—-- MARCH 1978 —--


    Dr. Barbara Nichols leaned forward, adjusting her skirt, then leaned back in her chair. She crossed her legs. Joe sat passively on the couch across from her, watching and waiting. She glanced at her notes on her lap, and then at Joe. “Let’s talk about this fight you had a few months ago. Have you had any trouble with those boys since?”


    “No.”


    The doctor stared at Joe, waiting for more information. None was offered. “Is that all you have to say?”


    “Don’t you think my saying there’s no problem is enough? If there was still trouble I’d have more to say.”


    “Have you had any fights since?”


    “No. I have two strikes against me. If I get into another… scuffle, I’ll be expelled.”


    “That was more than a scuffle.”


    Joe shrugged.


    The doctor waited again. Over years of treating Joe she had become accustomed to his short answers and long silences, and she knew pushing him to talk more often had the opposite effect.


    “Is there anything troubling you these days?”


    “Yes. I’m sick of people making a fuss about the fights. I’ve had a few scrapes. It’s not like I’m constantly brawling.”


    “I recall you once telling me you’d been in ten fights, and you’ve had another since.”


    “And that’s over eight years, and I have never started a fight.”


    “You were bullied.”


    “Yes, you know that because we’ve talked about it too many times. There’s no reason to discuss it further. No one bullies me anymore.”


    “And you believe that’s because you have a reputation as a tough kid.”


    “No, I have a reputation for not taking shit from bullies. It took me years to learn that fighting back is the only way to end it.”


    “That’s not true. You could always go to the principal.”


    Joe laughed, “Maybe that’s how it was in the fifties when you were a kid in bobby socks.” He paused for a reaction. The doctor gave him nothing. “But that’s not how it works at my school. Mr. Reed calls the jerk into his office for a lecture and then that kid will come after you for ratting him out.”


    “Did that happen to you?”


    “Yes!” Joe said, exasperated. “We’ve been over this before. I’ve answered all these questions. If you can’t remember the discussions we’ve had and I have to keep telling you the same stories… I have to wonder if these sessions are worth my time.”


    The Doctor scribbled in her notepad. Joe continued.


    “Yes, I got my ass beaten a couple of times for reporting a bully. Ya know… when I say I’ve been in ten fights, that includes me getting beaten up.” Joe steeled his eyes. “The problem with teachers is they never have a clue what happened… and they don’t bother to ask. They see two students fighting and assume both are troublemakers.”


    “I sense your anger, Joe. That anger is one reason you’re here.”


    “I’m not angry. I’m annoyed that we have the same talks over and over and I don’t think it’s helping me.”


    “Your mother told me you don’t want to come here anymore.”


    “I’ve told you that myself, and why. Having to repeat myself is frustrating and makes me question if you’re listening.”


    “I am listening, Joe. Sometimes it helps when you retell stories. I can then determine if your perception has changed. For example, when you first came here it was for the trauma you experienced over your sister’s death. You could barely speak of it six years ago, you’d break down in tears. Now you can discuss it like a young man. From your retelling of that terrible day, I witnessed healing and growth on your part.”


    Joe didn’t respond. He stared at Dr. Nichols. She shifted her position again. He admired her long shapely legs. Joe had been thinking for some time that he should end his therapy. One reason he kept coming was Dr. Nichols herself. He guessed she was a little older than his Mom, but she seemed younger, maybe because she didn’t give birth to five children. She was attractive, well-dressed, and had full and fabulous brunette hair. Those long legs stretching out from her skirts and dresses were worth the stinky ride on the Ten Bus across town. Joe especially enjoyed it when he made her smile because she was hard to crack.


    The problem was, as the years passed talking to Dr. Nichols was becoming more like talking to his mother. When he was younger and needed therapy, she was thoughtful, and caring while handling a sixth grader. She listened and these visits were good for his soul. Now she was like Mom, pecking at the same questions, expressing the same concerns, and it didn’t feel like he was being heard.


    “If I’ve grown and matured and you believe those wounds have healed, maybe I’m done here.”


    “They never fully heal, Joe, and you have other issues.”


    “I just told you I’m no longer bullied and I’m not fighting. What else do you have?”


    “Joe, your last fight was months ago, not years. You have a propensity to seek out bullies and take matters into your own hands. That’s a cycle of violence you must end. You claim you never start fights, but if you go after a boy for picking on a classmate, that’s not your business. You are picking a fight with that boy.”


    “I don’t see it that way, and neither do the kids who are being preyed on.”


