In less than a week, the band found everything they needed nearby; the Skyline Diner, a laundromat, a favorite pizza joint, Chinese food, a deli, and Strider Records. As they moved between Apartment 3C and Tommy’s, they became familiar with what Chelsea and Hell''s Kitchen had to offer. They could have spent the entire month on the west side between Washington Square and 50th Street, but there was much more to see.


    Sal wouldn’t shut up about Times Square, so the band went for a walk on the wild side. After checking out an uninspiring band at Tommy’s, they bailed out during the first set, walked west on 50th Street, and turned south on 7th Avenue towards the theater district.


    “I thought The Kitchen was a shit hole,” said Johnny.


    “Here’s a chick for ya Sal.” Joe motioned towards a large, black lady of the night. “She could handle you,” he laughed.


    Nate laughed. “I don’t think Sal could handle her. She’d whoop his ass and make him cry.”


    Sal looked her over. “Not my type.”


    “What, big and black?”


    “You know what I like, tall, leggy blondes.” He gestured ‘big tits’ with his large hands.


    “Tall, leggy, anything is more like it," said Nate.


    Sal smiled. “True.”


    The streets were packed with busy people going places and people standing in one place. Even the loiterers were busy working an angle. One girl after another pitched them as they passed, punk heads turning left and right examining the goods.


    “Hey boys, you lookin’ for a party? I have girlfriends.” A short, busty Italian-looking girl asked.


    A tall, skinny blonde called over. “Hey punks, I got what you need right here.” Her dress was filthy, she lifted it, showing no panties.


    “Come over here baby, I need to talk to you,” said a redhead with a come hither finger, a half smile, and dead eyes.


    The ladies came in all colors, shapes, and sizes with varying styles of trashy attire, but Joe noticed one thing they all had in common - the eyes. There was no light in their eyes. Joe found the fake smiles and lifeless gaze creepy and sad.


    Sal stopped hard in his tracks. “Peep show! I’m going in.” He disappeared behind a large black door with flashing lights around it. GIRLS! GIRLS! GIRLS!


    Seconds later, his head reemerged from behind the door. “You guys got any singles?”


    Joe peeled a dollar off his money clip. Johnny surrendered a buck.


    Nate smiled: “I’m going in too. I’ve seen this shit before but I never saw Sal see this shit.”


    “You guys have fun jerking each other off. I’ll wait on the corner up there.” Joe pointed at 7th and 42nd. “I need something to eat.”


    Johnny shook his head. “Not in this neighborhood. I won’t eat within a mile of this shit show.”


    They were propositioned several times as they stood on the corner looking in all directions taking in the sleazy sights and sounds of the sex trade. There were also smells. Cigarette smoke mixed with gutter swill, car exhaust with an occasional whiff of cheap perfume that did nothing to improve the assault Joe’s senses.


    “This is fucked up,” Joe muttered to no one and everyone. “There’s nothing like this back home.”


    The din of the city was interrupted by an excited Sal. “You should see the shit these sluts are doing in that joint. They’re nasty girls! One girl took her whole fist and….”


    “I’m good Sal, don’t need to hear it.” Joe cut him off with a hand.


    “Did you wipe up your spunk?” asked Johnny.


    “Or did Nate do it for you?” Joe snickered.


    “Nah, I didn’t rub one out. Maybe another time,” Sal smiled. “I’m definitely checking out more of that action.”


    After walking the blocks around Times Square, fending off hookers, pimps, and offers of dope or weed, the band hopped on the subway back to the Village. Sal would not shut his mouth about the peep show and sidewalk propositions. He seemed to remember every girl, sizing up his options for a future date.


    As they emerged from the Washington Square station, Joe caught a glimpse of a tall man smiling as he gave Sal the elevator look, up and down. He nudged Sal with an elbow.


    “Hey Sal, you can get some ass right here in The Village. They’re not as in your face as the ladies but you can tell who has a party in his pants.”


    “Fuck you, Joe, and fuck these queers too.”


    “That’s exactly what they want," said Nate. "A big meaty Italian boy to roll around...”


    “Fuck you too, Nate.”


    As they passed Christopher Park, Sal motioned to a pair of dudes making out on a bench. “That’s so gross. What’s wrong with this city?”


    “What’s your beef with them?”


    “It’s just disgusting, and it’s a sin.”


    Joe laughed: “Now you’re worried about sin… Mr. Peep Show?’


    “That doesn’t bother you?”


    “You know it doesn’t. It’s not my thing and it’s not my business. Live and let live.”


    “I don’t like seeing it.”


    “Then don’t fucking look.”


    “Hey, Sal, do you have a boner?” Nate pointed at his jeans. “He does!” Nate laughed.


    Sal didn’t have a boner but that didn’t matter, both Johnny and Joe went along saying they saw a chub.


    Sal’s fists clenched. His jaw was tight. He turned and walked ahead. The guys followed.


