All The Young Punks Pt. 15

The best news was, on Jones Street, a thirty-second walk from the building, was a small record shop, Strider Records. Joe popped in, talked to owner Bob Noguera, and perused the punk selection. Joe walked out with The Ramones' latest release, Road To Ruin.

As the afternoon faded, they decided to get down to business. Nate had his one lead, his bartender cousin in Hell's Kitchen. It was a short drive, a long walk, or they could take their first subway ride. They opted for the number-two train. It was crowded and stinky, every inch covered in graffiti.

The bar had no official name, just an address, 401 West 50th Street. They found a brick building with that number written in red paint on a battered metal door. To the left there was a plywood sign shaped like a guitar hung diagonally. It was attached to security bars over windows opaque with grime. "Live Music & Drinks", was written poorly with a paintbrush.

The band stepped inside to find a dozen punks sitting at the bar. Three had Mohawks of various lengths, one dyed green, one blue, and one red. Another dude had tall stiff spikes, one had short spikes and a third had a buzz cut. The rest had normal hair. In the back, two tables were occupied by a half dozen older patrons.

There was a cute chick with pink hair, a bleached blonde in black stockings, and a girl out of place in a nice dress; nose pierced, tattoos, and heavy makeup. Most had the markings of punks, the leather, denim, piercings, and tats. The vibe was unmistakable, unfriendly. Joe thought Barney's was a legit punk bar, this place made it look like Sesame Street.

The patrons looked the band up and down as the band checked them out. None said a word. It was like an old western where the music and chatter stop as the strangers walk into a saloon. Eyes followed them to the back of the room where they pulled up stools at the far end of the bar. The two groups of punks stared each other down.

The band was greeted by a man who would soon become a friend. Tommy Gallardo was handsome, muscular, with thick black hair, in a tight black tee shirt and designer jeans. He was a fast-talking bar owner, maybe forty, who put all his money, and his dad's, into his dream of owning a club in NYC. Joe liked him immediately. He bought them a round on the house.

The punks down the bar eavesdropped on the conversation. It required little effort. Tommy was loud. He was also friendly and positive, the polar opposite of his patrons.

"I appreciate you guys coming all the way from Providence. Jerry says you're good."

"He's never seen us. I told him to tell you that," Nate smiled.

"We're gonna find out soon enough. What do you play?"

Joe answered. "Carly Simon, Nancy Sinatra, the Stones; ya know, punk standards."

Tommy stopped wiping a shot glass and stared at Joe. At the other end of the bar, punks murmured. Tommy went back to wiping. "Just what I need, another wise-ass punk."

"He's not fuckin' with ya," Nate laughed. "We play that shit."

"Get the fuck outta here!"

"When are you thinking we get the stage?" asked Sal.

"If you're ready, I have an open stage tomorrow night. You give me three hours, I'll give you the door. It's a three-dollar cover charge. I'll see how you do and we take it from there. I have nights to fill. Just don't suck."

Joe laughed. "We definitely don't suck. We've never disappointed a dive bar."

"Yeah, well, this ain't no easy crowd." He gestured to his regulars. "They booed a band offstage last month. They weren't punk enough, my mistake."

Sal stared down the punks. "We'll take our chances."

"If you play Carly Simon, they'll run you out of the building and you won't be coming back."

His punk regulars snickered, whispered among themselves, and went back to pretending they weren't listening.

Joe liked that Tommy got right to the point. He went back to pouring beers and shots for day drinking punks with bad attitudes. The band hung around for a couple of rounds talking to Tommy when he wasn't busy. Not a syllable was exchanged between them and the other punks.

When waning daylight cast long dark shadows over the city, it was time to find food. By the time the band left the bar, there were at least forty patrons of various levels of punk commitment, drinking and looking scary. As they walked out, Joe turned to Tommy.

"Tell your punks the fucking carnival is in town."

---- VOMIT AND DOG SHIT ----

On day two, they walked to the Skyline Diner to grab breakfast. While chomping on eggs, meat, and pancakes, they plotted their new day in the city.

"There's no way I'm moving the van," Sal declared.

"We get it, no driving," Joe replied. "Stop complaining. We have the trains. Where do you want to go?"

"Central Park," said Johnny.

"Really? Since when do you want to sit in a park?" asked Sal.

"I like parks, and who said sit? We can walk around, and check it out. It's free."

"It's grass, trees, and everything you'll find back home at Roger Williams Park," Nate noted.

"Yeah," Johnny said. "And Roger Williams is cool."

Sal scoffed. "A park is a park, seen one, seen them all."

"That's not true," Joe said. "Let's take little Johnny to the park so he can play on the swings."

Sal and Nate snickered. Johnny didn't care, he was getting his way. They jumped on the two-train at Christopher Street Station and headed north. It was the tail end of morning rush hour, so the train was packed with commuting New Yorkers.

"Can you smell that?" asked Sal.

"How can I not?" said Nate.

"What train is this?" asked Johnny.

"The two-train. We used it last night."

"It smelled like puke then. Maybe we're in the same car."

Joe pinched his nostrils together, changing his voice. "Last night we got off at 50th. We have to take this vomit comet to 110th."

A few locals chuckled along with the guys. An older black lady smiled, "Vomit comet, good one. I'm gonna use that."

"You'll have to pay me royalties."

