—-- MORTICIA VS BATMAN —--


    For their second show at The Living Room, Joe agreed to play a weeknight… because Randy offered him Halloween. He said the college kids come in costume and it’s a wild scene. Joe was happy to get the gig but he had a scheduling dilemma. Joe took his sisters trick-or-treating every year. He accepted Randy’s offer and began scheming how he could pull off double duty, trick-or-treating and playing the show.


    The band was set up for the nine o’clock start. The Room was packed, a little over two hundred revelers, most in costume. Behind the bar, Randy looked at his wristwatch and motioned to Sal on stage. Sal shrugged, it was 8:52 and Joe was nowhere to be seen.


    At nine, Sal stepped up to the mic. “Did one of you ladies kidnap our cute lead singer? Joey is missing in action.”


    Some in the crowd moaned.


    “We know where he is,” Nate said. “Joey has little sisters and every year he takes them out on Halloween for trick-or-treating.”


    There was a collective, “Awwwww.”


    Sal smiled back at Nate. “I know, he’s such a good boy. We promise he’ll be here soon. Joey is very dependable.”


    “That’s why he couldn’t disappoint his sisters,” Nate added.


    At 9:09, Joe walked in the back door from the alley. A small cheer came from the people in that corner of the club. He made his way through the crowd to the stage. He slipped a mask on and climbed onstage. He didn’t say a word, just strapped on his Tele, turned his amp on, and waited for the hum making eye contact with each of his mates. Then he stepped up to the mic and went to work wearing a very cheesy Batman costume.


    It was another night and another gig. By now, Joe knew his set and schtick like a pro. He wore a cheap department store caped crusader costume, boys size XL. It hugged his torso like a wet suit. The cape was too small. The molded plastic mask barely fit. One elastic held it on. It was a ridiculous get-up and that was the point.


    He did his sideshow stunts and a little crowd work, which was easy, making fun of bad costumes, like his own, and complimenting hot girls with the best costumes. Several songs in he noticed a familiar face stage left, ten people deep. Claire was made up like a cat, with whiskers and ears. His heart sank for a moment. He loathed that feeling, pushing his emotions aside.


    Midway into the set, Joe quieted the crowd. “Ghouls and witches, spooks and monsters, you’re about to witness Young Punks history. We have a new song. I hereby declare this composition our first official Halloween song.” The bass and drums gave the song away instantly.


    “They’re creepy and they’re kooky, mysterious, and spooky


    They’re all together ooky, the Addams Family.”


    Joe watched faces light up then and sing along, even if they didn’t quite know the words. He caught a glimpse of Claire, smiling and singing. When the singing ended and the crowd cheered, Joe noticed Morticia Addams to his left, He smiled at her. Two songs later, Joe selected Mortica to dance against a sexy nurse. They danced to Batman, Joe running around like a crime fighter, kicking, punching, karate chopping, and shouting, “BAM, POW, WHACK.”


    Morticia won easily.


    The Morticia vs Batman tee-shirt battle was dancing rather than wrestling. Gina, a RISD girl with naturally perfectly straight jet-black Morticia hair, dressed in a long beautiful black gown that clung to her tall slender body. She was smokin’ hot.


    Joe stood back and admired her spooky elegance. “I cannot mess up this black-haired beauty with big dark eyes.”


    A few in the crowd answered back, “With points of her own sittin’ way up high.”


    More voices replied, “Way up firm and high.”


    Joe danced with Morticia, hand in hand, close, while the band played a beat and chords that resembled Night Moves, and the crowd sang along. He then presented Gina with his tee shirt and cape. Joe kept his mask.


    During set break, Joe went to the back alley where the smokers and tokers hung out. While talking to Issac, the RISD dude he met at their first downtown show, he felt a tug on his sleeve. He turned to see Claire standing there, smiling. She was so beautiful it made Joe more annoyed to see her. Her cat costume was minimalist. He liked it.


    “Hi, Joe. It’s nice that you took your sister’s out for candy.”


    Joe felt his sinking heart again and he hated himself for it. He was so over this girl and wanted nothing to do with her. He stared emotionless. Her smile disappeared.


    “What do you want?” he asked.


    “I just wanted to say hello. Can we talk?”


    He stared coldly, wanting to be nice to Claire, but struggling. She must be punished for what she did to him. “I’m still seventeen and in high school. What’s there to talk about?” Then he turned to Issac. “I’ll catch you later.” and walked away without looking at Claire. Issac leaned closer to her and whispered. “He’s in high school?” He looked up at Claire. “…and he’s only seventeen?”


    Claire sighed, “Yeah, but don’t tell anyone. He’ll be eighteen in a couple of months.”