    “Why so hostile, Sal?” Joe said. “Nobody touched you.”


    On the first day in town, Sal noticed men grabbing ass. On day two it was men holding hands. He was confused. Now they were kissing and Sal was getting that skin-crawling icky feeling gay men gave him.


    “What’s the deal with all the homos?” Sal asked.


    Joe decided it was time to inform Sal of his new neighborhood’s history. He motioned to Sal and stopped at the far east corner of tiny Christopher Park.


    “This is literally the center of gay life in New York. The Stonewall riots happened right here.” He pointed at the sidewalk.


    “Why do you know about this? You a fag?”


    Joe ignored the gorilla. “The tenth anniversary was last month. I read about it years ago in Rolling Stone and recently because of the anniversary. It’s kind of a cool story.” Joe pointed across the street. “Right here on this street, the queer community fought back. NYPD had a morality squad that harassed gays and lesbians and one night they fucking had enough. The riot went on for days. Drag queens were kicking cop’s asses.”


    Nate elbowed Joe. “Hey Sal, it’s happy hour in your favorite bar, right here, right now!”


    Joe laughed. “It’s always happy hour in a gay bar.” He met Sal’s eyes. “You live in a gay neighborhood.”


    Sal turned on his heel and walked ahead again. “Fuck you guys.” He flipped them off. “I don’t care. It’s still wrong.”


    The guys laughed at his over-reactions. Joe didn’t believe Sal would ever hurt a gay man because he was afraid to touch one. It was a visceral revulsion he couldn’t escape. Gayness was Sal’s kryptonite.


    —-- CAREER OPPORTUNITIES —-


    Joe went to Tommy’s during the day to ask about other opportunities in the city. Tommy was off that day, so he asked the hard punks if they knew of any other bars they could get a gig in. There were suggestions, each dismissed after discussion.


    “What about CBGB,” Joe asked. “how far is that from here?


    “It’s on Bowery, at Bleecker Street," said Zip. "You can go there but you’ll have to audition for Hilly.”


    “Where’s that?”


    Clyde answered. “On Bowery, in the Bowery, southeast of The Village.”


    “What’s the deal with auditions?” Joe asked.


    “Hilly won’t let cover bands in his place. You can only play original music. He needs to pass you before you get added to his list.”


    “He has a bunch of bands," said Monk.


    “I only have six original songs and we don’t play them enough.”


    “That might be enough. Hilly puts up several bands each night. They do short sets.”


    “That can’t pay very well,” Joe noted.


    “He pays shit," said Clyde, "if he pays at all.”


    “So, what’s the fucking point?”.


    “Exposure," replied Sunny. "That’s where industry types check out new talent.”


    Clyde nodded. “Exactly. Lou Reed hangs there. I saw Iggy Pop jump on stage. If a cat like Danny Fields likes you, it’s a big deal.”


    “I read about him in Rolling Stone,” Joe nodded. “He’s like a punk rock guru.”


    “Right. You play CBGB hoping to get seen, and maybe signed," said Zip.


    “Hilly’s place is a shithole," Simon added. "It makes this joint look like Buckingham Palace.”


    Every punk at the bar nodded and murmured some line with dump, dive, disgusting, and varied negative adjectives. They mentioned bands they had seen there; Ramones, Television, Blondie, and The Dead Boys.


    Simon had an offer. “I’ll tell ya what. When there’s a night with no music here we can take the tubet so you can check his place out. Maybe you can meet Hilly.”


    “I’d like to go just as a fan," Joe said, "to say I’ve been there.”


    “It’s not special," said Sunny, "unless you catch one of the great bands. We saw Bad Brains a few months ago.”


    “Most of the bands you know have moved on to bigger things," added Clyde. “But when you go to CBGB there’s a good chance you’ll see the next hot band.”


    “You just won’t know it,” mumbled Monk.


    “You know it when you see it.” Clyde finished his beer and banged his empty pint glass on the bar. “Tommy!”


    *****


    Tommy gave Joe a Friday night for their third gig, which was a great honor according to the hard punks. Only the bands he loved got weekends. Before the show, Joe sat at the bar nursing a beer. He called Tommy over.


    “Jada said you might know some other places we might be able to get work at.”


    Tommy smiled, “So, it’s true. You and Jada?”


    Joe shrugged, “We hang out. She’ll be here later.”


    “Is that what they call it in Rhode Island, hanging out?”


    “Do you know any places where we might find work?”


    “I know one guy in Brooklyn, Eddie Bags. He’s got a huge place near Coney Island. It’s an old Transit Authority warehouse. He still has trains inside it. Anyway, he’d give you a tryout. He won’t hire anyone unless he sees them. You must pass to get work.”


    “Like CBGB.”


    “Yeah, but you can play covers at Gravesend.”


    “Can we invite him up here to check us out?”


    Tommy laughed. “Eddie Bags doesn’t come to you. You go to Eddie Bags.”


    “Can you at least hook us up?”


