All The Young Punks Pt. 12

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Looking ahead, most chapters are PG or R-rated. I'm currently rewriting a few scenes to keep them inside the non-erotic guardrails. The truth is, I'm not a writer of erotica. I adapted Punks for Lit because I had to overcome my lack of confidence in that genre. I did it. It's not great. I'll try it again, but not with ATYP.

Joe's coming of age includes sex and there will be some, but it will mostly be my characters discussing sex. I write lots of pillow talk in my tales, as well as phone conversations that wander into phone sex, but not in this story.

If a chapter is rejected and I feel it must remain as is, I will post in another category.

Part 12 is rated PG.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

--- Spring 1979 ---

Joe and Johnny sat on the porn sofa discussing songs Joe wanted to work on, originals he was trying to get into the band's repertoire. A few hoodrats loitered nearby. Sal and Nate sat at the kitchen table. Angie's camera was running, shooting the band for a film project she was doing on the Providence music scene. Behind her was Seth, her sound guy, holding a boom mic overhead. Joe smirked, 'his arms must be tired.'

Angie had already filmed four local bands at The Living Room and Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel, including The Young Punks. This was her final day of shooting, capturing the band on their home turf. She focused on Joe and Johnny.

"You're impatient. We can't just flip a switch and do only original music," Johnny said. "This will take time."

Joe was too aware of the camera, trying to not look at Angie. "I know, but we need to keep moving in that direction. I can write lyrics and the guitar parts. I have the drums and bass in my head. I just need you on board to complete these songs."

Johnny blew smoke from his cigarette. "I'm in, Joe. What's the problem?"

Joe glanced over at the kitchen. "They have no enthusiasm for the work. It can be tedious and they get frustrated."

"I can't fix that."

"No, but if you're with me," Joe said, distracted by the camera. "We can push them and get a couple of these songs knocked out. We have four originals now, we need to keep adding our music to the set."

"You mean your music."

"I wrote it," Joe said, looking away from Angie. "but once you guys put your stamp on them, it's our music. I like how the ideas I have, what I hear in my head, is changed by Sal playing what he feels is best, or your leads... which I can't write."

"You can write a lead. It's not that hard."

"You know me. I'm all rhythm and riffs. I leave lead guitar to you because you respect what I do and build on it. If you push Sal, he'll listen to you. He resents it when I try to make stuff happen. It's as if he hates taking direction from a high school kid."

"He hates being told what to do," Johnny said. "He's always been stubborn like that, even when it's the right thing to do. You have to make Sal think it was his idea."

Angie panned over to Sal and Nate stuffing their faces at the table. Pops was in the kitchen cooking sausage, peppers, and onions. He looked over at the camera and put his hand up as if Angie was paparazzi. During a camera break Joe was grateful for, Angie sat on the sofa beside him to make a request. She had never sat this close before.

"So," she winced. "Can you guys play a few songs? I wish we had more people here."

"How many do you want?" Sal asked from the kitchen.

"Twenty."

Sal looked to Joe with a shrug. "We could get that."

"I'll call Claire," Joe said. "She can probably get some of her RIC friends over here."

"I can scrape up a few more hoodrats," Sal said.

Three phone calls were made from the garage. While they waited, Angie sat with Joe again.

"Can I interview you, right here?"

Joe exhaled uncomfortably. He pretended to be thinking as he took a moment to admire Angie. Her fine frizzy afro was always a turn-on for him. Every time she was close he wanted to touch it. It wasn't a big radical seventies afro. It was just medium in... what's the word, poof? Joe was really into this girl. Angie looked into his eyes with her big browns and waited for his answer.

He inhaled and exhaled again. "I don't know about that."

"Why not?"

"First of all, I'm so aware of that fucking camera that it's kinda weirding me out."

Angie laughed, "I thought you said you were interested in filmmaking."

"Yes, on that side of the camera, making it, not being in it. That entire conversation felt stiff to me."

"It was fine. I could tell you were uncomfortable, but I guarantee being in my film will help you later on."

"And how is that?"

"You'll know what it's like to be on that side of the camera, and that's a good thing for any filmmaker."

When a sweet girl Joe was into got friendly and flirty, and then turns out to be super smart; that's the sexiest girl in the world for him. He hated that he had no chance. It was probably for the better. The last thing he needed was another girl in his life.

