—- TRUST —-


    Joe sat in his Science class, his assignment complete, scribbling on his brown paper textbook cover. Abigail Bonner stretched to see what he was drawing. He noticed and looked over.


    “Why do you cover your book covers with drawings?” she asked.


    “Why do you cover your books with floral gift wrap?”


    “I dunno. It looks nice?”


    “I guess I see a blank piece of paper as my canvas. I’ve been doing this since...”


    “I know,” Abby smiled. “I remember in eighth grade when Mrs. Tedesco confiscated your book because you drew a cartoon of her. She was so mad.”


    “And when she brought me to the principal’s office with my book, he laughed, and she was really mad.”


    Abby put her hand out. “Can I see that?”


    Joe glanced ahead to see if the teacher was looking then handed Abby his Science book. She looked at his scribbling and drawings. Turned the book over and checked the other side.


    “Are these people you know?” She pointed at cartoon characters with Mohawks and face piercings.”


    “We play in a bar in Worcester with some serious punks. They look like something like that.”


    She handed his book back. “You’re a good artist.”


    “I’m okay,” he smiled. “How come you’ve never come to the garage to see my band? I invited you months ago.”


    “I know.” she shrugged. “I’m not a punk. I don’t think I would fit in.”


    “Most of the kids who show up aren’t punks. They just like the music. You should come by sometime.”


    Abby smiled. “Maybe I will.”


    Joe always liked Abby. She was a nice girl, smart, and always nice to him. She was a little shy but not so much that she didn’t have friends or boyfriends. Abby was very cute, blonde, petite, and popular with boys.


    When Joe was reprimanded for drawing cartoons of teachers with dialogue and thought bubbles, the middle school principal sent a note home informing Mom that all his books must be covered new. Joe didn’t care. It was just a fresh canvas to him. Mom told Dr. Nichols of his latest brush with the law.


    Dr. Nichols had suggested he use notebooks for his musings, especially to write his thoughts to process his feelings. Mom immediately bought Joe a stack of Mead Composition notebooks and a writer was born.


    He started keeping a journal. That led to short poems and then stories. Those journal pages captured his thoughts. Dr Nichols was correct. The simple act of writing his feelings was therapeutic because he had to think and articulate to himself his thoughts and emotions. Over time he filled those notebooks and had to buy more.


    There were lists and updated lists of his favorite things: bands, songs, singers, films, books, foods, and drinks. His love of history and geography gave Joe a natural wanderlust. He wanted to see the world. He had a list of places he wanted to travel to. Eventually, those pages were filled with ideas for his band, songs he wanted to cover, lyrics to his future songs, and ideas for his sideshow.


    These notebooks piled up in his bedroom as he accumulated thoughts, emotions, and ideas written several times a week. His journals were very tempting to prying eyes.


    When he was sixteen, he caught Mom red-handed, in his room, sitting on his bed, reading his most recent entries. She looked up at him. Joe’s eyes were ablaze. She immediately realized she had made a mistake but tried to spin her way out of it.


    “What is this?” She held the notebook out. “Why are you writing about Dr. Nichols?”


    “It’s none of your business! What are you doing in my room? How many times have you…” Joe seethed, searching for his words. “... violated my privacy?”


    “I’m your mother and I have a right to…”


    “You have no right to be in here reading my journal!”


    “This is full of filth!”


    Joe stepped closer, grabbed his notebook, and pointed at the door. “Get the hell out of my room!”


    Mom stood and adjusted her blouse, “Don’t use that language with me.”


    “Okay.” Joe steeled his eyes, glaring intensely down at his mother, “Get the fuck out of my room.”


    She sidestepped around him. “You’re father will hear about this.”


    “I don’t give a fuck… fuck, fuck, fuck!” Joe slammed the door behind her. “I’m getting a lock!”


    Mom immediately called Dad at work. Bill hated it when his wife did that, especially when it was over family drama. She expected him to come home and discipline his children for their behavior while Alice was the on-duty parent. He resented it. Her demands often resulted in him not taking her side. This was one of those cases.


