“What?” Glenn asks, looking at us both, still laughing.
“Montclair sucks, man,” Rosie explains.
This is the best. Craig behind me, pounding out the tempo, Glenn on bass, Roy on guitar (such as it is—he still only knows a few chords—but at least he’s not an asshole anymore); me and Rosie rocking out the new songs, doing our covers, sometimes just fooling around and making shit up. It doesn’t take long to drop into that space, where the power coming up from inside is enough to float me across the whole damn world. My brain fuses, joins itself, exists in one whole piece, not fractured or darting about stupidly in some random order. I get it. I get it all. My heart races to match the beat and my whole body joins the dance. No pain, none at all, only rhythm and words, life and death, this sacred moment of being right here.
We play until Anne comes out with both hands held palms up.
“Guess who?” she says. It’s the cops, of course. They show up every week, usually the same ones.
“I don’t know how y’all ’spect the younger generation to find their voice in this world when y’all won’t even let them play their music.” She says this every week. When she’s had a few, her accent gets stronger.
“Sorry, Mrs. Harris,” he says. “Your neighbors—”
“Oh, I know about my frickin’ neighbors! Don’t you tell me about my neighbors! They got one helluva lot of nerve. Y’all come by some time when they’re going at it—”
“We’d be glad to, you just call us.”
“Y’all can bet your sweet patooties…”
“It’s okay, Mom,” Craig says. “We were about done anyway.”
The cops leave. Anne goes to the refrigerator and brings back a six-pack. Sets it down on the coffee table near where we’re all lounging.
“Help yourself.”
She does this every rehearsal. Says she’d rather have us drinking here, where she can keep an eye on us. Good for her. She plops in her chair and picks up her own drink. “Y’all are good kids, you hear me? You are good kids.”
“Thanks, Anne,” Rosie says.
“I mean that. Y’all do some good playing too.”
“Mom—”
“I’m not done, Craig.” She sips her screwdriver. “You kids are artists so there’s something you better know. It’s not an easy life. Not at all. The world does not understand artists.” She peers at each of us, one at a time, ending with me. “You ’specially, Doug, you got something.” She wiggles her cigarette at me. “You’re going to go far, young man. You are going to go far.”
{4}
“Freaks.”
This from a butt-ugly fat guy in a suit. Belly bulging over his pants. Standing with his bald shithook buddy outside Long’s. Jack sighs, shrugs. We’re not bothering anybody; we need cigarettes. Long’s happens to be the only store open. The two creeps stare like they own the place, like they got the right to judge. We slow up and stare right back. Jack hawks a good one into his hand, holds it up to his nose, and snorts it in. The bald guy gags and heads out into the parking lot. The fat one waddles behind him, muttering and shaking his head.
Inside, Jack goes to the counter to pick up the smokes. I head down the liquor aisle, snatch a fifth of JD and slip it in my coat pocket, smooth like, without slowing a step. I grab a Coke from the cold section and join Jack at the counter to pay for it. We head back to the street, our long gray trench coats flapping out. Mine’s got FEAR spray-painted down the left and across the back. We’re wearing peg-leg Levis, tucked into engineer’s boots. Thrift store shirts. Choke-chain dog collars wrapped under and around the boots, with a lock. Rags too, red—mine’s tied on my boots like a cowboy does his kerchief, Jack’s is wrapped higher up around his leg. His hair’s spiked now. I’ve got a buzz cut with a bleached-in W and Y—for Wasted Youth. I like how I look. I like walking with Jack. I like the feeling that we know who we are and aren’t scared to say it.
We pile into Mark’s old Chevy with Rosie and a shitload of other people, all Punk: flattops, tiny Mohawks, one of the girls with the cat-Mohawk combed straight back, the other girl with red spiked hair. Jack hands out smokes and Mark pulls away from the curb. We’re going to Hollywood; clubs are half-priced on Tuesdays. I glance at the clock: just after ten.
“You feeling anything?” Rosie asks. I shake my head no. I down half my Coke and fill up the can with Jack Daniels.
“Shitty mushrooms, huh?” she sighs. “Shoulda known. You never get anything good for free.”