    “You do realize this is all tied to your sister’s death, correct?”


    “That’s what my Mom tells you… because I was such a good boy before Janie died.”


    “Yes, trauma has deep effects on people, especially children. I agree with her that your sister’s death changed you. The fighting started not long after she passed.”


    “Yeah, because I realized nothing really matters.”


    “How does fighting solve that?”


    “It doesn’t, but getting my ass kicked wasn’t working, so I started fighting back.”


    “Because you were angry.”


    Joe stared blankly.


    “That doesn’t work either, Joe.”


    “It totally worked. No one fucks with me anymore. That’s all I want, to be left alone.”


    Dr. Nichols gave Joe a disapproving glare for his language. “And that’s the other thing that worries your mother, that you’ve withdrawn.”


    “That’s not true. I just don’t want to talk about the same crap every day and listen to her tell me how worried she is about me, or how much I''ve disappointed her. She never stops. Ya know, if anyone in my family needs therapy, it’s her. She’s like Chicken Little, the sky is always falling.”


    “Yes, your mother suffers from anxiety.”


    “Yes, among other things, and she’s always dumping her problems onto me and my sisters. If you want to help me, treat my Mom.”


    “What about your father?”


    “What about him?”


    “Does he annoy you as your mother does?”


    “Not at all. Dad is the sane parent until Mom makes him so crazy and he has to deal with whatever she’s prattling on about.”


    “Do your siblings feel the same frustration as you?”


    “Jackie does. We talked about it. She’s a goodie-two-shoes… and she does a better job of hiding her feelings. I can only take so much.”


    “Do you argue with your mother often?”


    “It’s not usually an argument. I never yell at her. She rags and nags until I’ve had enough and I shut her down… with a joke or some comment that makes fun of what she’s carrying on about. She’ll get huffy and walk away, disappointed in me… again.”


    “Does that make you feel good?”


    “No, it just makes the nagging stop.”


    Dr. Nichols scanned her notes, then flipped back a few pages. She looked up at Joe. “Are you still journaling, writing down your thoughts to process them?”


    “Yeah, but not as much. I write other stuff.”


    “Like what?”


    “Ideas I have for my band, and song lyrics. I do a lot of doodling.”


    “Writing can be therapeutic as long as what you write is positive.”


    “Yeah, I like it.” Joe met her eyes. “In six years, it’s the best advice you’ve given me, thank you.”


    Dr., Nichols tried to hide her smile, but Joe saw her slightly blush. She closed her notebook. “Okay, we’re almost done for today. As always, I’d like to end on an up note. Tell me what’s good in your life, something that makes you happy.”


    Joe stared at her. She adjusted her legs again. He watched her, pretending he was pondering her question. She moved her hair out of her face. Joe wanted to tell her he loved her curly bob hairstyle, especially the big curls she had to keep pushing aside.


    “And don’t say your sisters,” she smiled. “I know all about them.”


    “My band. That’s what I look forward to.”


    “Yes, I know about your band and how much you love music. Is there anything else?”


    “No. Why would there be? That’s what makes me happy. You’re always saying I must focus on the positive, that’s what music is. It’s all positive… even when it’s not.”


    “What does that mean?”


    “A song about injustice may not sound positive and hopeful, but challenging injustice in art is itself positive.”


    Dr. Nichols exhaled. “You have a way of thinking that intrigues me, Joseph.”


    “Please don’t call me that. Only my mother calls me Joseph.” Joe found her eyes again. “You don’t want to sound like my Mom. That would be bad for business.”


    He made her smile again, and that’s what these sessions were all about. Joe had a six-year relationship with an empathetic, educated, emotionally intelligent, attractive woman… roughly his mother''s age. Dr. Nichols wanted to close with what’s positive in Joe’s life, and there were two things, his sisters and his band.


    “When I learn a new song or even a simple guitar riff I feel like I’ve accomplished something. I don’t get that with anything else. I have a focus and determination with music that I don’t have anywhere else.


    “Not even in school.”


    “Especially not in school. Music is the best therapy, no offense intended.”


    She smiled, “None taken.”


    Joe exhaled. “Sometimes I think you talk to my Mom too much and you see things her way.” Joe adjusted his butt on the chair and looked at Dr. Nichols. “I get that she has rights, but what about my right to privacy? I don’t think I want her knowing what we talk about.”


    “Yes, this is another point we come back to over and over.” Dr Nichols smirked while scribbling in her notebook. “I thought you were sick of talking about the same things.”