    “I’ll call him tomorrow. I also have a friend who’s been a talent agent, and manager, and she did bookings when she was coming up. Let me give her a call. She might still have some connections.”


    The Friday night show was the best to date. The bar was packed, front to back, and Tommy charged a five-dollar cover rather than three. It wasn’t a big venue, held less than 240, but that bump in the cover charge made it a good-paying gig. At set break, some punks complained about the extra two dollars.


    “Here’s what I’ll do,” Joe said. “I’ll refund you all two bucks but we do no dance contest, no singalongs, no fun, just a straight set of music.” He looked down the bar at several scary faces. “That’s what a three-dollar band gives you.”


    Tommy’s smile made Joe happy. “They got nothin'', Tommy said, then laughed,


    “Five bucks it is,” Zip said, blowing smoke from his cigarette.


    The late-night diner had become a tradition. Every night, after a show, whether they were playing or not, the band would go on a Pie Safari. Most punks had breakfast, Joe had pie. Sometimes he’d have breakfast and pie.


    Jada was sitting on Joe’s lap, making a minor scene, all hands and lips. The punks snickered as Joe appeared uncomfortable with her overt display of public affection. She looked into Joe’s eyes. “Did you call me a three-dollar band?”


    “Nope. You put on a show.”


    “Do you think we’re a five-dollar band?”


    “I’d ask for four?”


    “Why?”


    “Because I get five. If you get five I’ll want six, and then we have a…”


    Jada punched him. “I think you should tell Tommy I’m a five-dollar band.”


    Simon and Sal looked at Joe. The whole booth of punks across the way did too. Nate came back from the bathroom. “What’s everyone looking at?”


    Joe took a sip of coffee. “What do I get out of this deal?”


    Jada wiggled closer. She whispered, her tongue flicking at his ear. “Let’s skip food and go back to my place.”


    “I’m starving,” he said loud and clear. “I just did three and a half hours. If you want me to perform later, I need to eat.”


    The hard punks tittered. Jada flipped them off. She deferred to Joe. Sal and Nate’s Chelsea Chicks showed up creating a new booth. They made a chaotic scene at times, with loud laughter and cutlery. Walking back to Hell’s Kitchen, Jada looked up at Joe. “This is the best part of these nights, walking around the city at 3 AM.


    “Is that why you carry a giant knife?”


    “Yes. I love the night.”


    Joe didn’t sleep in 3C for a few nights. He stayed with Jada but every morning she kicked him out. They’d have coffee and then she’d give him the door, not even breakfast. She had places to be.


    —-- YOU CAN’T TELL MOM THIS —-


    “Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” Jackie said.


    “Hey sis, what’s going on?”


    “Nothing. It’s boring here. Where are you?”


    “I’m in the apartment. The guys went out.”


    “What have you been doing?”


    “We just did another show and we have a new bar to play tomorrow.”


    “I mean where have you been?”


    “Lots of places. If you want me to tell you, you can’t tell Mom this.”


    “Really?”


    “Yeah. Promise me or you get nothing.”


    “I promise.”


    “Times Square is the most fucked up place I’ve ever been.” Joe then launched into a play-by-play account of hookers, drug dealers, johns, and junkies. He told her about Sal’s peep show and the pimp’s purple car.


    “Then we came back to the village to hang out with the gays because it wigs Sal out.”


    “There are gays there?”


    Joe laughed, “Yeah, we live in a gay neighborhood. It’s a damn sausage fest.”


    Jackie asked a few questions, then passed the phone to Jules who then passed it to Jeanie. After telling each of the girls little tales of the city, Joe changed the strings on his 1969 Butterscotch.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    —-- BAD NIGHT IN THE BRONX —--


    Before Tommy heard back from Eddie Bags in Brooklyn, his booking agent friend connected the band with a bar in The Bronx. The Belmont Cafe near Fordham University was on the edge of Little Italy. She assured Tommy it was a good gig. When Joe called, the manager said they had a midweek opening, so he grabbed it. A week later, the band played their second New York venue. It was good enough, similar in size to Tommy’s, but it was a light crowd, maybe two-thirds full. Joe did his schtick and it worked fine but he did not have a good night.


    “What the fuck, Sal.” He said as they packed gear in the van. “He’s not right?”


    “Who?”


    “Johnny. He fucked off on a few leads. He just… played half-assed.”


    “What are you talking about? He was fine.”


    “Are you even listening? He was not fine. He’s strung out and now it’s showing on stage.”


    “Bullshit. Do you think these people know the difference?”


    “Maybe they think we just suck. That was not a good set.”


    “Look, I get it, you can hear when Johnny’s off but that happens sometimes. I think you’re making way more of this than it is.”


    When Nate came up behind them they stopped talking. “What’s going on?”


    “Nothing,” Joe said.


    “It sounded like something to me.”


    “Joe thinks Johnny played like shit tonight because he’s fucked up.”