    That evening, after Joe explained his point of view, how angry he was, and that he would never trust his mother again; Dad tried to talk him down.


    “I understand how you feel and I tend to agree with you. She never should have read your journal. That doesn’t mean it’s acceptable for you to yell and cuss at her. Did you really say fuck… four times?”


    “It may have been five,” Joe said, “I don’t care. I don’t trust her. She uses the girls to spy on me and now she’s going in my room and snooping in my personal stuff.”


    “I will speak with her. That will never happen again.”


    “Damn right, it won’t, because I’m getting a lock for my room.”


    “That’s not necessary. I will handle this.” Dad put his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Do you trust me?”


    “Yes.”


    “Let me talk to her. I’ll make it clear that she was wrong.”


    Joe didn’t speak to his mother for several days after that incident. When he finally did, he was curt, not hiding his contempt. His cold shoulder cast a cloud over the house. It took weeks for their relationship to normalize but that wound never truly healed.


    Joe had trust issues with adults, not just strangers; his mother, the nuns, and some teachers. Aside from his father, Dr. Nichols was the only adult in his life Joe truly trusted. She was a rare exception, an adult Joe would let his guard down for. Not long after the incident with Mom, Dr. Nichols joked that she had him figured out.


    “You’re a young man living inside your head,” she said, with her long legs crossed, just two feet from Joe’s knees.


    “Well. Bravo.” Joe smiled and clapped. “That’s a brilliant analysis. I hope it didn’t take you all these years to get here. I’ve known it all along.”


    Barbara Nichols was acquainted with Joe’s teenage brat sense of humor. “We’ll, I sensed it many years ago and I can’t say it’s changed much.”


    “Someday, Doc.” Joe steeled his eyes. “I’ll come out. When I’m ready.”


    “How’s your writing? Are you doing it every day?”


    “No, maybe five days a week. The thing is, one of those days could be a marathon. I was up past midnight twice last week, just opening the spigot to my brain on paper.”


    “Good. I hope it’s positive writing.”


    “It’s honest writing,” Joe met her eyes. “and I’m not the most positive kid on the block.”


    “How are you and Mom, since the…”


    “Violation? Not great.” Joe stared at her. “Ya know. I sometimes want to tell you things but I filter myself knowing you speak to her, pretty regular.”


    “It’s not very often.” Dr Nichols leaned forward. Joe admired the two open buttons at the top of her blouse and her lightly freckled neck. “I am obligated to speak to guardians. Many of my patients don’t have loving parents. Some are in foster care. I must share what I know but I don’t have to be specific.” She found Joe’s eyes. “I’ll make a deal with you. If you’d like to share something and keep it from your mother just say so beforehand and I will honor that.”


    Joe accepted her offer by saying, “I was furious that day and I don’t think I will ever trust her again. I wanted to put a lock on my room but she won that case with Dad. I’m over it as best I can be but I’m keeping her on notice by wearing this suit of coldness. It’s better that way.”


    “She knows you’re angry.” Dr Nichols smiled, “Using teenage rage as a tool to control a parent was not invented by you.”


    “I’m training my sisters. Jackie will be a problem someday, I hope.”


    “Do you think they snoop in your room?”


    “Pfft,” Joe rolled his eyes. “More than Mom but they don’t look in the books. They promised me they wouldn’t.”


    “And you trust them?”


    “Yes, to a point. They are Mom’s spies so I never really know.”


    A year and a half after that violation, Joe still didn’t trust Mom.


    —-- BAD ATTITUDE —--


    When the dance-off tee shirt prize became a thing, Joe was constantly on the hunt for tee shirts. Every town had a record shop and most sold rock tees. He went to Goodwill and Saint Vinny DePaul to pick up second-hand shirts cheaply. He didn’t care what was on it as long as it fit. This resulted in him wearing some unusual attire for a teenage punk; like his purple Tweety Bird shirt Monica ripped off his back, giving birth to the wrestling gag. He stepped on stage with a pink Barbie shirt. The kids in The Living Room laughed at him. An hour later, a girl from Pawtucket removed her cotton blouse on stage to change into her new Barbie shirt after pulling it off Joe’s back.