"I don't know where I read this," he said. "but some filmmaker said the moment you turn on the camera you've changed the environment. You become a participant in what you're shooting and that scene is no longer pure. I'm paraphrasing. I feel like the camera changes me. I feel so self-aware and that's not me."

"I saw it, Joe. It's okay. You've never been on camera before."

"Hey, my dad took some nice family movies. I'm a star in those."

"I bet you are."

"I'm not interested in talking and making this about me. I don't feel right."

"Joe's a little chickenshit frog," Pops shouted from the kitchen. "Frenchmen always surrender."

Sal, Nate, and Johnny cracked up laughing, as did a few hoodrats, but Angie and Seth didn't get the joke, so Sal filled them in.

"If you want to get Joe to do something, you don't ask him to do it, you tell him he can't do it. He's a chickenshit who's afraid to sit in front of your camera and be interviewed."

"He can't do it!" Nate laughed at Joe.

"Oh," Angie smiled and turned to Joe. "Chicken." She made a bad clucking sound.

Joe was saved by the first arrivals bursting through the industrial door, Claire filled her Plymouth and another car followed. A chain reaction started when Joe phoned her at school. One of her RIC friends called a PC girl, and that girl phoned friends at Brown, who called RISD kids. Angie called her RISD girls. Sal rang the hoodrats.

In just over an hour, more than forty kids were hanging around with more on the way. Sal made a packy run, grabbing several cases of Carling Black Label and Narragansett. The Gansett brewery was just down Cranston Street. It was the local piss beer. Every city worth a damn has one.

"This is why I love this band," Angie said to the camera Seth was now holding. "I asked for twenty and they got me fifty." She snapped her fingers in front of the lens. "Just like that."

The band got up and played. Angie filmed them and their closet friends, the kids who'd been in this garage many times, and at all the hometown gigs. Most had been to The Underground. Angie had become the lead RISD fan, no doubt. Patty from Buffalo was the PC organizer. Twins from the Philly suburbs, Kurt and Candace were the Brown contacts. Of course, Claire was the RIC girl. Call them and you reach everyone. The band had tentacle-like roots in Providence.

As the band played, the steel door opened and closed adding people to the impromptu party. Angie moved through the room getting the band and the friends of the bands from all angles.

After five songs Joe took the mic to thank everyone.

"You guys are the best. Like Angie said," he snapped his fingers. "Just like that showed up for us. Thank you. We're gonna stop filming now," He looked at the camera. "Okay?"

Angie nodded.

"We'll play a little longer because you guys came out. We appreciate it."

When the band wrapped it up after a dozen songs, Joe fiddled with his small pedalboard, pulling power chords out and swapping out pedals. Angie walked up with Seth behind her.

"Thank you for letting me do this," she said. Then she smiled. "I know you're not camera shy because I just filmed you. Can we please talk on camera?"

"Can we talk about that another time? Joe said, noticing that Claire was giving them the side eye from the sofas. Joe saw her death stare a few times, especially when Angie's camera focused on him.

"I have a deadline," Angie made a sad face.

"When is that?"

"In ten days... and I have a lot of editing to do. I'm under the gun."

Joe leaned closer and half whispered. "I don't want to do it with everyone around. You should hang around. Get Johnny, Sal, and Nate to say something on camera. It can't be just me you're talking to. Take each of them aside and get something. Then you and I can sit down, but not today."

"Okay," Angie smiled. "I get it. That's fair." She turned to Seth. Let's do that. We'll see what we can get from the band."

Joe motioned to Claire to come over while replacing his fuzz pedal. He looked up as she arrived.

"When the crowd thins, let's get the fuck out of here."

"I have to drive my friends back, and they don't want to leave yet."

"Shit."

Claire smirked. "Don't you want to hang around with your cute film director friend?" She made a mocking kissy face.

"If that's what I wanted... that's what I'd do. I just said I wanted to get out of here."

Claire turned and walked several paces, "Hey, Donna. I'm driving back in a minute." She walked back to Joe. "I'll come back and get you, okay?"

"Just come to my house. I'll walk home."

Joe didn't want to be in the room when Angie talked to the guys. After Claire left, he walked over to where Angie was speaking to Sal. When they took a quick break, Joe told a white lie, saying he had to go home to have dinner with his sisters. He hugged Angie and walked out leaving her with the band and lingering guests. As Joe walked home he thought, 'I was never the star of Dad's home movies. Janie was. Maybe that's why he stopped.'