The girl with the cat lights up a joint. She passes it around. Mark shoves Black Flag into the tape deck.
“I’m going to explode!
I’ve had it!”
“You okay?” I ask Rosie quietly. She leans over on me, speaks softly so only I hear, cuts her eyes towards Mark.
“My stepdad’s home.”
“Shit, sorry.”
“Yeah.” She never tells Mark what the asshole tries when he’s there and her mom’s at work. He’d go and kill the guy.
“Want me to come over?”
She nods and slips her hand into mine.
Just past eleven, we pull onto Sunset and go west. We stop at a light. The car next to us is one of those Baja Bugs with the big stinger thing in the back and the tail pipe that goes up. Stuffed with hippies. The driver revs his motor.
“What you looking at, asshole?” I say out my window.
“UP YOURS, weirdo,” the passenger replies.
They’re playing Devo—“Are We Not Men?” Mark sticks his finger in his mouth and pretends to puke. One of the hippies leans out the backseat passenger side and yells, “Punk sucks and disco swallows!” just as the light changes. They gun the car and zoom on ahead, laughing like the stupid shits they are. We catch up at the next red light.
“Don’t, man, you’ll get us in trouble,” the girl with the cat says as we open all four car doors.
“Shut up,” Rosie tells her. “We don’t take shit, okay?”
The hippies try like hell to roll up their windows, but we’re too quick. I grab the driver’s side window when it’s halfway up and press my whole weight on it, which hurts my hands but breaks the window. I kick the door and then punch out the creep inside. The Punks in the cars behind us are going crazy, cheering out their windows and honking. Rosie and cat girl are yelling too.
“Dirty stinking hippie,” Jack says, and dukes the asshole in the passenger seat. His head flops and Rosie squeals. Jack hits him again. Mark kicks in the window in the backseat and gets one more good punch in before the light changes. We sprint back and jump in our car, ready to go around again at the next light except the chickenshits make a left at the corner.
“That’ll teach them,” Mark says. “They’ll watch their mouth next time they come to Hollywood.”
“If they come,” Jack adds.
“Damn straight, man,” I chime in. “It’s our town now.”
The Whiskey’s got a line around the block but we go direct to the front door. We’re here a lot and the skinhead bouncer gives us a nod. We sail on past some wannabe punk types and slide on in. I like being known. I like the skinheads. They don’t take crap from anybody. Clubs hire them when Punk Rock’s playing because so much wild shit happens. It’s just how Punk is. People need to release. The more damage you do, the better you feel. No pretense. No posing. Pure aggression, that’s Punk.
The second the inside door opens, the volume triples. My heart rate jumps to keep time with the music, which is inside and outside all at the same time. I’m filled up and surrounded, safe. I feel all of my body, down to my fingertips. I know who I am, what I can do, where I’m going, how to get there. I know something else too. I’ll be here one day, playing my music. Saying my words. Being in charge. Like coming home.
A kid with tattoos all down the side of his face leaps on the stage. The bass player shoves him off. He scrambles up again, this time with a friend; a skinhead bouncer steps forwards, swings them back to the floor. The drummer kicks off the set. The guitars join i
n. A circle forms. Mark slips in and hunkers down, elbows pumping, starting to skank. Rosie hangs out by me. The circle grows bigger. Girls usually don’t skank, it’s too rough. Only the tuff bitches get in the pit—then complain how some guy grabbed their ass or tits or something.
I want to jump in but never have. Too damn dangerous. Stupid even. A guy goes down. His buddies reach in to get him on his feet. Fine. But what if there’s no one you know? What happens then?
“Hey.” Rosie elbows me in the ribs. I bend down to hear. “Over there. Check her out. She’s been staring at you for five minutes.”
I straighten to see an outrageous Punk chick across the room. Bleached blond hair, with that wide girl-style Mohawk, black-rimmed bright green eyes. She nods and purses her lips, looks back at the band. Rosie nudges me with her foot; she’s watching Mark in the slam pit, pretending not to be with me. I hate how I’m stupid with chicks, unless they’re my friends, but cross the floor anyway. I stand next to her and pull out my flask, gulp some and hold it out to her. Without taking her eyes off me, she accepts it and drinks. I don’t talk. I turn back to watch the band. The singer’s jumped onto the crowd. Three punks are up on the stage.
