All The Young Punks Pt. 15

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I'm not a big user of author notes in the footers and headers of my chapters. I know myself too well. If I go down that path I might overdo it. I use them when necessary, like my recent entanglements with the smut police.

I may begin using notes more often. I sometimes find them intrusive, so I could place them in my profile where they're less so. You can skip the notes all together. I have not yet decided.

The story is moves to New York City. As I did with Providence, the city is a character. And there is no better character than 1970's and 80's NYC. There are so many new people coming into Joe's life. He will go through some shit. You may not like all of it.

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---- THE CONSTRUCTION STATE ---

Driving south on Interstate 95 in Connecticut at 2:30 AM, Nate popped open a beer in the back of the van. Johnny used duffle bags for pillows. Drums, amps, and guitars were strapped to the side wall behind Sal.

"Nate," Joe called back. "We need to talk about your drinking. I'm worried about you brother."

The guys didn't laugh because they didn't know if Joe was ha-ha joking or fuck-you joking.

Sal had to merge left to avoid orange barrels gradually closing the right lane. Yellow lights flashed ahead. It began to rain, just enough on the windshield to confirm precipitation.

"This sucks," Sal moaned.

A mile up the road, the highway lost another lane. Cars were reduced to single file, a traffic jam in the middle of the night.

"They call themselves The Constitution State," Joe pointed at the plate on the back of the Chevy in front of them. "I think they meant construction state and someone misspelled it."

Again, no one made a peep.

"So Angie wants to fuck little Joey," Sal said. "I can't say I'm shocked." He took on a mocking tone. "She's loves collaborating with you and thinks you have a creative soul. Joe's a versatile artist." He smirked at Joe

Now Johnny and Nate found something funny. They laughed too hard.

"Ya know, guys. Yuck it up. I love it because I'm the one she wants to fuck."

"Yeah, but that ship has sailed," Johnny said. "She moved home, right?"

"Yes, she's back in Atlanta, but I don't think she's staying there."

"You missed your shot, pal." Sal snickered.

"I'm gonna ask Issac for her number. If he has it. I would fly to Georgia for Angie," he turned to Sal. "Fuck, I'd crawl to Georgia."

"I'd fly there to fuck her too," Sal smiled back.

"She wouldn't pick you up at the airport."

Finally, Joe got a chuckle from the peanut gallery in the back.

"What about Claire?" Nate asked.

"Hey, she's up in the mountains banging some dude named Ken, or Kyle. I forget. Then she's studying in France this fall. I can squeeze in a weekend in Atlanta." Joe slapped the dashboard. "I'll find up a club down there. We can play for her hometown friends. I bet she knows some places."

"Are you fucking serious?" Sal said. "You want to drive to Atlanta for a gig?"

"Yeah, I know, but if I could get jobs along the way, like Philly, Baltimore, DC, Richmond... we can play our way down the coast."

"You can't find a college bar in Vermont without a book this thick," Sal held his thumb and finger two inches apart. "and a road map. And you think to can find gigs down south? You need to see your psychiatrist... for meds."

The construction went on for miles and miles and miles.

"This is why I hate the New Haven gig," Sal said. "This drive sucks."

"The Bulldog is cool," Joe added.

"Yeah, after a rough start," Nate agreed, "So, Joe," he changed the subject. "Do you think Claire is gonna bang some Pierre in Paris?"

"Or a Marcel," Joe laughed. "Maybe a Phillipe."

"So you're free to roam in New York, then the beach, and maybe a flight to Georgia?"

"Yeah."

"Until when?"

"She gets back from France in November, right before Thanksgiving."

"What then?"

"Fuck, Nate? What's with twenty questions?"

"Just say it."

"Say what?"

"What's gonna happen when she gets home?"

"Honestly, the way she was talking at The Biltmore, I think she's gonna try to lock this shit down."

"That's what I figured," Nate laughed. "and that would be a dumb move on your part."

"Why?"

Sal joined in, "Because you have more pussy hanging around you than a toilet seat in the ladies room. You'd be crazy to..."

"What," Joe cut him off. "have a real relationship?"

"You're a sap, Joe," Nate said quietly. "Sorry brother."

"You should be thinking about how many New York chicks you can bang on this trip," Sal looked over, "but instead, you'll have a girlfriend by the second week."

Joe shrugged, "I'd be cool with that. It would be fun to have a cute Manhattan tour guide for a month."

"Fucking sap."

---- BRONX PISS STOP ----

Driving into New York State for the first time, the Construction State behind them, Joe was excited, looking at the map with a flashlight. He was checking ahead so he could navigate for Sal when they got close, especially off the interstate. Johnny and Nate had crashed in the back of the van on the duffel bag pillows. As they cruised on the Cross Bronx Expressway, the Jerome Avenue exit sign caught Sal's eye.