---- RARE BIRDS ---

Joe, Sal, and Claire sat at the bar in The Living Room. Randy Hien was helping his bartender Mary keep up. They were there on a school night to check out Ruby Slippers, a newish local band that was generating a buzz in town. Joe had heard they put on a good show.

"So you're here to check out the competition?" Randy said while pouring beers.

"You invited me," Joe shrugged. "Are they competition? I don't see it that way."

"They're punk, and they're good."

"Pfft," Sal scoffed. "This is not punk."

"Nope," Joe agreed. "It's too soft and tinkly with the keyboards."

"Punk, new wave," Randy said as he slid a pint in front of Joe. "same difference."

"Bullshit." Joe sipped his beer. "And you should know better."

"Look at these queers," Sal gestured toward the stage. "What is this?"

Claire rolled her eyes, "Why is everything queer to you, or gay... if it's not macho punk?"

"I'm not macho," Joe said.

"I didn't say you were."

The band was good, and they certainly had a stage presence. It was more glam rock than anything. The Ruby Slippers had a male and female singer. The dude singer wore more makeup than the girl, including glitter on his face. He also had an impressive hairdo, big and poofy. He wore tight leather pants and what appeared to be a woman's blouse. He sashayed around the stage in what could be called a Freddie Mercury impersonation.

The female singer was also the keyboard player, less flamboyant aside from her non-stop dancing while playing keys. She wore a sparkly dress. They covered Blondie, Bowie, B-52s, New York Dolls, Mott The Hoople, and Queen... no punk. When they played 'Love Is The Drug' by Roxy Music, Joe was impressed. They nailed it. The lead guitarist was outstanding. His blow-dry hair, tight shiny pants, and sparkly shirt... not punk.

"With all due respect, Randy, this is not punk, not even close. You could make a case for a new wave, but look at these guys with the hair and spandex and pretty shirts my sister would love. It's glam rock.

"Does it matter?" Randy asked.

"No, it doesn't," Joe said. "but don't call them punk if they're not. Like I said, you should know better. If these guys played some of our clubs they'd get run out."

"The animals at Barney's would eat them alive," Sal smiled.

"That's who I'm talking about," Joe laughed. "Barney's punks would hate these guys, but I like them."

Randy looked up to see one of his regulars coming their way. "Issac likes them."

"Like I said," Sal looked directly at Claire. "Queers."

Claire turned a shoulder to him, facing Joe, and rolled her eyes again.

"Issac is not a punk," Joe said. "but he probably wants to fuck this lead singer. He's very pretty."

"Hi, Joe," Issac gave Joe a one-arm hug. "What are you doing here?" He waved at Claire and ignored Sal. Isaac knew who his friends were.

"I just came to check these guys out."

"They're good," Issac smiled. "I like them."

"Can you carry on a conversation at this bar when we play here?"

"No, definitely not," Issac said.

Claire laughed while shaking her head.

Joe looked at Randy. Randy shook his head. "Nope."

"We're not even shouting," Joe said. "not really. These guys are good, but they're a little soft and precious."

"Issac smiled wide, "Aren't you catty, putting the new band in town down."

"Oh, no. I'm not putting them down. They're good. Randy says they're punk. We disagree. They're a little new wave and a lot of glam."

Issac nodded. "That sounds right."

Joe gave Randy an I-told-you-so glance. "When you think about it, we're not straight-up punk either. We'll play anything and make it sound punk, but I'm just trying to give people a good time, and sometimes punk after punk after punk song can get tedious."

"Bullshit," Sal said. "We're a punk band. We just play everything."

"I agree with Joe," Issac said. "I can take punk in small doses. Even though you make everything punk, it's still The Stones and Nancy Sinatra and whoever. I think that's why everyone likes you, not just the freaks. You have a wider appeal."

"That's by design. Not every crowd wants the Ramones and this is not a punk town. We try to be palatable for those who aren't so into punk. We've walked into a few new bars and knew in one minute that these are not our people. In that case, I call an audible. Having those rockabilly and sixties songs in our repertoire saves us."

Ruby Slippers ended their first set and stepped off stage. The two singers found a place at the bar because the club was not nearly full on a school night. The rest of the band stepped outside.

"How do you know they're not your people?" Claire asked.

"Age is a huge tell. Every shitty gig we've had was a mismatch. The crowd is too old punk. When in doubt, I check out the jukebox selection. That's when I might call an audible."

"What does that mean?" Issac asked.