    In the middle of the second set, while doing a chord-raking version of Peggy Sue, Nate split a drumstick, his third of the night, he continued with one hand. When Joe heard the drums turn to shit he looked back. Nate shrugged. Joe stopped playing.


    “Are you fucking serious?” He threw his hands up.


    Nate shrugged again. “Sorry dude.”


    Sal and Johnny stopped playing. The crowd groaned. The murmurs of costumed punks were the only sound in the room.


    “What the fuck Nate? This is a big night and you fucked it up!”


    “Fuck you, Joe.”


    Joe turned to the crowd. “You see this. Our idiot drummer ran out of drumsticks because he plays like a deranged gorilla and he’s too fucking cheap to buy enough sticks.”


    Some of the crowd laughed but Joe’s tone was angry, many did not sense any humor.


    Sal stepped in. “Joe, take it easy. What do we have left, half a set? We’re fine.”


    Nate stood up and pointed his lonely drumstick at Joe: “Hey, watch what you say next motherfucker, or I’ll kick your ass.”


    Joe looked out over the room. “I don’t suppose anyone in this club would have a drumstick our moron drummer could borrow, or a wooden spoon, anything?”


    Joe scanned faces, people looked around, shaking heads… no. The discomfort was palpable.


    He turned back to Nate. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”


    Nate started coming out from behind his kit. “Do you wanna take this out back, you little shit?”


    Eyes were wide, mouths agape, as the crowd watched the band unravel. As Nate passed Sal, on his way to Joe, Sal put his arm out, stopping Nate. “Hang on a second!”


    Sal began unzipping his fly: “Let me see what I’m packing. This might be long enough.”


    “It might be skinny enough too.” Joe pointed at his crotch.


    The crowd laughed and then went bug-eyed as Sal reached into his jeans and began to pull it out. There was anticipation in the air, then laughter when Sal whipped out a drumstick. He waved it at the crowd, took a deep bow, and presented it to Nate.


    “You dumb fuckers!” Joe pointed at the people. “I thought you were the best and brightest.” He made a whiny voice. “Gullible Ivy League twats!”


    Nate flew into the pounding drum intro for Hawaii Five-0. As they jammed the instrumental, Joe met Claire’s green eyes from fifteen feet away. He felt shitty for being a dick to her but he wasn’t interested in being her pal. Feelings would get in the way.


    Claire was with him after his very first gig when he thought of the ‘broken stick’ gag. It took six months to make it happen. He wrote a script, they practiced, and then they performed Joe’s skit perfectly on Halloween Night.


    After the gig, Randy handed Joe a business card.


    The Brickyard - Boston, MA - Rick Davis - Proprietor.


    Randy explained that he and his fellow club owner friend shared information on new acts. Randy went on to say he had an offer from Rick, to have The Young Punks play a weeknight with two other bands.


    “We don’t do that shit,” Joe explained. “I’m not splitting the door. It’s not worth the trip to Boston.”


    Randy shook his head, “You’re a piece of work. His place is a warehouse off Atlantic Ave. It’s huge. He gets over 800 on a weekend. Look at the back of the card.”


    On the back of Rick Davis’ business card, he had scribbled a date and a flat rate of $500 for a seventy-five-minute set.


    “Shit, that’s not even half a night’s work,” Joe said with a nod.


    “He puts three new bands up every Thursday but not everyone gets a second date. Think of it as a battle of the bands. If you win he’ll give you weekend work and a higher rate.”


    Joe informed his mates on the way back to the garage of the offer. They were all in favor. Playing Boston was a big deal, the next level.


    —-- JAMIE LEE CURTIS IS SO HOT —--


    Four days after the Halloween gig, Joe walked into the garage late on a Saturday morning to find Sal thumping on his bass. He stopped playing as the kid approached.


    “Hey, check out this bass line I wrote. I think it would work with that stalker song you wrote.” Sal launched into a slow and ominous bass beat. Joe nodded as Sal played several bars, a change, and back to the top. When he stopped, he waited for Joe’s verdict.


    “That would definitely go with what I’m thinking,” Joe said.


    “Let’s work on it.”


    “I can’t. I’m taking my sister to see this Halloween movie. It’s supposed to be great.”


    “Really?” Sal winced, hopefully, like a big child. “Can I come?”


    Joe thought for a moment, “Sure… if you drive. It’ll save me a bus ride. I’m just here to pick up some things. Are you ready?”


    “Give a minute to piss.”


    Ten minutes later, Jeannie was gazing out the front window of the Theroux house, wiping tears, upset that she couldn’t go to the matinee with Joe. Recently turned eleven-year-old Julie sat in the front seat of the van while Joe sat in the back. As they drove crosstown, she kept glancing over at big, scary Sal with his slicked-back hair, sideburns, unshaved stubble, and DIY tattoos on his forearm. Sal returned her glance.


