All The Young Punks Pt. 17

--- JULY 1979 ---

In less than a week, the band found everything they needed nearby; the Skyline Diner, a laundromat, a favorite pizza joint, Chinese food, a deli, and Strider Records. As they moved between Apartment 3C and Tommy's, they became familiar with what Chelsea and Hell's Kitchen had to offer. They could have spent the entire month on the west side between Washington Square and 50th Street, but there was much more to see.

Sal wouldn't shut up about Times Square, so the band went for a walk on the wild side. After checking out an uninspiring band at Tommy's, they bailed out during the first set, walked west on 50th Street, and turned south on 7th Avenue towards the theater district.

"I thought The Kitchen was a shit hole," said Johnny.

"Here's a chick for ya Sal." Joe motioned towards a large, black lady of the night. "She could handle you," he laughed.

Nate laughed. "I don't think Sal could handle her. She'd whoop his ass and make him cry."

Sal looked her over. "Not my type."

"What, big and black?"

"You know what I like, tall, leggy blondes." He gestured 'big tits' with his large hands.

"Tall, leggy, anything is more like it," said Nate.

Sal smiled. "True."

The streets were packed with busy people going places and people standing in one place. Even the loiterers were busy working an angle. One girl after another pitched them as they passed, punk heads turning left and right examining the goods.

"Hey boys, you lookin' for a party? I have girlfriends." A short, busty Italian-looking girl asked.

A tall, skinny blonde called over. "Hey punks, I got what you need right here." Her dress was filthy, she lifted it, showing no panties.

"Come over here baby, I need to talk to you," said a redhead with a come hither finger, a half smile, and dead eyes.

The ladies came in all colors, shapes, and sizes with varying styles of trashy attire, but Joe noticed one thing they all had in common - the eyes. There was no light in their eyes. Joe found the fake smiles and lifeless gaze creepy and sad.

Sal stopped hard in his tracks. "Peep show! I'm going in." He disappeared behind a large black door with flashing lights around it. GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!

Seconds later, his head reemerged from behind the door. "You guys got any singles?"

Joe peeled a dollar off his money clip. Johnny surrendered a buck.

Nate smiled: "I'm going in too. I've seen this shit before, but I never saw Sal see this shit."

"You guys have fun jerking each other off. I'll wait on the corner up there." Joe pointed at 7th and 42nd. "I need something to eat."

Johnny shook his head. "Not in this neighborhood. I won't eat within a mile of this shit show."

They were propositioned several times as they stood on the corner looking in all directions taking in the sleazy sights and sounds of the sex trade. There were also smells. Cigarette smoke mixed with gutter swill, car exhaust with an occasional whiff of cheap perfume that did nothing to improve the assault Joe's senses.

"This is fucked up," Joe muttered to no one and everyone. "There's nothing like this back home."

The din of the city was interrupted by an excited Sal. "You should see the shit these sluts are doing in that joint. They're nasty girls! One girl took her whole fist and...."

"I'm good Sal, don't need to hear it." Joe cut him off with a hand.

"Did you wipe up your spunk?" asked Johnny.

"Or did Nate do it for you?" Joe snickered.

"Nah, I didn't rub one out. Maybe another time," Sal smiled. "I'm definitely checking out more of that action."

After walking the blocks around Times Square, fending off hookers, pimps, and offers of dope or weed, the band hopped on the subway back to the Village. Sal would not shut his mouth about the peep show and sidewalk propositions. He seemed to remember every girl, sizing up his options for a future date.

As they emerged from the Washington Square station, Joe caught a glimpse of a tall man smiling as he gave Sal the elevator look, up and down. He nudged Sal with an elbow.

"Hey Sal, you can get some ass right here in The Village. They're not as in your face as the ladies, but you can tell who has a party in his pants."

"Fuck you, Joe, and fuck these queers too."

"That's exactly what they want," said Nate. "A big meaty Italian boy to roll around..."

"Fuck you too, Nate."

As they passed Christopher Park, Sal motioned to a pair of dudes making out on a bench. "That's so gross. What's wrong with this city?"

"What's your beef with them?"

"It's just disgusting, and it's a sin."

Joe laughed: "Now you're worried about sin... Mr. Peep Show?'

"That doesn't bother you?"

"You know it doesn't. It's not my thing and it's not my business. Live and let live."

"I don't like seeing it."

"Then don't fucking look."

"Hey, Sal, do you have a boner?" Nate pointed at his jeans. "He does!" Nate laughed.

Sal didn't have a boner, but that didn't matter, both Johnny and Joe went along saying they saw a chub.