    ‘Touche’, Joe thought with a smile Dr. Nichols noticed. He liked that she did that. The doctor could play the game.


    “Okay, so let’s talk about your band. It’s not all positive. Your good friends quit the band. I guess that worked itself out?”


    “Yes, it’s better than working out. It’s great. We have new guys who are better.” Joe paused, “Pete was never my best friend.”


    ‘Joe,” Dr Nichols looked over her glasses. “He was your first bandmate. I remember how excited you were when he came to your garage to play.”


    “That seems so long ago but it’s not. My life has changed so much. I’ve told you this before. It’s how we end every session.”


    “And this is why. You leave thinking about what’s good in your life and I worry less about you.”


    “It’s not your job to worry about me. That’s my Mom’s job and she’s working overtime.”


    Dr. Nichols smiled again. Joe was on a roll. “Well, Joe. After all these years you’ll have to forgive me for being invested.”


    Near the end of the session, Dr. Nichols handed Joe a card with his next appointment written on it. He looked at the date, four weeks away. He was done with therapy. There was a time when talking to her was extremely helpful, but that was years ago. This work was no longer yielding the same benefits. Joe felt he owed Dr. Nichols courtesy of telling her face to face, rather than pulling a no-show next month.


    He exhaled audibly. “I don’t think I’m coming back.”


    “You’ve said this before, a few times, and then you always come back.”


    “Yes, because you convinced me to come once a month rather than weekly,” he shrugged. “That was a fair compromise.”


    “It’s never good to end these treatments abruptly. A gradual weaning is better. You say you''re done but then you have a day when you realize these sessions are useful in some way. Who else in your life can you talk to like this?”


    Joe shrugged. “I don’t talk a lot.”


    “But you do with me. That’s why I don’t believe you’re quitting.”


    “Yeah, well, this time it’s for real. You have been very helpful, Dr. Nichols. I appreciate what you’ve done for me. I just don’t feel I need this anymore. As I’ve gotten older I think I can manage my issues.”


    Dr. Nichols chuckled with a smile.


    “Why is that funny?” Joe asked.


    “You’re seventeen, Joe. I find it amusing when a teenager tells me they’re all grown up. I hear it often.”


    “Thank you, Dr. Nichols.”


    “You have my card. I’ll hold that appointment. You can call any time.”


    Another reason Joe continued visiting Dr. Nichols was the fact her office was on the East Side of Providence, near Brown University and only two blocks from his favorite record store. He enjoyed hanging out on College Hill and talking with the staff and patrons in the shops, mostly Brown and RISD students. He often slipped into the Brown Bookstore to read stuff he couldn’t afford to buy. If it weren’t for the bookstores, Victory Records, and Dr. Nichols’ legs, he would have quit therapy long ago.


    ––— OUR HOUSE —----


    Joe’s feet had barely crossed the threshold of the house when his sister Jeannie called out. “Mom, Joey’s home!”


    Eight-year-old Jeanette was seated at the kitchen table doing homework. Her sandy-colored hair was in pigtails Joe helped her with before school that day. He kissed the top of her head. Sister Jackie was at the counter chopping the pointy ends off green beans. She looked up at her big brother, “You’re late.”


    Seconds later, Mom stormed into the kitchen in her nurse uniform. “You’re late!”


    Joe didn’t react. He reached into the refrigerator for a drink, pulled the foil top off a glass milk jug, and took a long sip.


    “Don’t drink from the bottle!” Mom barked, reaching for the milk. Joe turned away, blocking her move with his shoulder, and took a second drink. Mom glared at him as he placed the bottle back in the fridge.


    “I’m not late if you’re still home.” He smiled with a milk mustache, then wiped it with his hand.


    “Where were you? You promised to help Julie with her science project. I’m guessing you were doing nothing useful at that damn garage.”


    “Ma,” Joe smirked at her. “Watch your language… or you’ll get the soap.”


    “Don’t be a smart ass.”


    “That’s two strikes, potty mouth.” Joe winked at thirteen-year-old Jacqueline. She smiled at him, amused at his mocking mother.


    “Where have you been, goofing off with Sal?”


    “No! I had an appointment with Dr. Nichols. I got out of school early and did my talky thing.”


    “Why didn’t you tell me?”


    “I did, Mom. You don’t listen because you’re always talking.” Joe looked at Jackie.


    “He told us last week,” Jackie nodded. “And he mentioned it yesterday.”


    “And what’s that?” She pointed at an obvious vinyl purchase.


    “It’s the new Talking Heads record.”


    “So you had time to waste at the record shop?”


