At 10:15 PM, Joe opened the door to the kitchen and stepped in. All he saw was his dad’s open hand inches from his head.


    “Owwww, what the fu…?”


    “What the hell is this?" Dad barked. "An F and a D on this lousy report card.” He waved it in Joe’s face. “What are you doing in school… nothing? Are you even going to school? Who are you ditching with? Are you at that goddamn garage all day?"


    “Dad, one question at a time,” He slipped past his father and went to the fridge. Dad followed him. “That report says I’m not very bright. I can’t answer so many questions at once.” Joe ducked in anticipation of a second blow. Another open hand landed on the side of his head. It wasn’t hard, just an attention-getting whack.


    “Don’t be a wise ass. Are you ditching school?”


    “No, I go to school.” Joe reached for the bottle of milk.


    “Are you skipping classes?”


    “Yeah, but only the D and the F.” He removed the foil cap. “ go to classes I like. I also got two A’s, one B, and a couple of C’s.” Joe took a big chug of milk.


    Dad pushed the bottle causing milk to dribble down his son’s face. “Don’t drink from the bottle.”


    “I’ve seen you drink from the bottle. Where do you think I learned this bad behavior?”


    Dad took the bottle and the cap, sealed it, and put it back in the fridge while Joe assessed Bill’s level of anger.


    The old man pointed. “Sit down!”


    Joe slid his butt onto a worn maple kitchen chair, the gimp with one short leg. It wobbled annoyingly. Dad sat across from him his hands on the table where Joe could see them. His baby sister Jeanie peeked in from the living room. He winked at her. She smiled.


    In these occasional father-son exchanges at home, Dad never hurt Joe and the son sort of enjoyed watching his dad struggle to play the role of enforcer. It wasn’t in Bill Theroux’s nature. He was the low-key parent. When Dad got serious Joe tried to make him laugh. Nothing was better than seeing Dad break when he was trying to be the man of the house. It made him angrier, which was hilarious to his only son.


    “Look, son, you may not like all your classes but you need them to graduate. I know a diploma means nothing to you but to Mom and me and the rest of the world, it matters. You don’t want to ….”


    “I know,” Joe interrupted. “I know. I don’t want to work in a factory for the rest of my life, slaving for the man in a thankless job with no way out.” He knew Dad’s speech forward and backward.


    Dad lowered his voice. “We’ve had these talks so many times you know what I’m gonna say. That, and this report card, says you’re not listening.”


    “If I’m not listening how can I recite your sweatshop speech like I wrote it myself? I hear you, Dad. We just don’t agree on high school. I love history, science is cool, and English is great when we’re doing literature. Bookkeeping and economics? Boring as fuck.”


    “Don’t curse in this house!”


    “Sorry.”


    “Why did you enroll in the business program if it bores you? You passed all your classes in vocational.”


    “I quit vocational because teachers think you’re a moron if you’re in a shop program. I hate their condescending bullshit if you ask a question or don’t understand a lesson the first time through.”


    Joe left him a chance to say something. Bill had nothing.


    “Plus a lot of girls are in business,” Joe added. “They’re the only reason I go to those shitty classes three days a week.”


    Dad glared at him. Joe could see the old man’s armor was coming down. The son exhausted his father at times. Bill was a good guy, a hard-working blue-collar man who took care of his family. He and Joe didn’t have the same plans for the future. Not that Joe had plans. He had ideas, and a head cluttered with schemes and dreams.


    “I promised you I’d graduate with my class, no repeating a year, and no summer school. I’m on track for that even with that F on my report. For the record, that D is a passing grade. I aimed for 70 and I nailed it.” Joe pumped his fist. Dad banged his palm on the table.


    “Stop! Can you imagine what grades you’d get if you went to class and applied yourself?” He leaned in with the low disappointed tone that always followed his anger. Dad never changed his playbook. “You were an honor student through Freshman year. You slipped a little last year. Now you just don’t give a damn about your future. I don’t understand what happened to you.”


    Joe sat for a moment… calculating. He couldn’t tell Dad that beer, pot, punk rock, and girls had ruined his only son. That would’ve put a major clamp on his band practice and party schedule. Joe never skipped those classes.


    Dad continued, “And look at this! Your Social Studies teacher added a note that you’re disruptive in class and the typing teacher says you’re not a serious student.”


    “My Social Studies teacher is boring. All she does is read from the textbook and give assignments. I try to have discussions in class and she isn’t equipped for that. What did my economics teacher note?"


    “Nothing.”


    “That’s because Mr. McBride has a sense of humor. He encourages discussion and I amuse him with my questions.”


