—-- JULY 1979 —-


    Driving south on Interstate 95 in Connecticut at 2:30 AM, Nate popped open a beer in the back of the van. Johnny used duffle bags for pillows. Drums, amps, and guitars were strapped to the side wall behind Sal.


    “Nate,” Joe called back. “We need to talk about your drinking. I’m worried about you, brother.”


    The guys didn’t laugh because they didn’t know if Joe was ha-ha joking or fuck-you joking.


    Sal had to merge left to avoid orange barrels gradually closing the right lane. Yellow lights flashed ahead. It began to rain, just enough on the windshield to confirm precipitation.


    “This sucks,” Sal moaned.


    A mile up the road the highway lost another lane. Cars were reduced to single file, a traffic jam in the middle of the night.


    “They call themselves The Constitution State,” Joe pointed at the plate on the back of the Chevy in front of them. “I think they meant construction state and someone misspelled it.”


    Again, no one made a peep.


    “So Angie wants to fuck little Joey,” Sal said. “I can’t say I’m shocked.” He took on a mocking tone. “She’s loved collaborating with you and thinks you have a creative soul. Joe’s a versatile artist.”


    Now Johnny and Nate found something funny. They laughed too hard.


    “Ya know, guys. Yuck it up. I love it because I’m the one she wants to fuck.”


    “That ship has sailed,” Johnny said. “She graduated, right?”


    “Yes, she’s back in Atlanta but I don’t think she’s staying there.”


    “You missed your shot, pal.” Sal snickered.


    “I’m gonna ask Issac for her number. If he has it, I would fly to Georgia for Angie,” he turned to Sal. “Fuck, I’d crawl to Georgia straight down 95.”


    “I’d fly there to fuck her,” Sal smiled back.


    “Yeah, but she wouldn’t pick you up at the airport.”


    Finally, Joe got a chuckle from the peanut gallery in the back.


    “What about Claire?” Nate asked.


    “Hey, she’s up in the mountains banging some dude named Ken, or Kyle. I forget. Then she’s studying in France this fall. I can squeeze in a weekend in Atlanta.” Joe slapped the dashboard. “I’ll find up a club down there. We can play for her hometown friends. I bet she knows some places.”


    “Are you fucking serious?” Sal said. “You want to drive to Atlanta for a gig?”


    “Yeah, I know, That’s a bit out of our way but if I could get jobs along the route, like Philly, Baltimore, DC, Richmond… we can play our way down the coast.”


    “You can’t find a college bar in Vermont without a book this thick,” Sal held his thumb and finger apart two inches. “and a road map. You think you can find gigs down south? You need to see your psychiatrist… for meds.”


    The construction went on for miles and miles and miles.


    “This is why I hate the New Haven gig,” Sal said. “This drive sucks.”


    “The Bulldog is cool,” Joe added.


    “Yeah, after a rough start,” Nate agreed, “It worked out. So, Joe,” he changed the subject. “Do you think Claire is gonna bang some Pierre in Paris?”


    “Or a Marcel,” Joe laughed. “Maybe a Phillipe.”


    “So you’re free to roam in New York, then the beach, and maybe a flight to Georgia?”


    “Yeah.”


    “Until when?”


    “She gets back from France in mid-November, right before Thanksgiving.”


    “What then?”


    “Fuck, Nate? What’s with twenty questions?”


    “Just say it.”


    “Say what?”


    “What’s gonna happen when she gets home?”


    “Honestly, the way she was talking at The Biltmore, I think she’s gonna try to lock this shit down.”


    “That’s what I figured,” Nate laughed. “And that would be a dumb move on your part.”


    “Why?”


    Sal joined in, “Because you have more pussy hanging around you than a toilet seat in the ladies room. You’d be crazy to…”


    “What,” Joe cut him off. “have a real relationship?”


    “You’re a sap, Joe,” Nate said quietly. “Sorry, brother.”


    “You should be thinking about how many New York chicks you can bang on this trip,” Sal looked over, “But instead, you’ll have a girlfriend by the second week.”


    Joe shrugged, “I’d be cool with that. It would be fun to have a cute Manhattan tour guide for a month.”


    “Fucking sap.”


    —-- BRONX PISS STOP —--


    Driving into New York State for the first time, the Construction State behind them, Joe was excited, looking at the map with a flashlight. He was checking ahead so he could navigate for Sal when they got close, especially off the interstate. Johnny and Nate had crashed in the back of the van on their duffel bag pillows. As they cruised on the Cross Bronx Expressway, the Jerome Avenue exit sign caught Sal’s eye.