    “Yes, I did,” Joe smirked. “I’m staying in tonight. I’ll work with Jules after dinner.”


    “That’s good.” Mom pointed north. “Go see her. She’s in her room making a mess of things… and whining.”


    “She’s always whining,” Joe laughed. “Let me know when she’s not. That’ll be news.”


    Again, Jackie smiled at her brother.


    Jeanie got up and hugged her brother. “Can you help me with my math?”


    “Sure, let me check on Jules first.” He walked over to Jackie. “Are you good? You got this?”


    “Yes, but can you pull the gizzards out of the bird and rinse it? I hate the slimy guts. The oven is almost up to temp.”


    Joe washed his hands at the kitchen sink, pulled the innards from the bird cavity, rinsed it, and placed it in a large, oven-worn, Corningware baking dish that was older than he was. He painted the bird with olive oil.”


    “Don’t cut so much of the tips off those beans,” he lightly elbowed Jackie. “They’re expensive.” He leaned closer. “You don’t want canned vegetables again… do you?”


    Jackie stuck a gag-inducing finger in her mouth and looked at Joe, “I cried every time she made green beans, or spinach… or anything green.”


    “We don’t want to go back to the canned ages so make good use of the fresh stuff.”


    Jackie smiled a third time, looking up at him. “The canned ages?”


    He shrugged. After sprinkling salt, pepper, and rosemary inside and out, he opened the oven and slid the bird in.


    He washed his hands again. “Let me go check on Jules.”


    Joe walked in on ten-year-old Juliette coloring a styrofoam ball with markers. “How’s it going?" he asked, then kissed the top of her head.


    “I suck at this,” she said. “Look at Jupiter. It’s so stupid.”


    “Good thing no one’s ever been to Jupiter. They won’t know the difference.”


    “Can you do Earth? Everyone knows what that looks like.”


    “Sure. After dinner. I’m gonna help Jeanie with her math first.”


    Mom walked in, “My ride''s here.” She kissed Joe, kissed Julie, “Be good.” She turned to Joe, “Help her.”


    Joe raised his hands, exasperated. “Why do you think I’m in here?”


    This was Joe’s life through his teens. He was seventeen, the oldest, and was expected to help around the house. Every day he’d come straight home from school to do his chores and help with his sisters. Through his formative years, this daily routine made it difficult for Joe to have a social life outside of school. Things were much easier now that Jackie was old enough to help with the cooking. Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    When the sisters were younger, Joe would meet Jeanie and Jules at their elementary school and walk them home. Mom would then go over the dinner plan. He’d help her prepare and then Joe would cook the meal after she ran off to her second-shift nursing job at Rhode Island Hospital. Dad rolled in from his machine shop gig around 5:45, as dinner was being served. Joe, Dad, and the girls dined every night. If Dad worked late a plate would be waiting in the oven. In those days Jackie did the dishes while Joe helped with baths and then got the little ones ready for bed. The days of telling bedtime stories were mostly over but he still read to Jeanie when she asked.


    Once Jackie became old enough to help in the kitchen prepping dinner Joe’s responsibilities relaxed a bit. He still came home to help but she usually had dinner prep under control. That change happened around the time Joe started his band with three other high school kids, about a year ago.


    From age twelve Joe was given a weekly allowance. With few friends and no social life to speak of he didn’t have many activities to spend money on. On Saturday he’d take the bus to the East Side and hang out at Victory Records. He’d flip through racks of vinyl and talk to the staff about music. Some days he’d walk to Wickenden Street Books to browse and talk to the old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Kraus, holocaust survivors happy to be in America.


    Music, reading, writing, drawing, baseball, and basketball were his interests. He collected baseball cards and comic books as a kid but records pushed them out as his number one obsession. He accumulated albums but he saved most of his allowance for what he wanted more than anything.


    On his fourteenth birthday, two weeks after Christmas, he opened cards with cash from his grandparents. Joe finally had enough to purchase a bone-white 1966 Fender Telecaster from a pawn shop in South Providence. Dad then drove him to Ray Mullins Music in Pawtucket to buy a used 40-watt Fender Champion amplifier. Dad kicked in a few bucks for a book and chord charts. From that day on Joe’s free time was spent in his basement bedroom studying and learning guitar, listening to his records, and trying to play the songs he loved.


    Joe’s record collection and guitar were his life for his first two years of high school. Every evening he retreated to his basement bedroom. At school, he was a punk loner who didn’t talk much and was usually reading a paperback. Joe was a voracious reader but his novels served another purpose. They were a shield making him less approachable. Most classmates knew him only for the times he defended himself, or others. He had friends at school, some stoners and rockers, but not close friends.


