTITUDE —--

When the dance-off tee shirt prize became a thing, Joe was constantly on the hunt for tee shirts. Every town had a record shop, and most sold rock tees. He went to Goodwill and Saint Vinny DePaul to pick up second-hand shirts cheaply. He didn't care what was on it as long as it fit. This resulted in him wearing some unusual attire for a teenage punk; like his purple Tweety Bird shirt Monica ripped off his back, giving birth to the wrestling gag. He stepped on stage with a pink Barbie shirt. The kids in The Living Room laughed at him. An hour later, a girl from Pawtucket removed her cotton blouse on stage to change into her new Barbie shirt after pulling it off Joe's back. And then she kissed him well.

At age seventeen, his tee shirts became a demonstrative way to express himself, on and off stage. He found a shop near RISD, run by art students, where a very cool couple made custom tees. Joe made two new friends, Brad and Lisa. The first shirt he had made was black with simple white block lettering.

I DON'T CARE

Not long after that, he had another shirt with the same design reading LEAVE ME ALONE.

Classmates asked where he got his shirts.

"I had them made on the East Side."

"Why?"

"Because I can't find shirts that say what I feel at K-mart."

His third shirt was the opposite, white with black letters that read, LALALALALALA I'M NOT LISTENING. His teachers didn't like that one.

The day he had that shirt made, he joked with Brad and Lisa in their tiny shop. "We could start a company, Bad Attitude Tees, and put all my shitty thoughts on them."

Brad laughed, "Yeah, so what's the deal with that... your bad attitude?"

"I'm a depressive. I've been going to therapy for years," he pointed west, "right around the corner on Brooks Street." He touched his finger to his temple. "I'm pretty fucked up."

Lisa's jaw fell open a little. Brad just stared at him. It was the first time in his life that he told anyone that he was depressed and in treatment. He did it in such a casual matter-of-fact tone it took the young couple by surprise. Joe sensed their discomfort.

"It's okay, the therapy is working, and these shirts are part of it now."

"How's that? Lisa asked.

"My doctor said writing my thoughts would be helpful, so I did that, and she was spot on. It's amazing. The thing is, no one will ever read my journal, there's some dark shit in there. The shirts are my way of giving everyone a peek inside, and telling them how I feel without being a whiney, depressed baby."

Lisa turned to her fiance. "I don't think I've heard anyone talk about their...." She paused, looking at Joe.

"Mental illness?" Joe said what she could not. "It's okay. It's taken years for me to admit it to myself, now I'm ready to ... I don't know, embrace it?"

"How old are you?" Brad asked.

"Seventeen."

Joe then told them about his band, and the dance-off tee-shirt prize, and the three of them made a deal. Brad handed Joe a tee shirt.

"We get these for a couple of bucks," Brad said. "They're a little light on thread count but they're okay. If all you're doing is lettering, these are great. I don't screen print on them. I can give you a good price."

"Okay," Joe nodded. "It will save me some running around. I lose a few shirts a week, and it's only gonna get worse when I get out of school."

"What do you want on them?"

Joe thought for a moment. "Give me two that say... 'you can't have this shirt.' And two that say, 'I stole Joe's shirt.' I'm gonna have to think about this. Just those for now."

"Okay," Lisa smiled. "These are messages to the girls. I get it." She scrunched her nose. "How about... you can't take this shirt, bitch?"

Joe laughed, "That's a good one. Add bitch to the first two. I know exactly where I'm losing that shirt. Give me one that says, Monica sucks."

"Wow," Lisa laughed. "That's specific."

"Yeah, but she will love it."

His tee shirts were part of his uniform, black leather, Levis, Converse All Stars, or black work boots. His wide black leather belts had buckles he found at a swap meet. One was a silver star. The other was a peace sign.

He was plain and understated except for his tee shirts. Whenever he saw unusual shirts for sale, he'd grab them, especially shirts most guys wouldn't be caught dead wearing. Joe knew a girl would soon own that shirt. His girly shirts added to the silliness of his bit.

When he showed up at school in a Wonder Woman shirt, a jock broke his balls in gym class.

Joe fired back, "Not one of you pussies has the balls to wear a shirt like this."

Mr Cardozo, the phys-Ed teacher, laughed, "He's right. It takes nuts to sport that shit."

For a punk loner who wanted to be left alone, he seemed to seeking attention with messages of defiance or just plain weirdness. Joe couldn't explain why he did it except to say, "I like how it makes people uncomfortable."

"Why do you want to make people uncomfortable?" Sandy asked when he showed up at school with a new shirt... I GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, with lowercase fine print... if it's the last thing I ever do.

"I don't, but it happens, and I find it amusing. It's really up to you. It's just a shirt."

Mom didn't like his shirts. "People will think you have a bad attitude."

Joe made a face, "Yeah, because I do."

"Why do you want people to know that?"

"Because that's what people with bad attitudes do."

"Why the attitude, Joseph?"

He shrugged, "Because... life sucks, then you die." He smiled. "I think I'll make that my next shirt."

Joe never gave away his bad attitude shirts. Those were his personal thoughts.