    “How could you get a D in typing? It can’t be that hard.”


    “It’s tedious. When will I ever need to type? I did just enough work to get by. Mrs. Boucher likes me. I think that’s why she passed me with the D. It was touch and go there for a while.”


    Another palm slam, this one half-hearted, barely made a sound. The game was almost over.


    “Why is everything a wisecrack with you, Joe? Do you think there’s a future in being funny?”


    “Making girls laugh in class is fun, especially the ones who think I’m a loser. They try not to laugh but I eventually get them.”


    “I’m not talking about a future making out with girls! You have to be more serious about your grades. It’s not a damn joke.” Dad looked down at the report card. “How do you get an F in bookkeeping and a B in math?”


    “I missed a couple of quizzes and didn’t make them up.” Joe shrugged. “It dropped my average.”


    “You skipped class on a test day?”


    “Dad, we don’t have the same idea of what the future is for me. I don’t even know what that is but I don’t believe what they’re teaching in high school is the key. I don’t want to spend my life in a factory. Trust that I’ll keep my promise, graduate, and then I’ll figure out what’s next.”


    “I hope you’re not banking on this band saving you from a real job. I’ve heard you guys. Even good bands don’t make it, and you’re not good.”


    Joe ignored the old man’s dig, paused for a moment, leaned in, and repeated a promise he’d made a few times in the past. “I will finish high school with a diploma, I promise.” He smirked at his 39-year-old Dad. For a teenager that was old.


    Dad’s elbows were now on the kitchen table, his head in his hands staring at the worn wood finish. This was the outcome of these father-son matches since Joe turned fifteen. Dad had won every bout up to age thirteen. He was still winning most battles but Joe had honed his skills in defeat and he knew all of Dad’s moves. He could withstand the smacks and beat back the old man’s words with his own.


    Dad spoke quietly. “You know we love you,’” he paused, “and we appreciate what you do for your sisters.”


    “I love you too, Dad.”


    “You’re a good son and we just want the best for you. Finishing school is a big step in getting what’s best.”


    “I’ll finish the job, it just won’t be straight A''s.”


    “Your mother wants me to ground you. I won’t do that because I know you’ve sacrificed being the oldest. I’m trying to be fair.” Dad got up and put his hand gently on his son’s shoulder. “I’m sorry I slapped you.”


    He wandered off to the losing locker room trying to figure out what went wrong with his game plan. Was it the offense or defense that failed? Nothing actually went wrong. He said his words and Joe offered his side. In the end, Joe repeated his promise to finish high school. That seemed like a decent outcome for Dad.


    A funny thing about Dad’s education speech, not once did it include college. Higher education was never a consideration. Mom and Dad didn’t attend college. She did nursing school and Dad attended a trade school. None of Joe’s aunts or uncles went to college. Joe once told his guidance counselor, the fetching Miss Murray, that college was something other people did. They were working class and he accepted it. He wasn’t putting his family down. That’s simply the way it was.


    ——- FAITH NO MORE ——-


    Mom got home at 11:50 p.m. from her hospital shift. Most nights, Joe stayed up for her. They’d talk as he helped her make school lunches and packed his sisters'' Barbie and Wonder Woman lunch boxes, and then he’d go to bed. He was expecting her to rip him for going out against her wishes and skipping dinner. She was surprisingly calm. Joe explained that Dad had already scolded him and he repeated his promise to her. Mom had something else on her mind.


    “When was the last time you went to mass… Christmas?”


    “Yeah, Christmas and Easter, that’s my schedule.”


    “You know that’s a sin. You must honor the sabbath.”


    Joe shrugged, not interested in having this talk… again. He stared blankly at his mother as she laid her Catholic guilt trip on him while making baloney and cheese sandwiches. Just like Dad, she never changed her playbook. She went on and on, over and over, again and again.


    He had done everything his parents asked of him regarding the Catholic Church. He went to catechism once a week since first grade. He made his First Communion and attended mass with his family every Sunday up until high school. That’s when he began to waver. Joe wasn’t buying what the church was selling but that wasn’t his only problem with church.


    Joe’s sister Janie was his best friend in the world. She was only nineteen months younger than him. When she died tragically and horribly on a summer day in 1972, it changed Joe forever. He was a mess. Eventually, his parents sought professional help from a child psychologist, Dr. Barbara Nichols.


    Mom always said he was the sweetest boy, so well-behaved, always happy, and an honor student. After Janie’s accident, Joe turned to the dark side. He withdrew. For nearly two years he was a walking ghost haunted by his sister’s death. Dr. Nichols was very good with Joe. He trusted and confided in her but she was no miracle worker. The first time he emerged from his shadow of grief he lashed out violently, punching out a bully in the school corridor. He began questioning everything and everyone, his parents, his teachers, but especially his faith.


