All The Young Punks Pt. 17

"He's an idiot," Joe said. "He just outed his sister."

Simon nodded, stirring his dainty cup of tea. "They caught her blowing me. I had a handful of her luxurious red hair. They jumped on me and she screamed. It was bloody scandalous. Her parents were gutted. You're right, his sister's reputation was ruined. Trevor and his boys made my life miserable, especially on the rugby pitch."

"I can see you playing rugby," Joe said, sipping his coffee. "You have a thick build and broad shoulders." Simon was 6'1", taller than Joe by an inch, but his frame was far beefier than skinny Joe. "Did they beat on you, three on one?"

"Yeah, they'd knock me about, but if Trevor was alone, he'd avoid me."

"You could take him?"

"He knew that. Trevor was a cunt. The worst thing was, he spied and grassed me up anytime I did wrong."

"What's grassed, do you mean rat you out?"

"Exactly. That's how I got pinched with a bottle of scotch I had nicked from a teacher, and then again for selling hashish. I had the headmaster so far up my arse, I took the piss."

"Do we speak the same language?" Joe asked. "What's take the piss?"

"I didn't give a fuck. I was in full rebellion, disgusted with their proper English bullshit. I hated that place and had enough of my father's design for my future."

"What did you do to get expelled?"

"Trevor snitched on me for sneaking into town one night, I found him alone and beat the shit out of him. That was the end of me at Gladstone. My dad used his connections to get me into a private school in the city, then I got busted selling grass, and he cut me off."

"How did you end up at NYU if your family cut you off?"

"My Grandmother. She paid the final installment of school tuition. I was out most nights seeing bands and getting plastered, but I still got off to school. I have a brain," He tapped his head. "So I pulled good grades. My troubles were never in the classroom."

"Why NYU?"

"To get away from my father and his expectations. I hate that life, the posh phony cunts who smile in your face and talk shit behind your back. My Grams covered my tuition here as long as I kept up my grades. I'm not loaded. I had to get a job at the bakery to pay my living expenses. That's where I met Zip and Clyde."

"So, you went to NYU full-time and held down a graveyard shift at the bakery?"

Simon nodded. "Thirty hours a week. Not too bad."

"What did you study?"

"I have a degree in economics and I minored in music. I play piano, and guitar and dabble in a few horns. I like the trumpet."

"Why aren't you in a band?"

"Oh, I've been in bands, two in London and one here. It never works out. I don't know if you realize this, but musicians are unreliable tossers. I have no patience for people I can't depend on."

"I hear ya brother. Our band is tight because we're dependable."

---- TOMMY GUNS ----

It was official, the band had a problem. Johnny was 0-2 in The Bronx after another rough night at The Belmont. The following day, after he slipped away, Joe went to Tommy's to visit with the day-drinking punks. Nate and Sal had become scarce during the day, hanging out at Carla and Dee's place in Chelsea. Joe hoped the hard punks might have some advice.

"Hey Tommy Gun, how ya doin'" Joe said as he walked in.

"Whadja you call me?"

"Tommy Gun, it's a song by The Clash. Tommy Gallardo, T.G., Tommy Gun, it's just a joke."

He whispered. "Tommy Gun."

"Where is everyone? I thought they got here after the bakery shift."

"They're at a funeral service," Zip said. "some junkie friend."

"Why are you here?"

"Because he was no friend of ours," Judy said. "He was an asshole."

Tommy looked her way, "Don't speak ill of the dead." He placed a pint in front of Joe. "Hey, I've been trying to come up with a name for this joint for months. The gang calls it Tommy's, and that's fine, but I think Tommy Guns would work." He flexed his impressive biceps.

"Sure," Joe nodded. "It keeps the name and your initials. It's still Tommy's"

Tommy smiled. "And my guns." He flexed again.

Zip laughed. "No one loves you more than you, Tommy."

"When I opened this place up, I had no business. Two months in, I didn't think I was gonna survive, then these punks showed up."

"Yeah," Joe said, as he sipped his pint. "Clyde was telling me they saved your bar."

"The first thing they did was break into the jukebox and remove all the forty-fives they hated. Then they gave me a list of music to add. My vending guy was irate, so I made it right with him and he delivered the music. After that, this was their bar."

"I've heard this tale before," Joe said. "Our gig in Worcester has the same story. Punks saved a sad Irish bar."

"Six months ago we had nine punks, then they multiplied like creepy black leather, studded bunnies. Word got out and every freak and weirdo in The Kitchen and Chelsea showed up."