    Nate scrunched his nose, “He’s not wrong. It wasn’t his best gig but he’ll be alright.”


    “Oh, do you think he’s gonna get better?” Joe stared at his bandmates, agitated they were downplaying the issue.


    “Calm down,” Sal said. “We’ll keep an eye on him.”


    “Where is he?” Joe asked. “He loaded his guitar and amp and disappeared.”


    Nate lifted his bass drum into the van. “He said he was taking the subway back to the village.”


    Joe stood silent for a moment. “Is that you keeping an eye on him, watching him leave?”


    “Lighten up, Joe,” Sal said. “So we had a bad night.”


    “And you don’t think that’s unusual, and his taking the subway?”


    “Why? He’ll get back before we do.”


    “Yeah, because he’s in a hurry to get a fix!” Joe yelled. “Fuck!”


    —-- HARLEM —-


    On a night when Joe managed to wrangle Johnny to go out, only because Johnny said he needed food, he and Simon kept an eye on him past midnight. Joe had a special request. “I want to see Harlem.”


    “At this hour?” Simon asked. “You won’t see much.”


    “There must be a diner up there,” Johnny said. “Maybe soul food.”


    “Clyde told me about a southern cooking joint,” Joe said. “it’s right near the 137th Steet station. We can give it a shot if you want to gamble with your life.”


    They took the one-train up to Harlem. Simon said they had no business up there but Joe insisted. They saw The Bluebonnet Cafe from the train and got off at the next stop. It was only a block from the station.


    “You telling me you ain''t never had grits before?” the waitress asked. Her nametag was Gladys.


    “No ma’am,” Joe replied. “I’ve never seen a grit. I don’t even know what they are.”


    “I’m not givin’ ya the recipe honey but I’ll give ya a bowl on the house.”


    “Cool, thanks. I’ll have that strawberry-rhubarb pie with it, and whipped cream.”


    Gladys nodded. “Excellent choice.”


    She sauntered back to the kitchen to place the order telling the chef about the white boy who never had grits. They were the only Caucasians in the joint. Everyone gawked at them but none said a word.


    Simon leaned in. “Tell me about you and Jada.”


    Johnny laughed. “Ha, not a chance. Joe''s like a monk on a vow of silence.”


    “I don’t talk about girls," Joe shrugged.


    “I respect that but she’s a crazy shag, right?”


    “We have a good time and then she kicks me out.”


    “What do you mean?”


    “I mean what I said. We have fun at night, and again in the morning, and then she tells me to leave. She visits her grandma every day. She kicks me to the curb before nine. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a coffee before the door.”


    Johnny made a sad face. “Awww, no cuddling?”


    Simon chuckled. “I doubt Jada''s a cuddler.”


    “She’ll cuddle, then kick me out of her bed.”


    Gladys delivered free grits and watched Joe take the first bite. They were buttery and creamy and he liked them. She smiled, nodded her approval, and walked away. A minute later the cook, Carl, popped his head out and shouted through the service window. “Son, she pushes them grits like drugs. Your first bowl is free, and then ya hooked.”


    Another patron joined in. “If she catches you puttin’ syrup in her grits, she’ll slap you upside the head.”


    “You can put maple syrup in grits?” Joe was intrigued.


    Gladys pointed her finger at Joe. “No, you can’t. Not in my grits. Butter, and butter only.”


    “And cheese," Carl shouted.


    Gladys nodded. “Cheese is alright.”


    “And Hot sauce.”


    “Shut up, Carl,” Gladys shouted.


    It was a bit out of the way but The Bluebonnet was added to the list of diner stops. That was not his last bowl of Gladys’ grits and every time he walked in she warmly greeted Joe and shouted back to Carl, “The white boy is back for my grits.”


    It was during those late-night diner stops that Joe became quite fond of Simon MacManus. When Johnny began fucking off and Sal and Nate met the Chelsea chicks, Simon and Joe became the anchors of diner excursions. It was good to have Johnny along on this night. It eased Joe’s mind to see him behaving like old Johnny. Many nights it was just Simon and Joe, walking the city, talking till dawn, and having breakfast at another diner. Joe called it the up-all-nighter.


    Joe was very interested in Simon’s journey to America. He explained that his life began as a proper English lad. Raised in Hammersmith, London. He attended boarding school in the country until he was expelled for various offenses that occurred over the years. Si had a long rap sheet. On a drinking night, after Joe and Simon had closed a bar, Si told his story at The Skyline. Joe ordered the lemon meringue and cherry, a twilight doubleheader with coffee.


    “The school hosted an annual family picnic,” he explained. “One of the seniors had a sister I fancied. We ran off to the carriage house. Her brother was a bugger. He and two of his mates burst in on us.”


    “He’s an idiot," Joe said. "He just outed his sister."