    How could a loving god take his beautiful sister away from him? They grew up together. Janie adored her big brother and he loved her dearly. She was the funniest, sweetest girl he knew… then she died, horrifically. Why was God punishing him? He was just a kid.


    When his father’s mother, Joe’s Memere, said it was part of God’s plan, he thought, ‘Screw God and his cruel plan.’


    Joe became that kid the nuns smacked with a ruler for questioning dogma and doctrine. At home, he rarely spoke of his loss of faith. His parents heard of it from the nuns. He was always in trouble at catechism.


    By age twelve, Sister Mary Agnus had enough of Joe. He asked a simple question, seeking a logical answer, but she was not equipped to handle his query.


    “In geography, I learned that South America is thousands of miles away from the holy land, like ten thousand miles. You just said Noah collected two of every insect. In science, Mr. Jameson said there are ten thousand species of beetles in the Amazon. How did Noah go ten thousand miles and collect twenty thousand bugs?”


    “He had the arc,” Mary Agnes said.


    “No. He collected the animals before the rain.” Joe said argumentatively. “The arc was built on dry land.”


    “You must have faith. This was God’s work. He can do anything.”


    “Then why didn’t he build the arc himself?”


    “Joseph Theroux.” She glared at him, stepping between classroom desks, closer to Joe. All young Catholic eyes were on him. “That’s enough.”


    “And how could he tell the male beetles from the females?”


    Out came the ruler. Joe pulled his hands back and folded his arms. His hands went into his armpits. It was the perfect defense against the nun ruler. It does however leave your head vulnerable. He took two whacks on the noggin. Two days later there was a dreadfully painful parent-nun conference. Mom was angry but she was mostly embarrassed. Sister Mary Agnes had a way of making people feel small, like sinners. Mom took the blame for Joe’s behavior and she hated it.


    For years after Janie’s death, he went through the motions, Sunday mass, and catechism. In freshman year he started skipping here and there and then more and more. At sixteen, after he made his Holy Confirmation, he stopped attending mass. Mom and Dad pecked at him at first. He explained that he had made his holy sacraments for them, not himself. He was now old enough to make up his mind. Mom never gave up. She was always on him about his godlessness. Tonight’s lecture was just the latest.


    “Mom, it’s not a sin in my heart. I won’t lie. I don’t cheat or steal. I love you, Dad, and the girls. I believe in the Golden Rule. I don’t need a church to teach me right from wrong, so I’m not going anymore. Guilting me won’t change my mind.”


    She rambled on for another minute repeating the same lines she always used, “Your faith will guide you. You’ll need it someday… and God will be there for you.”


    “Like he was there for Janie?”


    Mom sighed and put her hand on his, “You can’t be angry about that forever.”


    “Oh yeah, just watch me.”


    The mother knew her son. Joe bringing up his sister was him ending the talk. He would not be moved. She had one last thing to say. “Do your father a favor. When Memere visits on Easter Sunday, come to church with us. It would kill her to know you’ve gone astray.”


    “Why do you think I attend Christmas and Easter mass? Memere is always with us. Dad asked me that favor long ago. I promise Super Catholic Memere will never know.”


    Alice Theroux kissed her son on the cheek, “I pray that someday you’ll come back. Life is hard, Joseph. You’ll need your faith someday.”


    “Not today.”


    — THE F CHORD —


    In the middle of a song, Joe hit a bad chord, struggled to get back in rhythm, stepped away from the mic, and finally, quit playing altogether.


    “I fuck up that F chord every time. I can’t make a smooth transition from G to F.”


    Johnny took a drag off his cigarette. “We get it, you fucked up but never stop playing, man.” He stepped closer to Joe pointing with the fingers his cigarette was nestled between. “You have to learn how to plow through those mistakes. You know this. We talk about it all the time.”


    “It’s hard when I can’t get back on the tracks,” Joe said in a less agitated tone. “I tried to catch up but I was lost.”


    “You don’t have to play catch up. Think of the next best place to join back in; at the beginning of a new bar, the chorus, whatever it is, and jump back in.”


    Sal offered his two cents. “We didn’t hear your fuck up. I’m doing my thing, focusing on my job.” He pointed at Johnny and Nate. “We don’t hear your little mistakes, only the big ones… like fucking quitting in the middle of a song!”


    “And your volume is set lower for that reason, not just because I’m lead guitar,” Johnny added. We keep it lower to manage the situation.”