    By sixteen, Joe had an impressive growth spurt and could play decent rhythm guitar. Once he had a little freedom, because Jackie was taking on more chores, he decided to start a garage band. Mom still wanted him close to home so Joe and three other low-talent high school boys practiced in Dad’s two-car detached garage behind their tenement house on Federal Hill. They were never very good but it was fun and playing with other kids pushed Joe to the next level. Collaboration is a big step.


    After dinner, Joe helped Julie with her science project while Dad watched the CBS Evening News. Dad was a Cronkite guy. Joe sensed his sister was slacking and letting him do the heavy lifting. He sat on the floor in the bedroom. Jeanie lay on the bed watching the drama with a smirk.


    “I’m not doing the project for you.” Joe interrupted Julie’s whining. “I’m showing you how to do it. I can’t do all the work.” He paused. “Okay… maybe some of the stuff you can’t do.”


    “You do art,” Julie whined, “I don’t… I’m not good at this stuff.”


    “It’s not art, it’s science. But you chose a science topic that requires art when you don’t do art. That was a dumb idea. You should have written an essay. You’re good at that. You chose art and now you want me to earn you an A.”


    He stared at his sister waiting for a reply. “I’m here,” he said. “helping you, but you have to do the work. Paint Mars. It’s one color.” Joe elbowed her. “Can you handle it?”


    Julie nodded, sadly.


    “Don’t give me those eyes. You’ve been doing that your whole life.”


    “That’s because it works,” Jeanie spoke up. “She always gets her way with you.”


    Joe lightly pushed the baby of the family. “Pfft, you all do.” He looked back at his middle sister, “Jules, you do know what color Mars is, right?”


    “Don’t be mean.” She pouted. “It’s red.”


    “Then get painting red.” He pointed, “That size ball.”


    Joe loved his sisters dearly but there were moments of resentment when his home duties prevented him from pursuing other interests. He wanted to try out for his high school basketball team but that would never work, practice was after school. One of his few friends, Sandy, recruited him for the drama club. Joe had a crush on Sandy since grade school. Freshman year, when she insisted he try out for a school play he wanted to do it, just to spend more time with Sandy. Afternoon rehearsals made that impossible. He sadly declined.


    Now that Joe had more freedom and fewer demands on his time he was on a mission. His band was his social life. Dad’s garage became the hangout a few days a week after school and every Saturday morning, for ten months. Now, a year into his project, Joe’s high school garage band seemed so long ago, but it wasn’t. His band lineup had changed dramatically in a short time.


    After helping his sisters with schoolwork, he sat with Dad in the living room. The evening news had just ended. Dad looked over his newspaper at his only son.


    He sighed, “Your mother is upset about you hanging around with these older guys.”


    “You don’t have to tell me. I hear about it all the time.”


    “I know you’re just playing your music over there but she’s worried that Sal is a bad influence.”


    “How so?”


    “He’s older. He works at his dad’s liquor store. We’re not blind. I know you drink beer.”


    “Not a lot.”


    “You shouldn’t drink at all. You’re not eighteen.”


    “I will be, just not soon enough.”


    “Look. I told your mother I’d speak to you, so I did. Just do me a favor and don’t torment her. Don’t come home smelling like beer. Stay out of trouble. I know you’ve paid a price for being the oldest. I’m trying to cut you some slack.”


    “I know, Dad. I appreciate it.”


    “That doesn’t mean I don’t share your mother’s concern about Sal.”


    “Sal’s a good guy. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. So he works at a liquor store. Who cares?”


    “It’s not the beer that concerns me.”


    Joe knew that Dad’s talk was more about keeping his promise to Mom than setting him straight. Mom was a drama queen, always on him about not attending church, slipping grades, his obsession with his band, and now… his older friends. Dad was always the more low-key, reasonable parent, except for Joe’s seventeenth birthday, a few months back when the old man evicted the band out of his garage because he suspected they were smoking pot.


    Dad spoke from behind the newsprint. “I never told your mother about the pot smoking.”


    “I wasn’t smoking that day. I told you one of our guests lit a joint. I never touched it.”


    The newspaper dropped. Dad peered over the top. “I’m sure you’ve tried it by now.”


    “Yes, but It’s not my thing, Dad. Weed makes me jittery.”


    Dad’s eyes remained on Joe, not believing his son but not making an issue of it.