    Simon nodded, stirring his dainty cup of tea. “They caught her blowing me. I had a handful of her luxurious red hair. They jumped on me and she screamed. It was bloody scandalous. Her parents were gutted. You’re right, his sister’s reputation was ruined. Trevor and his boys made my life miserable, especially on the rugby pitch.”


    “I can see you playing rugby,” Joe said, sipping his coffee. “You have a thick build and broad shoulders.” Simon was 6’1”, taller than Joe by an inch, but his frame was far beefier than skinny Joe. “Did they beat on you, three on one?”


    “Yeah, they’d knock me about but if Trevor was alone he’d avoid me.”


    “You could take him?”


    “He knew that. Trevor was a cunt. The worst thing was, he spied and grassed me up anytime I did wrong.”


    “What’s grassed, do you mean rat you out?”


    “Exactly. That’s how I got pinched with a bottle of scotch I had nicked from a teacher and then again for selling hashish. I had the headmaster so far up my arse I took the piss.”


    “Do we speak the same language?" Joe asked. "What’s take the piss?”


    “I didn’t give a fuck. I was in full rebellion, disgusted with their proper English bullshit. I hated that place and had enough of my father’s design for my future."


    "What did you do to get expelled?"


    “Trevor snitched on me for sneaking into town one night, I found him alone and beat the shit out of him. That was the end of me at Gladstone. My dad used his connections to get me into a private school in the city, then I got busted selling grass, and he cut me off.”


    “How did you end up at NYU if your family cut you off?”


    “My Grandmother. She paid the final installment of school tuition. I was out most nights seeing bands and getting plastered but I still got off to school. I have a brain,” He tapped his head. “So I pulled good grades. My troubles were never in the classroom.”


    “Why NYU?”


    “To get away from my father and his expectations. I hate that life, the posh phony cunts who smile in your face and talk shit behind your back. My Grams covered my tuition here as long as I kept up my grades. I’m not loaded. I had to get a job at the bakery to pay my living expenses. That’s where I met Zip and Clyde.”


    “So, you went to NYU full-time and held down a graveyard shift at the bakery?”


    Simon nodded. “Thirty hours a week. Not too bad.”


    “What did you study?”


    “I have a degree in economics and I minored in music. I play piano, and guitar and dabble in a few horns. I like the trumpet.”


    “Why aren’t you in a band?”


    “Oh, I’ve been in bands, two in London and one here. It never works out. I don’t know if you realize this but musicians are unreliable tossers. I have no patience for people I can’t depend on.”


    “I hear ya brother. Our band is tight because we’re dependable.”


    —-- TOMMY GUNS —--


    It was official, the band had a problem. Johnny was 0-2 in The Bronx after another rough night at The Belmont. The following day, after he slipped away, Joe went to Tommy’s to visit with the day-drinking punks. Nate and Sal had become scarce during the day, hanging out at Carla and Dee''s place in Chelsea. Joe hoped the hard punks might have some advice.


    “Hey Tommy Gun, how ya doin’” Joe said as he walked in.


    “Whadja you call me?”


    “Tommy Gun, it’s a song by The Clash. It’s the first song we played here.”


    Tommy shrugged. “So.”


    “Tommy Gallardo, T.G., Tommy Gun. It’s just a joke.”


    He whispered. “Tommy Gun.”


    “Where is everyone? I thought they got here after the bakery shift.”


    “They’re at a funeral service,” Zip said. “Some junkie friend.”


    “Why are you here?”


    “Because he was no friend of ours,” Judy said. “He was an asshole.”


    Tommy looked her way, “Don’t speak ill of the dead.” He placed a pint in front of Joe. “Hey, I’ve been trying to come up with a name for this joint for months. The gang calls it Tommy’s, and that’s fine, but I think Tommy Guns would work.” He flexed his impressive biceps.


    “Sure,” Joe nodded. “It keeps the name and your initials. It’s still Tommy’s.”


    Tommy smiled. “And my guns.” He flexed again.


    Zip laughed. “No one loves you more than you, Tommy.”


    “When I opened this place up I had no business. Two months in I didn’t think I was gonna survive, then these punks showed up.”


    “Yeah,” Joe said, as he sipped his pint. “Clyde was telling me they saved your bar.”


    “The first thing they did was break into the jukebox and remove all the forty-fives they hated. Then they gave me a list of music to add. My vending guy was irate, so I made it right with him and he delivered the music. After that, this was their bar.”


    “I’ve heard this tale before," Joe said. "Our gig in Worcester has the same story. Punks saved a sad Irish bar.”


    “Six months ago we had nine punks then they multiplied like creepy black leather, studded bunnies. Word got out and every freak and weirdo in The Kitchen and Chelsea showed up.”


    Zip leaned over, “Then we told him, ‘If you want us to drink here at night get some live music.”


    Tommy nodded. “So I removed a few back booths, built a stage, bought lights and a used PA. It was a gamble.” He placed a shot glass upside down in front of Joe. “but it paid off.”


    “What’s that for?”


