The last time Joe felt this nervous before a gig was his very first show. Since then, his act rarely failed when they debuted at new clubs. It was always a blast to unleash his sideshow on an unsuspecting audience but he wasn’t sure about this place, or these punks.


    As they dragged gear through his place, Tommy was present to lend a hand. Joe noted to Sal, “When was the last time a club owner helped us move our shit?


    “Randy,” Sal said, “just the other night.”


    Joe laughed, “Never mind.”


    As the band took the stage and began setting up, Tommy delivered a round of beers and offered words of encouragement. “The first round is on me, the rest is all you. I’ll keep a tab. My regulars look tough and seem like assholes, but they’re actually sweet. Just don’t suck. It brings out the worst in them.”


    “What do you mean sweet?”


    “They can be pussies.”


    Tommy’s crowd looked tough and they weren’t friendly. Some of the punk chicks were scary. Joe whispered to the guys that he didn’t want to fuck them or fight them. Not one person spoke to the band, not even a smile. Three were ready as Johnny was still tuning his Gibson. It was 9:05.


    “Hey, the show starts at nine, asshole!” A male voice shouted from the bar.


    Sal looked at Joe as the kid stepped up to the mic. He’d been in this spot before. He knew that how he responded to a heckler could set the tone for the night. It was a moment of truth.


    “How about you go fuck yourself? We’ll start when he’s ready.”


    Sal’s eyes got wider. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’


    The same voice came back. “What are you, a tough guy?”


    “You wanna come up here and find out?”


    Some of the crowd laughed, and there were a few “Fuck Yous.” Someone shouted “Faggot” and there was a “Suck my dick.” shouted by a woman. The rest of the room mumbled but no one stepped forward.


    “Yeah,” Joe nodded. “That’s what I thought. If you can’t back up your mouth shut the fuck up.”


    That earned Joe a few cheers, two more “Fuck Yous.” and one “Who the fuck does this guy think he is?”


    Johnny was ready. Joe had something completely different up his sleeve. A new opening.


    Composer John Philip Sousa is an American icon. He composed many marches. In 1883 he wrote the ‘The Liberty Bell’. It’s better known as the theme song for Monty Python’s Flying Circus. The band were big fans of the Pythons. Joe stepped up to the mic, crashed a single chord, and let it linger.


    “And now for something completely different.”


    Marching guitars are a cool sound if you play the same chords one octave off so each guitar is distinct from the other. Thin Lizzy was the master of tandem guitar and Joe was an admirer of their music. He and Johnny sometimes used that technique and it was perfect for The Python theme.


    Nate and Sal provided the marching drums and bass, a solid foundation, as Johnny and Joe played the Sousa brass on guitar. This was their first time playing it at a show and they got the reaction Joe had hoped for. There were furrowed brows and people looking at each other in a collective, “What the fuck?”


    They segued straight into the Clash, Tommy Gun, then, without missing a beat they played The Sex Pistols and The Damned. Joe went hard with UK punk hoping to win Hell''s Kitchen over with song selection. He then gave the audience a moment to respond. It was half-hearted or half the crowd. He couldn’t tell.


    “Okay, thanks… I guess.” He shrugged at Sal. “We''re gonna do a couple of original songs. This is the first song I wrote when I was fifteen and I was really into The Ramones.”


    They cheered for The Ramones, not his song.


    “This is called, You Don’t Want Me.”


    Hard three-chord punk is simple and fun to play. The Ramones were the kings of power chords. Joe’s first composition in high school was a copycat, with basic chords, simple lyrics, and repetition. It was a two-and-a-half-minute thrashing punk song about his first crush, Sandy. They seemed to like it.


    “This next song is Six Day Sinner.” They were less enthusiastic about Joe’s song about religious hypocrisy. He glanced over at Sal, annoyed. Joe had not often played his original music at a gig. He whipped these out because he had removed NY punk songs from his set.


    “Fuck these guys,” he said to the band, which was picked up by his mic. “Let’s play the chick songs.”


    When the band broke into You’re So Vain, hard as fuck, Tommy looked up from his bar duties. The band would not be run off the stage for playing Carly Simon. Like every crowd before, the New York punks laughed. Joe changed some of the “don’t yous” in the chorus to “Fuck you.”