"In football," Joe said, "The quarterback surveys the defense at the line of scrimmage and changes the play at the last second."

"And old people are a tough fucking defense," Sal said, "Our shit ain't gonna play there."

"But we still try," Joe added. "I just swap out some punk for more rock and surf music, and maybe we don't play them so hard. We still do our weird songs, Those are almost universally liked. People dig Boots and Skates."

"After a few of those crap gigs Joe made a rule," Sal said. "If there's not a college nearby we don't take the job."

"Except for beach bars," Joe added.

Joe turned to look over the bar towards the stage and met the eyes of the lead singer. He smiled, slipped off his stool, and walked over to Joe. "Hey, you're the guy from The Young Punks, right?"

Joe nodded and offered his hand. "I'm Joe."

"I know, I saw you a couple of months ago." He took Joe's hand. "Gary Santos. It's nice to meet you."

"Randy said we should check you out."

"Really?" Gary smiled at Randy. "That was nice of you. I'll take that as a compliment."

"Let me ask you a question," Joe said. "Randy says your punk. I say your new wave and glam. What do you say?"

"We're not punk."

Joe smiled at Randy.

"Okay, they're not punk," Randy conceded. "Who cares? Since I have you both here. Let me tell you what I was thinking."

Joe furrowed his brow, "You planned this?"

"Sort of. You two are rare birds. I don't book many cover bands. I prefer acts with original music, but you weirdos bring more to the stage than just covers, so I've made exceptions. I'd like to put you up together, a double bill during the week of our fifth anniversary celebration."

"Who would be the headliner?" Joe asked.

Gary laughed. "That's not a serious question. You pack this place."

Randy nodded.

"Just asking," Joe smiled as he took a sip of fresh beer.

"So, what do you think?" Randy asked.

"What date?" Joe asked.

"A night you're already playing, that middle of July weeknight you took. I have Human Sexual Response, The Neighborhoods, and the Modern Lovers all coming in that week."

"I guess that works," Joe said looking at Gary. "Are you in?"

"I'll talk to the band, but I'm sure they'll do this. We get a full house because you're playing."

"Maybe not," Joe said. "He's got a lot of good bands playing the same week."

"Yes," Randy agreed, "But you both have a loyal local following."

---- ROCK & ROLL HIGH SCHOOL ----

Since the class elections last fall, Joe had been lying low in school. He was actually having a better year academically, but not honor roll level. He was fine with any passing grade. He was simply riding out the year, skipping fewer classes, doing enough work to get by, and not getting in trouble.

During his first three years at Central, Joe had multiple visits to the principal's office, a few for fighting, and others for his questioning authority in class. He was trying to get through his final year without incident, but a challenge from a former student put an idea in his head that jeopardized his good senior-year citizenship.

At the April show in Boston, their sixth performance at the Brickyard, and the first truly great crowd at that cavernous club, Kelly asked Joe if he was planning a senior prank.

"Nah. I don't do that kind of stuff."

"Pfft," Kelly scoffed, pointing at the stage, "That's all you do up there, clowning around and pranking your adoring fans. You just had Sal fake a stroke or something. Did you see the alarm you created?" She leaned closer. "I heard a few people say you were an asshole for that stunt."

Joe shrugged, "This is different. I don't do pranks at school."

"That's because you can't top my class, of the year before us."

"No. I just don't care, and I don't have the time to plan some elaborate scheme to make teachers look stupid."

Kelly smiled. "I guess you're not as creative as I thought you were... or daring."

Joe hated that comment. He knew Kelly was aware of one of his character flaws. Sal had told her last summer, 'If you tell Joe he can't do something, he'll kill himself trying to do it.'

If he had to concoct a prank and coordinate with classmates to pull it off, this challenge would go unanswered. Past senior pranks included painting the football goalposts pink, releasing a dozen bunnies in the school cafeteria and photographing teachers and administrators falling over themselves trying to wrangle them, and the one prank that got students in deep shit, lifting the principal's car on blocks and removing his tires. Joe had one idea that required no help, a plan hatched long ago during his frequent visits to the principal's office.

Early in his Freshman year, he was sitting in the office awaiting discipline after his first fight in high school. It was a brutal brawl in the school cafeteria witnessed by dozens of students. He overheard Mrs Janey, the school secretary, say she had to rewind the anthem tape. A Radio Shack cassette player sat on her desk, alongside the school PA microphone.