    “You just named my bar for me.” Tommy smiled. “I’m going with Tommy Guns. Now I can put a real sign out front and make business cards.”


    A short time later, a handful of punks arrived from their service. They took their places at the bar. Joe waited for TG to serve them before explaining his concern about Johnny and his druggie friends. It wasn’t news to them. They had noticed his decline on stage.


    “What’s he doing?" Zip asked. "Are there patterns?”


    Joe answered. “After a gig, he goes straight to that apartment and returns late in the morning. He usually sleeps. If we have a gig, we have to roust him to get him to the show. “We barely see him on off days.”


    “I don’t think Johnny is doing bong rips," said Clyde.


    Tommy put a second beer in front of Joe. “Not to alarm you but we have a pretty serious heroin problem. You need to find out what he’s doing.”


    Joe didn’t hear a word he said after heroin. Tommy kept talking, but Joe’s mind traveled back to earlier in the year when Sal informed him of Johnny’s past addiction and rehab.


    “We lost a friend last week," Sunny said, "not the first. We just attended his service.”


    Zip stared into his beer. “It took my older brother. We think he’s still alive, but don’t really know.”


    “I knew two NYU kids who pissed off after getting hooked," Simon said. "They were bright kids from good families. It was tragic.”


    “If he’s on H you gotta get him out of town,” Tommy suggested. “Maybe you can find him some help back home.”


    This was sobering news. What little Joe knew about heroin he had learned from magazine articles and reading William S. Burroughs. It was made from poppies, they tied off, injected it, and went into a downward trip. That and descriptions of the slowness of the trip, edging close to oblivion, and the desperate need to remain there, were the extent of his knowledge.


    “I can’t imagine Johnny using a needle,” Joe added. “He’s squeamish and a big fucking baby about blood and…”


    A row of punks rolled their eyes in unison.


    “What?”


    Jett shook her head. “You don’t know shit about this, do you?”


    Joe’s silence was her answer.


    “First of all, you can smoke heroin. That''s the entry point for many users. You can snort it too.”


    Joe was slightly annoyed. “Okay,” his hands went up. “I’m sorry I’m not a fucking drug addict.”


    Tommy laughed. A few punks joined him.


    Then Joe shook his head. “Johnny would never inject himself, but he would definitely smoke or snort. He’s done all that shit.”


    “What does he snort?” Monk asked.


    “I saw him snort coke, just once. It’s not something he does often but if it’s around…”


    Sunny met Joe’s eyes, flipping her bleach blonde locks from her face. “You can do that with coke, be recreational, but that’s not how it works with heroin.”


    “The friend we just buried started snorting," said Jett. "then he chased the dragon and eventually got over his aversion to the needle.”


    Zip nodded. “The fix is all that matters. It’s fucking crazy how fast they go dark.”


    “What’s chasing the dragon?” Joe asked.


    Jett laughed. “Jesus Christ, you’re like a child. It’s a Chinese term for smoking opium.”


    “I’m sorry, we don’t have heroin in Providence.”


    All the punks laughed. Simon put his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “You have heroin in Providence.”


    “Is Johnny eating?” Sunny asked.


    “Yes, he is, but he’s had stomach problems.”


    “Is he constipated?”


    “How the fuck would I know? I don’t hold his hand in the bathroom.”


    Everything they told him was new information, heroin 101. Joe left the bar sober, not because he wasn’t drinking. When he saw Sal and Nate that evening, he let them know what he learned about heroin.


    “He’s not on heroin,” Sal laughed. “He could never take the needle.”


    “They snort it and smoke it too.”


    “He’s a pill popper and maybe some coke. Johnny’s not on smack.”


    Joe became agitated but tried to hold back as Sal continued to dismiss his concerns and even mock him.


    “You’re a mother hen,” Sal smirked. “keeping an eye on her chicks.”


    “And you’re the monkey, see no evil, hear no evil, looking the other way. You won’t see the shit hit the fan until it’s in your face.”


    “Shut the fuck up, Joe,” Sal made sure he had eye contact. “Mind your own business. Johnny will be fine.”


    “You don’t know that.”


    “He had these episodes,” Sal said. “Don’t worry about him. He’s a big boy.”


    Joe stared silently at Sal, then Nate. “We have to keep him out of that druggie apartment.”


    “Okay, fine,’ Sal said, exasperated. “We will do what we can.”


    —-- JADA’S LOSS —--


    After the initial run of hot and steamy nights hanging out in Jada’s apartment, things had cooled off. Joe was confused but not concerned. He heard she was playing gigs out of town. Jada never told him that.


    When she finally showed up at Tommy’s, more than a week later, Jada grabbed Joe by the collar to kiss him forcefully. She insisted they skip coffee and pie. He was back in her bed minutes later doing what she liked most, riding the baloney pony.


    Jada’s head rested on his shoulder. She explained that she helps care for her grandmother in Queens. That, and her road gigs, took her away at times.


