Joe raced home after school to check the newspaper. There was nothing in the Providence Journal regarding the bust at The Underground, likely because it happened too late at night to make the print deadline. Joe then went to the garage to see if Sal had heard anything.


    “I heard the cops were crawling all over the place. They used the paddy wagon to haul hookers away.”


    “What about Vic?” Joe asked.


    “Don’t know.”


    “We should go over there to see what’s up. If they’re open for business we should be okay, right?”


    Sal nodded. “Good thinking. “


    Twelve minutes later, Joe and Sal walked into the bar. It was open, but barely. There were three old-timers at the bar. They asked the bartender for Vic.


    “He’s at the police station for questioning,” she said.


    “Did he get busted?”


    “No. They cuffed him and made a big scene but he wasn’t arrested. They were here for the girls.”


    Sal looked at Joe, and then back to the bartender. “That’s it?


    “Yup.”


    “It wasn’t a drug bust?”


    “There are no drugs here,” she said without emotion.


    Sal laughed. She didn’t care.


    “One of the girls was out back with a john and he got rolled,” she said. “He reported it so the cops cleared out every woman in the place, even the old lady customers.”


    “Why’s Vic being questioned,” Joe asked.


    “Because they accused him of being a pimp. He’s not, and he’s trying to clear that up. Do you want something to drink, or not?”


    “No, we’re just checking in to see if Vic was okay.”


    “How sweet of you.”


    The following day in school, Joe was called to the vice principal’s office during morning announcements. He walked into Mr. Reed’s office dreading detention. He had too much to do after school for that shit.


    “Joe, I understand Mrs. Monaghan sent you to the office yesterday but you never showed up.”


    “She did it right before the bell went off. I had to decide if I should come here and be late for Science, or go to my next class. I like Science.”


    “That’s not your decision. She told me what you said. You were out of line.”


    Mr Reed gave Joe a speech about being disrespectful to teachers and disruptive in class. He went on a little too long. Joe was now late for Economics.


    “She thinks any student asking a question is disruptive,” Joe said. “All she wants to do is read from the textbook. Her idea of teaching is the Monaghan monotone monologue.”


    Mr. Reed smirked a stifled smile. “That’s enough, Joe.”


    “I stand by my opinion that the profession has passed her by.”


    “That’s not the point.”


    “So you agree with me?”


    “I didn’t say that.”


    Mr Reed rambled on a little more. When he stopped talking, Joe made a move to get up, hoping he dodged detention.


    “Sit down. I’m not done with you.”


    Joe flopped back into the chair.


    “I heard what happened between you and John Russo.”


    “Nothing happened.”


    “Don’t be obtuse, Joe. I saw his face. You left a mark.”


    “That was three weeks ago.” Joe paused. “Do you know why?”


    “I’m fully aware of your problem with Russo. That’s why I didn’t come after you. I understand the situation but I’m warning you for the last time. You have two strikes. One more fight and you’re expelled. We can’t have this talk again.”


    Joe nodded, “Okay. Is that it?”


    “You have another year, Joe. Can you go a full year without fighting?”


    He shrugged. “I guess we’ll see. Can I go to class now?”


    “Yes. I’m giving you one hour of detention and you’ll serve it today.”


    There was no point in protesting. Joe figured Reed was giving him a break and didn’t want to press the issue and have him reconsider. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Over three years he had several run-ins with Mr. Reed but he didn’t think he was a hard ass like many kids did.


    -—- PUNCH THE CLOCK —--


    On the day of the show, Joe had a hard time staying focused at school. He skipped his last class and walked to the garage. Nate had broken down his drum kit the night before. Sal’s gear was ready. They were waiting for Pops to drop off the van.


    “You’re early,” Sal noted.


    “I know. I’m a little nervous. My mind is going a hundred miles an hour. I feel like I''m forgetting something.”


    “How about a name for the band?”


    “Not that.”


    “We know the set, even your dumb songs. We’ll be fine.”


    Joe was more than a little nervous. He was feeling genuine anxiety that made his stomach turn. He knew Sal was correct, the band was ready for this but Joe expected something to go wrong. This was a big night for him. His bandmates doubted his game plan. He needed this gig to go off without a hitch.


    When Johnny and Nate arrived, Pops was in the kitchen. He handed Sal the keys to his work van. “You better lock her up. That’s a bad area.”


    “Pops, it’s less than a mile away,” Sal laughed. “It’s our neighborhood.”


    “Bullshit.” Pops gave him a dismissive wave. “Olneyville is trash.”


    Joe pointed south. “Olneyville is right there. It’s a short walk.”


    Tony grumbled something about druggies and whores and walked away. Sal ran out to pick up a pizza. When he returned, the guys ate their first slice as they began loading the van. Then they sat in the garage to finish their pies. Pops emerged from his office.