    “You mean the fact I can’t play for shit… that situation?” Joe said, stating the obvious.


    “No. You play fine.” Johnny corrected him. “You’re still learning. You know all your parts on every song. You just need to keep working. You’ll be even better in two weeks.”


    “The fuck ups come when I’m playing and singing,” Joe confessed. “I have a hard time doing both.”


    “Well,” Johnny took another drag and blew the smoke. “That’s because you must have one part committed to muscle memory. If you know the words and melody without flaw you can sing it without even thinking. Then you focus on the guitar parts.”


    “Get the singing down first,” Nate added. “None of us can do that.”


    “And you can skip playing any parts you struggle with.” Johnny leaned in close. “You’ll be great when it all clicks. Until then, fake it til’ you make it; and never stop in the middle of the song.”


    “So my guitar really does become a prop.”


    “Hey man, that was your joke about yourself,” Sal laughed. “We can’t help that it’s funny.”


    “It’s not a prop if you’re playing it,” Johnny added, “And you’re playing ninety percent of what we need. The rest will come.”


    Johnny stubbed out his cigarette and lit another while stepping back to his mic. Joe gathered himself and strummed a few chords, D, G, and that fucking F chord. It didn’t ring out. It was a bit muted but close enough.


    The song they were playing was not difficult, but that F chord always tripped Joe up. He stepped up to the mic. “Okay, ready. One and a two and a three and a four.” Johnny’s guitar led the band back to the number they’d been rehearsing all morning.


    As Joe began singing he glanced at Johnny, the coolest guy in the band. Joe had grown to like and trust Johnny. Playing with a superior guitarist was exactly what he needed. Without saying so, Johnny took him under his wing. He became his guitar mentor and he taught Sal a few things too. Johnny didn’t say much but he knew what to say and when to say it. The band’s best musician showed nothing but patience and a willingness to guide Joe. Johnny was kind and thoughtful, unusually so for a cool guy.


    The band got through the song almost without error. Joe fucked up his F chord a couple of times, played through it, and recovered. At the end of the song, he skipped it once because he wanted to belt out the final lyrics.


    “See what you did there at the end,” Johnny pointed a finger at Joe. “You reached up for the mic to emphasize your singing. No one would ever know you were taking a break on guitar. That’s what I mean by fake it ‘til you make it.”


    “That was a good take,” Nate said. “Can we play something else now? I’m a fucking sick of that song.”


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    After a rough start, when Joe was not sure about Nate, he came around to liking him. He just wasn’t sure he could trust him. Nate was the oldest band member, almost twenty-two. He came to Providence from New York City as a kid, after mom and dad divorced. Mom was from Rhode Island so she returned home for family support. Nate hated the move. Starting over at age eleven was tough so his granddad bought him a drum set to keep him out of trouble. At age fifteen he joined a band with thirteen-year-old Sal. That began an on and off again friendship that revolved around music. They were in two high school bands together. Back then, Johnny played in better bands but sometimes jammed with Sal and Nate.


    Nate was as average a guy as you could imagine. 5 ''9 " medium frame, not particularly handsome but not ugly. He had reddish blonde hair, shaggy, wavy, and curly. He graduated high school, joined the Navy, and was out after two years. Johnny washed out at URI. Sal went to work for his old man. Now they were in a band Joe started.


    As they continued to practice, playing a few songs close to perfect, Sal’s dad walked into the back of the factory garage with shopping bags. It seemed that every time Pops showed up he was carrying groceries, booze, or both.


    “Hey, the boys are coming over for poker tonight,” he shouted across the garage. “There’ll be none of this noise.”


    “That’s fine,” Sal said, “We’re almost done for the day.”


    Tony went to work in his impressive kitchen with commercial-grade appliances, butcher block countertops, and the old dining set from the 1950s with red Naugahyde cushions. The kitchen was Tony’s home away from home because his wife was in charge of the house and did the cooking there.


    The young men were permitted to use their corner of the garage opposite the kitchen for band practice, but once Tony arrived they had to, “Turn that shit down.” The old man didn’t appreciate punk rock, garage rock, “Or whatever the fuck you call that noise.”


    The band lowered the volume a little and finished the song they were in the middle of when Tony arrived, then Sal called it quits.


    “Hey Pops,” Sal called out across the large room, “Are you cooking?”


    “Yeah, the guys are coming over.” Tony pulled pots from an overhead rack. “I just told you. That crap you play is making you deaf.”


    “Excellent, I’m starving.” Sal smiled at the guys. “You hungry?”