    Joe stood up. “I’m going downstairs. I’ll tell Mom we talked.”


    “Thank you.” Dad went back to hiding behind his Providence Journal. “And don’t play your music too loud.


    “I never do.”


    “Pfft.”


    “Hey Joey,” Jeanie peeked from around a corner. She was clearly eavesdropping. This house was full of spies and informants. “Will you read to me?”


    “You can read to yourself. You learn more that way.”


    “But I can’t do the voices like you do.”


    “Okay, but I pick the story.”


    Jeanie smiled, “Okay. I’ll get ready.”


    ––— FIRST CRUSH —----


    On a school morning, Joe sat on the stoop of Central High School’s side entrance where the faculty and administrators entered the building. Most students wouldn’t be caught dead there, except the nerds. The smart kids were known to butt-smooch their favorite teachers as they arrived but also, it was safer. The jocks wouldn’t harass them at the faculty entrance.


    Joe wasn’t in the nerd squad. He was mostly a loner. He usually read before school and the smart kids were quiet. He sat there because no one bothered him. The nerds were intimidated by him and the kids who thought they were cool avoided the teachers’ parking lot and entrance.


    “Hey, Joe.” a voice called out. He looked up from his book to see his first crush, Sandy, walking his way. Her blonde hair blew back like a bad teen movie. Joe’s heart sighed. Books were clutched against her chest. “What’s happening with your band? I heard Pete and Robby quit.”


    “Yeah.” Joe played it cool on the outside as he melted inside.


    Sandy stood four feet in front of him looking down waiting for an explanation. None came. “Are you gonna tell me what happened?”


    “I’m guessing you already know. Pete’s a whiny bitch who runs his mouth.”


    “He doesn’t like Sal.”


    “He doesn’t like anything we''re doing so he quit. That’s not my fault.”


    “And Robby went with him.” She leaned closer to see what Joe was reading. “I heard they’re starting a new band already.”


    “Good for them.”


    Joe had a crush on Sandra Ruggerio since third grade. They lived one block apart and hung out through eighth grade, then she became a popular girl and made popular friends. Everyone loved Sandy. She was smart, kind, sweet, and beautiful. They were still good friends but didn’t hang out so much anymore. She was busy with drama, the school chorus, and across town taking a class at Rhode Island School of Design. Joe moved on from that crush but not really. Sandy was an artsy hippie chick and dressed the part. She loved Carly Simon, Carol King, and Creedence Clearwater Revival. Joe joked that she had the C’s covered and should listen to another letter.


    She stared at Joe. “Is that all you have to say?”


    “There’s nothing to say.”


    “I heard you lost your bass player first because you punched him in the face.”


    “Because the moron stood on my amp jumped off and knocked it over. Then he got pissed off at me because I lost my cool over it… so I shut his mouth for him.”


    “Why do you fight?”


    “I don’t pick fights.”


    “But you fight all the time.”


    “I do not.”


    Sandy nodded with her nose scrunched, “Yeah, you do.”


    Joe stood up, face to face with his former best friend. She was a few inches shorter. Her blonde hair blew in the wind across her face. “I smacked down a few bullies, that’s all. They had it coming.” He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t start fights.”


    “Okay,” she shrugged. “What are you reading?”


    “1984.”


    Sandy laughed, “Again? How many times have you read that?”


    “A few. It’s my favorite book. I like Animal Farm too.”


    “And Brave New World.” She smiled. “Orwell and Huxley. You like creepy old authors with demented ideas.”


    The morning bell sounded. The nerds scurried off around the corner of the building to the main student entrance. Sandy and Joe strolled slowly. There was a time when Joe was a little hurt that Sandy found more popular friends. She dated older boys. One of her boyfriends was a jerk. When Joe’s parents gifted him his black leather jacket for Christmas of his freshman year Mom bought it big so he could grow into it. Sandy’s boyfriend, Todd, made fun of him.


    “Hey, Theroux, is that your dad’s jacket?”


    Joe ignored him and kept walking. Two days later, Todd made another smart-ass comment. Joe stopped, glared at him, glanced at Sandy, and walked away. A third comment, the very next day, drew laughs from the popular kids.


    “Hey, Theroux. You need to wear a sweater under that thing to fill it out.”


    Joe walked up to Todd, who was a year older and a little taller, and without warning, jabbed him in the nose. It was one short punch that brought tears to Todd’s eyes. He stumbled back holding his face.


    “What the fuck, man?”


    “Joe!” Sandy yelled at him. “He’s joking.”