    “Hey, the stadium’s on Jerome Ave! I’m sure of it.” He swerved the van across empty lanes to exit the highway. “I’m gonna launch a loogie on Yankee Stadium.”


    Sal and Joe had two common interests, punk rock and baseball. At home, the Boston Red Sox were always on the TV or radio. Joe’s parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles were all fans. Joe’s dad had taken him to Fenway Park twice; when he was nine and twelve. It was the same for Sal. Pops had the Sox on the radio every day. Baseball was the background music of summer.


    If you’re a Sox fan hating the New York Yankees is like breathing. It’s instinctual. What made matters worse on Federal Hill was the fact many Italians were Yankee fans. The Sox were dreadful through the fifties and most of the sixties… until 1967. The Yankees owned the Red Sox and they had the most popular Italian American athlete in the nation, Joe DiMaggio.


    Because of Joltin’ Joe DiMaggio, and the fact the Sox sucked, any Italian kid growing up in the 1950s became a Yankee fan. Two decades later they were still fans and they passed that down to their kids. Yankee fans in Providence were the most obnoxious. That made Joe and Sal hate them even more.


    Nine months ago, Sal, Pops, and Joe watched their team lose a heartbreaker, a single-game playoff to the Yankees. The Sox had blown a huge lead in the summer of ‘78, then lost the tiebreaker on a cheap home run by Bucky fucking Dent, a notoriously weak hitter. It was brutal. The Yankee fans they knew rubbed the devastating loss in their faces. Spitting on Yankee Stadium seemed like a fine idea.


    Joe smiled. “Let’s do it.”


    They cruised down Jerome Ave through the South Bronx in the wee hours of a weekday morning. People were out walking and hanging on street corners. That’s something you didn’t see in Providence at that hour.


    “Holy fuck! This place is a war zone,” Joe said, looking out at street people who stared back at him.


    “Of course, it’s a dump," Sal said. "It’s the home of the Skankees.”


    “Look at the garbage on the street.” He pointed. “There’s a burned-out car on blocks. They stripped it right here on the corner. Shit, we have to park the van, with our gear… in this crap?”


    Nate and Johnny had awakened and were gawking at the hellish cityscape.


    “Where are we?” asked Nate.


    “The Bronx.”


    “We’re gonna spit on Yankee Stadium," Sal laughed.


    “What the hell for?”


    “Because we’re here.”


    “Jesus Christ, another stripped car.” Joe was far less excited about NYC than he was on the highway.


    “My dad says they can strip a car in five minutes," Sal said. "A crew of pros with the right tools can get everything of value before you can dial the police. Look, they even took the seats out of that Cutlass.”


    “We’ve entered an unholy world,” Joe said quietly. “Manhattan will be nicer, right Nate?”


    When they reached Yankee Stadium, Sal pulled into the lot and parked the van with the passenger side sliding door four feet from the wall. They conjured the best loogies they could muster from the depths of their lungs and sinuses and splattered the wall.


    Sal shouted. “Fuck you, Babe Ruth!”


    “Suck my dick, Mickey Mantle!” Joe flipped off the stadium.


    Even Johnny joined in. “Bucky Dent eats Reggie Jackson’s ass!”


    They cracked up because non-sports Johnny had the best line.


    “Perfect!" Sal clapped. "I have to take a leak. It’s like my kidneys know we’re at the stadium.”


    Sal gleefully climbed out, ran around the van, unzipped, and sprayed the wall with the heavy stream of a racehorse - the Italian stallion. It just kept coming.


    Nate poked Joe. “Hey, there’s someone over there, coming this way. Looks like he’s picking up his pace.”


    Joe watched a far-off shadowy figure approach, backlit by street lights. “Fuck. Sal, you better zip it up. We have security coming our way.”


    He couldn’t cut off his stream.


    “Let’s go, Sal. He’s definitely coming this way.”


    “Give me a sec.”


    The security guard broke into an unimpressive run. “Sal, he’s running.”


    Sal zipped up fast, ran around the van, and jumped in the driver’s seat.


    From a distance, the guard yelled as Sal slid the key into the ignition. “Hey, stay right there!”