    He followed Carly with These Boots Are Made For Walking and created more smiles in the crowd. The cheers were a little louder when they finished the chick songs.”


    “Look, you guys can hear punk covers any night of the week. Our set is completely different.”


    The bar stools still weren''t giving him any love. Joe stepped up to the mic and paused a long time to make sure everyone noticed the silence.


    “Before the show, Tommy told us you guys at the bar look scary… but you’re actually pussies.”


    They went back to boos, jeers, “Fuck yous” and “Suck my dicks.”


    “I’m not making that shit up.” Joe looked over at Sal. “He said that, right Sal?”


    “Yup. He called you pussies.”


    Tommy looked up again, at Joe and then at his patrons, who glowered at him.


    Nate launched into Five-0, another song no one expects to hear in a punk club. After that, Joe didn''t give the New Yorkers a moment to breathe, or heckle him. For the next twenty-four minutes, they played straight through, connecting a half dozen punk and garage rock covers. When Joe stopped to take a sip of beer, the applause and cheers were good enough.


    In a moment of quiet someone yelled. “Play the Ramones!”


    Joe looked at Sal. He was shaking his head. Sal leaned into his mic. “This idiot said you guys wouldn’t want the Ramones because you can see them any time you want.”


    A punk shouted. “They don’t play here!”


    The requests rained down on them. “Blitzkrieg Bop!”, “I Wanna Be Sedated”, “Teenage Lobotomy.”


    Joe mouthed an audible to the guys to change his game plan. They jumped into three straight Ramones tunes. The room went nuts. Joe realized he could not have been more wrong. When that run of Ramones ended the band had a clear majority of the crowd with them.


    It was time to set the hook and reel them in. Joe went into carnival barker mode, “Ladies and Gentlemen, step right up!” and did the Punk Chick Dance Off. The punks definitely liked watching their punk chick friends getting slutty in a dirty dance contest.


    The chick jumped up and down. “What do I win?”


    “The shirt off my back, if you can take it.”


    She stared at him, not understanding what he meant.


    Sal stepped to his mic, “Kick his ass and take his shirt.”


    Joe was wearing an orange Hot Wheels shirt. He put his guitar down and squared off like a wrestler. That’s when she understood the game and charged him. He fought her off until he took a hard slap to the face, he went down, faking injury. The hard punks of Hell’s Kitchen enjoyed that slap. She eventually prevailed and jumped up and down waving Joe’s shirt.


    The crowd loved it.


    “Okay, I need help with this next song, you know the words. They sing this loud in Boston.”


    Sal laughed. “There’s no way these New York pussies will sing better than Boston.”


    “Oh, did you hear that? A challenge!” Joe paused. “Yabba Dabba Doo!”


    During the set break, the band sat in Tommy’s back room. He delivered a round of beers and was all smiles like he was having a good time.


    “What the fuck was that? My people don’t sing. The Flintstones? Who comes up with that shit?”


    Johnny pointed at Joe.


    “And they didn’t throw us out for playing Carly Simon,” Joe smiled.


    “They thought it was pretty funny. I think the assholes are beginning to warm up to you.”


    “Yeah, because we played the Ramones," said Sal.


    “I admit I was wrong on that one.”


    “And I’ll never let you forget it.”


    The second set went better than the first; maybe because Joe had won the punks over, or maybe because they were now drunk. When they requested Johnny Thunders, the band played all four Heartbreakers songs they did. This night was the first time Joe dramatically changed his set list on audience request.


    Very late, with only a handful of songs remaining, the punks sang ‘Gilligan’s Island’. They were drunk and happy, singing along when a blur whizzed by Joe’s head. He felt a wet splatter on his arm and neck. People up front flinched. He turned to see Johnny, in shock, not playing, beer and broken glass splattered around him. Joe stopped playing. Sal and Nate followed.


    “What the fuck?”


    When Joe turned his attention to the room, several kids were staring at a tall skinny dude with a crew cut, eight rows back, jumping up and down with a wicked smile on his stupid face. The punks looked back to Joe, then again at the beer-throwing asshole. Joe removed his Tele. The crowd parted and he jumped off stage. The lane opened as Joe rushed him. The asshole was waiting, fists clenched.