In between songs, she nudges me and points at herself.
“Stacie!” she yells up at me.
“Doug!” I yell back.
She grabs my hand and for a second I’m confused, until I figure out she’s slipping me a pill. I wash it down with my whisky. Almost immediately my heart rate jumps even higher. Speed. Not usually a good choice for me, but too late now. I go with it. We hang out the rest of the night, until just before two, when we head outside. Mark and Rosie are already there, talking to people. The bouncers start moving us out. We head down Sunset.
“Hey,” Mark asks, grinning, “anybody feel like a snack?”
“I need a pack of cigs,” Stacie answers, her eyes twinkling.
“Let’s do it,” I say. The four of us and a Punk named Gene cross the street over to the Danny’s Liquor. Me and Mark go in first. The chink at the counter flicks his squinty eyes back and forth, presses his lips together. Only one other person’s in the store, an old man, checking out cough syrups. Counter guy can’t decide what to do. Mark gives him a friendly nod and I hear him sigh. We stroll back to the cold drinks section. Stacie and Rosie come in a few seconds later, laughing, shaking their heads.
“We are bloody lost!” Stacie announces, pretending an English accent. “How do you get to the 405?”
The old man finally picks his syrup and lines up behind them. Rosie asks for a pen to write directions; so counter guy has to duck down. His eyes keep darting toward us and she keeps asking questions. She scribbles his answers on a paper bag.
“C’mon, c’mon!” the old man mutters, and coughs. “I’m dying here. I ain’t got all night.”
Gene comes in. Lines up behind the old guy.
“Could we hurry it up, ladies?” he says.
“Bug off, man,” Rosie shoots right back.
“I need some smokes!” Gene says.
“C’mon, c’mon,” the old man adds, coughing more.
Mark and me start for the door. We’re packing beer and every kind of chip we could grab.
“HEY!” counter guy shouts. “Come back here. You got to pay!” He barrels around the counter and we all run. “HEY! You got to pay!” The old guy with the syrup steps up to the register. We fly across Sunset, dodging cars, and down Larrabee, boots thudding and chains jangling. A few blocks later, out of breath and laughing, we duck in the back of a carport behind an apartment complex. We crack open the beer. Talk about the bands. Laugh at how funny the chink looked.
“So where you from?” Stacie asks, later. She’s leaning against me.
“La Verne,” I say.
“No shit? I live in Pomona.”
“I used to live there,” I said, “Until the cholas took over.”
“What are you talking about?” Rosie asks, laughing.
“You know, cholas. Mexican girls. Bitches tried to beat up my sister and my dad freaked out, so we moved. The whole neighborhood was going down, you know what I mean?”
“I’m half Mexican,” Stacie says and I shut up, close my mouth. Mark starts to laugh.
“Way to go, Doug.”
“Teasing,” Stacie says, straightening her skirt as she stands. “I got to work tomorrow.” She holds out her hand. “Want a ride home?”
We hike back up to Sunset and over to Tower Records to her beat-up old Punk-mobile. I’m back to not talking. We hit the freeway and listen to Fear. I find out she’s twenty-one and has a job at 7-Eleven. That she thinks I’m sexy. I finish my flask. We exit and end up in a not-so-great area of Pomona. She parks in the alley behind a wooden apartment building. An argument is going on somewhere in Spanish. I check around, but don’t see anyone. Mexican music blasts out of a car parked on the street.
I follow her up an outside flight of stairs and down the walkway. Her apartment’s at the end. Inside, a surfer-looking chick is curled up asleep on the couch. “My sister,” Stacie explains and leads me down a short hall to her room. Punk posters are all over the walls—the Germs, Sex Pistols, the Plugz, the Bags, Black Flag, and more. Mattress on the floor with a sleeping bag open on top. She lights incense and puts a Black Flag tape into the ghetto box on the dresser.
“I’m about to have a nervous breakdown—my head really hurts…”
“How old are you?” she asks, slipping off her leopard vest. She’s not wearing anything underneath.