She put her hand on Joe's leather, "Oh honey, it wasn't that funny."

When they emerged from the station on the north side of the park, Joe took in a long deep breath. The train smelled like puke and body odor, the station reeked of urine, and his long deep breath on the street was more vehicle exhaust than fresh air. He couldn't wait to get into the park to breathe. Not a hundred yards in, there was a playground.

Sal pointed. "Hey little Johnny, would you like me to push you on the swings?"

"No, I want Uncle Joey to push me. You're mean, and I don't like you." He stuck his tongue out.

They slowly made their way around a lake, south, along Fifth Avenue, past a famous fountain, a famous garden, and another famous fountain.

"You know what this place reminds me of?" asked Sal.

"What?"

"A fucking park!... like every other damn park I've been in. What are we doing here?"

"Stop bitching," Joe said. "Do you want to get back on the subway? At least we can breathe without..."

"Motherfucker!" Sal yelled. "Dog shit! I just stepped in... goddammit!" Sal hopped around on one foot. Johnny, Nate and Joe bent over laughing as their bitchy bass player threw a temper tantrum.

"Why are you hopping?" Joe laughed. "Are you afraid to get shit on the grass?"

Three kept walking, laughing at Sal as he scraped the bottom of his Doc Martens on the grass. When they got thirty yards ahead of him, he turned his back while using a stick to clean his boot.

Nate had an idea. "Let's make a run for it."

They bolted west, deeper into the park near 102nd Street, and found a treed area to loiter in. From a distance, they heard Sal's booming voice, "Fuck you, assholes!", as he realized they ditched him. Two women with four children shared a worried look as three young men stood behind trees.

"No worries ladies," Nate said, "we're playing hide and seek."

When Sal came in from 5th Avenue, they slowly moved around the trees to remain hidden. Joe could tell by his body language that Sal was fuming. He walked past them and threw his hands up, exasperated. They ran across the field and followed Sal from a distance. He wandered into a meadow with several baseball diamonds.

"Enough," said Johnny. "He's gonna have a stroke."

"Hey, Salvatore!" Joe shouted. "Where are you going? You walked right by us."

He turned around, flipped Joe off, and kept walking. When they caught up, Sal was done with the park and the ball breaking. They made their way to Central Park West and boarded the B-Train back to the Village.

Nate made a face. "Does every train smell like shit?"

Joe smirked. "As long as you're near Sal it does."

Nate laughed and looked up at Sal. "That's right, it's not the train, it's you."

"Shut up, before I smack you."

"Let's get off at the next stop. This is where my friend Betty is going to college in the fall."

Joe hadn't realized how close they were to NYU. They walked through the campus, which wasn't very campus-like, just more city, then made the way back to Jones Street.

Sal had enough. "I'm going up. It's too hot to walk around."

"It's too hot to sit in that apartment," said Nate. "I thought you wanted to see the city."

"Not in this humidity."

By midday, it was too hot to do anything. The temperature topped ninety degrees that afternoon. The general mood in the city was misery.

Joe looked at Nate. "Ya know, we could be at the beach right now."

"You must be psychic. I was just thinking of the ocean breeze."

"I miss the bikinis."

-- BOOKS AND GAYS ---

Late in the day, Sal sat on the stoop smoking as Joe walked up with an armful of books.

"What you got there?"

"These things are called books."

"Very funny, asshole."

"There's a lady down the street giving them away. I saw a box of free books on a stoop. She was sitting up top reading, so I asked her what the deal was. She said there was no deal, just books she wanted to get rid of. So I picked through her box and took some." Joe held one up. "I scored Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson."

"So you cleaned her out?"

"Not even close. I took two and she insisted I take more. We had a nice talk. She's a cool old lady," Joe corrected himself. "She's not that old."

"Did you get anything good?"

"Yeah," Joe made a 'duh' face. "Bukowski and Thompson."

"Anything else?"

"Just a few random books; a detective novel and a biography of General Sherman. My dad will like that one. I'm not a big fan of science fiction but I like Vonnegut's writing style, so I grabbed this." He held up The Sirens Of Titan.

"Why is she getting rid of them? Do they suck?"

"No. That's what we talked about. I told her I have every book I've read that wasn't a library book and she laughed. She said, 'When you get older you'll have to make hard decisions.' I guess she has too many books. The biography was her ex-husband's."

"What if they suck?"

"So what? They're free. If I read a book and it's not for me, I bail out. There's nothing lost. No biggie."

"Does that happen?"

"Of course. Sometimes I don't like an author's prose, or maybe I'll realize after a few chapters the story doesn't interest me. I just move on. Not every book is for everyone and I'm not going to waste my time on something I don't like. That's just dumb."

Joe walked up the steps to go upstairs.

"A couple of dudes just walked inside," Sal said. "They were holding hands."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"Remember yesterday?" Sal returned the 'duh' expression.

"No."

"We saw those dudes playing grab ass in that little triangle park."

"Yeah. What about it?"

"You don't think that's weird?"

"What?"

"To see that shit twice in two days?"

Joe shrugged. "I don't know. Is it?"

"Is everyone in this city queer?"

Joe shook his head and walked inside, then smiled while thinking, 'Wait til he realizes we're in a gay neighborhood.'

Their first gig in Hell's Kitchen was a few hours away.