    Joe put his face down, charging like a bull, taking away his target. Bottle Boy landed a grazing shot to Joe’s noggin as he buried his head into the punk''s chest. He fell back hard. Joe landed half on top of him. Reaching out, Joe’s fingers dug into his face. He pulled himself up and over him, and then Joe started swinging. He was too close. His punches were weak. Joe crawled over the punk, straddled his torso, and began pounding down. Bottle Boy punched up, then tried to grab Joe’s swinging arms.


    Someone from behind punched Joe in the side of the head knocking him sideways. As he turned, that guy went crashing to the ground with Sal on top of him punching from above. Bottle Boy was reduced to covering his head. Joe’s blows smashed his hands against his face. He squirmed beneath trying to break free. Joe whaled on him like a windmill in a gale.


    As he reared back for another shot, someone grabbed Joe’s arm. Two punks began pulling him off. When the weight of his body lifted, Bottle Boy tried to get up. Joe pulled his knee close to his chest and unloaded all his energy in a devastating kick. The bottom of Joe’s Timberland boot caught him square in the face. He fell back and didn’t get up.


    Blonde Spiked Hair tried to calm Joe. “Stop, it’s over mate. You fucked him up. Take it easy.”


    Joe looked to his right, Sal had his guy in a choke-hold. He turned back to see Nate plow his fist into some dude’s face. Nate’s nose was flowing crimson. Johnny was beside Nate, holding a punk by the arms. Nate turned and buried a punch into that kid’s face. The first guy bounced back and jumped on Nate. Red Mohawk rammed a fist into that guy’s head. Green Mohawk joined the fracas. Big Spike Hair pushed people back, clearing the front stage area. He was joined by Buzz Cut and Short Black Spikes.


    “Let me go. I’m good.” Joe broke his arms free from the two punk referees.


    Joe’s head swiveled from Sal’s choke-hold to Nate and Johnny’s scrum, which had devolved into a wrestling match of exhausted men. Joe caught Tommy’s eye, who shouted orders from behind the bar. His day-drinking punks were in the brawl, smacking down the assholes who were fighting the band.


    Sal left his victim lying in a heap. Bottle Boy was delirious from the heel of a boot, his nose pancaked, running red. When he tried to get up, Blonde Spiked Hair kicked him back down. Joe stared at him, confused, ‘Is that Billy Idol?’


    “Get back to the bloody stage!” He yelled at Joe and Sal. “We got this.”


    As Joe turned to walk back, Nate and Johnny were being herded by Green Mohawk and Big Spikes toward the stage. Red Mohawk and Buzz Cut were dragging the bloodied patrons toward the door where Tommy’s two bouncers waited. Sal and Joe sat on the edge of the stage. Johnny and Nate were seconds behind them.


    “Can you believe this shit?” asked Sal.


    Johnny was uncharacteristically animated. “That fucker hit me with a bottle.”


    “Yeah, I know. It almost hit my head.”


    Nate’s cousin Jerry came over with wet bar towels, threw one at Nate, and then looked at the rest of them. “You guys did okay, barely a scratch.”


    Nate wiped blood off his face and held his head back. His nose was still leaking.


    Joe showed Jerry his bloody knuckles. “I need ice for my hand."


    “I’ll be right back.”


    Sal smiled big. “You broke that asshole’s face with your boot.”


    “Good, I hope he’s scarred for life. That piece of shit could’ve killed someone.”


    They sat four abreast, adrenaline still pumping, while Tommy’s bouncers threw the fighters to the curb. Billy Idol pushed a dazed Bottle Boy toward the exit, punks slapped him in the head as he passed. They disappeared into the throng of onlookers. The crowd stood gawking at the band, bloodied and bruised, and then a chick started slow clapping. She was joined by another girl, and then the whole crowd. Jerry returned with ice wrapped in a bar towel for Joe’s throbbing right hand. Joe stood up, stepped onto the stage, and took the mic.


    “I think our night is over boys and girls.”


    Someone shouted. “You pussy! Finish the job.”


    “Our drummer might have a broken nose.” Joe pointed at Nate who was stuffing balled-up bar napkins in his nostrils.


    “Does he drum with his face?”


    The whole bar laughed.


    Nate stood tall. “I’m good. Give me a minute. Let’s finish the set. How’s your hand?”