    “Is everything good?” he asked.


    “Yeah,” Sal said. “We’re packed and ready to roll.”


    “Why is the garage door open?”


    “So we can see the van. Our gear is in there.”


    “And Olneyville is right there!” Joe added, pointing south.


    “You young punks have no clue what goes on in this city.”


    “Sure we do,” Joe said, “You Italians have been running the show for so long that we now live in a mafia state.”


    Pops pointed at Joe. “Don’t include me with those Italians. I run a legitimate business.”


    “C’mon Pops,” Sal said. “You know all the boys and they know you. You can’t pretend you don’t play ball with,” Sal made air quotes, “those Italians.”


    “And that’s why I resent them. No matter how clean you try to be they''re gonna find a way to get to you. Let me give you some advice. Don’t ever accept a favor from them. If you do they’ll own you. You will never even the score. They keep coming back.”


    “How did they get you?” Joe asked while grabbing another slice.


    “Nineteen sixty-four,” Pops said under his breath. “My store was broken into four times. They stole all the meat in my cooler and my Hobart meat slicers. I put in an alarm system after the first break-in. They defeated it. After the fourth break-in, I went to the boss.”


    “Patriarca?” Joe asked


    “Yeah. I reached him through a friend.”


    “My Dad?” Johnny asked, knowing John Senior had connections.


    “Yeah. He knew some guys. So the boss put the word out that my butcher shop was protected and I…”


    “Started paying,” Sal said.


    “Yes. I did. And the break-ins stopped. Years later I learned Patriarca’s boys were the thieves. I refused to do business with them so they created a problem only they could solve. They learned how to defeat my alarm from the guy who installed it for me. They have their dirty hooks in everyone.”


    “And that’s how this city is run,” Joe added. “It’s just another racket.”


    “What does this have to do with Olneyville?” Nate asked.


    “Yeah,” Johnny said with a mouthful of crust.


    “Look,” Pops said. “The mob is trash. They’re not my friends but they keep the neighborhood clean. There are no drug dealers on The Hill and don’t see any street walkers on Atwells Ave. They keep that business away from us… in the West End and South Providence, in the projects.”


    “We’re in the West End,” Joe noted.


    “We’re on the border,” Sal corrected him.


    “Close enough.”


    As the guys wrapped up their pre-show meal, Nate poked fun at Joe’s plans. “Tony, what do you think of Joe’s silly songs?”


    “They’re no worse than the other crap you play.”


    “C’mon, man. You can’t be serious. They’re ridiculous.”


    Joe ignored him. When no one went along with his ball breaking, Nate changed the subject. Still poking at Joe. “What about your girlfriend…will she be there?”


    “I don’t have a girlfriend.”


    “Claire. She seems like your girl, except for the fact she’s not fucking you.”


    Sal laughed with a mouthful of crust. “No college girl is going bang a high school jailbait.”


    “Jailbait!” Nated roared. “There’s your band name.”


    “Give the kid a break, will ya.” Johnny glared at Nate.


    Nate scowled at Johnny. “Yessir. We wouldn’t want to hurt Joey’s feelings on his big night.”


    “Don’t call me that,” Joe pushed Nate’s shoulder.


    “Sorry, Joey,” Nate smirked. “So what is the name of this band of yours?”


    Joe ignored him again. As they cleared the table, he went over instructions regarding his plans for the show. The guys listened, offering no input or dumb comments. Joe knew they expected his ideas to bomb. It was entirely up to him to make it work. If not, Nate would lead the mutiny against his sideshow.


    — THE NASTIEST DIVE BAR IN TOWN —


    The Underground was a dark and dank basement-level bar below a neighborhood market also owned by Vic’s uncle. The band enlisted their most trusted hoodrat, Denny, to help them set up, but also to keep an eye on things. No gear could be left unattended, not for a moment. Denny was pushing thirty and had served an apprenticeship as an electrician. He was a very handy friend.


    The only patrons in the bar were the sketchy regulars, fewer than twenty, and a handful of hoodrats who’d arrived early. The regulars gave the band the side eye as they hauled amps and drums down the stairs, across the room to the small stage. Sal insisted one of them stay with the van at all times.


    Sal gestured toward the riff-raff. “It looks like our kind of crowd.”


    “You mean assholes?” Joe said low.


    “No, punks and rockers.”


    “There are no punks here. I hate this bar.”


    “Joe, what the fuck are you gonna call the band?”


    Joe pretended to not hear him.


    The bar was a long and narrow-ish room, six steps below street level, with small windows near the low ceiling that barely let light in, because they hadn’t been cleaned since the sixties. The main space was a little over thirty feet wide. They placed their gear on the riser in the very back of the room, a stage that was only eighteen inches above the floor.