"Hey, the stadium's on Jerome Ave! I'm sure of it." He swerved the van across three empty lanes to exit the highway. "I'm gonna launch a loogie on Yankee Stadium."

Sal and Joe had two common interests, punk rock and baseball. At home, the Boston Red Sox were always on the TV or radio. Parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles were all fans. Joe's dad had taken him to Fenway Park twice; when he was nine and twelve. It was the same for Sal. Pops had the Sox on the radio every day. Baseball was the background music of summer.

Nine months ago, Sal, Pops, and Joe watched their team lose a heartbreaker, a single-game playoff to the New York Yankees. The Sox had blown a huge lead in the summer of '78, then lost the tiebreaker on a cheap home run by Bucky fucking Dent, a notoriously weak hitter. They hated the Yankees with a passion equal to their love for Boston. Spitting on Yankee Stadium seemed like a fine idea.

"Let's do it."

They cruised down Jerome Ave through the South Bronx in the wee hours of a weekday morning. People were out, hanging on street corners. That's something you didn't see in Providence at that hour.

"Holy fuck! This place is a war zone," Joe said, looking out at street people who stared back at him.

"Of course it's a dump," Sal said. "It's the home of the Skankees."

"Look at the garbage on the street." He pointed. "There's a burned-out car on blocks. They stripped it right here on the corner. Shit, we have to park the van, with our gear... in this crap?"

Nate and Johnny had awakened. "Where are we?" asked Nate as he stuck his head between the seats. Johnny joined him.

"The Bronx."

"We're gonna spit on Yankee Stadium," Sal laughed.

"What the hell for?"

"Because we're here."

"Jesus Christ, another stripped car." Joe was far less excited than he was on the highway.

"My dad says they can strip a car in five minutes," Sal said. "A crew of pros with the right tools can get everything of value before you can dial the police. Look, they even took the seats out of that Cutlass. Manhattan will be nicer, right Nate?."

"We've entered an unholy world," Joe said quietly

When they reached Yankee Stadium, Sal pulled into the lot and parked the van with the passenger side sliding door four feet from the wall. They conjured the best loogies they could muster from the depths of their lungs and sinuses and splattered the wall.

Sal shouted. "Fuck you, Babe Ruth!"

"Bite my dick, Mickey Mantle!" Joe flipped off the stadium.

Even Johnny joined in. "Bucky Dent eats Reggie Jackson's ass!"

They cracked up because non-sports Johnny had the best line.

"Perfect!" Sal clapped. "I have to take a leak. It's like my kidneys know we're at the stadium."

Sal gleefully climbed out, ran around the van, unzipped, and sprayed the wall with the heavy stream of a racehorse - the Italian stallion. It just kept coming.

Nate poked Joe. "Hey, there's someone over there, coming this way. Looks like he's picking up his pace."

Joe watched a far-off shadowy figure approach, backlit by street lights. "Fuck. Sal, you better zip it up. We have security coming our way."

He couldn't cut off his stream.

"Let's go, Sal. He's definitely coming this way."

"Give me a sec."

The security guard broke into an unimpressive run. "Sal, he's running."

Sal zipped up fast, ran around the van, and jumped in the driver's seat.

From a distance, the guard yelled as Sal shifted the van into drive. "Hey, stay right there!"

Sal hit the gas and raced straight at the silhouette, which made the rent-a-cop stop dead in his tracks. Sal then pulled a hard U-turn about thirty feet in front of him yelling, "Fuck You! Yankees Suck!" Tires screeched and the sliding door slammed shut as Sal braked to avoid a light pole. They laughed as Sal sped out of the lot and back to the mean streets of the Bronx.

Nate caught a whiff. "Goddamn Sal, did you piss all over yourself?"

Joe held his nose. "Oh, man. Yes, he did."

"Yeah, I couldn't cut it off fast enough.''

They were still tittering as Sal sped east on 161st Street.

"Where are we going?" Joe asked.

"Manhattan, dipshit," Sal answered.

"Not gonna get there driving east, idiot."

"How do you know I'm driving east, you gotta compass?."

"Yeah." Joe pointed at his head. "It's called a sense of direction, and you're going east."

They drove nearly a mile in the wrong direction before the thick-headed meatball begrudgingly turned the van around. Joe pointed a flashlight on his road atlas looking for a new route after the unplanned detour.

"Stay on this road. Before the stadium, turn south when we reach..." he squinted to read. "Morris Ave, and take a left. That'll get us to a bridge over the Harlem River."