Sal's fists clenched. His jaw was tight. He turned and walked ahead. The guys followed.

"Why so hostile, Sal?" Joe said. "Nobody touched you."

On the first day in town, Sal noticed men grabbing ass. On day two it was men holding hands. He was confused. Now they were kissing and Sal was getting that skin-crawling icky feeling gay men gave him.

"What's the deal with all the homos?" Sal asked.

Joe decided it was time to inform Sal of his new neighborhood's history. He motioned to Sal and stopped at the far east corner of tiny Christopher Park.

"This is literally the center of gay life in New York. The Stonewall riots happened right here." He pointed at the sidewalk.

"Why do you know about this? You a fag?"

Joe ignored the gorilla. "The tenth anniversary was last month. I read about it years ago in Rolling Stone and recently because of the anniversary. It's kind of a cool story." Joe pointed across the street. "Right here on this street, the queer community fought back. NYPD had a morality squad that harassed gays and lesbians, and one night, they fucking had enough. The riot went on for days. Drag queens were kicking cop's asses."

Nate elbowed me. "Hey Sal, it's happy hour in your favorite bar, right here, right now!"

Joe laughed. "It's always happy hour in a gay bar." He met Sal's eyes. "You live in a gay neighborhood."

Sal turned on his heel and walked ahead again. "Fuck you guys." He flipped them off. "I don't care. It's still wrong."

The guys laughed at his over-reactions. Joe didn't believe Sal would ever hurt a gay man, because he was afraid to touch one. It was a visceral revulsion he couldn't escape. Gayness was Sal's kryptonite.

---- CAREER OPPORTUNITIES ---

Joe went to Tommy's during the day to ask about other opportunities in the city. Tommy was off that day, so he asked the hard punks if they knew of any other bars they could get a gig in. There were suggestions, each dismissed after discussion.

"What about CBGB," Joe asked. "how far is that from here?

"It's on Bowery, at Bleecker Street," said Zip. "You can go there, but you'll have to audition for Hilly."

"Where's that?"

Clyde answered. "On Bowery, in the Bowery, southeast of The Village."

"What's the deal with auditions?" Joe asked.

"Hilly won't let cover bands in his place. You can only play original music. He needs to pass you before you get added to his list."

"He has a bunch of bands," said Monk.

"I only have six original songs, and we don't play them enough."

"That might be enough. Hilly puts up several bands each night. They do short sets."

"That can't pay very well," Joe noted.

"He pays shit," said Clyde, "if he pays at all."

"So, what's the fucking point?".

"Exposure," replied Sunny. "That's where industry types check out new talent."

Clyde nodded. "Exactly. Lou Reed hangs there. I saw Iggy Pop jump on stage. If a cat like Danny Fields likes you, it's a big deal."

"I read about him in Rolling Stone," Joe nodded. "he's like a punk rock guru."

"Right. You play CBGB hoping to get seen, and maybe signed," said Zip.

"Hilly's place is a shithole," Simon added. "It makes this joint look like Buckingham Palace."

Every punk at the bar nodded and murmured some line with dump, dive, disgusting and varied negative adjectives. They mentioned bands they had seen there; Ramones, Television, Blondie, and The Dead Boys.

Simon had an offer. "I'll tell ya what. When there's a night with no music here, we can take the transit so you can check his place out. Maybe you can meet Hilly."

"I'd like to go just as a fan," Joe said, "to say I've been there."

"It's not special," said Sunny, "unless you catch one of the great bands. We saw Bad Brains a few months ago."

"Most of the bands you know have moved on to bigger things," added Clyde. "But when you go to CBGB there's a good chance you'll see the next hot band."

"You just won't know it," mumbled Monk.

"You know it when you see it." Clyde finished his beer and banged his empty pint glass on the bar. "Tommy!"

*****

Tommy gave Joe a Friday night for their third gig, which was a great honor according to the hard punks. Only the bands he loved got weekends. Before the show, Joe sat at the bar nursing a beer. He called Tommy over.

"Jada said you might know some other places we might be able to get work at."

Tommy smiled, "So, it's true. you and Jada?"

Joe shrugged, "We hang out. She'll be here later."

"Is that what they call it in Rhode Island, hanging out?"

"Do you know any places where we might find work?"

"I know one guy in Brooklyn, Eddie Bags. He's got a huge place near Coney Island. It's an old Transit Authority warehouse. He still has trains inside it. Anyway, he'd give you a tryout. He won't hire anyone unless he sees them. You must pass to get work."

"Like CBGB."

"Yeah, but you can play covers at Gravesend."

"Can we invite him up here to check us out?"