    “I am.” Joe said, “But I have to go home. I promised Mom I’d have Sunday dinner with my sisters, and I have fucking homework to do.”


    Nate laughed in a mocking voice, taunting Joe. “Little Joey has homework.”


    “Fuck off, Nate.” Joe glared at him.


    “Do you have to read bedtime stories too?”


    Joe ignored the last dig as he packed his Tele and unplugged his amp. “I have to take my gear home to practice.” He looked at Sal. “Can you give me a lift?”


    “Really?” Sal didn’t want to but he agreed to help Joe. Hauling a tube amp and guitar a half mile was not fun. “Hey Pops. I’m taking the van. Be right back.”


    It was odd that Joe, the youngest by three years, was the de facto leader of the band. Sal had a lot of input and reset the course of the band when he joined but Joe was the frontman and selected most of the songs they played. He had ideas for the band, a stage show the older guys were not yet sold on.


    On the drive to Joe’s house, Sal had something to discuss. “How many songs do we have now?”


    “We have twenty-three we know pretty well, and a few we’re working on.”


    “Can we stretch that into three hours?”


    “That would be a big stretch. I think we need at least thirty. I can make it three hours with the other ideas I have.”


    “You mean those stunts you’re going on about?”


    “Yeah.”


    Sal glanced over as he pulled in front of Joe’s house. “I’m not so sure about that idea.”


    Joe got out of the van opened the sliding door and grabbed his guitar case and amp. He looked over at Sal in the front seat. “Look Sal, when you joined this band you came in with all these ideas to punk-up our songs. I gave it a chance and it’s working for me. You have to give me a chance with my ideas.”


    “Sing-a-longs don’t sound punk to me.”


    “I’ll make a deal with you. If you find us a gig and let me try this shit out, we can discuss it afterward and decide if it works. I don’t want to be a band that just stands there and plays through a set like a million other cover bands do. We have to be different.”


    “Yes, you keep saying that.” Sal rolled his eyes. “You want to entertain.”


    “I want to set us apart from all the other bands playing around town. If you’re on board Johnny will go with it too.”


    “Nate won’t. He thinks it’s stupid.”


    “Yes. I’m aware Nate hates my ideas. All I need is for you and Johnny to give me a chance. You focus on getting us a gig and leave the show to me.”


    “First we have to do that jam party to play through the whole set. Maybe you can try your stunts at the garage.”


    “No. I’m saving it for our first gig. It’ll be better that way. No one will see it coming.”


    —— HOODRATS —---


    As the weeks passed, Joe was feeling more confident, except for his occasional F chord. He was getting better at faking it, grabbing the mic when he lost his place to focus on his singing, and selling it. He even did that when he was playing well just to make it seem like his thing, bouncing between rhythm guitar and lead singer. Johnny smiled, appreciating the kid’s improvisation.


    One of the best things about Joe’s new friends and their factory garage hangout was the crowd they drew, especially on weekends. There was a steady stream of kids in and out of the garage, singles, in pairs, and carloads. They’d hang around, drink beer, maybe get stoned, and listen to band practice.


    Joe let the word out when they had an ‘open practice’ so classmates he liked could pop in and see what he was talking about in school every day, his punk rock band. A handful of high school kids showed up, then a few more as word spread, but it was mostly Sal’s friends hanging out in the garage… the hoodrats.


    They were largely twenty-something townies from Federal Hill and neighborhoods beyond. Several were college students at nearby Rhode Island College, Many were not college material. It was a rough crowd and they loved hanging out with the band.


    Joe and Sal had picked up a large couch and two easy chairs at the Goodwill Thrift store. They also found a gaudy red sofa on the side of the road, left out for trash. It was in good shape, so they snagged it. It was so ornate and tacky Joe christened it the porn sofa because it belonged in a brothel. The lounge area was in the middle of the garage, between the kitchen table and the band’s practice setup.


    Best of all were the girls. There were so many young women around the garage it was hard for Joe to keep track of their names. One in particular had Joe’s attention. Claire was a freshman at RIC. She was from Cumberland, a town north of Providence on the Massachusetts state line.


    A few weeks back she showed up with a carload of girls for one of the band’s open practices. Joe couldn’t help but notice she was locked in on him, unbroken eye contact. He had to look away so he could focus on his guitar and lyrics. During a break, he grabbed a beer and sat on the porn sofa. Within seconds, Claire was at his side.


    “Hi. I’m Claire.”


    “Hey.” Joe nodded.


    She stared at him for a moment. “You’re supposed to tell me your name.”


    “It’s Joe.”


    She smiled. “I know.”