Zip leaned over, "Then we told him, 'If you want us to drink here at night, get some live music."

Tommy nodded. "So I removed a few back booths, built a stage, bought lights and a used PA. It was a gamble." He placed a shot glass upside down in front of Joe. "but it paid off."

"What's that for?"

"You just named my bar for me." Tommy smiled. "I'm going with Tommy Guns. Now I can put a real sign out front, and make business cards."

A short time later, a handful of punks arrived from their service. They took their places at the bar. Joe waited for TG to serve them before explaining his concern about Johnny and his druggie friends. It wasn't news to them. They had noticed his decline on stage.

"What's he doing?" Zip asked. "Are there patterns?"

Joe answered. "After a gig, he goes straight to that apartment and returns late in the morning. He usually sleeps. If we have a gig, we have to roust him to get him to the show. "We barely see him on off days."

"I don't think Johnny is doing bong rips," said Clyde.

Tommy put a second beer in front of Joe. "Not to alarm you, but we have a pretty serious heroin problem. You need to find out what he's doing."

Joe didn't hear a word he said after heroin. Tommy kept talking, but Joe's mind traveled back to earlier in the year when Sal informed him of Johnny's past addiction and rehab.

"We lost a friend last week," Sunny said, "not the first. We just attended his service."

Zip stared into his beer. "It took my older brother. We think he's still alive, but don't really know."

"I knew NYU two students who pissed off after getting hooked," Simon said. "They were bright kids from good families. It was tragic."

"If he's on H, you gotta get him out of town," Tommy suggested. "Maybe you can find him some help back home."

This was sobering news. What little Joe knew about heroin he had learned from magazine articles and reading William S. Burroughs. It was made from poppies, they tied off, injected it, and went into a downward trip. That and descriptions of the slowness of the trip, edging close to oblivion, and the desperate need to remain there, were the extent of his knowledge.

"I can't imagine Johnny using a needle," Joe added. "He's squeamish, and a big fucking baby about blood and..."

A row of punks rolled their eyes in unison.

"What?"

Jett shook her head. "You don't know shit about this, do you?"

Joe's silence was her answer.

"First of all, you can smoke heroin. That's the entry point for many users. You can snort it too."

Joe was slightly annoyed. "Okay," his hands went up. "I'm sorry I'm not a fucking drug addict."

Tommy laughed. A few punks joined him.

Then Joe shook his head. "Johnny would never inject himself, but he would definitely smoke or snort. He's done all that shit."

"What does he snort?" Monk asked.

"I saw him snort coke, just once. It's not something he does often, but if it's around..."

Sunny met Joe's eyes, flipping her bleach blonde locks from her face. "You can do that with coke, be recreational, but that's not how it works with heroin."

"The friend we just buried started snorting," said Jett. "then he chased the dragon and eventually got over his aversion to the needle."

Zip nodded. "The fix is all that matters. It's fucking crazy how fast they go dark."

"What's chasing the dragon?" Joe asked.

Jett laughed. "Jesus Christ, you're like a child. It's a Chinese term for smoking opium."

"I'm sorry, we don't have heroin in Providence."

All the punks laughed. Simon put his hand on Joe's shoulder. "You have heroin in Providence."

"Is Johnny eating?" Sunny asked.

"Yes, he is, but he's had stomach problems."

"Is he constipated?"

"How would I know? I don't hold his hand in the bathroom."

Everything they told him was new information, heroin 101. Joe left the bar sober, not because he wasn't drinking. When he saw Sal and Nate that evening, he let them know what he learned about heroin.

"He's not on heroin," Sal laughed. "He could never take the needle."

"They snort it and smoke it too."

"He's a pill popper, and maybe some coke. Johnny's not on smack."

Joe became agitated, but tried to hold back, as Sal continued to dismiss his concerns and even mock him.

"You're a mother hen," Sal smirked. "keeping an eye on her chicks."

"And you're the monkey, see no evil, hear no evil, looking the other way. You won't see the shit hit the fan until it's in your face."

"Shut the fuck up, Joe," Sal made sure he had eye contact. "Mind your own business. Johnny will be fine."

"You don't know that."

"He had these episodes," Sal said. "Don't worry about him. He's a big boy."

Joe stared silently at Sal, then Nate. "We have to keep him out of that druggie apartment."

"Okay, fine,' Sal said, exasperated. "We will do what we can."

---- JADA'S LOSS ----

After the initial run of hot and steamy nights hanging out in Jada's apartment, things had cooled off. Joe was confused but not concerned. He heard she was playing gigs out of town. Jada never told him that.