    Sal hit the gas and raced straight at the silhouette, which made the rent-a-cop stop dead in his tracks. Sal then pulled a hard U-turn about thirty feet in front of him yelling, “Fuck You! Yankees Suck!” Tires screeched and the sliding door slammed shut when Sal braked to avoid a light pole. They laughed as Sal sped out of the lot and back to the mean streets of the Bronx.


    Nate caught a whiff. “Goddamn Sal, did you piss all over yourself?”


    Joe held his nose. “Oh, man. Yes, he did.”


    “Yeah, I couldn’t cut it off fast enough.''''


    They were still tittering as Sal sped east on 161st Street.


    “Where are we going?” Joe asked.


    “Manhattan, dipshit,” Sal answered.


    “Not gonna get there driving east, idiot.”


    “How do you know I''m driving east, you gotta compass?.”


    “Yeah.” Joe pointed at his head. “It’s called a sense of direction and you''re going east.”


    They drove nearly a mile in the wrong direction before the thick-headed meatball begrudgingly turned the van around. Joe pointed a flashlight on his road atlas looking for a new route after the unplanned detour.


    “Stay on this road. Before the stadium, turn south when we reach…” he squinted to read. “Morris Ave, and take a left. That’ll get us to a bridge over the Harlem River.”


    Sal was annoyed. “How do you know that?”


    “I’m looking at the fucking map! I''ve been staring at this page since we decided to make this trip. I like maps.”


    “Well, aren''t you the egghead?”


    “No, I''m just not a meathead.”


    Nate snorted.


    “Look for a sign, Third Avenue Bridge to Manhattan. First, we have to pass under a highway.”


    “You better not get us lost in this shit hole,” Sal barked at Joe.


    “You already got us lost.”


    On Morris Ave there was another abandoned car. The windows were smashed. One in three buildings were boarded up.


    Johnny said low. “Let’s try to not break down here.”


    “Oh look at that, a bridge sign, to Manhattan," Joe exclaimed. "I wasn''t expecting that!”


    “Fuck You, Joe!”


    Nate laughed. “What’s the Third Avenue Bridge doing here?”


    Three snickered as Sal steamed.


    “Get in the right lane. After the bridge, head south on the FDR Expressway.”


    Sal hated having a navigator, especially when Joe overdid it to break his balls. He was the band’s driver but left to his own devices, Sal often got lost. After that happened a handful of times, Joe became the band navigator. Joe was a geography buff and loved maps so he was a natural. Sal loathed taking directions from Joe.


    “Don''t worry Sal, I''ll tell you which way south is.”


    Sal was about to snap. He glowered at him.


    Making Sal angry was a game they played on the road. Nate and Johnny snickered in the back of the van as Sal begrudgingly followed Joe’s instructions. He seethed across the bridge and took the exit south on the FDR.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    As they cruised down the east coast of the island, there was a shopping cart, a washing machine, and a mattress on the highway. It was literally and figuratively, a dump.


    “Take any exit that says East Village or Lower Manhattan and we can pick our way to the village.”


    “Since Joe knows the way,” Nate said. “Maybe he should be driving.”


    “Bullshit! It’s my van. I drive. That’s the end of it.”


    They exited FDR somewhere north of the East Village.


    Joe pointed a finger westward. “Go west, young punk.” On that note, his navigation ended.


    Nate stuck his head between the seats. “I have the address and phone number.” He searched his pockets. “But my uncle won’t be there until eight. We have hours to kill. Turn south when you reach 7th Ave.”


    “South is a left turn,” Joe said with a smirk in the dark.


    “Eat shit, asshole.”


    “Yeah, we’re wicked early,” Nate said. “Let’s find the building then we can grab breakfast. I’m hungry.”


    Johnny whined. “Me too. I need to eat. I’m dying here. ”


    Sal drove west on 20th Street crossing the island to the Hudson River.


    Nate leaned between the front seats again. “I think you missed a turn, buddy.”


    “We’re lost," Joe said low. "How did you miss 7th Ave? It’s between 6th and 8th… but that’s just a wild guess.”


    Johnny elbowed Nate. “Hey Sal, when you don’t know where you’re going, you should try driving faster.”


    “Fuck you, too, Johnny.” Sal then quietly turned around and slowed down.


    “Go south on 7th to Greenwich Village," said Nate. "We’re close.”


    “You’re now going east Sal. South is a right turn.”


    “Goddamnit, Joe. Shut the fuck up.”