    Sal laughed. “Does it matter? He can barely play with good hands?”


    “I’ll sing.”


    The crowd cheered as they took the stage, Nate covered in his blood, Joe’s new shirt stretched and ripped, his hand wrapped in a dripping towel of ice. Johnny had someone’s blood on him, but he was good. Sal was unscathed.


    They finished the set to an appreciative crowd. There was no more booing, no heckling and when they closed out with I Wanna Be Sedated, they gave The Young Punks a rowdy send-off. As the band packed their gear, Billy Idol walked up.


    “Hey, mate, good show, especially the bloody melee.” He had an accent. “I’m Simon.”


    “I’m Joe, thanks for the help.”


    “No trouble at all. You handled yourself. We just didn’t want a riot.”


    “Does this happen a lot here?”


    Simon shrugged. “There have been a few fights but never with the band.”


    Joe introduced Simon to the guys.


    “That wanker you beat down, his face is destroyed. His mate took him to the hospital.”


    “Fuck ‘em, you don’t throw bottles at a band.”


    “No quarrel here. This place will clear out soon. Before you pack your gear have a pint with the gang. Don’t leave your equipment in your van, never, anywhere in this city, it’ll get nicked.”


    “So, what are you, Limey?” Sal asked.


    “Yeah, I came here for university, NYU. I graduated last month. I’m staying in the States for a while. I love this city.”


    Ten minutes later the band was belly up to the bar with Tommy’s asshole punks.


    Simon pointed them out. “This is Joe, Johnny, that’s Nate and he’s Sal." The punks nodded.


    Tommy placed four beers in front of them. Simon listed off Tommy’s punks. Red Mohawk was Zip. His tall, leggy girlfriend with pink and black hair was Judy. Green Mohawk was Clyde. His bleach-blonde girl was Sunny. Big Spikes was Monk. His girlfriend looked like Cher. Her name was Jett. Buzz Cut was Roberto. Blue spike hair was Adrian.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Simon gestured to the tall blue spikes. “Aid didn’t mix it up with those Nazis because of this magnificent coif. He doesn''t want to break it.”


    “It’s so fucking impractical," said Zip.


    Clyde agreed. “That monstrosity is too much work.”


    Adrian replied. “You pussies just aren’t committed.”


    “Did you say Nazis?”


    Simon nodded. “The nose you flattened belongs to Herman the German. You didn’t see his tattoo? He’s got the swastika on his arm and the iron cross on the back of his neck.”


    Sal leaned across me. “He’s a Nazi, from Germany?”


    “Fuck no," answered Clyde. "He’s a skinhead from the Lower East Side. His two buddies are Nazis too.”


    “Do we have to worry about them?” Nate asked.


    “Hard to say.”


    “What about the fourth dude?”


    Simon smiled. “He’s just some poor bloke who picked the wrong side of a brawl.”


    Sunny chimed in. “I doubt the German will come for you but if you run into him again, expect trouble.”


    Clyde nodded. “Right. Herman likes to fight but those tattoos have gotten his ass whipped far more than he’s dished out.”


    “Thanks for having our backs," said Sal.


    Monk raised his bottle. “We let it go for a bit to see how you guys handled yourselves before we joined the party.”


    Zip raised his glass. “Here’s to kicking Nazi ass, again.” They clinked glasses and bottles.


    “Will you guys be okay to play Monday night?” asked Tommy.


    “I think so,” Joe pointed to his empty pint. “One for the road.”


    “You should come by tomorrow night," said Zip. "The chick who fronts the band is wild. You’ll love her.”


    Simon agreed. “Jada is amazing. You should check out The Studs.”


    Joe looked at Simon. “Hey, has anyone ever mentioned that you look like Billy Idol?”


    The uproarious reaction of the punks startled Joe. Simon steeled his eyes on him while his crew slapped the bar in laughter. Joe didn’t know what the joke was.


    Simon turned to his mates. “Which one of you cunts put him up to it?”


    Zip was practically in tears. “Nobody man. It’s too perfect.”


    “Bollocks. Who told you to say that?”


    “No one," Joe said. "When you stepped into the fight I thought Billy Idol had my back.”