Tommy laughed. "Eddie Bags doesn't come to you. You go to Eddie Bags."

"Can you at least hook us up?"

"I'll call him tomorrow. I also have a friend who's been a talent agent, and manager, and she did bookings when she was coming up. Let me give her a call. She might still have some connections."

The Friday night show was the best to date. The bar was packed, front to back, and Tommy charged a five-dollar cover rather than three. It wasn't a big venue, held less than 240, but that bump in the cover charge made it a good-paying gig. At set break, some punks complained about the extra two dollars.

"Here's what I'll do," Joe said. "I'll refund you all two bucks, but we do no dance contest, no singalongs, no fun, just a straight set of music." He looked down the bar at several scary faces. "That's what a three-dollar band gives you."

Tommy's smile made Joe happy. "They got nothin', Tommy said, then laughed,

"Five bucks it is," Zip said, blowing smoke from his cigarette.

The late-night diner had become a tradition. Every night, after a show, whether they were playing or not, the band would go on a Pie Safari. Most punks had breakfast, Joe had pie. Sometimes he'd have breakfast and pie.

Jada was sitting on Joe's lap, making a minor scene, all hands and lips. The punks snickered as Joe appeared uncomfortable with her overt display of public affection. She looked into Joe's eyes. "Did you call me a three-dollar band?"

"Nope. You put on a show."

"Do you think we're a five-dollar band?"

"I'd ask for four?"

"Why?"

"Because I get five. If you get five I'll want six, and then we have a..."

Jada punched him. "I think you should tell Tommy I'm a five-dollar band."

Simon and Sal looked at Joe. The whole booth of punks across the way did too. Nate came back from the bathroom. "What's everyone looking at?"

Joe took a sip of coffee. "What do I get out of this deal?"

Jada wiggled closer. She whispered, her tongue flicking at his ear. "Let's skip food and go back to my place."

"I'm starving," he said loud and clear. "I just did three and a half hours. If you want me to perform later, I need to eat."

The hard punks tittered. Jada flipped them off. She deferred to Joe. Sal and Nate's Chelsea Chicks showed up creating a new booth. They made a chaotic scene at times, with loud laughter and cutlery. Walking back to Hell's Kitchen, Jada looked up at Joe. "This is the best part of these nights, walking around the city at 3 AM.

"Is that why you carry a giant knife?"

"Yes. I love the night."

Joe didn't sleep in 3C for a few nights. He stayed with Jada but every morning she kicked him out. They'd have coffee and then she'd give him the door, not even breakfast. She had places to be.

---- YOU CAN'T TELL MOM THIS ---

"Yes, I'll accept the charges," Jackie said.

"Hey sis, what's going on?"

"Nothing. It's boring here. Where are you?"

"I'm in the apartment. The guys went out."

"What have you been doing?"

"We just did another show and we have a new bar to play tomorrow."

"I mean where have you been?"

"Lots of places. If you want me to tell you, you can't tell Mom this."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Promise me or you get nothing."

"I promise."

"Times Square is the most fucked up place I've ever been." Joe then launched into a play-by-play account of hookers, drug dealers, johns, and junkies. He told her about Sal's peep show and the pimp's purple car.

"Then we came back to the village to hang out with the gays because it wigs Sal out."

"There are gays there?"

Joe laughed, "Yeah, we live in a gay neighborhood. It's a damn sausage fest."

Jackie asked a few questions, then passed the phone to Jules who then passed it to Jeanie. After telling each of the girls little tales of the city, Joe changed the strings on his 1969 Butterscotch.

---- BAD NIGHT IN THE BRONX ----

Before Tommy heard back from Eddie Bags in Brooklyn, his booking agent friend connected the band with a bar in The Bronx. The Belmont Cafe near Fordham University was on the edge of Little Italy. She assured Tommy it was a good gig. When Joe called, the manager said they had a midweek opening, so he grabbed it. A week later, the band played their second New York venue. It was good enough, similar in size to Tommy's, but it was a light crowd, maybe two-thirds full. Joe did his schtick, and it worked fine, but he did not have a good night.

"What the fuck, Sal." He said as they packed gear in the van. "He's not right?"

"Who?"

"Johnny. He fucked off on a few leads. He just... played half-assed."

"What are you talking about? He was fine."

"Are you even listening? He was not fine, he's strung out and now it's showing on stage."

"Bullshit. Do you really think these people know the difference?"

"Maybe they think we just suck. That was not a good set."

"Look, I get it, you can hear when Johnny's off, but that happens sometimes. I think you're making way more of this than it is."