    He turned south on 7th Ave and miraculously found Greenwich Village. Ten minutes, and a few twists and turns later, they stopped in front of a building on Jones Street. It wasn’t terrible, no worse than surrounding dwellings. It fit right in with the general shabbiness of what they’d seen thus far.


    “Okay, let’s get breakfast and then see some sights. They say this city never sleeps. They must have twenty-four-hour diners.”


    Johnny smirked. “I don’t care what these guys say, Sal. I think you did a helluva job getting us here.”


    They cruised around Greenwich Village looking for a place to eat as the glow of dawn brought life to the city. New Yorkers were starting a new workday. Newsstands opened, traffic picked up and early birds took to the sidewalks, jogging and walking dogs.


    They had put Sal in a shitty mood as they zig and zagged looking for a restaurant and of equal importance, a place to park. Just as Sal was getting fed up, “Look, the Skyline Diner!” Joe pointed at the sign that read in large print - Open 24 Hours. “And there’s a spot, take it!”


    Joe fell instantly in love with The Skyline. It was the kind of place they’d patronize in any city they played. They specialized in home-cooked comfort food: meatloaf, fried chicken, pot roast, sandwiches, burgers, breakfast all day, and most importantly - homemade pie. The waitress gave them the stink eye, three leathered punks, Nate in denim, probably wondering why they were awake at this hour of the morning.


    Over a stack of pancakes with three fat sausage links, Joe told the guys his thoughts on playing their first gig in New York City.


    “We can’t play the Ramones here and I’m thinking we have to ditch Johnny Thunders too.”


    “What the fuck for?" asked Sal. "You love the Ramones and Thunders.”


    “I know why.” Johnny took a sip of coffee.


    “Okay,” Sal sipped coffee. “Tell me why we can’t play some of our best covers.”


    Joe looked at Johnny and nodded with a smile.


    Johnny set his cup down. “Because these New York punks have seen the Ramones. They don’t want some scrubs from Rhode Island covering their favorite local band.”


    Joe raised his coffee cup to Johnny as that logic slowly penetrated Sal’s Cromagnon skull. They watched his face change from annoyed to realizing they may have a valid point. Nate was a casual observer, enjoying the moment with a mouthful of crispy bacon.


    “I want to go heavy on the U.K. punk: The Pistols, The Damned, and The Buzzcocks, and then throw in some Death and The Weirdos. We’ll stay away from bands that made their name here. We have to put The New York Dolls and The Velvet Underground on the bench.”


    Sal wasn''t buying that theory. “You just knocked twenty songs off our set list.”


    “Not quite, maybe fifteen,” Joe said. “You understand my point, right?”


    “Yeah, I do. I suppose it makes sense but I don''t think it matters.”


    Nate smiled. “I was thinking the same thing.”


    “Fuck you, you were.” Johnny threw a home fry at him.


    Nate laughed.


    After breakfast, they killed time walking around the village and then made their way back to the apartment leaving the van parked near the diner, close but not close enough for comfort. Nate had called his uncle from the diner.


    Apartment 3C was being renovated. The kitchen was ripped out, but there was a small wooden table for four. The bathroom was under construction and had no door. The living room had tools and building supplies strewn about. Four twin-size mattresses were stacked in one bedroom. It would do for a month, urban camping in a third-floor walk-up.


    Uncle Babe was a character; a short, round hairy man in a stained white tank top with a cigar bouncing on his lip as he talked. Every sentence he said ended with “Got it?”... making each statement a rhetorical question. He laid out the rules.


    “You can’t cook but you got an icebox, got it? The bathroom is good to use unless I’m laying tile, got it? You can use one bedroom, the other is storage, got it? This is a nice quiet building, no parties, no noise, got it?”


    Joe answered. “I got it. Sal, you got it? How about you Johnny, you got it? Nate?” He smiled at his mates. “You got it?”


    Babe snapped at Joe. “Are you some kind of smart ass?”


    Sal smiled. “Oh, he’s definitely a kind of smart ass.” He punched Joe’s shoulder.


    "A couple of college girls live here. They''ll be back next month, on the fifteenth. You''re outta here two days before, got it?"


    The guys tossed duffel bags and sacks of clothes into their room and then Nate reminded them of their biggest concern coming to New York City.


    “We better get our gear out of the van," said Nate. "Everything comes up, nothing stays on the street.”


    Sal fetched the van more than two blocks away while the guys waited on the stoop. He double-parked and guarded the van as they made multiple trips up and down three poorly lit flights of narrow stairs. When their equipment was secured, Joe was exhausted.