    Monk talked through his fading laughter. “Simon hates the Billy Idol likeness. It’s so obvious but he denies it.”


    “Sorry man, you could easily pass as his brother.”


    “Piss off,” Simon glared. “Fucking wankers.”


    Joe smiled. “You’re a dead ringer when you snarl.”


    The punks laughed again. Simon flipped Joe off.


    —-- AMAZING AND DISGUSTING —--


    Nate woke up with two black eyes but not a broken nose. Joe’s knuckles were badly bruised and raw from cuts. The band had tried to sleep in late but it got so damn hot in that apartment after sun-up that it was hard to rest comfortably. When Uncle Babe showed up with his power tools they decided to go out and find food. After breakfast, Joe took off on his own to run errands. He first stopped at a payphone. There was a phone in 3C but he didn’t want the guys breaking his balls about calling his sisters,


    He had promised Dad he’d call every few days. It was day three.


    “Yes, we’ll accept the charges,” Jackie said to the operator. “Joey?”


    “Hey, sis. How’s life at the asylum?”


    “It’s okay, kinda quiet. How’s New York?”


    “It’s gross, amazing, disgusting, incredible, smells like vomit and dog shit, fantastic, and hard to wrap my head around. It’s so fucked up here. I love it.”


    “What are you doing?”


    “We played our first gig last night.”


    “How’d it go?”


    “Perfect. Everything was great.”


    “What else are you doing? Let’s see. Sal pissed on Yankee Stadium. He stepped in dog shit in Central Park. We take the subway everywhere or we’re just walking around and checking shit out. I’m out to buy supplies right now.”


    “Like what?”


    “Bed sheets for me, and some stuff we need in the apartment. So is Mom making you crazy?”


    “Actually, not really. She seems okay.”


    “That’s good.”


    They talked a little longer. Joe shared a couple of anecdotes about the hard punks in Hell’s Kitchen and promised he’d call again in a few days.


    “Give Jules and Jeanie a hug for me and tell Mom and Dad I called… and everything is great.”


    “I will. Love you, brother.”


    “Love you, sister.”


    When Joe returned to apartment 3C, arms overloaded with bags, he found Sal and Nate at the kitchen table. He placed two bags on the brand-new kitchen countertop Uncle Babe had installed the afternoon before and one big bag on the floor.


    “Where’s Johnny?”


    “You didn’t see him on the front stoop?” Sal asked.


    “No.”


    “He was just there having a cigarette and talking to that couple on the first floor.”


    “He must have gone for a walk.”


    “What did you buy?”


    Joe plopped an AM-FM radio on the table.


    “Great idea,” Nate smiled.


    He then pulled a box fan out of the big bag. Sal and Nate shared a glance. Sal slapped him hard on the back. “You’re always thinking but you were wrong last night. They want the Ramones.”


    “It’s the second time you’ve been right about something since we started this band and you’ll never let me forget about it.”


    “When was I right the first time?”


    “If you don’t know, I’m not saying.”


    "I don''t think Sal was right as much as you were wrong," Nate said.


    Joe reached into a third bag and pulled out a six-pack of Coke and two loose Frescas for Johnny. Then he threw a new deck of playing cards on the table.


    “We’re gonna have lots of time to kill and it''s too hot outdoors."


    “No beer?”


    “Nope, I’m on the daylight wagon.” He kept emptying bags. “I got myself a set of sheets so I don’t have to lie on that crime scene mattress.” He handed them cans of Coke.


    “Thanks,” Sal popped the top of his and took a sip. “Next time you go get some chips or something to…”


    Joe threw a box of Cheez-Its at him. Sal caught it, smiled, and opened the box.


    “Hey, you guys can make trips to the market too,” Joe said as he put items in the fridge. “I’m not your fucking errand boy.”


    “But you’re so good at it,” Nate smirked as he opened his Coke. He took a sip. “So, Joey, that blonde chick was sweet on you last night. Huh, whaddya think?”


    “She’s not my type.”


    “Why not?”


    “She could probably kick my ass. I like sweet girls.”


    “She’d might kick your ass but then she’d fuck your brains out after,” Nate smirked.


    “Not interested,” Joe said as he opened a can.


    “What’s that?” Sal gestured toward Joe.


    “Postcards for my sisters. Jeanie asked me to send some.”