Sal was annoyed. "How do you know that?"

"I'm looking at the fucking map! I've been staring at this page since we decided to make this trip. I like maps."

"Well, aren't you the egghead?"

"No, I'm just not a meathead."

Nate snorted.

"Look for a sign, Third Avenue Bridge to Manhattan. First, we have to pass under a highway."

"You better not get us lost in this shit hole," Sal barked at Joe.

"You already got us lost."

On Morris Ave there was another abandoned car. The windows were smashed. One in three buildings were boarded up.

Johnny said low. "Let's try to not break down here."

"Oh look at that, a bridge sign, to Manhattan," Joe exclaimed. "I wasn't expecting that!"

"Fuck You, Joe!"

Nate laughed. "What's the Third Avenue Bridge doing here?"

Three snickered as Sal steamed.

"Get in the right lane. After the bridge, head south on the FDR Expressway."

Sal hated having a navigator, especially when Joe overdid it to break his balls. He was the band's driver but left to his own devices, Sal often got lost. After that happened a handful of times, Joe became the band navigator. Joe was a geography buff and liked maps, so he was the obvious choice. Sal loathed taking directions from Joe.

"Don't worry Sal, I'll tell you which way south is."

Sal was about to snap. He glowered at him.

Making Sal angry was a game they played on the road. Nate and Johnny snickered in the back of the van as Sal begrudgingly followed Joe's instructions. He seethed across the bridge and took the exit south on the FDR.

As they cruised down the east side of the island, there was a shopping cart, a washing machine, and a mattress on the highway. It was literally and figuratively, a dump.

"Take any exit that says East Village or Lower Manhattan and we can pick our way to the village."

"Since Joe knows the way," Nate said. "Maybe he should be driving."

"Bullshit! It's my van, I drive. That's the end of it."

They exited FDR somewhere north of the East Village.

Joe pointed a finger westward. "Go west, young punk." On that note, his navigation ended.

Nate stuck his head between the seats. "I have the address and phone number." He searched his pockets. "But my uncle won't be there until eight. We have hours to kill. Turn south when you reach 7th Ave."

"South is a left turn," Joe said with a smirk.

"Eat shit, asshole."

"Yeah, we're wicked early," Nate said. "Let's find the building, then we can grab breakfast. I'm hungry."

Johnny whined. "Me too. I need to eat. I'm dying here. "

Sal drove west on 20th Street crossing the island to the Hudson River.

Nate leaned between the front seats again. "I think you missed a turn, buddy."

"We're lost," Joe said low. "How did you miss 7th Ave? It's between 6th and 8th, but that's just a wild guess."

Johnny elbowed Nate. "Hey Sal, when you don't know where you're going, you should try driving faster."

"Fuck you, too, Johnny." Sal then quietly turned around and slowed down.

"Go south on 7th to Greenwich Village," said Nate. "We're close."

"You're now going east Sal, south is a right turn."

"Goddamnit, Joe. Shut the fuck up."

He turned south on 7th Ave and miraculously found Greenwich Village. Ten minutes, and a few twists and turns later, they stopped in front of a building on Jones Street. It wasn't terrible, no worse than surrounding dwellings. It fit right in with the general shabbiness of what they'd seen thus far.

"Okay, let's get breakfast and then see some sights. They say this city never sleeps. They must have twenty-four-hour diners."

Johnny smirked. "I don't care what these guys say, Sal. I think you did a helluva job getting us here."

They cruised around Greenwich Village looking for a place to eat as the first glow of dawn brought life to the city. New Yorkers were starting a new workday. Newsstands opened, traffic picked up and early birds took to the sidewalks, jogging and walking dogs.

They had put Sal in a shitty mood. He zigged and zagged looking for a restaurant and of equal importance, a place to park. Just as Sal was getting fed up, "Look, the Skyline Diner!" Joe pointed at the sign that read in large print - Open 24 Hours. "And there's a spot, take it!"

Joe fell instantly in love with The Skyline. It was the kind of place they'd patronize in any city they played. They specialized in home-cooked comfort food: meatloaf, fried chicken, pot roast, sandwiches, burgers, breakfast all day, and most importantly - homemade pie. The waitress gave them the stink eye, three leathered punks, Nate in denim, probably wondering why they were awake at this hour of the morning.

Over a stack of pancakes with three fat sausage links, Joe told the guys his thoughts on playing their first gig in New York City.

"We can't play the Ramones here, and I'm thinking we have to ditch Johnny Thunders too."

"What the fuck for?" asked Sal. "You love the Ramones and Thunders."