    Sal had one more errand. “Joe, come with me to find a parking spot.”


    “Really? I need to crash.”


    “I need another set of eyes. Parking here is a bitch. C’mon.”


    “You wanna be the driver and all you do is whine about the job.”


    Parking was their first lesson learned in the city. Sal was on edge, annoyed after cruising several blocks before finding a spot not close enough to the flat. He made a proclamation, a new band rule, specifically for this city.


    “This is bullshit. We can only use the van when we’re moving our gear. Why would anyone own a car here?”


    Their first impressions of New York City were not great. It was a dirty, smelly place and no one seemed to care that they were living in filth. Joe had to walk around a junkie moaning on the sidewalk. Twice he had to step over dog shit. Was it dog shit? Sal and Joe got back to the apartment to find Johnny and Nate passed out. Joe needed sleep but he was too pumped up to relax.


    “I can’t believe you pissed all over Yankee Stadium.”


    “I can’t wait to tell Pops.”


    “Make sure I’m there when you tell him.”


    Five minutes later, Sal snored while Joe lay awake wondering what this bar would be like and if his music and theatrics would play in New York. He never doubted their show but this was not just the next level. This was the city where punk rock was born. He fell into a restless sleep, fully clothed, on a badly stained mattress he didn’t trust.


    —-- HARD PUNKS —--


    In the early afternoon, Joe awoke to Sal pissing loudly. Nate and Johnny were already awake, changing into fresh shirts, eager to see more of the city. The band walked the streets on a busy Wednesday, taking in the sights, sounds, and unfortunate smells of Greenwich Village.


    Joe had never been in a place that gave him such varied vibes. It was exciting to be there but every block exposed what a cruddy city it was. There was litter everywhere, piles of trash, bums sleeping in corners, druggies on stoops, and what he assumed was a pimp and his prostitute arguing by a purple Lincoln Continental. It was simultaneously intimidating and exhilarating. There was so much to see and half was grotesque.


    The best news was, on Jones Street, a thirty-second walk from the building, was a small record shop, Strider Records. Joe popped in, talked to owner Bob Noguera, and perused the punk selection. Joe walked out with The Ramones’ latest release, Road To Ruin.


    As the afternoon faded they decided to get down to business. Nate had his one lead, his bartender cousin in Hell’s Kitchen. It was a short drive, a long walk, or they could take their first subway ride. They opted for the number-two train. It was crowded and stinky, every inch covered in graffiti.


    The bar had no official name, just an address, 401 West 50th Street. They found a brick building with that number written in red paint on a battered metal door. To the left, there was a plywood sign shaped like a guitar hung diagonally. It was attached to security bars over a window opaque with grime. “Live Music & Drinks”, was written poorly with a paintbrush.


    The band stepped inside to find a dozen punks sitting at the bar. Three had Mohawks of various lengths, one dyed green, one blue, and one red. Another dude had long stiff spikes, one had short spikes and a third had a buzz cut. The rest had normal hair. In the back, two tables were occupied by a half dozen older patrons.


    There was a cute chick with pink hair, a bleached blonde in black stockings, and a girl out of place in a nice dress. Most had the markings of punks, leather, denim, piercings, and tats. The vibe was unmistakable, unfriendly. Joe thought Barney’s was a legit punk bar, this place made it look like Sesame Street.


    The patrons looked the band up and down as the band checked them out. None said a word. It was like an old western movie where the music and chatter stop as the strangers walk into a saloon. Eyes followed them to the back of the room where they pulled up stools at the far end of the bar. The two groups of punks stared each other down.


    The band was greeted by a man who would soon become a friend. Tommy Gallardo was handsome, muscular, with thick black hair, in a tight black tee shirt and designer jeans. He was a fast-talking bar owner, maybe forty, who put all his money, and his dad’s, into his dream of owning a club in NYC. Joe liked him immediately. He bought them a round on the house.


    The punks down the bar eavesdropped on the conversation. It required little effort. Tommy was loud. He was also friendly and positive, the polar opposite of his patrons.


    “I appreciate you guys coming all the way from Providence. Jerry says you’re good.”


    “He’s never seen us. I told him to tell you that," Nate smiled.


    “We’re gonna find out soon enough. What do you play?”


    Joe answered. “Carly Simon, Nancy Sinatra, the Stones; ya know, punk standards.”