    “Why are you staring at me?”


    Julie shrugged. “I don’t know.”


    “I do,” Joe said while pulling a milk crate from the back of the van and placing it between the seats, just behind the engine compartment. He sat on the plastic crate. “My Mom is always going on about you being no good, a bad influence, and my sisters believe every word that comes from Mom’s mouth. So, Jules is sizing you up.”


    “Your mother talks trash about me?” Sal looked at Julie. “What did I ever do to her?”


    Julie shrugged. “I don’t know.”


    “Don’t worry about it, Sal.” Joe placed his hand on the big man’s shoulder. “No one cares what Mom thinks. She’s a drama queen.”


    As they pulled up to the Hope Cinema on the East Side, Joe saw the line of moviegoers on the sidewalk. The line wrapped around the corner into the parking lot.


    “Holy fuck! Look at this. Are we gonna get in?”


    “Don’t use the F-word,” Julie scolded her big brother.


    “Oh, are you gonna tell Mom?”


    Sal looked at his junior passenger, “Are you a tattle tale?”


    “No!”


    “Yes,” Joe nodded, looking his sister in the eye. “She is.”


    Sal glared at her. “Don’t be a rat. Nobody likes rats… especially on Federal Hill.”


    Joe almost laughed at the fear in Julie’s eyes as they exited the van. He glanced at his middle sister and took her hand for the walk inside. “I told ya, Jules. Don’t be a rat… not on The Hill.”


    Sal had to show his ID to prove Julie was accompanied by an adult. That was another reason, besides the ride, that Joe was okay with Sal tagging along. His fake ID was not great. It didn’t fool everyone. After getting three tickets, two popcorn, Milk Duds, and three sodas, Joe elbowed his sister.


    “Go use the little girls’ room.”


    “I don’t have to go.”


    “Just go. You always have to pee in the middle of a movie and then you expect me to tell you what you missed.” He pointed. “Go now.”


    She rolled her eyes, “Okay.”


    As she walked off, Joe looked at Sal. “She’s definitely the rat in the house, Jeanie is too, but Jules is Mom’s master spy and informant. And she’s a major whiner.”


    “Is she gonna be okay in here? I heard this movie is scary as fuck.”


    “The funny thing about Jules is, she’s a big baby and a whiner, but she loves horror. When she was like five she’d watch the Creature Double Feature with me every Saturday. That was our thing for years. Jackie saw Halloween last week with her friend Wendy’s parents. After she told Jules how scary it was, she started begging me to take her.”


    After the movie, walking through the lobby, Sal held his arm out. “Look at this. She left marks with her nails.”


    Joe pulled back his sleeve, “She drew blood.”


    “I’m sorry!” Julie said, “It was really scary!”


    Sal laughed, “So that’s what that yelp was about. I thought Joey was afraid of Michael Myers.”


    “He was scary,” Joe admitted.


    “And Jamie Lee Curtis is so hot,” Sal smiled. “I would have been trying to stab her with something… less dangerous.”


    Julie looked up, “Like what?”


    “Never mind,” Joe said.


    Joe asked Sal to drop them off on Atwells Ave so he could stop at the market. They would walk home from there. Carrying a bag of groceries Mom had requested, Joe leaned against his sister.


    “Am I a good brother?”


    “The best,” she said, looking up with a smile.


    “Then why do you spy and rat on me?”


    “I don’t.”


    “Please, Jules, don’t lie too. That’s insulting.”


    “Sorry.”


    “When was the last time you did something fun with Mom?”


    “I don’t know.”


    “Who takes you out for pizza and to the bookstores?”


    “You do.”


    “And who takes you for Italian Ice?”


    “You do.”


    “Who takes you to the movies?”


    “You do.”


    “Just think about that before you rat me out. If I’m so good to you, and you love me, why would you want to make Mom bitch at me?”


    Jules walked quietly without an answer.


    “Can you do me a favor? If I’m a good brother, don’t rat me out.”


    “I’ll try.”


    —-- THE WISE GUYS —--


    Joe walked into the garage on a weeknight to find Pops and his crew of fifty-something Italian men sitting at the kitchen table playing cards. A cloud of cigar smoke hovered over their game.


    “Hey, has Sal been here?” Joe asked.


    “He’s taking a beauty nap,” Johnny Bats said, gesturing toward the office cubes in the middle of the garage.


    “It’s gonna take a lot more than a nap,” Joe quipped. A couple of old guys snickered.


    On the long wall of the garage, smack in the middle, were two office cubes from the days when a fleet of trucks was run from there. Tony had a desk in one cube and Sal threw a mattress in the other. Joe walked over, peeked in the window, and slammed his palm against it.