    “Awww, you’re such a good big brother.” Nate shoved him lightly.


    He didn’t know why it happened at this moment when there were so many other times Nate ragged him over his sisters, but Joe had enough. It just came out. He stood over Nate, looking down.


    “Ya know, Nate. I feel sorry for you, an only child who doesn’t understand what being a brother is. So, you mock me to mask your sadness, or bitterness, or whatever the fuck it is. You don’t have what I have and you hate it.” Joe leaned over him, “It’s fucking pathetic!”


    Sal leaned back, eyes wide open. Joe continued.


    “You don’t fucking get it. I love my sisters. After losing Janie I would give my life to save a sister. You have no fucking clue what it’s like to love someone more than you love yourself. I feel sorry for you.”


    Nate didn’t respond. He looked at Sal, not making eye contact with Joe, who stared at him for an uncomfortable moment. He then walked into the bedroom where he sat on his mattress to write a postcard. The photo was of the famous arch at Washington Square Park.


    Hey Peanut,


    This arch is right down the street from our apartment. I walked under it to buy this postcard. Every day I see things I wish you could see, like huge skyscrapers and smelly subways. Be good… more cards to come.


    Love, Joe


    The fan-moving air through that sweltering apartment made it barely tolerable. They sat down to play High-Low-Jack and sipped soda pop. Sal moved along the FM dial to find music stations. WCBS, WNBC, and WNYU had rock music with good signals. Two hours later, there was still no sign of Johnny. Sal assumed he went out to buy smokes, or maybe to the park. He wasn’t worried.


    “Johnny’s a big boy. He can handle himself.”


    “Yeah, we’ll,” Nate said. “he didn’t handle himself so well last night?”


    “What do you mean?” Sal glared at Nate. “He barely has a scratch.”


    “Exactly,” Nate pointed at Sal. “Because he didn’t do anything. He got hit with the bottle and we did all the fighting.”


    “What do you mean?” Joe said. “I saw him tangled up with a guy.”


    “Tangled up is not fighting. He was avoiding the whole thing.”


    “Hey, man,” Sal didn’t like Nate’s tone. “Not everyone is a maniac ready to throw down. Give him a break.”


    “I’m just saying he didn’t fight. He danced with one dude until I stepped in and popped that guy in the face. Johnny never...”


    “Alright!” Sal shut him down. “We get it. Johnny’s not a fighter. He never has been.”


    “Good to know,” Joe said. “But I kinda already knew. I don’t hold it against him.”


    “If someday you need him and he doesn''t have your back,” Nate looked up at Joe. “You might.”


    Johnny showed up in the late afternoon as the guys were discussing food. They planned to grab a bite and go back to Tommy’s place to check out this other band, The Studs. He walked in without a word, used the bathroom, and came out.


    “Where have you been?” Sal asked.


    “Just out,” he waved. “and around.”


    “We’re gonna grab dinner later and then go back to the bar,” Joe said.


    “That works,” Johnny stepped toward the bedroom. “I’m tired. Wake me up when you’re going out.”


    —-- JADA JONES —--


    The punks at Tommy’s place were not kidding. Jada Jones was a crazy chick, half black, half Asian with a long, thick, shining, mohawk that fell halfway down her back. She was a petite firecracker, lit up, animated on stage, moving all over while thumping on her black Gibson SG bass. She was the front girl for a hard punk trio and she had a great singing voice.


    Joe watched from the bar as she commanded the stage in her commando costume. Her skin-tight camo pants and cut-off sleeve army-green shirt made her look like a punk guerilla. Her guitar strap was a bandolier with plastic bullets and she had a fake knife strapped to her wide leather belt. She was committed to the persona and Joe was impressed. That girl was a performer.


    After her first set, the hard punks introduced her to The Young Punks.


    “So, Theroux,” She said, shaking his hand. “Is that French?”


    “Yes, and what are you?” Joe admired her intense dark eyes and long lashes.


    “Korean, but my dad is American. He served over there and met my mom. I heard you boys had an uneventful first show,” she smiled. “kinda boring I heard.”


    “Ya,” Joe shrugged, “You can’t win them all. We’ll try better next time.”