    At age seventeen, his tee shirts became a demonstrative way to express himself, on and off stage. He found a shop near RISD run by art students where a very cool couple made custom tees. Joe made two new friends, Brad and Lisa. The first shirt he had made was black with simple white block lettering.


    I DON''T CARE


    Not long after that, he had another shirt with the same design reading LEAVE ME ALONE.


    Classmates asked where he got his shirts.


    “I had them made on the East Side.”


    “Why?”


    “Because I can’t find shirts that say what I feel at K-mart.”


    His third shirt was the opposite, white with black letters that read, LALALALA I’M NOT LISTENING. His teachers didn’t like that one.


    The day he had that shirt made, he joked with Brad and Lisa in their tiny shop. He said, “We could start a company, Bad Attitude Tees, and put all my shitty thoughts on them.”


    Brad laughed, “Yeah, so what’s the deal with that… your bad attitude?”


    “I’m a depressive. I’ve been going to therapy for years,” he pointed west, “right around the corner on Brooks Street.” He touched his finger to his temple. “I’m pretty fucked up.”


    Lisa’s jaw fell open a little. Brad just stared at him. It was the first time in his life that he told anyone that he was depressed and in treatment. He did it in such a casual matter-of-fact tone it took the young couple by surprise. Joe sensed their discomfort.


    “It’s okay. The therapy is working and these shirts are part of it now.”


    “How’s that? Lisa asked.


    “My doctor said writing my thoughts would be helpful, so I did that, and she was spot on. It’s amazing. The thing is, no one will ever read my journal. There’s some dark shit in there. The shirts are my way of giving everyone a peek inside and telling them how I feel without being a whiney, depressed baby.”


    Lisa turned to her fiance. “I don’t think I’ve heard anyone talk about their….” She paused, looking at Joe.


    “Mental illness?” Joe said what she could not. “It’s okay. It’s taken years for me to admit it to myself. Now I’m ready to … I don’t know, embrace it?”


    “How old are you?” Brad asked.


    “Seventeen.”


    Joe then told them about his band and the dance-off tee-shirt prize and the three of them made a deal. Brad handed Joe a tee shirt.


    “We get these for a couple of bucks,” Brad said. “They’re a little light on thread count but they’re okay. If all you’re doing is lettering these are great. I don’t screen print on them. I can give you a good price.”


    “Okay,” Joe nodded. “It will save me some running around. I lose a few shirts a week and it’s only gonna get worse when I get out of school.”


    “What do you want on them?”


    Joe thought for a moment. “Give me two that say… ‘you can’t have this shirt.’ And two that say, ‘I took Joe’s shirt.’ I’m gonna have to think about this. Just those for now.”


    “Okay,” Lisa smiled. “These are messages to the girls. I get it.” She scrunched her nose. “How about… you can’t take this shirt, bitch?”


    Joe laughed, “That’s a good one. Add bitch to the first one. You can’t have this shirt, bitch. I know exactly where I’m losing that shirt. And Give me one that says, Monica sucks.”


    “Wow,” Lisa laughed. “That’s specific.”


    “Yeah,” Joe nodded. “But she will love it.”


    His tee shirts were part of his uniform, black leather, Levis, Converse All Stars, or black work boots. His wide black leather belts had buckles he found at a swap meet. One was a silver star. The other was a peace sign.


    He was plain and understated except for his tee shirts. Whenever he saw unusual shirts for sale, he’d grab them, especially shirts most guys wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. Joe knew a girl would soon own that shirt. His girly shirts added to the silliness of his bit.


    When he showed up at school in a Wonder Woman shirt, a jock broke his balls in gym class.


    Joe fired back, “Not one of you pussies has the balls to wear a shirt like this.”


    Mr Cardozo, the phys-Ed teacher, laughed, “He’s right. It takes nuts to sport that shit.”