—--- HOME MOVIES —---

The band's first gig at The Bulldog Saloon got off to a rough start. It started with Sal being irritable because the gig was more than two hours from home. The band walked into a sporty bar, with several televisions around a large horseshoe-shaped bar. The regulars had the New York Knicks playing on some screens, and the Rangers on others. Joe hadn't considered that New Haven was New York sports turf.

The bartender pointed to a sunken room off the main bar area. The band carried gear into the room. Four tables of patrons were watching the hockey game on a projection TV. The pull-down screen was above the stage. When the Rangers fans saw the band, there was a collective groan.

"Fuck you, assholes!" Sal barked at them.

Joe sensed trouble. "Hey, man," he said, "I'm sorry, we have to set up."

"This is bullshit," one guy said. He had a big mustard stain on his Rangers jersey.

"You'll have to complain to the manager. She hired us."

"Just leave the game on for as long as you can." A hockey girl said.

"Fine," Joe laughed, "You'll be watching the game on my face."

Sal was already on stage blocking some screen, clearly annoyed at the stupidity of this setup. The hockey players skated over his leather. Johnny joined him, and the patrons got pissy.

"Fuck this shit."

"We're paying customers."

When a dude got up and stepped toward the stage, Sal jumped down and got right in his face. That guy was big, but not as big as Sal.

"You got a problem?" Sal was one foot away.

There was an audible exhale. The dude was weighing his options. Then he took a slow step backward and sat down.

"Yeah," Sal said loudly. "I didn't think so. You loud-mouthed fucking pussy."

Joe pulled Sal aside, "Hey, I get that you're in a shitty mood. The traffic sucked." He gestured to to big screen. "This is stupid. Just relax and don't start a fight."

"This is gonna be a one-and-done gig," Sal said. "I can feel it."

"Maybe. We've had them before. I see it as a challenge."

No one bothered to turn the game off as the band set up in the half-dark room. The game was projected onto their faces and asses. The band grabbed beers at the bar. People were steadily coming in, groups of three and four, and larger. The sunken room was filling with patrons not interested in hockey. There were several Yale sweatshirts, as well as letterman jackets. A crew from UNH had a table and a couple of Quinnipiac kids sat by the stage. There were townies in the bar, but it was largely a college bar. Yale is home to the Bulldogs.

When the band took the stage, the game was in the third period. Joe stepped up to the mic as their amps warmed up. He tapped it. Sal and Johnny were fiddling, warming up on low volume.

"Sorry for fucking up your game," Joe said. "The Rangers suck anyway. We're probably sparing you some pain."

The crowd booed. Joe then unzipped his leather. The crowd booed at his shirt.

"Leave the shitty Ranger game on," Joe said. "This is kind of funny. We've done some fucked up gigs, and this is up there."

He got a few laughs, which was good. Joe raked the A chord. "We're The Young Punks, and we make everything... punk rock!"

Joe stayed with his set list except for pushing his stunts back. When the game was over, the projection was turned off and the crowd got a better look at the band's faces. That's when Joe started the sideshow. Two Yale sorority sisters battled for the dance queen crown and Joe's tee shirt. He removed his guitar.

"Your prize is... this Brown University shirt, but you must take it off my back to claim it."

The wrestling went as usual, except for Christine punching Joe in the balls. He went to a knee. Men in the crowd groaned. The dance queen ripped the shirt over his head and smacked him with it. Joe was ball-stunned, but it wasn't bad. He played it up, asking Johnny for help getting to his feet, then fake limping to his guitar, slumped forward.

Christine stopped celebrating and walked to him. "I'm so sorry." The room was silent aside from murmurs. She reached out and hugged him.

"I think a kiss would make me feel better," he said.

She kissed his cheek.

"Not there," Joe pointed at his crotch. "That's where you hurt me!"

The room roared. Christine shoved Joe, smiled at the crowd, and walked off victorious. That's how Joe won crowds over. It's the show, for sure, but the improvisation surprised even him. Funny shit always happened on or near his stage.

When the band packed up and the van was ready, Nate was missing in action. Sal went back into the bar to find him and came out empty-handed. "That asshole took off with some chick."

"Where to?"

"Out the back door."

The band waited and waited. Johnny fell asleep. Sal was seething.

"Ya know," Joe said. "This turned out to be an okay gig. Yeah, Nate's an ass for making us wait while he gets his dick sucked." He shrugged. "Who cares?"

On the long drive home, thinking of the projection TV shook loose memories of Joe's dad filming birthday parties and family vacations when they were kids. He wondered why he stopped. After some miles, he believed he remembered when Dad's family movie collection ended.

On a cold and rainy day when he had nothing to do, he found Dad's old projector in the basement along with a box of home movies he shot years ago. Joe hung his bed sheet up in his room and set up the projector. It took a while because he didn't really know what he was doing. When the first images appeared on the sheet, he felt a grapefruit-sized lump in his throat.

Joe sat in silence watching himself, Jackie, Jules as a toddler, and Janie. Her last birthday fell on this camping trip. Joe remembered this vacation in vivid color. He wished there was sound. Janie threw pine cones at Dad while he worked building a fire. Dad got angry. As the emotions inside him stirred, Joe's eyes got misty.

Julie tripped and fell. She cried as Mom soothed her. Janie handed Jules her favorite blanket and hugged her. Joe recalled how Janie always took care of their little sisters.