    Johnny looked overhead. “Hey, where did these Klieg lights come from? They weren’t here before.”


    “I forgot to tell ya," said Sal. "Vic said he had a strip of cans from back when they had music here. He had them put back up.”


    “I did the work,” Denny said, as he set down Nate’s bass drum. “They’re safe but hot.”


    The strip of six lights was twenty inches above Johnny’s head over the front edge of the stage. Joe reached up and touched them. “Fuck, they’re hot.”


    Johnny laughed, “Dummy.”


    Denny shook his head. “I just told you that.”


    “We’re gonna cook up here with those beating down on us,” Johnny noted.


    “We need the light," said Nate. "You can’t see your hand in front of your face in this fucking dungeon.”


    From the stage, the bar was to the left. Behind the bar was a side room with pool tables. Green billiards lamps provided an Irish glow on that side of the bar. A small group of townies were shooting pool. Most people would be standing directly in front of the stage where tables and chairs had been cleared out to fit more patrons. They’d be standing all the way to the far wall near the front entrance, sixty feet away. As the band set up, more hoodrats filed in.


    Sal was optimistic. “If everyone we expect shows up this place is gonna be packed.”


    “What’s the capacity here?” asked Nate.


    “The Fire Marshall says 165,” Joe answered.


    “How the fuck do you know that?”


    “It’s posted above the front door in every bar or restaurant. I wanted to know how much Vic is pulling in with a two-dollar cover charge. All of our friends will be here and we won’t earn a fucking dime.”


    “Vic will squeeze in one-eighty," said Sal, "and if he does, we’ll get paid.”


    Nate looked up from his half-assembled drum kit. “You really think we can draw one-eighty?”


    “I do,” Joe said. “I’m just not convinced he’ll pay us.”


    When your name is Vic ‘The Trick’ Petrillo, you may not be the most trustworthy guy in town. His uncle Guido was connected to Tony Meats and his wiseguys. He gave Vic the job of running the joint after he got out of prison hoping his nephew would go straight. He did not.


    Vic was in his late thirties, Joe’s Dad’s age. He had long but thinning hair, slicked back, and a pockmarked face. His reputation as a sleazeball was deserved. Imagine actor James Woods… only more sketchy and slimey. Jimmy Woods, by the way, grew up in Warwick, just south of Providence. He was a young up-and-comer in Hollywood with ten film credits at the time.


    Sal vouched for Vic. No one knew why. As he walked over from the bar area, Vic patted a waitress on her ass. “So, Sal says you can give me three hours.” He looked at Joe. “Is that right?”


    “Yeah,” Joe replied. “Ninety minutes, a set break, and then ninety more. We’ll play past midnight.”


    “Good. The later the better.” Vic nodded at the other guys. “If you need anything to take the edge off, let me know.”


    “Maybe a beer,” Sal said, “nothing else.”


    “Speak for yourself,” Johnny said. He turned to Vic. “What have you got?”


    “You’re not getting high, Johnny.” Sal glared at him. “We don’t need an episode.”


    “Fuck you, Sal,” Johnny flipped him off. “I’m clean.”


    “Let’s keep it that way,” Sal said, not looking up from his amp.


    Joe didn’t know what that exchange was about but he knew Vic dealt drugs, ran book from his backroom office, and fucked his waitresses. Whatever vice you had, Vic could hook you up. Sal insisted he was a good guy. Joe wasn’t so sure. When Pops first heard they were playing The Underground he had one word of advice. “Keep it strictly business, music business.”


    Vic watched the band set up, eyeballing their gear. That was enough to make Joe uncomfortable. The crowd had filled the front stage area and lines were forming at the bar. As the number of kids from Joe’s high school grew, it was apparent Vic wasn’t carding anyone because it was doubtful they all had fake IDs. The ages ran from sixteen to fifty, with some rough-looking older townies at the bar, men and women. Joe figured some were the class of ‘49… if they even got that far.


    Joe moved closer to Vic, making eye contact. “We’re gonna pack this place tonight.”


    Vic smiled, “Good to know.”


    Joe leered at him. “I get that we’re doing a free gig for exposure but that doesn’t mean we don’t know we’re getting fucked.”


    Vic leaned back. “Whoa, what’s with the hostility?”


    “He’s annoyed we’re not getting paid," answered Sal.


    “No!” Joe snapped. “I’m annoyed he’s gonna rake in close to four bills on our labor, plus the bar.”


    Sal shot Joe a look as if telling him to shut up. Joe wasn’t having it. He never liked the idea of a free gig. In his opinion, the band should always get the door.


    “You’ll be begging us to come back after you see how many show up tonight.”


    “Jesus," said Vic. "He’s a cocky brat.”


    “I’m confident our friends will support us and I don’t like my band getting screwed.”