    Tommy stopped wiping a shot glass and stared at Joe. At the other end of the bar, punks murmured. Tommy went back to wiping. “Just what I need, another wise-ass punk.”


    “He’s not fuckin’ with ya," Nate laughed. "We play that shit.”


    “Get the fuck outta here!”


    “When are you thinking we get the stage?” asked Sal.


    “If you’re ready, I have an open stage tomorrow night. You give me three hours, I’ll give you the door. It’s a three-dollar cover charge. I’ll see how you do and we take it from there. I have nights to fill. Just don’t suck.”


    Joe laughed. “We don’t suck. We’ve never disappointed a dive bar.”


    “Yeah, well, this ain’t no easy crowd.” He gestured to his regulars. “They booed a band offstage last month. They weren’t punk enough, my mistake.”


    Sal stared down the punks. “We’ll take our chances.”


    “If you play Carly Simon they’ll run you out of the building and you won’t be coming back.”


    His punk regulars snickered, whispered among themselves, and went back to pretending they weren’t listening.


    Joe liked that Tommy got right to the point. He went back to pouring beers and shots for day drinking punks with bad attitudes. The band hung around for a few rounds talking to Tommy when he wasn’t busy. Not a syllable was exchanged between them and the other punks.


    When waning daylight cast long dark shadows over the city, it was time to find food. By the time the band left the bar, there were more than thirty patrons of various levels of punk commitment, drinking and looking scary. As they walked out, Joe turned to Tommy.


    “Tell your punks the fucking carnival is in town.”


    —-- VOMIT AND DOG SHIT —--


    On day two, they walked to the Skyline Diner to grab breakfast. While chomping on eggs, meat, and pancakes, they plotted their new day in the city.


    “There’s no way I’m moving the van,” Sal declared.


    “We get it, no driving," Joe replied. "Stop complaining. We have the trains. Where do you want to go?”


    “Central Park," said Johnny.


    “Really? Since when do you want to sit in a park?" asked Sal.


    “I like parks, and who said sit? We can walk around and check it out. It’s free.”


    “It’s grass, trees, and everything you’ll find back home at Roger Williams Park," Nate noted.


    “Yeah,” Johnny said. “And Roger Williams is cool.”


    Sal scoffed. “A park is a park. Seen one, seen them all.”


    “That’s not true," Joe said. "Let’s take little Johnny to the park so he can play on the swings.”


    Sal and Nate snickered. Johnny didn’t care. He was getting his way. They jumped on the two-train at Christopher Street Station and headed north. It was the tail end of morning rush hour, so the train was packed with commuting New Yorkers.


    “Can you smell that?” asked Sal.


    “How can I not?” said Nate.


    “What train is this?” asked Johnny.


    “The two-train. We used it last night.”


    “It smelled like puke then. Maybe we''re in the same car.”


    Joe pinched his nostrils together, changing his voice. “Last night we got off at 50th. We have to take this vomit comet to Central Park North.”


    A few locals chuckled along with the guys. An older black lady smiled, “Vomit comet, good one. I’m gonna use that.”


    “You’ll have to pay me royalties.”


    She put her hand on Joe’s leather, “Oh honey, it wasn''t that funny.”


    When they emerged from the station on the north side of the park, Joe took in a long deep breath. The train smelled like puke and body odor, the station reeked of urine, and his long deep breath on the street was more vehicle exhaust than fresh air. He couldn’t wait to get into the park to breathe. Not a hundred yards in, there was a playground.


    Sal pointed. “Hey little Johnny, would you like me to push you on the swings?”


    “No, I want Uncle Joey to push me. You’re mean and I don’t like you.” He stuck his tongue out.


    They slowly made their way around a lake, south, along Fifth Avenue, past a famous fountain, a famous garden, and another famous fountain.


    “You know what this place reminds me of?” asked Sal.


    “What?”


    “A fucking park!... like every other damn park I’ve been in. What are we doing here?”


    “Stop bitching," Joe said. "Do you want to get back on the subway? At least we can breathe without…”


    “Motherfucker!” Sal yelled. “Dog shit! I just stepped in... goddammit!” Sal hopped around on one foot. Johnny, Nate, and Joe bent over laughing as their bitchy bass player threw a temper tantrum.


    “Why are you hopping?" Joe laughed. "Are you afraid to get shit on the grass?”