    “Then why did I have to tell you?”


    “Because it’s the polite thing to do.”


    “Oh,” Joe nodded. “You’re one of those rule followers, etiquette and stuff.”


    Claire scrunched her nose, not sure how to respond. After a moment, she changed the subject. “You guys are good. I like how you play every song harder than it should be.”


    “Thanks. That’s our thing.”


    “You have a good voice too.”


    “Thanks.”


    She stared again. “You don’t say much, do you?”


    Sal was watching from the other sofa, “Be careful what you wish for. Once he gets to know you he won’t shut the fuck up.”


    Whenever Claire appeared at the garage she made a point of talking to Joe, usually finding a seat by his side. They started discussing music and their favorite bands. When Joe learned she was a basketball fan they had two things to talk about. Reading was a third shared interest.


    “What are the last three books you’ve read,” she asked.


    “As a school assignment or just on my own?”


    “Books you chose.”


    “I’m currently reading Naked Lunch. It’s not an easy read. Before that was 1984 and Brave New World. I’ve read those two a few times each.”


    “Three times?”


    “Yeah.”


    “Why? You know how they end.”


    “It’s the writing and the tone. Those books have a vibe I can’t explain.”


    “Creepy,” she said. “Surreal.”


    “Dark.”


    “Yes. They are dark. What else do you read?”


    “You’re gonna think this is weird. Do you know Foxe''s Book of Martyrs?”


    “You read that?”


    “Not all of it. It’s a slog. I’m just fascinated by the horrible things men do in the name of religion. That book documents all the horrors; beheadings, burnings at the stake, the drawing and quartering. It’s astounding how cruel good Christians can be.”


    Claire leaned back. “That is some dark shit. Who are you?”


    “I like the macabre”


    Claire laughed. “I can see that. What do you think of serial killers, like Son of Sam or Manson?”


    Joe smiled, “Fascinating.”


    There was a good reason Joe was reserved when they first met. Claire was two years older than Joe and way out of his league. He knew college girls wanted nothing to do with a seventeen-year-old. He kept his cool, not getting over his skis, but he liked her. He wouldn’t dare make a move on a college girl. He could only imagine a humiliating rejection.


    On another Sunday afternoon in early April, the band worked their set while a group of kids looked on. It was their first major jam party in the garage with beer and pizza provided by Tony. Sal got the word out to the hoodrats. Joe invited the kids he liked at school. Over the course of the day, more than sixty friends of the band passed through.


    The kitchen table and the lounge were full, including Claire and her college roommate, Donna. Claire smiled at Joe as she and Donna danced to a surf rock tune, Apache. Joe watched them, digging Claire’s moves. She had a very nice bottom.


    As the band ended a song, Sal had an announcement. He stepped up to Joe’s mic. “I’ve been looking for a place to play for weeks. It’s been frustrating. No one will give us a shot, but I finally booked our first gig.”


    “Is it at Lupo Heartbreak Hotel?” A kid shouted from across the room.


    “No,” Sal said, annoyed. “They have big bands there.”


    “The Living Room?” Another girl asked.


    “No. We’re not ready for places like that.”


    “Where is it?”


    “The Underground.”


    A few kids laughed but most remained silent. Sal became more annoyed. “What the fuck do you want from me? We’re not getting a gig downtown, not yet. We have to start somewhere.”


    “The Underground is a shithole,” Nate said.


    “Do they even have live music?” Claire asked.


    “They just started last month,” Sal said, “And they need bands. Vic said he’d give us a shot.”


    “Vic is a scumbag,” Johnny noted. “You trust him?”


    “It’s a free gig,” Sal said lowly.


    “Woohoo!” Joe cheered. “You got us a non-paying gig at the shitiest dive bar in town.”


    “Fuck you, Joe.” Sal stepped towards him.


    Joe ran away laughing with most of the kids. “At least we know we''re getting fucked going in.”


    “If we do well at the door,” Sal added. “Vic said he’ll pay us.”


    Sensing Sal was feeling bruised by the under-reaction and negative comments, Joe walked over, put his hand on his shoulder, and looked toward the hoodrats. “Ya know what? If all of you show up and drag a few friends along we’ll prove to Vic we can draw a crowd.” He turned to Sal. “When is this big gig?”


    “In two weeks, April 19th. It’s a Friday.”


    “If we do well there,” Joe smiled, “maybe we’ll get a shot downtown.”


    “That’s what I’m thinking,” Sal said, glaring at Nate and Johnny, the naysayers.


    “We have two weeks to work on this set and my special songs,” Joe smiled.


    “Oh, fuck,” Nate blurted out. “Are you still on that bullshit?”