    Sal awoke abruptly. “What the fuck?”


    “Wake up. We have a problem.”


    Joe walked back to the kitchen and watched the men playing cards. He knew John Bucci Senior and one other guy, Pete the Cheat, a well-known bookmaker and sketchy character. Another man was familiar. His nose suggested he had a losing boxing career when he was young.


    “Joe,” Pops pointed at his guys. “This is Pete, that’s Gerry, my brother-in-law Dominic, and that handsome man is Vito.”


    Joe realized he knew Dominic, the father of Sal’s two asshole cousins he had a serious fight with more than a year ago. The men all nodded. Joe hoped Dominic Piazza didn’t know who he was.


    “So you’re the wannabe rock star we’ve been hearing about,” Vito said. The wise guys chuckled.


    Joe didn’t reply.


    “I hope this band works out, kid.” Johnny Bats said. “If not, I have to find my kid a job and he ain’t good for much.”


    “He can definitely play guitar,” Joe said. “Johnny’s good for that.”


    “That’s his only skill.” Bats laughed, “Well, that and fucking up.”


    “What do you guys play?” Pete asked as he shuffled cards.


    “Weird shit,” Pops answered. “And they play it stupid loud.”


    “We play The Stones and The Kinks, some punk and surf rock. We play all kinds of stuff.”


    “Weird stuff,” Pops said lowly.


    “What do you mean weird?” Dominic asked, flicking cigar ash into a metal pie tray.


    “They play The Flintstones, Batman, and Hawaii Five-O.”


    Sal emerged from the cube. “What’s the problem?”


    “The cops are at The Underground again, right now. My dad saw five cruisers, including the K-9 unit, and unmarked cars.”


    “How is that our problem?”


    “We have a gig there this weekend.”


    Vito picked up the cards dealt to him. “Vic’s going down,” he said. “His drugstore is history and he’s going up the river.”


    “What?” Joe asked. “How do you know?”


    “I have cop friends.”


    “Yeah,” Pops said, “Dirty cops.” He threw chips on the table. “Two bucks.”


    “His uncle did him in,” Vito said. “He told the kid too many times to stop dealing drugs, and Vic ignored him. Last week some junkie overdosed in the bathroom and Uncle Guido decided enough was enough.”


    Joe raised his arms. “He ratted out his nephew?”


    “Guido has cop friends too. When he heard the junkie died at the hospital, he called a friend downtown hoping he could help him clear the joint out without busting his nephew. The problem was, that narco detectives were already working the case, getting ready to move in. I guess tonight’s the night.”


    “It was just a matter of time,” Gerry said. “Everyone knows the kid deals.”


    “Here’s the kicker,” Vito added. “They’ve been surveilling the bar, waiting for him to take a shipment. They want a big bust. The chief will be on channel ten tonight, especially if they bagged his supplier and a large quantity of whatever he’s moving.”


    “Lots of coke,” Sal said, “and pills, pot, whatever you need.”Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    “He’s a repeat offender,” Gerry noted. “Vic’s going away for a long stretch.”


    “Well,” Joe sighed. “I guess we have Saturday night off.”


    “We don’t need The Underground,” Sal said. “We have The Met and the Living Room in the city, and an occasional Rathskeller gig.”


    “The Met Cafe is history too,” Dominic said. He threw his cards in. “I fold.”


    “What are you talking about?” Joe asked.


    “They’re condemning that old shack. The city did an inspection last week and cited them with a truckload of violations. The place is falling down. They’ll be in court next week.”


    “Holy shit,” Joe looked at Sal. “Just like that,” he snapped his fingers. “we’re losing two clubs.”


    “They’re both shitholes,” Sal said, “We’ll be fine.”


    “And the city is looking at a major project on Westminster Street,” Dominic said. “a new Federal Building. I don’t think Lupo’s and the Living Room are long for this world.”


    Joe threw his arms up, “How do you guys know all this shit?”


    Sal laughed. “Because they’re worse than a bunch of old hens with the gossip. They know everyone’s business.”


    Joe walked over to the lounge area and took a seat, Sal joined him. Joe leaned close and whispered. “Your Uncle Dominic looks just like Gino.”


    “It’s the other way around. Dom came first, his loser son second.”


    “Don’t tell him who I am.”


    “He already knows.”


    “What?”


    “Frankie told him I played in a band with you.”


    “Fuck.”


    “It’s okay, Pops and I talked with him. He’s not gonna trouble you.”


    “What did you say?”


    “Pops said that you were a good kid and I told him his boys started the fight.” Sal glanced back at the wise guys and then back to Joe. “Dominic is a thug but he honors the street code. Yeah, he’s pissed off about Frankie’s face and the hospital bills but he knows they jumped you. He told me he would have done the same, busted their faces.”