    As Vic turned to get back to the bar he saw what Joe was seeing from the stage. The bar was more than three-quarters full and people were still flowing in.


    “Let’s get a beer before we go on,” Joe said, stalling for time.


    Sal nodded: “What are you gonna call the band, Joe?”


    They walked not far to the bar, having to push through as people were crowding in, from the back of the room to the stage. They got greetings and “good luck” from friends as they moved through the punks.


    “What are you gonna call the band Joe?”


    ”It’ll come to me. I don’t have to say it right away.”


    “It’s gotta sound punk.”


    “Oh shit!” Joe slapped his forehead. “We’re a punk band.” He rolled his eyes. “Thanks for the tip.”


    Johnny was already at the bar. He overheard them and leaned in. “Be positive, Joe. I bet whatever you say at that moment will be good. I can feel it. ”


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    “Thanks for the encouragement, Johnny.”


    “You’re gonna nail it tonight, kid.” He pointed his long, bony guitarist finger at the Joe. “You’re good at this.”


    Other than his setlist, Joe gave the band only one pre-show instruction. “When I yell ‘punk rock’, we go hard on that first song.”


    He felt someone behind him, close. A pair of hands reached around and covered his eyes. They were feminine hands. She smelled nice. He knew the scent.


    “Carla? Sandy? Lisa?”


    “Oh, aren’t you funny?” Claire uncovered his eyes and pushed him from behind.


    “Claire, of course.” He smiled. “I knew it was you. You were my next guess.”


    “I’m skipping work to be here tonight. It better be worth it, and you better be happy to see me.”


    “Of course I am.” Joe leaned against her. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t make it.”


    She gave Joe a peck on the cheek. Sal noticed and gave Joe a smirk.


    “We’re about to go up. Wish me luck.”


    Claire smiled. “Don’t fuck this up.”


    “Thanks for that.”


    As they walked back to their moment of truth, Joe noticed there was still a line of people out the door paying cover, and the place was already crowded. The back wallflowers were mostly high school kids he knew. A few waved. He tried to do a low-key punk wave. It was awkward. ‘Punks shouldn’t wave,’ he thought. ‘From now on it’ll be side eye contact with a barely perceptible head nod.’


    Sal pulled Joe to the side of the stage and leaned close. “Hey,” he said lowly. “If you see Vic hanging around Johnny, let me know.”


    “What’s going on?”


    “I don’t want him buying drugs.”


    “Is there a problem?”


    “Not if he doesn’t get high.”


    Johnny was strapped in first. Nate hadn’t left his stool since he set up, making adjustments. Joe and Sal stepped on stage, placing their beers down and strapping in. Joe plugged his beat-up old Telecaster and flipped on his amp, fingers crossed. Johnny and Sal were fiddling with notes and chords getting warm. Nate popped a few light beats on his snare. Joe’s amp hummed. He turned his volume way up and stomped on his Rat distortion pedal. With his back to the crowd, he let loose one loud raking A chord, followed by A triads.


    The crowd responded. He lowered the volume to where Johnny said it should be, between six and seven, to hide any imperfect play. When he turned to the standing mass it appeared to exceed P.F.D. recommendations. ‘Fuck,’ he thought. ‘I know nearly everyone here.’ The moment he had imagined for years had finally arrived. In that second, he made a decision.


    “Hey! Hoodrats! Thanks for coming out to The Underground for our very first gig.”


    They hooted and cheered.


    “Especially our friends. We love you guys.”


    Joe glanced at Sal and Johnny and nodded. They were ready. He looked back at Nate. He was set to go.


    “We’re The Young Punks. We make everything… PUNK ROCK!”


    Nate started the pounding drum thunder intro to the theme song for the television show ‘Hawaii Five-O’ transforming the room from just a shitty bar to a nightclub. Johnny, Sal, and Joe slammed the chords and notes that were horns on the original. ‘Five-O’ was one of the stunt songs Joe had convinced them to try. They jammed the two-minute instrumental, a nice warm-up number, and when they got to the cymbal crashing crescendo finale, they went straight into the next song, The Ramones'' ‘Cretin Hop’.


    When Joe stepped up to the mic the words just came out. He wasn’t thinking of lyrics or chords as he had when practicing in the garage. After so many months it was becoming automatic, like someone else was in his body and he was watching from another place. Joe scanned faces, dozens of teens and young adults looking up at him, smiling, dancing in place because they were jammed in tight. The band zipped through the first four songs, all hard, uptempo tracks, before taking a breath.


    “Thank you.” He let the noise fade. “So, we play punk rock, but what we really do is take any song we like and turn it into punk. It doesn’t matter what the original was, we make it punk. Like this one.”