    For a punk loner who wanted to be left alone, he seemed to seeking attention with messages of defiance or just plain weirdness. Joe couldn’t explain why he did it except to say, “I like how it makes people uncomfortable.”


    “Why do you want to make people uncomfortable?” Sandy asked when he showed up at school with a new shirt… I GOTTA GET OUT OF THIS PLACE, with lowercase fine print… if it''s the last thing I ever do.


    “I don’t, but it happens and I find it amusing. It’s really up to you. It’s just a shirt.”


    Mom didn’t like his shirts. “People will think you have a bad attitude.”


    Joe made a face, “Yeah, because I do.”


    “Why do you want people to know that?”This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ”Because that’s what people with bad attitudes do.”


    “Why the attitude, Joseph?”


    He shrugged, “Because… life sucks, then you die.” He smiled. “I think I’ll make that my next shirt.”


    Joe never gave away his bad attitude shirts. Those were his thoughts to wear.


    —--- HOME MOVIES —---


    The band’s first gig at The Bulldog Saloon got off to a rough start. It started with Sal being irritable because the gig was more than two hours from home. The band walked into a sporty bar, with several televisions around a large horseshoe-shaped bar. The regulars had the New York Knicks playing on some screens, and the Rangers on others. Joe hadn’t considered that New Haven was New York sports turf.


    The bartender pointed to a sunken room off the main bar area. The band carried gear into the room. Four tables of patrons were watching the hockey game on a projection TV. The pull-down screen was above the stage. When the Rangers fans saw the band, there was a collective groan.


    “Fuck you, assholes!” Sal barked at them.


    Joe sensed trouble. “Hey, man,” he said, “I’m sorry, we have to set up.”


    “This is bullshit,” one guy said. He had a big mustard stain on his Rangers jersey.


    “You’ll have to complain to the manager. She hired us.”


    “Just leave the game on for as long as you can.” a hockey girl said.


    “Fine,” Joe laughed, “You’ll be watching the game on my face.”


    Sal was already on the riser blocking the screen, clearly annoyed at the stupidity of this stage. The hockey players skated over his leather. Johnny joined him and the patrons got pissy.


    “Fuck this shit.”


    “We’re paying customers!”


    When a dude got up and stepped toward the stage, Sal jumped down and got right in his face. That guy was big but not as big as Sal.


    “You got a problem?” Sal stood one foot away.


    There was an audible exhale. The dude weighed his options. Then he took a slow step backward and sat down.


    “Yeah,” Sal said loudly. “I didn’t think so. You loud-mouthed fucking pussy.”


    Joe pulled Sal aside, “Hey, I get that you’re in a shitty mood. The traffic sucked.” He gestured to to big screen. “This is stupid. Just relax and don’t start a fight.”


    “This is gonna be another one-and-done gig,” Sal said. “I can feel it.”


    “Maybe. We’ve had them before. I see it as a challenge.”


    No one bothered to turn the game off as the band set up in the half-dark room. The game was projected onto their faces and asses. The band grabbed beers at the bar. People were steadily coming in, groups of three and four, and larger. The sunken room was filling with patrons not interested in hockey. There were several Yale sweatshirts, as well as letterman jackets. A crew from UNH had a table and a couple of Quinnipiac kids sat by the stage. There were townies in the bar but it was largely a college bar. Yale is home to the Bulldogs.


    When the band took the stage the game was in the third period. Joe stepped up to the mic as their amps warmed up. He tapped it. Sal and Johnny were fiddling, warming up on low volume.


    “Sorry for fucking up your game,” Joe said. “The Rangers suck anyway. We’re probably sparing you some pain.”


    The crowd booed. Joe then unzipped his leather. The crowd booed at his shirt.


    “Leave the shitty Ranger game on,” Joe said. “This is kind of funny. We’ve done some fucked up gigs and this is up there.”


    He got a few laughs, which was good. Joe raked the A chord. “We’re The Young Punks, and we make everything… punk rock!”