    “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you but that''s kinda how I am. I know it’s shitty of me. I just leave and do my thing.”


    “So what’s up with your grandmother? Is she sick?”


    “No, she’s just old and has a broken heart,” she said. “My Mom died years ago. I was thirteen. She was an addict.”


    “I’m sorry. I thought you said you visited your mom every week.”


    “Yes, her grave. She doesn’t have a headstone and it bothers me. I put a Korean flag in one of those metal holders… and flowers, and I tend to it.”


    “That’s a lot to deal with, losing your Mom to drugs.”


    “When my Dad brought my Mom to America pregnant she insisted her mother come. My halmeoni lived with us and my dad supported her. She was always with us and that put a strain on their marriage. He cheated and Mom did drugs… and then he left.”


    “Halmeoni?”


    “That’s grandma in Korean. She barely speaks English so with my Mom gone she’s vulnerable.”


    Joe had no words.


    “Thankfully she lives in Bayside where other Koreans have settled, so she gets by okay.”


    Joe still had no words. What do you say to someone who’s lost a parent to drugs?


    “This will sound awful, “ Jada said in a near whisper. “but it’s better that Mom is gone. My grandmother went through hell with her. She tried to help Mom through the Korean community but you can’t help someone who doesn’t want to help herself. My mother took advantage of her mother, stole from her, and disrespected her so many times. Her death was terrible but not a shock. I realize now that she’s at peace and so is my halmoeni. The sad part is, she’s alone and she wants to go back to Korea.”


    “That’s tragic.” Joe pulled Jada closer. “What did your mom use?”


    “The plague. I’ve lost a friend, a cousin, and my Mom to heroin. I don’t know anyone who’s beaten that addiction. Once they’re gone they don’t come back.”


    “Fuck,” Joe said under his breath.


    “What?”


    Joe sighed, “We think Johnny is on it.”


    “Johnny, your guitarist?” Jada looked up at Joe. “He’s an addict?”


    “I guess he did rehab back in high school and he was okay for a few years. He dropped out of college last year because he was partying too much and failing. I didn’t know of his drug problems until a few months ago.”


    “Look, if he’s on heroin you’ve gotta get him help. I know people who treat addicts. We’ve done interventions trying to get friends into the system. I can help you.”


    “Okay. Let me talk to Sal. I’ll get back to you. We might need help.”


    Jada’s words that stuck with Joe were, ‘Once they’re gone, they never come back.’ He didn’t know how far gone Johnny was and that worried him. A week later, Jada disappeared again without a word. Joe wasn’t surprised this time.


    —--- BROOKLYN —--


    Joe was alone with Johnny trying to keep him occupied and out of the opium den in 1B. They had a new venue to play that night, a tryout in Brooklyn with Tommy’s friend Eddie Bags. Joe was worried Johnny might fuck it up so he dragged him to breakfast, then to Central Park, and finally to a matinee. After the film, Johnny gave him the slip. When Sal and Nate returned to Jones Street, Joe was not in a good mood.


    “Maybe if you guys were here more during the day, we could take shifts babysitting”


    Sal was annoyed. “How did he escape this time?”


    “When we got out of the theater he said he needed smokes. I was reading a magazine at a newsstand while he went into a store. I didn’t see him come out. I assume he’s with them.”


    “You should have gone inside with him.”


    “You need to shut the fuck up and step up.” Joe pointed at Sal. “Do your share! I’ve had him more than you two combined and it’s always during the day when we have too much fucking time on our hands.”


    “And he’s slipped you three times now.”


    “Fuck you, Sal. I’m not his damn babysitter and I can’t make him stay with me.”


    Joe was hot. These guys were off playing house with their Chelsea chicks and he was left holding Johnny’s hand. He had enough. They had six days remaining in town and he couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of New York… but first, they had a job in Brooklyn.


    The drive to Coney Island was a nightmare. Sal was impatient in late rush hour traffic while Joe navigated. He drove too fast, weaving lane to lane like an asshole. Cars honked at the van cutting them off. Sal missed a turn, then another. Joe used a city map to find a new route but Sal was in the wrong lane and missed another turn. It devolved into a shouting match with Joe barking directions and criticizing his driving and Sal telling him to “Fuck off” or “Suck it, Joe.” - and variations of Salvatore’s eloquence.


    The stress of Johnny kept the temperature between Joe and Sal high. It was too easy for one of them to snap over little things like Sal driving like an idiot. Nate laughed from the back. Johnny barely noticed. He wasn’t in the junkie trance but he wasn''t one hundred percent either. He said his stomach wasn’t right. He was pale and sweaty.


    When they finally found Gravesend it was the strangest of venues. The warehouse was on the edge of the MTA Coney Island Yard. The yard buzzed with activity, clanking subway trains in and out, maintenance workers cleaning and servicing cars, coupling, and uncoupling. There was a rail spur leading directly into the cavernous warehouse.