    They broke into a hard version of ‘Brand New Key’ by Melanie. It was his sister Janie’s favorite song and not at all punk. That’s when Joe set the hook in the crowd. The ‘What the fuck?’ look on faces was beautiful. They had never played this in the garage, so everyone was surprised.


    When they hit the chorus, the crowd sang along.


    “Well, I’ve got a brand new pair of rollerskates


    You got a brand-new key.


    I think that we should get together


    And try them on you see.


    I’ve been lookin’ around awhile


    You got something for me.


    Well, I’ve got a brand new pair of rollerskates,


    You got a brand new key.”


    Claire held her hands to her cheeks, laughing. Everyone knew the chorus. Joe sang in a gravelly voice, like Tom Waits, the extreme opposite of sweet Melanie. It was an easy song to punk up, a fun song, and they rocked it. The first singalong was a crowd-pleaser.


    “We’re here to have a good time,” Joe said. “If you know the lyrics feel free to join me.” He banged a power chord. “Sing it loud and sing it proud.”


    Joe looked back at Nate as if saying ‘I told you so’ with his eyes. After that number the rest of the show was easy. The pressure was off. The crowd liked their punk Stones, punk Kinks, and punk Zombies. Most everyone knew the songs, so singing with Joe was easy. That was a major factor in his set selection. From the very beginning, Joe said, “Let the punks sing,” as his bandmates cast doubt on his ideas.


    Months ago, when Sal got them on the punking up of old rock songs, Joe soon realized he could make any song punk rock. He dove into his dad’s collection of old records to find The Crickets'' ‘I Fought The Law’, Johnny Cash’s ‘Cocaine Blues’, and Elvis’ ‘Burning Love’. The band punked them all up, playing them harder and faster.


    Some songs have chord structures perfect for punking. Buddy Holly’s ‘Peggy Sue’ and a few Paul Revere & The Raiders songs were easy to adapt by simply thrashing the chords. When Joe first suggested these old songs, Sal and Nate protested, but once they made them hard, the guys acquiesced. These songs were fun to play.


    Joe felt they should mix in these oldies to appeal to a wider audience. The class of ‘49 appeared to be digging the show. He threw them a bone with another oldie, Nancy Sinatra’s ‘These Boots Are Made For Walking.’ While singing, Joe eyed the faces of his friends, smiles and laughter were all around the room. He knew he scored a hit. Every time they completed a song Nate or Sal had previous doubts about, Joe shot them a glance with a smile as the friends of the band enthusiastically vindicated his choices.


    In the middle of the first set, Joe gambled with what Nate thought was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard in his life.


    “All right, everyone knows the words to this song. I expect you all to join in.” He pointed to the oldest patron seated at the bar, easily sixty. ”That means you old man!”


    He paused for a moment.


    “Yabba dabba dooooooooo!


    Flintstones, meet the Flintstones


    They''re the modern Stone Age family…”


    Initial looks of confusion gradually changed to delight and punks singing along as they realized it was the Flintstones theme song. It went exactly as Joe had hoped. After a run through the forty-five-second theme song, Johnny played a ripping lead, and then they went through the lyrics again so the slower people who didn’t catch on the first time could sing the full song.


    When that song ended in cymbal crashing and guitar thrashing, the crowd went fucking wild. Joe took a bow, turned to his bandmates, and took another bow. When the kids finally quieted. He pointed with his thumb at his bandmates behind him.


    “These jamokes thought my idea of playing a television theme song was the dumbest fucking idea they ever heard. So, do me a big favor. On three, everyone let them know if you approve. One, two, three.”


    The punks went crazy. Joe stood tall and proud, looking at familiar faces and strangers, cheering, clapping, and screaming. There was no denying his idea had worked. Claire blew Joe a kiss. He smiled and winked.


    As the band continued, Joe was in the jamzone, simply doing what he’d been doing in the garage. He even did the stage moves at the garage, because they had space. This was not his first performance.


    The band was amped up, adrenaline pumping, and Joe realized he was moving too quickly through the first set. After Flintstones, he paused after each song, letting the crowd make noise, then waiting for them to quiet.


    He had fussed over what to do between songs, and how to pace the band. He didn’t want to rush through the set but he also didn’t want to say the same old shit before and after every song, ‘thank you,’ and then introduce the next one. He thought about it lying in bed for weeks, envisioning his rock & roll fantasy.


    Knowing all the hoodrats, he decided to bust people’s balls. He told a couple of short band origin stories, like how he started with classmates, “‘And now I have these sketchy greaseballs.” This gave the band breaks and stretched the set. He had thirty-two covers and a handful of stunt songs to play. Every song was under five minutes, some were barely three, and he had to make it last until midnight.


    Joe was drenched in sweat and the night was still young. “These lights are cooking me! I need sunglasses up here.” An older guy stage-side reached into his pocket and handed his sunglasses to Joe. He laughed and put them on for a couple of songs. Little things like that made people smile.