    Three kept walking, laughing at Sal as he scraped the bottom of his Doc Martens on the grass. Then he looked for a stick. When they got thirty yards ahead of him, he turned his back while using a stick to clean his boot.


    Nate had an idea. “Let’s make a run for it.”


    They bolted west, deeper into the park near 102nd Street, and found a treed area to loiter in. From a distance, they heard Sal’s booming voice, “Fuck you, assholes!”, as he realized they ditched him. Two women with four children shared a worried look as three young men stood behind trees.


    “No worries ladies,” Nate said, “we’re playing hide and seek.”


    When Sal came in from 5th Avenue, they slowly moved around the trees to remain hidden. Joe could tell by his body language that Sal was fuming. He walked past them and threw his hands up, exasperated. They ran across the field and followed Sal from a distance. He wandered into a meadow with several baseball diamonds.


    “Enough," said Johnny. "He’s gonna have a stroke.”


    “Hey, Salvatore!” Joe shouted. “Where are you going? You walked right by us.”


    He turned around, flipped Joe off, and kept walking. When they caught up, Sal was done with the park and the ball breaking. They made their way to Central Park West and boarded the B-Train back to the Village.


    Nate made a face. “Does every train smell like shit?”


    Joe smirked. “As long as you’re near Sal it does.”


    Nate laughed and looked up at Sal. “That’s right, it’s not the train, it’s you.”


    “Shut up, before I smack you.”


    “Let’s get off at the next stop. This is where my friend Betty is going to college in the fall.”


    Joe hadn’t realized how close they were to NYU. They walked through the campus, which wasn’t very campus-like, just more city, and then made their way back to Jones Street.


    Sal had enough. “I’m going up. It’s too hot to walk around.”


    “It’s too hot to sit in that apartment," said Nate. "I thought you wanted to see the city."


    "Not in this humidity."


    By midday, it was too hot to do anything. The temperature touched ninety degrees that afternoon. The general mood in the city was misery.


    Joe looked at Nate. “Ya know, we could be at the beach right now.”


    “You must be psychic. I was just thinking of the ocean breeze."


    “I miss the bikinis.”


    — BOOKS AND GAYS —-


    Late in the day, Sal sat on the stoop smoking as Joe walked up with an armful of books.


    “What you got there?”


    “These things are called books.”


    “Very funny, asshole.”


    “There’s a lady down the street giving them away. I saw a box of free books on a stoop. She was sitting up top reading so I asked her what the deal was. She said there was no deal, just books she wanted to get rid of. So I picked through her box and took some.” Joe held one up. “I scored Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson.”


    “So you cleaned her out?”


    “Not even close. I took two and she insisted I take more. We had a nice talk. She’s a cool old lady,” Joe corrected himself. “She’s not that old.”


    “Did you get anything good?”


    “Yeah,” Joe made a ‘duh’ face. “Bukowski and Thompson.”


    “Anything else?”


    “Just a few random books; a detective novel and a biography of General Sherman. My dad will like that one. I’m not a big science fiction guy but I like Vonnegut’s writing style, so I grabbed this.” He held up The Sirens Of Titan.


    “Why is she getting rid of them? Do they suck?”


    “No. That’s what we talked about. I told her I have every book I’ve read that wasn’t a library book and she laughed. She said, ‘When you get older you’ll have to make hard decisions.’ I guess she has too many books. The biography was her ex-husband''s.”


    “What if they suck?”


    “So what? They’re free. If I read a book and it’s not for me, I bail out. There’s nothing lost. No biggie.”


    “Does that happen?”


    “Of course. Sometimes I don’t like an author’s prose, or maybe I’ll realize after a few chapters the story doesn’t interest me. I just move on. Not every book is for everyone and I’m not going to waste my time on something I don’t like. That’s just dumb.”


    Joe walked up the steps to go inside.


    “A couple of dudes just walked inside,” Sal said. “They were holding hands.”


    “Yeah. What about it?”


    “Remember yesterday?” Sal returned the ‘duh’ expression.


    “No.”


    “We saw those dudes playing grab ass in that little triangle park.”


    “Yeah. What about it?”


    “You don’t think that’s weird?”


    “What?”


    “To see that shit twice in two days?”


    Joe shrugged. “I don’t know. Is it?”


    “Is everyone in this city queer?”


    Joe shook his head and walked inside, then smiled while thinking, ‘Wait til he realizes we’re in a gay neighborhood.’


    Their first gig in Hell’s Kitchen was a few hours away.