    “Really?”


    “That doesn’t mean he’s your pal, okay? Don’t piss off Uncle Dom.”


    Joe opened Rolling Stone magazine, occasionally glancing over at the wise guys. After reading a review of the new record from The Police, Outlandos d’Amour, he got up to get a beer. Standing by the fridge, watching poker from afar, he met Dominic’s eyes.


    “Hey kid,” Dom said, “See this face.” He pointed at Vito. “That’s what my kid is gonna look like when he gets old.”


    “Except it took me thirty fights to get this face,” Vito said, as he looked at Joe. “You did Frankie with one punch.”


    Joe was tongue-tied. He didn’t want to piss off Uncle Dom but he had to say something. The men stared at him through the haze of cigar smoke.


    “It wasn’t one punch,” Joe finally said. “I was tangled up with Gino and Frankie jumped on me. When I stood up to shake him off, I popped his nose with the back of my head. In seconds, blood was everywhere. I still had Gino to contend with. He saw his brother’s face and lost his mind.” Joe paused. “Never lose your cool in a fight. He came at me like a windmill and left himself wide open, so I landed a few overhand rights. He went down. When I turned, Frankie was screaming, coming at me. I took one swing, square on his broken nose, and that was the end of it.”


    Six men stared at Joe. Dominic shook his head. “That’s not the story I heard.”


    “Well, that’s the truth. The whole fight was… maybe forty seconds? They jumped me. What the fuck was I supposed to do?”


    Vito smiled at Joe, “Here I am, thinking you had hands of cement breaking his face with one punch. Headbutts are dirty.”


    “It wasn’t a headbutt,” Joe said, “not intentional.”


    “Yeah, but it got the job done.”


    “Hey,” Joe said, “I don’t feel good about it. Every time I see Frankie at school I feel bad. He shouldn’t have jumped me.”


    Dominic threw his cards in, “I’m out. I’m getting shit for cards.” He looked up at Joe and shrugged with his wide Italian face. He didn’t say another word. Dominic honored the code.


    After the game, when the men left, Joe sat with Sal and Pops. Sal pressed him to tell Pops the whole story, but Joe didn’t want to discuss it further. So Sal filled his dad in.


    “The way I heard it was Gino and Frankie were waiting for Joe just off school property, first thing in the morning. They were running their mouths telling everyone they were going fuck up Joe Theroux. A crowd gathered.” He turned to Joe. “How many were there?”


    “I have no clue. I had tunnel vision. I saw them waiting for me from across Cranston Street. They came running at me and I met them in the middle of the road.”


    “You didn’t think of running?” Pops asked.


    “I did that when I was a kid. They always get you in the end. It’s best to deal with it.”


    “Anyway,” Sal said, “dozens of kids saw that fight. Joe was bloodied too. What happened with the blood-licking thing?”


    “It’s fucking stupid,” Joe rolled his eyes. “My right knuckles got smashed on the pavement and their faces. My hand was covered in blood, some was mine and some was Frankie’s. I licked my knuckles to see how bad the cuts were.”


    Sal laughed and leaned into his dad, “Kids started saying Joe drank blood and he worships Satan.”


    “That''s because kids are fucking stupid,” Joe shook his head. “I walked home, pretty banged up, but not as bad as the Piazza boys.”


    —-- COMBAT ZONE —-


    A week before Thanksgiving, the band arrived in Boston for the triple header gig. Joe had 75 minutes to work with so he designed a compact version of the sideshow. Randy was not wrong. The warehouse was more than twice the size of their biggest venue.


    The Brickyard was not far from Boston Harbor and close to the Combat Zone, the squalid red light district. They met Rick Davis at the bar where he informed them they’d be going up second, 10:00 to 11:15. The first band was already setting up. The Young Punks sat at the bar with Rick to watch The Sparks.


    Joe spied the door as townies and college kids from all over paid the cover and lined up at the bar. It wasn’t difficult to detect the Bostonians from the out of staters. Once they opened their mouth, you knew. Also, Boston townies are a special breed of their own… knuckleheads. A day in the bleachers at Fenway Park will give you the full picture.


    Joe leaned into Sal. “I’m getting a frat-jock vibe, too many groups of dudes with their caps on backward.”


    “How many colleges are in Boston?” Sal asked.


    “A hundred. I don’t know.”


    “No, Seriously.”


    “There are dozens of schools in and around the city.” Joe made a waving circular motion with his hand. “I don’t know how many.”


    “Okay, don’t snap at me.”


    “Sorry, man.” Joe looked at Sal earnestly. “I’m not feeling it.” He wagged a finger at the crowd. “These are not our people.”


    “Don’y worry about it.” Sal slapped his back. “You’ll win them over.”