When Nate came up behind them they stopped talking. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," Joe said.

"It sounded like something to me."

"Joe thinks Johnny played like shit tonight because he's fucked up."

Nate scrunched his nose, "He's not wrong. It wasn't his best gig, but he'll be alright."

"Oh, do you think he's gonna get better?" Joe stared at his bandmates, agitated they were downplaying the issue.

"Calm down," Sal said. "We'll keep an eye on him."

"Where is he," Joe asked. "He loaded his guitar and amp and disappeared."

Nate lifted his bass drum into the van. "He said he was taking the subway back to the village."

Joe stood silent for a moment. "Is that you keeping an eye on him, watching him leave?"

"Lighten up, Joe," Sal said, so we had a bad night.

"And you don't think that's unusual, and his taking the subway?"

"Why? He'll get back before we do."

"Yeah, because he's in a hurry to get a fix!" Joe yelled. "Fuck!"

---- HARLEM ---

On a night when Joe managed to wrangle Johnny to go out, only because Johnny said he needed food, he and Simon actually kept an eye on him past midnight. Joe had a special request. "I want to see Harlem."

"At this hour?" Simon asked. "You won't see much."

"There must be a diner up there," Johnny said. "Maybe soul food."

"Clyde told me about a southern cooking joint," Joe said. "it's right near the 137th Steet station. We can give it a shot if you want to gamble with your life."

They took the one-train up to Harlem. Simon said they had no business up there, but Joe insisted. They saw The Bluebonnet Cafe from the train and got off at the next stop. It was only a block from the station.

"You telling me you ain't never had grits before?" the waitress asked. Her nametag was Gladys.

"No ma'am. I've never seen a grit. I don't even know what they are."

"I'm not givin' ya the recipe honey, but I'll give ya a bowl on the house."

"Cool, thanks. I'll have that strawberry-rhubarb pie with it, and whipped cream."

Gladys nodded. "Excellent choice."

She sauntered back to the kitchen to place the order telling the chef about the white boy who never had grits. They were the only Caucasians in the joint. Everyone gawked at them, but none said a word.

Simon leaned in. "Tell me about you and Jada."

Johnny laughed. "Ha, not a chance. Joe's like a monk on a vow of silence."

"I don't talk about girls," Joe shrugged.

"I respect that, but she's a crazy shag, right?"

"We have a good time, and then she kicks me out."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean what I said. We have fun at night, and again in the morning, and then she tells me to leave. She visits her grandma every day. She kicks me to the curb before nine. If I'm lucky, I'll get a coffee before the door."

Johnny made a sad face. "Awww, no cuddling?"

Simon chuckled. "I doubt Jada's a cuddler."

"She'll cuddle, then kick me out of her bed."

Gladys delivered free grits and watched Joe take the first bite. They were buttery and creamy and he liked them. She smiled, nodded her approval, and walked away. A minute later the cook, Carl, popped his head out and shouted through the service window. "Son, she pushes them grits like drugs. Your first bowl is free, and then ya hooked."

Another patron joined in. "If she catches you puttin' syrup in her grits, she slaps you upside the head."

"You can put maple syrup in grits?" Joe was intrigued.

Gladys pointed her finger at Joe. "No, you can't. Not in my grits. Butter, and butter only."

"And cheese," Carl shouted.

Gladys nodded. "Cheese is alright."

"And Hot sauce."

"Shut up, Carl," Gladys shouted.

It was a bit out of the way, but The Bluebonnet was added to the list of diner stops. That was not his last bowl of Gladys' grits, and every time he walked in, she warmly greeted Joe and shouted back to Carl, "The white boy is back for my grits."

It was during those late-night diner stops that Joe became quite fond of Simon MacManus. When Johnny began fucking off and Sal and Nate met the Chelsea chicks, Simon and Joe became the anchors of diner excursions. It was good to have Johnny along on this night. It eased Joe's mind to see him behaving like old Johnny. Many nights it was just Simon and Joe, walking the city, talking till dawn, and having breakfast at another diner. Joe called it the up-all-nighter.

Joe was very interested in Simon's journey to America. He explained that his life began as a proper English lad. Raised in Hammersmith, London. He attended boarding school in the country until he was expelled for various offenses that occurred over the years. Si had a long rap sheet. On a drinking night, after Joe and Simon had closed a bar, Si told his story at The Skyline. Joe ordered the lemon meringue and cherry, a twilight doubleheader with coffee.

"The school hosted an annual family picnic," he explained. "One of the seniors had a sister I fancied. We ran off to the carriage house. Her brother was a bugger. He and two of his mates burst in on us."