When she finally showed up at Tommy's, more than a week later, Jada grabbed Joe by the collar to plant a forceful kiss on him. She insisted they skip coffee and pie. He was back in her bed minutes later doing what she liked most, riding the baloney pony.

Jada's head rested on his shoulder. She explained that she helps care for her grandmother in Queens. That, and her road gigs, took her away at times.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, but that's kinda how I am. I know it's shitty of me, but I just leave and do my thing."

"So what's up with your grandmother? Is she sick?"

"No, she's just old and has a broken heart," she said. "My Mom died years ago. I was thirteen. She was an addict."

"I'm sorry. I thought you said you visited your mom every week."

"Yes, her grave. She doesn't have a headstone, and it bothers me. I put a Korean flag in one of those metal holders... and flowers, and I tend to it."

"That's a lot to deal with, losing your Mom to drugs."

"When my Dad brought my Mom to America pregnant, she insisted her mother come. My halmeoni lived with us and my dad supported her. She was always with us and that put a strain on their marriage. He cheated and Mom did drugs... and then he left."

"Halmeoni?"

"That's grandma in Korean. She barely speaks English, so with my Mom gone she's vulnerable."

Joe had no words.

"Thankfully she lives in Bayside where other Koreans have settled, so she gets by okay."

Joe still had no words. What do you say to someone who's lost a parent to drugs?

"This will sound awful, " Jada said in a near whisper. "but it's better that Mom is gone. My grandmother went through hell with her. She tried to help Mom through the Korean community but you can't help someone who doesn't want to help herself. My mother took advantage of her mother, stole from her, and disrespected her so many times. Her death was terrible, but not a shock. I realize now that she's at peace and so is my halmoeni. The sad part is, she's alone and she wants to go back to Korea."

"That's tragic." Joe pulled Jada closer. "What did your mom use?"

"The plague. I've lost a friend, a cousin, and my Mom to heroin. I don't know anyone who's beaten that addiction. Once they're gone, they don't come back."

"Fuck," Joe said under his breath.

"What?"

Joe sighed, "We think Johnny is on it."

"Johnny, your guitarist?" Jada looked up at Joe. "He's an addict?"

"I guess he did rehab back in high school, and he was okay for a few years. He dropped out of college last year because he was partying too much and failing. I didn't know of his drug problems until a few months ago."

"Look, if he's on heroin, you've gotta get him help. I know people who treat addicts. We've done interventions trying to get friends into the system. I can help you."

"Okay. Let me talk to Sal. I'll get back to you. We might need help."

Jada's words that stuck with Joe were, 'Once they're gone, they never come back.' He didn't know how far Johnny was gone, and that worried him. A week later, Jada disappeared again without a word. Joe wasn't surprised this time.

----- BROOKLYN ----

Joe was alone with Johnny trying to keep him occupied and out of the opium den in 1B. They had a new venue to play that night, a tryout in Brooklyn with Tommy's friend Eddie Bags. Joe was worried Johnny might fuck it up, so he dragged him to breakfast, then to Central Park, and finally to a matinee. After the film, Johnny gave him the slip. When Sal and Nate returned to Jones Street, Joe was not in a good mood.

"Maybe if you guys were here more during the day, we could take shifts babysitting"

Sal was annoyed. "How did he escape this time?"

"When we got out of the theater he said he needed smokes. I was reading a magazine at a newsstand while he went into a store. I didn't see him come out. I assume he's with them."

"You should have gone inside with him."

"You need to shut the fuck up and step up." Joe pointed at Sal. "Do your share! I've had him more than you two combined, and it's always during the day when we have too much fucking time on our hands."

"And he's slipped you three times now."

"Fuck you, Sal. I'm not his damn babysitter, and I can't make him stay with me."

Joe was hot. These guys were off playing house with their Chelsea chicks and he was left holding Johnny's hand. He had enough. They had six days remaining in town and he couldn't wait to get the fuck out of New York... but first, they had a job in Brooklyn.

The drive to Coney Island was a nightmare. Sal was impatient in late rush hour traffic while Joe navigated. He drove too fast, weaving lane to lane like an asshole. Cars honked at the van cutting them off. Sal missed a turn, then another. Joe used a city map to find a new route, but Sal was in the wrong lane and missed another third turn. It devolved into a shouting match with Joe barking directions and criticizing his driving, and Sal telling him to "Fuck off" or "Suck it, Joe." - and variations of Salvatore's eloquence.