    The club was one-third full when the Sparks opened their set at 8:30. They were good musicians, a power pop quintet with a keyboard player. They played New Wave but no hard stuff. The crowd seemed to like them,


    Joe ordered a beer from Rick Davis. “So, how many do you expect on a Thursday?”


    Rick put the pint glass on the bar. “Maybe 400. We’ve topped that several times.”


    Joe looked at Sal, “That would be the biggest crowd we’ve played for.”


    Rick nodded, “And that’s only half full.”


    Sal looked at Rick. “We’re gonna blow these guys off the stage.”


    “Oh,” Rick said. “Is that so?”


    “Yeah,” Joe nodded. “These guys are good but they lack… personality. They’re just playing well and not…”


    “Entertaining.” Sal finished Joe’s sentence.


    “Yeah,” Rick said. “Randy said you guys are weirdos.”


    Patrons were still paying the cover charge when The Sparks wrapped up their 75 minutes. As they packed up, the bands crossed paths, The Punks taking the stage and The Sparks taking their vacated bar stools.


    Joe nudged Sal as they set up. “Those guys are gonna hate us.”


    Sal grinned. “I hope so.”


    Joe opened with MC5 ‘Kick Out The Jams’ and then The Clash and Ramones. The crowd was a sea of college shirts and hats, BU, BC, Tufts, Northeastern, Harvard, MIT, Emmanuel, and Suffolk. Joe made eyes with a cute girl from Berklee. He did crowd work, cracking jokes about big brains and trust fund babies. After a couple of garage rock hits; Joe went to the tricks.


    “Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip.


    It started in this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship.”


    The band joined in.


    “The mate was a mighty sailor man the skipper brave and sure. Five passengers set sail that day on a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.”


    As the college kids realized they were playing the Gilligan’s Island theme, their faces lit up.


    “Sing-a-long you scurvy wenches!”


    They played through the song twice. Joe had learned it takes a moment for the crowd to get into it. They always sang better on the second pass. Joe now had their full attention so he took advantage of it by going straight to the dance contest.


    He did his carnival barker opening and selected two lovely contestants. A BU chick from Florida won over a local girl from Emmanuel. When the victorious blonde asked what she had won; Sal stepped in.


    “Well Kimberly, you can have Joe’s sweaty Mickey Mouse shirt… if you’re woman enough to take it off his back.”


    The band broke into a surf classic, ‘Pipeline’. Joe ran around the stage to evade capture, then into the crowd, weaving between patrons, and then back on stage with a tall blonde girl chasing him. In front of Nate’s drum kit, Joe let her get ahold of him.


    “Slap my face,” he whispered.


    She paused, confused, then got it. Whack! She slapped Joe’s face. The crowd gasped. They struggled for the usual thirty seconds before Joe gave it up.


    When Joe stood tall, holding her hand high, “Your dance-off-tee-shirt-wrestling queen, Kimberly!” … he saw Rick Davis’ smile; big, wide, and toothy, as he worked the bar.


    About half of those sweatshirts emblazoned with institutions of high learning were sported by frat boys and jocks. One dickhead threw a half-full can of beer hitting Nate’s kit. There were two scuffles in the crowd, started by dumb bros. The space lacked the energy of their other clubs because it was huge, half empty, and it wasn’t a punk crowd.


    Late in their set, trying to salvage the night, Joe saw a gorgeous brunette wearing a Blondie shirt. He pointed her out. “Hey, can you sing Blondie?


    She nodded.


    “Do you know Rip Her To Shreds?”


    She nodded, “Yes. I love that song.”


    Joe smiled and extended his hand “Would you like to be my Blondie?”


    “Are you serious?”


    Joe looked over the crowd. “You want Blondie, right?”


    They cheered, especially the girls. Joe reached his hand down, offering her a lift. She was blushing like a schoolgirl because she was one. She hesitated, looking at her friends egging her on, then reached up. Standing beside Joe, her hands over her face, Joe calmed her down.


    “What’s your name?”


    “Tracy.”


    “Where are you from?”


    “Long Island.”


    “Where do you go to school?”


    “Brandies.”


    “Oh, look at your big brains.” Joe stared obviously at her nice round tits.


    She laughed. Joe held the mic out. She took it, sharing it with Joe, her hand on his, blushing so cutely, Tracy pushed her chestnut hair away from her eyes.


    “Do you sing this song in your car?”


    “I have.”


    “In the shower?”


    “Yes,” she covered her mouth.


    “While you''re lathering your beautiful wet body and feeling all over…”


    “Oh, my God.” She shoved him.


    Joe looked at the crowd, “What? Too creepy?” He got a good laugh.