    Joe stayed with his set list except for pushing his stunts back. When the game was over, the projection was turned off and the crowd got a better look at the band’s faces. That’s when Joe started the sideshow. Two Yale sorority sisters battled for the dance queen crown and Joe’s tee shirt. He removed his guitar.


    “Your prize is… this Brown University shirt but you must take it off my back to claim it.”


    The wrestling went as usual, except for Christine from Akron punching Joe in the balls. He went to a knee. Men in the crowd groaned. The dance queen ripped the shirt over his head and smacked him with it. Joe was ball-stunned but it wasn’t bad. He played it up, asking Johnny for help getting to his feet, then fake limping to his guitar, slumped forward.


    Christine stopped celebrating and walked to him. “I’m so sorry.” The room was silent aside from murmurs. She reached out and hugged him.


    “I think a kiss would make me feel better,” he said.


    She kissed his cheek.


    “Not there,” Joe pointed at his crotch. “That’s where you hurt me!”


    The room roared. Christine shoved Joe, smiled at the crowd, and walked off victorious. That’s how Joe won crowds over. It’s the show, for sure, but the improvisation surprised even him. Funny shit always happened on or near his stage.


    When the band packed up and the van was ready, Nate was missing in action. Sal went back into the bar to find him and came out empty-handed. “That asshole took off with some chick.”


    “Where to?”


    “Out the back door.”


    The band waited and waited. Johnny fell asleep. Sal seethed behind the wheel.


    “Ya know,” Joe said. “This turned out to be an okay gig. Yeah, Nate’s an ass for making us wait while he gets his dick sucked.” He shrugged. “Who cares?”


    On the long drive home, thinking of the projection TV shook loose memories of Joe’s dad filming birthday parties and family vacations when they were kids. He wondered why he stopped. After some miles, he believed he remembered when Dad’s family movie collection ended.


    On a cold and rainy day when he had nothing to do, he found Dad’s old projector in the basement along with a box of home movies he shot years ago. Joe hung his bed sheet up in his room and set up the projector. It took a while because he didn’t know what he was doing. When the first images appeared on the sheet, he felt a grapefruit-sized lump in his throat.


    Joe sat in silence watching himself, Jackie, Jules as a toddler, and Janie. Her last birthday fell on this camping trip. Joe remembered this vacation in vivid color. He wished there was sound. Janie threw pine cones at Dad while he worked building a fire. Dad got angry. As the emotions inside him stirred, Joe''s eyes got misty.


    Julie tripped and fell. She cried as Mom soothed her. Janie handed Jules her favorite blanket and hugged her. Joe recalled how Janie always took care of their little sisters.


    There was a knock on his door.


    “Yeah?” He wiped his teary eyes. The door opened.


    “What are you doing?“ Jackie asked. Then she saw Janie running around the campsite. “Oh my God. Why would you watch that?”


    “I’m not sure. I was thinking about how much Dad loved home movies. I realized he stopped filming us when Janie died.”


    Jackie sat beside Joe on the bed watching a silent film of the family sitting at the picnic table singing Happy Birthday to Janie. “Oh, I remember this,” she said. “Her birthday cake was awful.”


    Joe laughed. “Yeah, it was. Mom wanted to bake it at home but Dad had this dumb idea of baking a cake on the fire. It was runny. It barely held the candles.”


    “Look at Janie,” Jackie said. “She doesn’t care. She’s just happy.”


    “She was always happy,” Joe said lowly.


    Jackie felt her emotions watching her younger self and Janie feeding crappy campfire birthday cake to squirrels. “The squirrels didn’t hate the cake.”


    “That’s because they didn’t have good cake as a reference.”


    “I remember it tasted like smoke,” Jackie laughed. “And it was only half cooked.”


    Joe loaded another movie, Christmas 1971. It was Janie’s last Christmas. A few minutes in he had enough. “This is hard to watch.” He flipped the light on. Jackie had tears in her eyes.


    “I’m sorry,” he said.


    “No, it’s okay. I just miss her.”