    “Yes, and Sal is with me… right Sal?”


    “Yeah.” Sal nodded. “We’ll give you one shot… right Johnny?”


    Johnny looked at Joe, “Just one. If it doesn’t work…” he made a throat-cutting gesture.


    “Oh, it’ll work,” Joe said as he walked toward the lounge area. “I guarantee it.”


    Joe went to the fridge and grabbed a beer. Seconds after he took a seat on the other sofa, Claire was right there by his side. “What are these special songs you’re talking about?”


    “I can’t say. It’s top secret.”


    “Seriously?” She pushed Joe’s hair out of his face with a finger. “You won’t tell me?”


    “You have to come to our show to find out.”


    “You know I work Friday and Saturday nights. It’s hard to get time off on weekends.”


    “Sucks to be you,” Joe smirked. “You’re gonna miss our debut.”


    “You don’t even have a band name yet?”


    “Ya, Joe,” Sal jumped in. “What’s the name of this band? It’s your band, right? We don’t even have a name.”


    “I’m working on it.”


    --- ACI ---


    After dinner, Joe sat with Dad in the living room. Cronkite was on the television and the newspaper was up, blocking Dad’s face. He peeked to see who came in.


    “Are the girls good?” He asked.


    “Yeah,” Joe said. “Jeanie’s doing homework. Jules is reading. I’ll be going out soon.”


    “To the garage?”


    “Yeah. We’re practicing every day now. We have a gig.”


    “Really? It’s about time.”


    “Sal’s been working his ass off trying to find us a place to play. He finally scored.”


    “Where?”


    “The Underground.”


    Dad lowered his newspaper. “Jesus Christ, Joe. That place is a shit hole. You cannot tell your mother you’re going anywhere near that joint.”


    “We’re playing there next Friday. We’ll play our set and get out.”


    Dad shook his head. “I don’t know anything about this. Understand? You did not tell me.”


    “Got it.”


    The Underground was so infamous even Joe’s Mom, a woman who rarely drank and never went into bars, knew what went on there…. and she did not approve. When Johnny said Vic the bar manager was a scumbag, he was not wrong. Vic was the nephew of the bar owner and a near-do-well who did time at the Adult Correctional Institute, i.e., Rhode Island State Prison. Vic had sold drugs to an undercover cop. A few years at the ACI didn’t teach him a lesson. He was a known drug dealer and used his position at the West End dive bar to move pot, pills, and coke, among other things.


    In addition to being the corner drugstore, prostitutes were known to work the bar and it was a frequent stop for Providence Police as fisticuffs between the low-life regulars sometimes escalated into brawls. There were two stabbings Joe knew of. This was not an ideal place for a first gig.


    In the days leading up to the show, Sal closed the garage to the hoodrats so the band could work on their set as well as Joe’s special songs. Band practice went private. It was not going as well as Joe had hoped.


    “This is dumb,” Nate bitched after they completed a song that was less than ninety seconds in length. “Do you really think they’re going to sing along to this crap?”


    “Yes, I do,” Joe said, “Because everyone grew up with his song and they know the words.”


    Johnny laughed, “I know the words but I’m not singing it.”


    “That’s fine. It’s not for you.”


    Joe didn’t waste any time worrying about Nate’s complaining or Johnny’s snickering at his ideas. Sal kept his mouth shut and worked on Joe’s ‘dumb songs’ that Nate was actively trying to kill. He launched into his guitar part on another short song and waited for the guys to join in. They reluctantly followed his lead.


    Joe spread the word around school that his punk band had a gig at The Underground. Most kids only knew of the joint by reputation. Some knew of it because Vic was known to serve underage drinkers. Most kids were not brave enough to enter that dark, subterranean world, but those who did never had to worry about being carded. The drinking age was eighteen in 1978. It was not uncommon to see high school kids in bars trying to get served. Sandy was not among them, she was a good girl.


    “Are you seriously playing The Underground?” she asked while walking between classes with Joe. Kids moved like salmon in a stream. Others stood at lockers, talking. “That place is nasty. My brother said it’s all drugs and sex.”


    “I’m going there to play, not that other stuff. Will you come to the show?”


    “No, Joe. I’m sorry. I’m not going there. Only creeps drink there. My Dad would disown me.”


    “Your brother Scotty is a creep?”


    “Very funny.”


    “I promise to protect you.”


    Sandy stopped walking and looked at Joe. “I know you would, and I appreciate you saying that, but I’m not going anywhere I need protection.”