"I know why." Johnny took a sip of coffee.

"Okay," Sal sipped coffee. "tell me why we can't play some of our best covers."

Joe looked at Johnny and nodded with a smile.

Johnny set his cup down. "Because these New York punks have seen the Ramones. They don't want some scrubs from Rhode Island covering their favorite local band."

Joe raised his coffee cup to Johnny as that logic slowly penetrated Sal's Cromagnon skull. They watched his face change from annoyed to realizing they had a valid point. Nate was a casual observer, enjoying the moment with a mouthful of crispy bacon.

"I want to go heavy on the U.K. punk: The Pistols, The Damned, and The Buzzcocks, and then throw in some Death and The Weirdos. We'll stay away from bands that made their name here. We have to put The New York Dolls and The Velvet Underground on the bench."

Sal wasn't buying that theory. "You just knocked twenty songs off our set list."

"Not quite, maybe fifteen," Joe said. "You understand my point, right?"

"Yeah, I do. I suppose it makes sense, but I don't think it matters."

Nate smiled. "I was thinking the same thing."

"Fuck you, you were." Johnny threw a home fry at him.

Nate laughed.

After breakfast, they killed time walking around the village and then made their way back to the apartment leaving the van parked near the diner, close but not close enough for comfort. Nate had called his uncle from the diner.

Apartment 3C was being renovated. The kitchen was ripped out, but there was a small wooden table for four. The bathroom was under construction and had no door. The living room had tools and building supplies strewn about. Four twin-size mattresses were stacked in one bedroom. It would do for a month, urban camping in a third-floor walk-up.

Uncle Babe was a character; a short, round hairy man in a stained white tank top with a cigar bouncing on his lip as he talked. Every sentence he said ended with "Got it?"... making each statement a rhetorical question. He laid out the rules.

"You can't cook but you got an icebox, got it? The bathroom is good to use unless I'm laying tile, got it? You can use one bedroom, the other is storage, got it? This is a nice quiet building, no parties, no noise, got it?"

Joe answered. "I got it. Sal, you got it? How about you Johnny, you got it? Nate?" He smiled at his mates.

Babe snapped at Joe. "Are you some kind of smart ass?"

Sal smiled. "Oh, he's definitely a kind of smart ass." He punched Joe's shoulder.

"A couple of college girls live here. They'll be back next month. You're outta here two days before, got it?"

The guys tossed duffel bags into their room, and then Nate reminded them of their biggest concern coming to New York City.

"We better get our gear out of the van. Everything comes up, nothing stays on the street."

Sal fetched the van more than two blocks away while the guys waited on the stoop. He double-parked and guarded the van as they made multiple trips up and down three poorly lit flights of narrow stairs. When their equipment was secured, Joe was exhausted.

Sal had one more errand. "Joe, come with me to find a parking spot."

"Really? I need to crash."

"I need another set of eyes. Parking here is a bitch. C'mon."

"You wanna be the driver, and all you do is whine about the job."

Parking was their first lesson learned in the city. Sal was on edge, annoyed after cruising several blocks before finding a spot not close enough to the flat. He made a proclamation, a new band rule, specifically for this city.

"This is bullshit. We can only use the van when we're moving our gear. Why would anyone own a car here?"

Their first impressions of New York City were not great. It was a dirty, smelly place and no one seemed to care that they were living in filth. Joe had to walk around a junkie moaning on the sidewalk. Twice he had to step over dog shit. Was it dog shit? Sal and Joe got back to the apartment to find Johnny and Nate passed out. Joe needed sleep, but he was too pumped up to relax.

"I can't believe you pissed all over Yankee Stadium."

"I can't wait to tell Pops."

"Make sure I'm there when you tell him."

Five minutes later, Sal was snoring while Joe lay awake wondering what this bar would be like and if his music and theatrics would play in New York. He never doubted their show, but this was not just the next level, this was the city where punk rock was born. He fell into a restless sleep, fully clothed, on a badly stained mattress he didn't trust.

---- HARD PUNKS ----

In the early afternoon, Joe awoke to Sal pissing loudly. Nate and Johnny were already awake, changing into fresh shirts, eager to see more of the city. The band walked the streets on a busy Wednesday, taking in the sights, sounds, and unfortunate smells of Greenwich Village.

Joe had never been in a place that gave him such varied vibes. It was exciting to be there but every block exposed what a cruddy city it was. There was litter everywhere, piles of trash, bums sleeping in corners, druggies on stoops, and what he assumed was a pimp and his prostitute arguing by a purple Lincoln Continental. It was simultaneously intimidating and exhilarating. There was so much to see and half was grotesque.