    Late in the first set, waving his arms like a bird in the universal gesture of silence, Joe quieted the crowd. He had an idea not even the band knew about, except for the next song on his setlist and Joe instructing them to… “Just go with it.”


    He spoke loudly, like a carnival barker. “Ladies and Gentlemen!” He paused. “May I present to you, “ he paused. “The very first, completely original, and one of a kind,” another pause. “Punk Chick Dance Off!”


    The guys instinctively hit notes, chords, drums, and cymbals, punctuating his words. Joe then spoke in a quick-paced game show announcer’s voice.


    “Step right up, ladies. I need two lovely female volunteers willing to risk reputation and humiliation dancing on this very stage. You’ll wiggle it, move it, and shake your moneymaker. Give us your best moves and our punk rock audience will choose a punk chick dance queen!”


    The band punctuated him again. Joe scanned the audience.


    Hands went up as he took his time looking over the volunteers. He asked one girl to spin around and then selected her. He took his time, pretending it was a hard decision, then chose the second contestant. After helping the girls on stage he motioned to the crowd to give them a round of applause. Joe knew both girls, vaguely.


    “We have our contestants. In this corner, from Pawtucket, the lovely, Charlene!”


    The crowd cheered.


    “In this corner, from Rhode Island College, gorgeous Allison!”


    More cheers. The girls blushed.


    “Okay ladies, please come together, bump gloves. The rules are simple. When the music starts you dance your cute little asses off. Shake it, don’t break it. No head butting and no hitting below the belt. You must dance the entire song. Any questions?”


    They both said no.


    “Are you ready?”


    They nodded.


    Joe stepped back. The band played the theme song to ‘Batman’, easy to dance to and easier to sing along to. The girls shook it on stage to the delight of the crowd. When it was over, the punks voted by applause. Allison won. Joe raised her hand like a boxer in the ring. Once again, Joe measured his success by the smiles of the faces looking up at him. The band bought Allison a cocktail and a tradition was born. The Punk Chick Dance Off became a Young Punks stunt at every gig they did from that day forward.


    When Joe had the crowd singing along, he felt like Svengali seducing a hundred and sixty-five Trilbys. He had total control of the room. It was empowering. Sal was all over the stage in a heavy foot-stomping style. When Joe wasn’t signing, he was bouncing around doing his old air guitar moves. Johnny was playing himself, too cool, with little flash, standing to Joe’s right. Nate was the punk engine, pounding the beat, keeping them glued together because they needed it. It got messy at times, playing on the edge, so pumped with adrenaline that they almost crashed a couple of songs. Nate’s beat kept the train on the tracks.


    Joe barely said a word through their twenty-minute set break. He soaked up the compliments and back-patting as he made his way to the bar. Nate walked up alongside him and Johnny. He slapped Joe’s back. “I never doubted you for a second.”


    Sal shoved Nate from behind. “Fuck off!”


    “No, really. I was just testing you.” Nate smiled, “Trial by fire.”


    Joe remained quiet. Claire corned him, excited. “Who the hell is that guy on stage?”


    He shrugged. She rambled for a minute about how impressed she was. Joe loved it. He didn’t need drugs to get high. Attention would become his addiction. He had more tricks for the second set, including another TV theme song shortly after set break… F-Troop.


    “Where Indian fights are colorful sights and nobody takes a lickin’


    When pale face and redskin both turn chicken.”


    Close to two hundred full-throated fans were blasting the words to a song they heard a thousand times growing up. Joe picked syndicated TV shows that were on in the afternoon and early evening. There were only four local TV stations. Everyone watched the same shows. The singalongs were exhilarating. Everyone smiled and laughed while going along with Joe’s stunts.


    Late in the night, with only a handful of songs left, Joe quieted the crowd.


    “It’s so fucking hot up here. Look at my shirt. It’s drenched.”


    “Take it off!” a girl yelled.


    “Take it all off!” yelled another.


    Joe slipped his guitar strap off, removed his Creem Magazine tee shirt, and threw it out there. They went nuts. That’s how easy these people were to please.


    The final singalong was the last song. The most fun he saw that night was people singing at the top of their lungs to marching, anthemic, punk rock chords. Their banging version of The Talking Heads'' ‘Psycho Killer’ was one of Joe’s favorites.


    As they closed the night and started packing gear, friends and new fans interrupted them to tell the guys how much fun they had. Vic came over as they were about to carry their gear out.


    “I don’t know what the fuck that was but they loved it. You guys did great.”


    Joe glared at him. “And we packed the fucking joint.”


    “Damn right we did,” said Sal.


    “Yeah, I didn’t expect that.” Vic handed Sal an envelope. “Here’s half the door, a hundred ninety bucks.” he looked up. “I had to pay Denny to put these cans up, and replace some bulbs.”