The stress of Johnny kept the temperature between Joe and Sal high. It was too easy for one of them to snap over little things like Sal driving like an idiot. Nate laughed from the back, Johnny barely noticed. He wasn't in the junkie trance, but he wasn't one hundred percent either. He said his stomach wasn't right. He was pale and sweaty.

When they finally found Gravesend, it was the strangest of venues. The warehouse was on the edge of the MTA Coney Island Yard. The yard buzzed with activity, clanking subway trains in and out, maintenance workers cleaning and servicing cars, coupling and uncoupling. There was a rail spur leading directly into the cavernous warehouse.

Tommy was not wrong. Gravesend was a big venue, but half the building was occupied by rusted machinery, retired rail cars, and train parts which created an eerie salvage yard setting. Beyond the artifacts of public transportation was an open space bigger than The Brickyard. Joe guessed it topped over a thousand.

After hauling gear inside, they were invited to the bar by the owner, Eddie Baglioni, a.k.a. Eddie Bags. This night was the same deal at their first show in Boston, three bands getting a tryout. The first band was doing their set of rock covers with punk mixed in. They were good and tight, and the crowd seemed to like them. Eddie was less impressed. He was a serious businessman; average height, stocky, thinning hair, in his late-forties, who didn't make small talk. Eddie wore a big gold chain, multiple rings, and a gaudy wristwatch. His people called him Bags.

"After we take this battle of the bands, will you hook us up with a weekend gig?" Joe smiled.

Bags glanced at Joe, not amused. "It's not a battle. Just get up there and do your thing, wise ass."

"Of course it's a battle. Are you gonna hire the third best band? Nope. It's us versus them."

"You're up last, be ready."

"We're leaving town soon, but we can come back in late September. If you give us a weekend."

Eddie walked away muttering something under his breath about a cocky shit.

The place wasn't half full, maybe five hundred, but that was a good number for them. It was definitely a punk crowd with the typical fashion that made it hard to find a job. All that unoccupied hard space in the back gave the room an echoey sound. The stage was huge, a concert platform with first-rate overhead lighting. The Yamaha PA system was impressive, with pieces hanging from above. Eddie Bags spared no expense.

As the second band took the stage, Joe noticed Johnny was missing. He elbowed Sal, "Where the fuck is Johnny?"

Sal looked left and right, "Fuck. We gotta go find him."

"I babysat all day," Joe said with a flatly. "You deal with it."

As Joe watched the second band, even less punk than the first, two wild-looking chicks stood nearby, leaning against the bar. They were loud, doing shots and acting trashy. Joe eavesdropped and overheard one of their names.

"Hey Paula, I'm Joe. I'm in the next band."

"Hi, Joe." She smiled. "What's up? This is Sherry."

"Hey baby," Sherry smiled. "What's going on?"

"Well, it's like this. I need two girls to come on stage and dance. I bet you two can dance and you might be drunk enough to do it."

Sherry looked at Paula: "I'm not drunk yet, but I'll do it."

"You just want us to dance?"

"Yes, but I won't spoil the surprise. When we do a song about a sailor, be close to the stage. What are you drinking?"

"Jack," answered Paula.

Joe looked at the bartender. "Two Jacks for the ladies."

Sherry frowned. "Aren't you gonna have a drink with us?"

"I can't drink whiskey. It makes me naked."

Paula laughed and looked at the bartender. "Make that three."

Joe did one shot. He didn't like Jack Daniels. He called it the Budweiser of whiskey, too sweet. He preferred smokey Kentucky bourbon.

Sal and Nate returned with Johnny, "He was sitting in a subway car." Johnny didn't look good.

For a short show with a tough crowd, Joe had laid out a high energy hard punk set. They opened with the Python, 'Now for something completely different.' Sousa march, which confused the punks. Then followed with 'You're So Vain', further baffling the audience, but they laughed. Then they bashed out punk 'Kodachrome'. After that, it was all punk.

From the start, Joe noticed that Johnny was sloppy. He played okay, a bit closer to Joe's skill level than his own. He was just standing there, wobbly on his feet, getting by on muscle memory. After Joe went full punk with a string of U.K. covers. The crowd came to life. They went crazy while singing Gilligan, followed by The Ramones. Then Joe went into carnival barker mode.

When he brought up the girls, his intuition was proven correct. Paula and Sherry danced like drunk hookers, one egging the other on. When they kissed passionately on stage, the Brooklyn punks went absolutely bananas.