    “Me too,” Joe said. “More than anyone.”


    As Joe broke down his setup, he felt good that he didn’t go to pieces. There was a time when those images would have broken him.


    Two days later was the start of the sixteen-day Christmas break. The band played their second gig in Boston to a lighter crowd because the students were home for the holiday. The kids who were there were home from college afar. It was largely a townie crowd with far more punks than the first show at The Brickyard. The few punks who saw the first show had spread the good word. Also, two carloads of hoodrats followed the band up, including Denny. The second show was better than the first but the place was still half-empty and echoey.


    -—-- JOE’S DUNGEON —---


    Joe was in his room, reading, when Jackie yelled down from the kitchen, “Joey! Phone!”


    He slipped on his jeans and walked up from the basement. The phone was waiting on the countertop, the cord stretched across the kitchen. On her way to the fridge, Jeanie ducked under it as Joe lifted the cord.


    “Hello?”


    “Joe?”


    “Yup.”


    “This is Randy Hien.”


    “Really? How’d you get my number?”


    “I called the garage and Sal’s dad gave it to me. I think that was his dad.”


    “Yeah, that’s Pops. What’s the emergency?”


    “That’s exactly what it is, kid. I know this is a crazy long shot but are you available on New Year''s Eve?” Randy then answered his own question. “Of course, you’re booked. Every good band works on New Year''s Eve.”


    “No, I didn’t book anything for New Year. We’re having a party at the garage. I have some new material to roll out.”


    “Seriously? I’m in a jam, man. My band for that night just pulled out. One of their guys slid his car off the road during that snowstorm last week. He’s okay but he can’t play. Joe, I’ll raise the cover and make it worth your time.”


    Joe stood quietly. They had just played five shows in seven days over his break and had another tomorrow night. He was looking forward to a night off from gigging and just playing for fun. He had been working on original songs and wanted to debut them.


    Jeanie stood nearby, drinking milk, spying. Then she squeezed past Joe and went downstairs.


    Joe exhaled audibly. “I wanted the night off but let me talk to the guys. I’ll call you tomorrow. It’s not like you have another band lined up waiting for my answer.”


    “No, I don’t. Look, Joe. You’ll be well compensated for this favor and I will never forget it. You’ll have a chip to play someday. Chips are good in this business.”


    “School’s out. It won’t be a big night with our people but I’ll talk to the guys tonight and call you tomorrow.”


    Jules pushed through Joe with a basket of laundry. He tugged on her hair as she passed. She counterattacked by stepping on his bare toes with her heel, hard. He hopped as she walked down to the basement.


    “Listen,” Randy pressed on. “If you take the gig, I’ll advertise on WBRU. We’ll get people here even with school on recess.”


    “We’ll talk tomorrow.”


    “Thanks, Joe.”


    Joe hung up and smiled, thinking of how awesome it felt to have a club owner begging him to play for them… on a big night. Joe knew about chips. It was a street honor system with the Italians. Men liked to do favors, collect chips, and when they needed something big… cash them in. Randy was correct. Chips were good to have.


    As Joe returned to his dungeon lair, he found Jules and Jeanie sitting on his bed, reading. He walked in, looking over their shoulders. They had the latest Rolling Stone magazine open. Jeanie had two of Joe’s records under her arm.


    “Can you guys at least ask if you can come in here? He pushed Jules over from her legs folded position. “It’s one thing that you snoop down here when I’m not home but now you just do it right under my nose?”


    “We’re not snooping,” Jeanie said. “I’m borrowing records and she’s reading.”


    “You snoop all the time. Don’t even deny it. I set traps to know someone’s been in here.”


    “Like what?” Jeanie asked.


    “He puts tape on the door frame,” Jules said. “If it’s broken, he knows. He just doesn’t know who.”


    “I’ll take that as a confession.” He grabbed the magazine. “Get out of my room.”


    “What are those films?” Julie pointed at the home movies trying to change the subject.


    “Not your business. You girls need to respect my room, and my rules.”