    “How much did that cost him, Denny?” Joe asked, staring at Vic.


    “Not a hundred and ninety bucks.”


    “I had to clean this place up to have it right for you guys.”


    Joe looked around, “You cleaned? Please, show me where.”


    “The bathrooms. I had to buy more drink glasses and bar supplies.”


    “So we have to pay your business expenses?”


    Vic put his palms out, “Look, if you guys want to play next weekend you get the whole door. Just keep them drinking past midnight, and I’m good.”


    Sal looked at Joe. There was a moment. Joe gave a barely perceptible nod.


    Sal smiled wide. “Thanks, Vic. We appreciate this. What night do you want?”


    “Honestly, I don’t care. You decide.”


    “Saturday,” Joe said flatly.


    “I already have a band scheduled,” Vic smirked. “But I’m gonna bump them to Friday for you.”


    —-- THE AFTERGLOW —--


    Claire showed up at the garage after the gig. She continued to ramble on about the show and the band but especially Joe. He was sucking up her adoration like a dry, needy sponge. She made him blush a few times. Punks don’t blush, so he had to wipe that stupid smile off his face.


    After a long run of remembering things she liked about the show, Claire sighed. “I just can’t believe how great you guys were on your first night. I kind of expected some nerves, or maybe you’d mess up or could have technical issues.”


    Joe gave her a stern look. “So what you’re saying is you had low expectations.”


    “I did not say that.”


    “You just said you can’t believe how great we were, how everything went perfectly. That implies you didn’t believe in us. You expected problems.”


    Claire was apologetic. “Holy shit. I’m sorry. That is not what I meant. I mean, I’ve seen you guys jam a few times. I knew you were good but no one expects a perfect first gig.”


    Joe sat on the couch where they had met weeks ago, looking at her, expressionless. He let her sweat it out waiting for his next words, thinking she offended him. There was concern in her eyes.


    “Joe, I’m sorry. Say something.”


    “I’m just thinking of a way to twist your words again to keep fucking with you.”


    She pushed him away. “What an ass. I’m trying to compliment you and you want to make me feel bad? That’s a dick move.”


    “I’m just teasing you, take it easy… and thank you.”


    Sal shouted from across the garage. “Hey Joe, when did you come up with the band name?”


    “Pops gave it to us. How many times has he said, ‘You young punks’, since we moved in here? It was in the back of my mind and popped up when I needed it.”


    “Cool.”


    He turned back to Claire. “During the set break, you asked me something I found pretty funny.”


    Claire recalled. “Who the hell was that guy on stage?”


    “Yeah, I didn’t answer because it sounds dumb but this is the truth. That guy up there is what I’ve always wanted to be from the day I saw The Stones on television. That’s my future.”


    “That’s not dumb.” She smiled. “It’s sort of poetic.” She hugged him. “Everyone was great. Nate was crazy back there smashing his drums.”


    Joe laughed. “That almost went wrong. Nate always plays hard but he was so jacked up he was an animal. He broke three sticks and only had five. Had he broken one more…”


    “That would have been awful….”


    “And hilarious. You have to think of the good side. Hey, Nate!” Joe shouted across the garage.


    “Yeah, what’s up.”


    “Do you still have those broken sticks from tonight?”


    “Yeah, they’re in the van.”


    “Save them for me. I might need them.”


    “Okay,” he said. “Now leave us alone.”


    Nate was making kissy face with a new friend, Debbie. Joe turned back to Claire. She scooted closer to him.


    “When I asked that question, what I meant was, you’re kind of a quiet guy.” She touched his hair. “Here with the band you direct the jams and joke with the guys but with everyone else, you’re pretty mellow. That guy on stage was confident with the jokes and the stunts. I didn’t see that coming.”


    “I told you, sitting right here two weeks ago. I want us to be a great show, more than music, entertainment.”


    “It sounded great but you didn’t tell me what that meant.”


    “Was I supposed to spoil the surprise for you?”


    “Hey, Joe,” Johnny called out. “Did you have any other ideas for band names?”


    “A couple.”


    “Like what?”


    “Nothing good, but Federal Hill was a contender.”


    “That would have been great!” Sal said with enthusiasm.


    “Nah,” Joe said. “I like the name Pops gave us.”


    Claire poked him. “Where did the dance contest come from?”


    Joe pointed to his temple. ”I have notebooks full of ideas for the show. I saw The Tubes a while back. They have girls on stage in costumes, dancing, and a sex-filled show. They were actually banned in some countries. I can’t hire dancing girls but I can ask for volunteers.”


    Claire smiled, gazing into Joe’s eyes as he spoke.


    “What girls are going to raise their hands?” He paused. “The extroverts. They might be drunk and could make it better.”