    “No! He’s being an asshole!” He pointed at her. “Tell your boyfriend to shut his face or I’ll do it for him.”


    Joe walked away. Todd never taunted him again and Joe grew into his black leather jacket. More than two years later, he had a reputation for fighting. He didn’t think it was fair. Some kids were afraid of him. Which was okay because they left him alone. His bad reputation had pros and cons.


    As they entered school Sandy looked up at him. “I worry about you.”


    “Don’t.”


    “Are you gonna stay in school?”


    “Yes.”


    “Will you graduate next spring?”


    “That’s more than a year away. How do I know? I think so.”


    She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Stay out of trouble.”


    “I always do.”


    Sandy laughed. “No, you don’t. I gotta run.”


    —---- THE TEN BUS –—--


    RIPTA bus number ten ran east to west through the city, from Blackstone Blvd on the posh East Side to downtown Kennedy Plaza, over Federal Hill, and on to Manton Heights in the West End, the projects. Joe had been riding number ten since he started therapy. Mom and Dad accompanied him for a few months. At twelve he started riding the bus solo. It was an unexpected taste of freedom on College Hill. As a teen, he started using the Ten Bus to go downtown, to concerts or just to hang around.


    Joe’s neighborhood, Federal Hill, was the most Italian neighborhood in a city run mostly by Italians. Mayor Buddy Cianci was Italian, as was the majority of the city council, the chief of police, two-thirds of cops, the fire department, public works, and recreation. You had to be connected to get a city job, and being connected meant you had to be Italian or be closely associated with the Italians in charge. Sometimes you become associated by handing over an envelope stuffed with cash.


    The city of Providence, but especially The Hill, was infamous for sketchy business and corruption. It was the home turf of The Patriarca Crime family. Raymond L.S. Patriarca operated his syndicate out of The Coin-o-Matic Vending Machine Company on Atwells Avenue, a few blocks from Joe’s home. He owned every cigarette machine in Rhode Island and beyond, as well as candy, pinball, and jukeboxes.


    The Hill was infamous for good reason. There were mob hits on Atwells Ave, people getting beaten by large Italian men for reasons of business, and envelopes changing hands. Joe did not like the bad Italians. They were the fathers and uncles of the bullies at Central High School.


    The good Italians of Federal Hill were famous for their mile-and-a-quarter avenue stretching west from downtown with two dozen restaurants, pizzerias, as well as delis and bakeries. St. Joseph’s Day and Columbus Day had parades and feasts, every bar and restaurant on The Hill was packed. The streets were blocked to traffic for the big Italian festival every march March and October. Joe adored the good Italians.


    —- QUEEN & THIN LIZZY —


    Weeks before Sandy grilled Joe about Pete and Robby quitting the band, Joe skipped school on a Monday and took the Ten Bus downtown to the Civic Center. Queen tickets went on sale at 10:00. He was in line at 7:15. A smart group up front was handing out numbered index cards. A young lady gave Joe a card. He looked at it, number 58.


    “We have 120 cards,” another college kid told him. “If we stick together no one is crashing this line.”


    “This is a great idea.” Joe nodded. “I was here for the Aerosmith melee.”


    “Did you jump into the brawl?”


    “Fuck no,” Joe laughed. “I’m not fighting for fucking Aerosmith tickets.”


    He laughed. “Will you fight for Queen tickets?”


    “I will,” Joe nodded, “because Thin Lizzy is opening for them.”


    “Okay, man.” He slapped Joe on the back. “Hold the line.”


    “Hey, Joe!” A voice from behind called out.


    Joe looked through the crowd to see Pete Smith, his guitarist. Joe turned to the college kids. “Give him a number.” Joe took another card and walked over to Pete, handing him the number 60.


    “I thought you weren’t coming,” Joe said. “I’m getting you a ticket.”


    “Now we can get more. What’s this?” Pete held up his card.


    “After Aerosmith, these kids came up with a plan.” Joe then explained the self-governing crowd security plan of one hundred twenty Queen fans.


    “Why a hundred and twenty?”


    Joe shrugged, “Maybe that’s how many index cards come in a pack.”


    They stood in line with a cute girl with blue hair who had the number 59. The scent of weed moved through the crowd. Joe stood there quietly just people-watching. These were his people, music fans his age and above. Peter elbowed him.


    “Hey, man. We gotta talk about Sal. He’s making me crazy with the criticism.”


    “Don’t look at it as criticism,” Joe said. “He makes suggestions. He’s pitching ideas and they’re not bad.”