    “Let me see that hand,” she took Joe’s hand to inspect his damage. She was barely up to Joe’s shoulder in height, but her thick, black mohawk gave her some extra. “Awww, you have a booboo.” She kissed Joe’s knuckles. “I hope it feels better soon.”


    Jada had a fantastic smile, and those eyes cut right through Joe. He wanted to touch her mohawk. ‘What is it with me and women’s hair?’ he thought as he stared at it. Then he noticed Jada looking up…busted. “Can I touch it?”


    “Sure,” Jada smiled.


    Joe ran his fingers through her mohawk, front to back. “This is cool. I like it.”


    “Thank you.”


    After her show, Jada hung out at the bar. When Joe said his band was going out to find a diner to get food, she convinced Serge and Tito, her two bandmates, to join them. Simon, Zip, and Judy tagged along.


    They sat in three booths at The Parkside Grill near Columbus Circle well after 3 AM. Most ordered breakfast, one had a sandwich, Joe had two slices of pie, one blueberry, and one lemon meringue with coffee. They talked about music and the business of running a band. Jada was funny and flirty and contrary to her on-stage commando act, very sweet.


    She was animated off stage too, a fast talker who seemed to have endless energy. She just finished a more than three-hour set and Joe noted no sign of fatigue. He was often drained after a performance.


    “I have to see this show everyone’s talking about,” she poked at Joe. “If the punks at Tommy’s like you, you must be good. Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll brawl the skinheads again.” She pulled her long knife from her belt. “I’m ready for the bastards.”


    “Holy fuck,” Joe’s eyes bugged out. “I thought that was a prop. What’s that for?”


    “I’m a small woman in a big, rotten city. I don’t fuck around.”


    “Okay.” Joe used his finger to lightly push the blade away from his face. “Well, we’re up again Monday night, and I hope we''re done with the Hitler Youth.”


    Joe glanced at Sal, making eyes at Jada’s big badass bowie knife. Sal nodded with wide eyes as she put it away. Maybe Jada wasn’t as sweet as Joe thought.


    —-- COOLEST PLACE IN THE KITCHEN —--


    The worst thing about being in the city with few gigs was the boredom and need to kill not just hours, but days between gigs. The apartment was hot, the city was hot, and they had too much time on their hands. Johnny went MIA a few times over the weekend. Nate and Sal teamed up to get out and do something, anything but sit in that third-floor hotbox. Joe sat on the stoop reading Bukowski’s novel, Factotum. He had read Post Office two years before and was glad to revisit Chinaski’s dysfunctional life. A warm breeze blew down Jones Street. Warm was better than hot.


    On another day, with his mates out doing their own thing, Joe strolled over to NYU and just walked around. In a couple of months his friend and class president, Betty McDonald, will be a freshman on campus. He wondered how a meek nerd would fare in this loud, busy city.


    Monday’s gig got off to a great start because Tommy’s punks greeted the band warmly when they took the stage. There were no pre-show jitters. Joe knew they were in. The hard punks liked his band and respected them for taking on the skinheads. It was a solid performance and a fun night that ended with the band, Jada, Simon, and a few other punks sitting at The Skyline Diner in the wee hours, making a ruckus at 2 AM.


    Johnny slipped off as soon as he finished his pie, throwing a few bucks on the table. “I’m tired. Catch you guys later.”


    As Johnny walked away Joe called out, “Hey, don’t you need a key?”


    “Oh yeah,” Johnny turned just as Joe tossed one to him. Joe looked at Sal. He felt something wasn’t right with Johnny, and he sensed Sal saw it too.


    After a few more punks went home, Simon and Clyde sat on one side of the booth, Joe and Jada on the other. Nate and Sal sat with two girls they had met a few hours ago, Carla and Dee, the Chelsea chicks. Jada was all over Joe, very close and touchy. Simon met Joe’s eyes and smiled.


    When the waitress dropped off the check and the cash piled up on the tables, Jada turned to Joe. “You should follow me… if you want to see the coolest place in Kitchen.”


    “We just left Hell’s Kitchen,” he said. “Now you want to go back uptown?”


    “It’s not uptown.”


    “If it’s north of here. That’s uptown to me.”


    “How long have you been here?” She asked. “You’re already bitching like a New Yorker.”