    Tommy was not wrong. Gravesend was a big venue but half the building was occupied by rusted machinery, retired rail cars, and train parts which created an eerie salvage yard setting. Beyond the artifacts of public transportation was an open space bigger than The Brickyard. Joe guessed it topped over a thousand.


    After hauling gear inside they were invited to the bar by the owner, Eddie Baglioni, a.k.a. Eddie Bags. This night was the same deal at their first show in Boston, with three bands getting a tryout. The first band was doing their set of rock covers with punk mixed in. They were good and tight, and the crowd seemed to like them. Eddie was less impressed. He was a serious businessman; average height, stocky, thinning hair, in his late-forties, who didn’t make small talk. Eddie wore a big gold chain, multiple rings, and a gaudy wristwatch. His people called him Bags.


    “After we take this battle of the bands will you hook us up with a weekend gig?” Joe smiled.


    Bags glanced at Joe, not amused. “It’s not a battle. Just get up there and do your thing, wise ass.”


    “Of course, it’s a battle. Are you gonna hire the third-best band? Nope. It’s us versus them.”


    “You’re up last, be ready.”


    “We’re leaving town soon but we can come back in late September. If you give us a weekend.”


    Eddie walked away muttering something under his breath about a cocky shit.


    The place wasn’t half full, under five hundred, but that was a good number for them. It was a punk crowd with the typical fashion that made it hard to find a job. All that unoccupied hard space in the back gave the room an echoey sound. The stage was huge, a concert platform with first-rate overhead lighting. The Yamaha PA system was impressive, with pieces hanging from above. Eddie Bags spared no expense.


    As the second band took the stage, Joe noticed Johnny was missing. He elbowed Sal, “Where the fuck is Johnny?”


    Sal looked left and right, “Fuck. We gotta go find him.”


    “I babysat all day,” Joe said with a flatly. “You deal with it.”


    As Joe watched the second band, even less punk than the first, two wild-looking chicks stood nearby, leaning against the bar. They were loud, doing shots and acting trashy. Joe eavesdropped and overheard one of their names.


    “Hey Paula, I’m Joe. I’m in the next band.”


    “Hi, Joe.” She smiled. “What’s up? This is Sherry.”


    “Hey baby," Sherry smiled. "What''s going on?”


    “Well, it’s like this. I need two girls to come on stage and dance. I bet you two can dance and you might be drunk enough to do it.”


    Sherry looked at Paula: “I’m not drunk yet but I’ll do it.”


    “You just want us to dance?”


    “Yes, but I won’t spoil the surprise. When we do a song about a sailor, be close to the stage. What are you drinking?”


    “Jack," answered Paula.


    Joe looked at the bartender. “Two Jacks for the ladies.”


    Sherry frowned. “Aren’t you gonna have a drink with us?”


    “I can’t drink whiskey. It makes me naked.”


    Paula laughed and looked at the bartender. “Make that three.”


    Joe did one shot. He didn''t like Jack Daniels. He called it the Budweiser of whiskey, too sweet. He preferred smokey Kentucky bourbon.


    Sal and Nate returned with Johnny, “He was sitting in a subway car.” Johnny didn’t look good.


    For a short show with a tough crowd, Joe had laid out a high energy hard punk set. They opened with Python, Now for something completely different. Sousa march, which confused the punks. Then followed with You’re So Vain, further baffling the audience, but they laughed. Then they bashed out punk Kodachrome. After that, it was all punk.


    From the start, Joe noticed that Johnny was sloppy. He played okay, a bit closer to Joe’s skill level than his own. He was just standing there, wobbly on his feet, getting by on muscle memory. After Joe went full punk with a string of U.K. covers, the crowd came to life. They went crazy while singing Gilligan, followed by The Ramones. Then Joe went into carnival barker mode.


    When he brought up the girls his intuition was proven correct. Paula and Sherry danced like drunk hookers, one egging the other on. When they kissed passionately on stage the Brooklyn punks went absolutely bananas.


    Joe glanced over at Eddie, smiled wryly, and winked.


    There were grins on every face as far back as he could see. They approved of everything they played. It was a strong one-hour set. They won the crowd and begrudgingly they won Eddie Bags.


    “So, how long are you guys in town?”


    “I told you, the thirteenth is our last night but you’re booked up ‘til then.”


    “You’ll be back after September?”


    “Yeah, we’re gonna play our beach gigs back home and come back after the summer season ends.” He smiled at Eddie. “You probably shouldn’t put us on the same bill as these other bands again.”


    Bags laughed. “You’re a cocky son-of-a-bitch.”


    “When we get back in town we can give you three hours, the full show.”


    Yup, Joe was confident. He was no longer intimidated by New York punks but he was not confident Johnny would be back when they returned. He sucked that night. Joe kept the attention on himself to minimize the damage. When they drove back to the Village and unloaded the van, Johnny vanished again. They had two shows remaining at Tommy’s. Joe was simply trying to reach the finish line and then get Johnny home.