    The band broke into Rip Her To Shreds, replacing the poppy keyboard line with guitar, and Tracy did her thing. She had a decent voice and she knew the lyrics. Joe wore a huge smile standing close by her side, playing guitar, singing the backup parts, and hamming it up. Tracy went with it. She ran her fingers through his hair, over his leather, and rubbed against him. The crowd was into it.


    When the show ended, Joe felt they did okay despite the challenges of a tough crowd. They definitely upstaged The Sparks but Joe’s Boston debut was a mild disappointment. When they returned to the bar after packing up, the first band was gone.


    “Where did they go?” He smiled at Rick. “Don’t they want to see the next band?”


    “They saw enough,” Rick smirked. “Randy was not wrong, you guys are weird but in a good way. Where do you come up with this shit?”


    Joe pointed to his temple, “Right here.”


    “Do you want to do a Sunday night next month? It’s two bands, you’ll be second, I need a hundred minutes, eight-hundred bucks.”


    “I know we’re available because we never play on the Lord’s Day. We’ll take it.”


    “We’re gonna drag some of our people up here,” Sal said, “to remove this frat boy stink.”


    They hung around for the final act but the club was emptying as the last band set up. Joe felt bad for them. They had to follow his show with a third of the crowd gone. After a few songs, Nate elbowed Joe.


    “We should go to a tittie bar.” He pointed south. “The Combat Zone is right there.”


    “And leave all our gear in the van?” Joe pointed. “Southie is right there, too? You’re asking to get ripped off.”


    Nate turned to Sal. “The kid’s never been to a tittie bar. We have to break his cherry.”


    “Not here,” Sal said. “Not tonight. Joe’s right, it’s not safe to leave our gear parked here. We’ll do it some other time.”


    —-- YOU''RE MY BEST FRIEND —-


    When the holiday season kicked in, Joe was planning extra shows for the two weeks he was off school. He got a call from a bar in New Haven, Connecticut, the Bulldog Saloon. The manager said she was holding The Young Punks'' business card given to her by friends who demanded she call. Joe was happy to get a night before the Christmas break when Yale kids would still be in town.


    Sandy walked up to Joe in the school cafeteria. He was sitting alone but some kids were two seats away, underclassmen punks.


    “I heard you played Boston.”


    “We did.” Joe gestured to the chair across from him.


    “How did that go?” Sandy put her lunch tray down, looked over at her usual table of popular kids, and sat with Joe.


    “Good, but not great.”


    “Oh, really? Why?”


    “The place is huge and it was half empty, which makes it echoey. You need bodies to absorb the sound, to change the natural reverb.”


    “Wow,” Sandy smiled while opening a can of Coke. “You really do overthink. You always have.”


    “And the crowd was too many dudes, the kind I don’t mix with?”


    “Jocks?”


    “And frat boys.” Joe ate a bite of school meatloaf, not the worst lunch the CHS cafeteria ladies dished out. “You know I like sports, baseball, and hoops, but the dudes can be…”


    “Joe, you don’t have to explain your jock itch to me.” Sandy smiled.


    Joe’s mouth opened, “Did you just make that up?”


    “Yeah, jocks irritate you, jock itch.”


    “That’s a great line,” Joe smiled. “I’m stealing that for my show.”


    “Really?” Sandy smiled proudly.


    “Hell ya, I always poke fun at the crowd. I can use that one.”


    “Cool,” Sandy smirked while cutting her meatloaf. “Ya know, I’m proud of you for working so hard and doing what you always said you would do. It’s really amazing, Joe. And you’re not even out of high school.”


    It was Joe’s turn to smile proudly. “Thanks,” he said softly, then he raised his voice with attitude, “Then why the hell haven’t you seen us play?” He made a WTF face. “Seriously. What’s the problem?”


    “You know why?”


    “The Underground is history. We play downtown. The Living Room is not a dive… well, it’s not a nasty dive.” He scrunched his nose. “It’s just a little divey.” He took a bit of mashed potatoes. “It’s mostly college kids, no scum… none that I know of.”


    “I know,” Sandy let out a big sigh.


    “I know it’s not true anymore but I like to think you’re my best friend. It sucks that we don’t hang out like we did as kids. You were there for so much. When I got bullied you were sweet and supportive. You were there for me when Janie died.” Joe looked into Sandy’s eyes. “You’re my first kiss.”


    “I know, Joe. I miss you too.” She placed her hand on his.


    “Why do you date assholes,” he asked.


    “I don’t,” she said defensively. “And we''re not having this talk again.”


    “We only have it when a guy you claim isn’t an asshole hurts you. That’s when we have this talk.”


    “Let’s not do this, please? I do miss you. I think about you and I worry a lot.”


    “Mom and Jackie have that covered. I don’t need any more worriers.”


    “You mean a lot to me, Joe,” Sandy said softly. “I’ll come see your band after I turn eighteen. I promise.”