“Nineteen.” Shit. Am I actually forming words?
She snorts. “Uh-huh.” She drops her skirt and stands there in boots and panties. Boom—I’m hard. “So are you a virgin?”
“Of course not. Are you shitting me?” Fuck yeah I’m a virgin.
She drops her head forward and smiles up at me. “It doesn’t matter. Come here.”
I do. She kisses me and starts unbuckling my jeans. Can this be happening? She keeps talking and moving, kissing, touching. I lose track of all that’s going on.
I don’t do so good the first time.
She kisses me after, anyway. We go again and I start to get the way of it. Real sex is not at all like making out or doing it myself. Real sex is like I’m talking to God. Running the Universe. Everything possible. No wonder they don’t want you do it—’cause after you find out about it, you don’t want to do anything else.
* * *
Stacie drops me off at school the next morning. Kisses me right there. I hear catcalls from the group of stoners and cheerleaders standing by the tree, preening like peacocks at the zoo in their ugly Izod shirts. I don’t give a damn what anybody says to me today. I got laid last night. Nothing else really matters.
“Tonight?” she says. “I get home around seven. See you?”
I nod. Get out of the car feeling bigger than life. Ignore the stares and comments from the jocks. Strut across the grass, past the tree that sits in the front of the yard, catch up with Rosie near the quad. She smiles. She can tell.
{5}
Me and Rosie pass the Barbies at the tree after school. It’s their spot. They congregate every afternoon to check out people leaving campus. Today, they’re in their little cheerleader outfits. Evelyn Anderson’s right up front. I still have fantasies about her tits. Rosie notices me staring and pokes me with her elbow.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but still look.
“Cute hair, Rose,” one says. “Love the color.”
“Yeah, what’s that called?” says her friend. “Puke?”
“Fuck you,” Rosie says.
“Oh! You rape my virgin ears!” Evelyn chirps. The Barbies bust out in giggles. Rosie rolls her eyes.
“Hate this school,” she mutters.
“I know.” I think about Evelyn in black leather. Dog collar around her neck. Me holding the chain.
“I’m gonna drop out, move in with Mark. Get high and do music. That’s all. That’s all I want to do.”
“Sounds goo
d, until they arrest him and put you in foster.” I take the Marlboro Lights from my sleeve, offer her one.
“Not if we’re famous first.” She lights it, takes a deep drag and lets it out her nose. “We could be, you know. It happens.”
We walk and smoke, stop to finish before turning onto her street. She sighs, loud and long.
“Ready?” I ask. She nods.
We stub out the smokes and she hands me a piece of peppermint gum as we go round the corner and up the walk to her apartment. She lives on the ground floor of a two-story, just on the edge of the city. Her face pales as she sticks the key in the front door. I hear her take a long slow breath. It’s weird how many Punk girls I know have shit to deal with at home. Rosie’s mom’s okay, just never here, which is why Rosie’s real dad and his new wife got the twins, who are five. He wanted Rosie too, but she didn’t want to live in Sacramento, or leave her mom. The trade-off is the shithook stepdad, Frank. Who doesn’t have a job.
He’s in the living room when we open the door, reading a magazine, drinking a beer, getting fat. He grins when he sees Rosie; the grin fades when he notices me.
“Oh. Hey. Doug,” he says, slapping the grin back on. “Good to see you. Where you been hiding, big guy? Want a beer?”
“Nope.” As we planned, I settle on the couch as Rosie goes to change. She doesn’t even look at him. The silence gets awkward quickly.
“So, guy, how’s school?”
“Fine.”
“The band?” He’s still grinning.
“Good.”
“You guys playing anywhere?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Got any new songs?”
I nod, but don’t speak. I pull my switchblade from my back pocket and pick at my fingernails. He shifts in his chair. His mouth moves like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. His eyes dart around, he nods to himself, and with one last nod at me, goes back to reading the magazine. I stare relentlessly.
“What?” he asks, a few minutes later. I don’t move, just keep staring. “For Christ’s sake, Doug,” he blurts, slamming the magazine down. “What’s your problem today?”
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