    “What other ideas do you have written down?”


    “I can’t reveal my works in progress. I have lots of ideas and lyrics, original songs we haven’t yet unveiled. Now the trick will be changing it up to keep it fresh. There’s a business plan in here too.”


    “I’m impressed.”


    “Thanks.” Joe smiled. “I was happy to see you tonight. It meant a lot. I would have felt shitty if you missed it.”


    “Me too. I hope I have a job on Sunday. Everyone knows I was trying to trade nights, so not showing up will be obviously hooky.”


    Claire made a move, pretending to adjust herself, scooting even closer. With her hand close to his ear, she pulled on a shaggy curl and leaned in.


    “Do you need a haircut or are you growing it out?”


    He shrugged. “Haven’t thought about it. It’s wavy when it gets long but when it grows below my ears it starts to curl. I look stupid with long hair. Like Bozo the Clown.”


    “So you cut it when it curls?”


    “Yeah, before it flips up like Bozo.”


    “This length looks good. I like your curls.”


    She was twirling a curl in her fingers. Joe could have made it easy and kissed her but he enjoyed the game. He couldn’t wait to see her next move but Sal broke the mood from the kitchen.


    “Jesus Christ! Are you gonna do something or does she have to do all the damn work?”


    Claire blushed. “I think he’s playing hard to get.”


    “No, I’m not. I haven’t run away but I don’t want creepy Sal gawking at us.”


    She leaned in and kissed Joe, just a light peck, then another, a real kiss.


    “It’s about fucking time," said Sal. "This scene was getting tedious.”


    “It’s like a sappy romantic comedy," shouted Nate from across the garage.


    Joe flipped them off. “You’ve got porn under your mattress. You don’t need to watch us to jack off.”


    That kiss made their sort-of-a-thing into definitely a thing, or so Joe thought. He still wasn''t fully confident he knew what this was.


    The following night, Joe took Claire to see Queen and Thin Lizzy at the Providence Civic Center. He gave Sal a ticket. Pete Smith and Robby were in the same row. It was so fucking weird but great. Joe loved the awkwardness. It was delicious… because he won.


    —- OVERNIGHT SENSATION —-


    Joe didn’t know how many kids from school were at that show but from what he gathered it was at least sixty. For once, there was a positive buzz at Central High School with his name attached to it. Classmates he barely knew walked up to him to say they loved his band.


    “Dude, you’re like Sybil,” one boy said. “It''s like you have a split personality. That was fucking weird, man.”


    Even kids who didn’t attend told Joe they heard about his show and asked when they were playing again.


    “This Saturday. Be there.”


    “What if I’m not eighteen,” a girl asked.


    “Don’t worry about it. What’s the worst thing they can do, not let you in? As far as I know, they let everyone in on Friday night.”


    The following morning, Joe sat on his usual perch by the faculty entrance. One of the nerdy kids walked over. Joe looked up to see Betty McDonald staring at him, a mousy redhead with lots of freckles and eyeglasses too big for her narrow face.


    “I heard you have a band.”


    “Yup, for more than a year.”


    “And you just had your first show.”


    Joe noticed her nerdy friends watching from thirty feet away. “Yes. You should come out and see us. We’re playing Saturday night.”


    Betty laughed, covering her mouth. “Me, at a bar? No, but thanks.” She looked down at the Mead Composition notebook in Joe’s lap. “What are you writing?”


    “Band stuff.”


    “You’re always alone, reading or writing. Is it all music?”


    “I keep a journal and I draw, but yeah, it’s mostly band ideas and lyrics.”


    “You write songs?”


    “Yeah, but we haven’t played any yet. I’m still working on them.”


    Joe had been sitting on this stoop for nearly two full school years. Rarely did any of the smart kids speak to him aside from an occasional, ‘Good morning.’ Betty was sort of the nerd queen. Like Joe, she was a junior. Unlike Joe, she was a high honors student and liked by everyone. She ran for class president but lost to a popular jock… three years in a row.


    “I heard you plan to drop out and pursue music.”


    “What moron told you that?”


    Betty shrugged. “Some kids were talking.”


    “Stupid kids. I’m not dropping out.”


    “Good,” Betty smiled. “I hope your music works out for you but you should still finish school.”


    Joe made wide eyes, “Okay Mom, thanks for the talk.”


    Betty smiled, “I’m just sayin’.”


    The morning bell rang, saving Joe from further awkwardness. Betty walked off with her nerd crew.


    Over the course of a few days, Joe slowly realized his band had changed his image at school. While he appreciated that his peers liked his band he wasn’t sure he liked this rise in popularity. One perk of Joe’s bad reputation was the fact kids steered clear of him. He preferred it that way. This might be a problem. He thought he might have to slap someone to put his world back on its axis.