    Joe glanced at Simon and then Jada, “Yeah, that sounds good. I’m not tired or anything after a sweaty three-hour set.”


    The coolest place in NYC, according to Jada Jones, was the Hell’s Kitchen apartment she shared with a friend. Joe barely got a look at her sparse decor before she was on him. This chick was all business, climbing Joe, wrapping her legs around his waist and arms around his neck. She kissed him forcefully. Joe walked, or tried to walk, over to her bed. He shuffled close and fell sideways, crashing to the mattress. Jada pulled his shirt over his head, and then her own, and went back to kissing him.


    Lying back, at 4:05 AM, watching the blades of a ceiling fan spin, Joe rolled toward Jada who lay naked on top of the sheets. “So, where else do you play in the city?”


    “Oh, you want to talk business, at this hour?”


    “Hey, you kept me up all night.”


    “I thought you guys rolled over and fell asleep after fucking.”


    “I don’t do that. Well, I mean, I have, but not usually.”


    “Can we talk in the morning?” She rolled to her side, facing away.


    “It is morning.”


    “Daylight morning.”


    Waking after nine, Jada sat on top of Joe and rode him long and hard, screeching and screaming, her body shuddering when she got off. Then she fell forward in a sweaty heap on top of him. After a minute of heavy breathing, she lifted herself with her hands beside Joe’s head and looked him in the eyes. “Jesus, that was unbelievable. I feel like I’m being impaled.”


    “Sorry,” he smiled.


    “For what? It’s fucking great.” she kissed him. “You’re still rock hard. You didn’t…”


    “No. I’m okay.”


    “Oh no,” she raised herself, grabbed her shirt, and wiped Joe’s dick. Jada crawled down and took him in her hands. “We’re not done until you get yours.”


    They went out for breakfast where Joe asked again where her band plays in the city. She wasn’t as forthcoming as he had hoped she’d be.


    “We play small dive bars,” She said, biting bacon in half. “We have one in The Bronx, two in Queens, and a couple in Manhattan. We play a few bars in Jersey and Pennsylvania, and two upstate. I don’t know if those places are worth it for you.”


    “Why?


    “Because you don’t have day jobs. This is your income. You need bigger venues. Serge and Tito work in their family business. This is a hobby for them.”


    “What about you?”


    “I work but I’m between jobs. I went to nursing school. I work in nursing homes and hospices. It’s not easy. I get burned out and take breaks. They always need staff so it’s easy to find work after I recharge.”


    “Where can I find jobs in the city?”


    “Ask Tommy. He has a friend who might be able to help you.”


    —- APARTMENT 1B —-


    When Joe got back to Jones Street in the middle of the afternoon, Nate and Sal were playing cards. They smiled as he entered but didn’t say a word. Joe reached into the fridge.


    “Awww, what the fuck?” he said. “Who drank my last Coke?”


    The guys didn’t answer.


    “Assholes.”


    Sal smirked. “So, did Jada establish a beachhead last night?”


    “Oh yeah,” Joe said, “And she planted her flag this morning. Man, that chick is wild.”


    Nate looked up, “Tell us more.”


    “Nope. I don’t share war stories.” Joe peeked into the bedroom. “Where’s Johnny?”


    Sal and Nate looked at each other, then at Joe. He stood there, waiting for an answer.


    “Well. Where is he?”


    “We think he’s downstairs, apartment 1B,” Sal said. “He’s been hanging out with that couple.”


    “Why is he…” Joe paused. “What’s he doing down there that he can’t …”:


    “Getting high,” Nate said. “We think he is.”


    “We don’t know for sure,” Sal said. “but he doesn’t seem right to me.” He looked up at Joe. “What do you think?”


    “I think he’s acting weird, going missing, and even when he’s here all he wants to do is crash. He’s always tired.”


    Sal and Nate went back to their card game. Joe stood there, thinking more would be said. His mind flashed back to the occasions Sal had made a big issue of Johnny having access to drugs. He wanted to keep him away from Vic. Then he chased off a dealer in Boston. At The Living Room, he told another dude to, ‘keep that shit away from my band.’


    Sal told Joe that Johnny did rehab years ago, in high school, but he had recovered. ‘But then again,’ Joe thought, ‘he partied his way out of URI. Fuck! Is apartment 1B going to be a problem?’