    Joe was disappointed but not surprised. Even college kids had expressed reservations about going to the show. Joe and Sal convinced them with simple logic, “We will outnumber The Underground riff-raff. There’s safety in numbers.”


    -—- MONOTONE —--


    Joe was annoyed that Mrs. Monaghan had commented on his report card that he was disruptive in class. He wasn’t a class clown, he just preferred an open class where discussing the topic at hand was welcome. He might crack a joke during the discussion but he wasn’t trying to be disruptive… until she wrote that comment.


    Boring Mrs. Monotone, a name Joe tagged her with at the start of the school year, was his least favorite teacher. She was old and cranky and sometimes mean. He suspected she hated her job. What really annoyed him was the fact she made his favorite class boring. He loved Social Studies; history, civics, and geography. Monotone ruined it. While she droned on about the rights granted in our founding documents, Joe raised his hand.


    Mrs. Mono peered over her old lady eyeglasses. “Yes, Mister Theroux.” Her annoyance was obvious in her tone.


    “Don’t you find the term freedom of religion to be ironic?”


    Mrs. Mono sighed, “How so?


    “Maybe ironic is the wrong word,” Joe replied. “It’s an oxymoron. Religion is the antithesis of freedom. The church tells you what to do, what not to do when to do it, and when not to do it. Religion violates our First Amendment. If you even speak against the church it’s considered heresy.”


    “It’s not the Dark Ages, Joe, and it’s not freedom in religion. It’s freedom of religion.”


    “Maybe it’s not the Dark Ages but the Catholic Church would like it to be. They’d prefer to keep us in the dark.”


    Joe knew she was like his Mom, a Super Catholic. His church comment was a dagger.


    “This is about our Constitutional rights, not a class on religion.”


    “I get that but the founding fathers refer to God and religion quite often in their documents and speeches… politicians still lean on that crutch. So, religion is an important factor in our history, whether we like it or not.”


    Mrs. Monotone stared at Joe. He knew she was displeased because she was incapable of concealing it. Her face was an open door to her cold, humorless soul.


    “Let’s get back to the text.”


    “Why? You’ve read that same book your entire career, like a hundred years. I think we learn by exchanging ideas.”


    “No, you’re just being disruptive.”


    Her using the D-word was Joe’s opening to challenge her. “Yes, I know you feel that way because you put that on my report card. I don’t believe it’s disruptive for students to discuss the subject of the class. It makes the class more interesting.” Joe glanced around the room. Many eyes were on him. “Does anyone agree with me?”


    Some kids nodded. A couple raised their hands meekly. There were murmurs.


    “Mister Theroux. Now you’re being disruptive and disrespectful of my teaching. If you can’t quiet yourself, I’ll send you to the office.”


    “You should retire.” Joe shook his head. “The profession has passed you by.”


    There were gasps and laughs around the room.


    “That’s enough.” She pointed toward the door. “Go to the principal''s office. Now!”


    “Sweet,” Joe said as he stood up. “You’re doing me a favor. There’s nothing worse than a teacher who makes your favorite subject… boring.”


    Some kids laughed. There were more gasps. All eyes followed him out the door. Joe did not report to the principal’s office. The bell rang as soon as he hit the corridor, so he went to his Science class.


    In Science, a girl he was fond of approached him before class began. Abby was a cute, petite blonde who was always sweet to Joe. She was a smart girl, but a little shy. Joe kind of liked Abby but she always had a boyfriend.


    “I totally agree with you about Mrs. Monotone. I hate her class. She’s awful.”


    “Yeah, she makes me hate history. All she knows are the words in the book.”


    “Hey. I heard your band is playing at The Underground next week. Gina Lombardo lives around the corner. She said the cops were there last night, like five cruisers, and they arrested a bunch of people. She thinks it was a drug bust. Her dad says the cops want to shut that place down.”


    “Fuck,” Joe said half under his breath.


    “Sorry for the bad news. I hope you get to play. I heard your band is good.”


    “We’re okay.”


    “I wish I could go to your show. My Dad would ground me for life if he caught me at that place.”


    “Do you know where our garage is?”


    “I think so.”


    “You can come by and see us there.”


    “Are you inviting me?”


    “Everyone’s welcome. Sunday afternoon is the best time. We have open practice in the afternoon.”


    “You have a party every Sunday?


    “It’s not a party. People just hang out. You might know a few, like Dean Coyle and Cindy Furtado.”


    Abby smiled. “Okay.”


    “I have to find out what happened at the bar. If Vic got arrested our gig is probably off.”


    Joe could not focus on school for the remainder of the day. He needed to know if his band’s debut was still on. He skipped his last class to look into it.