    “I don’t want to play loud and obnoxious like The Ramones. They’re clowns. That’s not what we do.”


    Joe raised a finger, “Don’t shit on the Ramones.”


    “Yeah, yeah, you have all the records,” Pete said in a snotty tone. “All I’m saying is we do our thing then Sal joins and wants to change everything. We have to put our foot down.”


    Joe was grateful when girl number 59 interrupted, looking up at Joe. “I like your leather.”


    “Thanks,” Joe smiled. “Me too.”


    “I like how it’s not the cliche biker jacket with all the zippers.”


    “The Ramones can pull that off but I’m not that bold.” Joe looked down and pulled his breast pocket zipper. “Just two pocket zippers and the big one.”


    “It’s a clean look,” she looked him up and down. “And it’s good on you because you’re lean.”


    “Thanks.” Joe smiled again, wondering if she was hitting on him. “I like your hair. It takes some serious O’s to dye it blue.”


    Girl 59 furrowed her brow. “O’s?”


    “Ovaries. You don’t have balls.”


    She smiled and chuckled, covering her face with her hand. Joe smiled proudly. She was cute.


    “I’m Amanda.” She offered her hand. “I go to RISD.”


    “I’m Joe.” He accepted her hand. Joe knew not to mention his school affiliation so he changed the subject. ”This is Pete.”


    “Hi, Pete.”


    Joe leaned in closer. “Can you believe these tickets are fifteen bucks?” He made a face. “My first show here was Kiss, it was six bucks, then Bowie was eight, and Aerosmith was ten, Alice Cooper was twelve.”


    “And Frampton was twelve,” Pete added.


    “Yeah,” Joe said, “It’s getting crazy.”


    She looked up. “You saw Bowie?”


    Joe nodded, “He was amazing.”


    “I was back home on school break when he came.”


    “Where is that?”


    “New York City


    “That doesn’t suck.”


    “It does if Bowie’s playing here and when he played Madison Square Garden I was here.”


    “That does suck. So where in New York?”


    She made a face, “Queens.”


    “That’s Ramones turf.”


    “I saw them at CBGB.”


    Joe pushed her lightly, “Get the fuck out, really? I’d kill to see them there.”


    She made another face, “They were cool but that place is a shithole. The bathrooms are disgusting. I just can’t.”


    Joe nodded towards Pete. “He hates the Ramones.”


    “I don’t hate them,” Pete said defensively. “I just don’t like them.”


    “He just said they were clowns.”


    “So where do you go to school?” She asked.


    “Central High,” Pete answered too quickly.


    Joe wanted to punch him in the ear as he watched cute blue-haired Amanda’s face turn from friendly to surprised, to disinterested.


    “You’re in high school? How old are you?”


    “Seventeen,” Pete said.


    “Oh. I never would have guessed.”


    She very slowly turned her shoulder sideways trying not to be obvious but it was. Joe glared at Pete who had no clue how uncool he was. Pete took the opportunity to continue his protest of Sal.


    “I’m telling ya, Joe. We have to tell Sal we’re not a punk band and we don’t want to play the shit he wants. We already have a style.”


    Blue-haired Amanda looked back at them, “You’re in a band?”


    “Yes,” Joe answered too quickly.


    She made a ‘huh’ facial expression.


    “And we have a shitty bass player who’s a maniac,” Pete added.


    Amanda turned away.


    Joe turned to Pete, “You are without a fucking clue.”


    “Ya know,” Pete pointed at Joe. “You’re always going on about the good Italians and the bad Italians. Sal isn’t one of the good ones. You said it yourself, he’s a fucking meathead.”


    “I mean that in a good way,” Joe snapped back. “...sort of.”


    No one is pleased to see Providence cops but when four mounted patrol officers appeared, horseshoes clomping loudly on the concrete Civic Center Plaza, Joe was relieved. The impressive horses got everyone’s attention and the likelihood of line crashing diminished. Also, Pete stopped complaining.


    Joe was almost regretting standing with his friend. Had Pete gone on about Sal for the next hour Joe figured he’d have to trade number 58 for 98 just to get away. Joe had befriended Pete at school two years ago for one reason, Pete played guitar. He also had a best friend who played drums. He liked him okay but he could be a dick at times. For many months Joe focused solely on two things, Pete played guitar, and their shared love for The Kinks and The Rolling Stones. He let Pete’s dickish whining slide.


    A few weeks after the Queen tickets were purchased the differences of opinion in the band would blow up and Joe would have to pick a side.