    Joe nodded, “Okay, that’s fair. It’s only a few months off. That’s good.” Joe squeezed her hand. “You’re gonna love us. We’re fucking great.”


    “I’ve heard that… from soooo many people. It’s kinda getting weird how popular you’ve become.”


    “Tell me about it. It’s not fucking good.”


    There was a time when Joe and Sandy had lunch nearly every day their schedules allowed it. This was the first time in high school they sat together in the cafeteria. People noticed.


    “Let me tell you what I’m thinking,” Joe said while sipping milk. “Every time we play a new club we find two things nearby, a good diner and a record shop. I like to get into town early, not be in a big rush, and grab a bite. I’m making friends with the record shop staff. Some have come to our gigs.”


    He picked up peas with his mashed potatoes. “I’m thinking that maybe these record shops and clubs might become something bigger.”


    “Become what?”


    “I don’t know, like a circuit. Right now I have more than a dozen clubs and eight record shops. I’m building something, but I don’t know what it is yet.”


    “I think they call it a network,” Sandy said.


    “Yeah.” Joe nodded, “But it’s really relationships. We’re making friends everywhere we go. Someday, that’s gonna be useful.”


    She smiled, “You always have big dreams and a plan.”


    “I’m just winging it,” Joe said. “It seems like it’s just happening.”


    “Just like you planned it, Joe. You said you were gonna learn guitar, and you did it. Then you said you’d start a band. And now you’re saying when everyone else goes off to college your band will be your job. It’s happening, Joe… just as you planned.”


    Joe shrugged, “Maybe. It still feels like it’s… just happening, and so fast.”


    “And I’m proud of you.”


    “Thanks, but that will mean a lot more when you come to see me play.”


    “I will, Joe. I promise.”


    —-- PROM KING AND QUEEN —--


    “Hey, Joe.” a voice called out from behind. He turned to see Betty McDonald, class president coming his way, weaving through the crowded corridor.


    “What’s up Pres?”


    “Are you going to the prom?”


    Joe laughed heartily. It was half real, half fake, to make clear his feelings on the prom.


    “I’ll take that as a no,” Betty said.


    “I don’t do proms,” and said, “and besides, that’s five months away. A little early, isn’t it?”


    “No, the prom committee is meeting. They’re looking at bands and planning.”


    “Whoa, you’re not asking me to get my band to play at the prom, are you? That’s a firm no, just so you know.”


    “No. That’s not what I asked you. I just asked if you were going.”


    “That’s a definite no.”


    “Ya know, if you went I could probably get you elected Prom King. I have clout with the Prom committee.”


    “Me, Prom King?” Joe shook his head. That’s not happening. “Besides, I don’t have a queen.”


    “Sandra Ruggerio?”


    “What about Sam? She has a boyfriend.”


    “Do you really think they’ll last that long? He’s in love with Kerry Contos but she’s seeing Joe Bianchi.”


    “Are you the new class gossip?”


    “No, I just hear things and Sandy is not Sam’s girl.”


    “They’re going steady!”


    “Yes, but he’s not that into her.” Betty pulled Joe aside, against the lockers. “All I’m saying is, you could ask Sandy to the prom. Everyone knows you guys are…”


    “Are what? Friends. So what. She’s not interested in me and I don’t do proms.”


    “I just heard her saying she’s going to your show downtown.”


    “Yeah, so. And now that you mention it, you still haven’t followed through on your end of the bargain from two months ago.”


    Betty ignored that point. “You should ask Sandy. You guys are a thing and I…”


    “Stop.” Joe cut her off. “That’s not happening and we’re not a thing.”


    “Joe,” Betty pulled him closer and whispered. “Do you know how many kids overheard your conversation with her in the cafeteria?’


    “What? You think that… what are you talking about?”


    “You guys talked during lunch and you said she was your first kiss. That’s pretty big news right now. Imagine, Joe and Sandy at the prom together. I think you’d be Prom King and Queen.”


    Joe leaned down closer, “Maybe you gossip peddlers should M.Y.O.B. That kiss was years ago. We’re friends, no more.”


    “Yeah, well, I think she’s carrying a huge torch for you.”


    The bell rang, saving Joe from further discussion of his personal life and the stupid prom.


    “I gotta run,” Betty walked off. “Think about it, Prom King.”


    The only thing about that conversation that stuck with Joe was the part about Sam Fiore not being that into Sandy and him liking this other chick, Kerry Contos. ‘Are you kidding?’ he thought. ‘Sam likes Kerry over Sandy? Fiore is an idiot.’


    He knew Sandy was going to get hurt, real soon. It’s coming, because Sandy always gets hurt. Then she runs to Joe and he hears all about it.