    “Jackie comes in here more than anyone,” Jeanie ratted out the biggest sister. “She’s always trying on your tee shirts to see what she can steal.”


    “Now that she has big boobs she can wear your shirts,” Julie smiled.


    “They’re not that big,” Joe smirked. “I know she borrows shirts and in trade, she throws my laundry in when she’s doing hers. It’s called the barter system. What do I get from you for loaning you my records and books?”


    “Love.” Jeanie made puppy dog eyes, her one big dark blonde curl covered her left eye.


    “Pfft. How many of my records are in your room right now?”


    “A few.”


    “A stack this high,” Julie held her hand a foot above the bed, ratting on Jeanie.


    “We need a system.” Joe snatched the records from Jeanie’s hands. “Bring all my records back, now, and you can take five at a time, never more.”


    He turned to Julie. “And how many of my books do you have in that room?”


    “A few,” she flipped a finger for each one, “To Kill A Mockingbird, The Outsiders, and Animal Farm.”


    “Okay, three is okay but that includes magazines too.” He pointed at the open door. “Scram. Both of you.”


    Joe flopped back onto his bed and glanced at the clock, it was 8:05. The girls would be up late, no school, so he could leave anytime to tell Sal of the emergency gig being offered by Randy Hien. Jeanie returned with an armful of vinyl, Joe flipped through to see what his sister was listening to; Queen, The Cars, DEVO, The Ramones, and The Rolling Stones Made In The Shade.


    “Did you like this?” He held up The Stones’ record.


    “I love Wild Horses and Brown Sugar.”


    “What about Tumbling Dice?”


    “It’s okay.”


    “You can take five new ones,” He handed her The Kinks and The Clash records he had seized a few minutes ago.


    Joe leaned back, watching her flip through his racks of vinyl. He didn’t mind her borrowing his records because he knew it was an investment. None of his sisters would ever be disco queens. If he had any say in the matter they would be proper rock chicks… and he did have say.


    *****


    Later that evening at the garage, Joe ran the New Year''s Eve gig by the guys. They were not in favor. Johnny was flat against it. Sal was leaning against it and Nate was indifferent.


    “We just played a bunch and you have five shows booked for next week,” Johnny whined. “I was looking forward to a weekend off.”


    “Randy’s desperate. He said he’d advertise on college radio and pay a premium.”


    “We don’t need the money,” Sal said.


    “He said we’d earn a chip.”


    “Fuck,” Sal laughed, “Is Randy in the Jew mob?”


    “No, he just wants us to know how important this is to him. He’s in a tight spot.”


    “If he’s so desperate,” Sal smiled, “Maybe we could earn two chips.”


    “What the hell can he give us that we need a chip for?” Johnny asked.


    “I don’t know yet,” Joe said, “But it might be a good thing to have in our hometown.”


    “Yeah,” Sal said, “I can do it if you guys agree. I’ll do whatever you decide.”


    Nate nodded, “Same here.”


    “Can you pick a fucking side!” Joe barked at Nate. “You’re always on the damn fence.”


    “So I guess that means you’re a yes,” Johnny said, half asking.


    Joe nodded. “Randy is a good guy and The Living Room is the best club we have in Rhode Island. I think we should bail him out. I promise you guys a whole weekend off, soon, in a few weeks. I haven’t booked anything for the end of January.”


    “Okay, I’m a yes,” Sal said. “Fuck it. I like it when people owe me.”


    “Me too,” Nate said.


    “Fuck,” Johnny bowed his head.


    The New Year''s gig was fine, not the best show The Young Punks had at The Living Room, but a decent crowd of townies and many kids home from college for the holiday who didn’t know Joe’s schtick. About half the crowd was new and became fans at the final show of 1978. The guys drank on the house that night and Randy agreed that he would grant the band two chips.


    Sitting at the bar late, well after midnight, Joe watched Randy handling receipts and bar tips. He had a feeling of satisfaction. Helping a friend was good for his soul. Earning chips was just a bonus.