—- PERFETTO —

  To celebrate Joe’s nineteenth birthday, Tina made dinner reservations at her favorite Italian restaurant in Little Italy. First, she gave Joe her special treatment, anything he wanted all day. They didn’t didn’t leave 3C until dinner time. As they emerged from Canal Street Station on a blustery evening, she huddled against him.

  “You brag so much about Italian food back home,” she said, bracing from the cold. “I want you to try my place. This is where my Dad takes us when we come into the city. I’ve been coming here since I was six years old. It might get weird.”

  “How so?”

  “You’ll see,” she smiled as they turned up Mulberry Street.

  “It’s not my first time in Little Italy,” he said. “I tried Il Cortile last summer before we met.”

  “What did you think?”

  “There it is,” Joe pointed across the street. “It was excellent… for New York.”

  “And what does that supposed to mean?”

  “It was very good but it was no better than any places I go to in Providence. I would go back there again.”

  “Here’s my place,” she stopped in front of a restaurant. Joe reached for the door.” Tina pulled on his jacket to get a kiss. “After you dine with Vince you’ll never return to Il Cortile. This will be your place too.”

  “Well,” Joe nodded. “Vince better measure up or your opinion on Italian food will mean crap.”

  “I’m Italian, ya know.”

  Joe opened the door. “And some Italians like Chef Boyardee.”

  “Not me.” Tina walked in ahead of him. The blast of heat was welcome as was the scent of garlic and basil. She turned to Joe as the door closed behind him. “Behave. Vince is a friend.”

  “Oh my God, looka who’s here,” a dapper gentleman exclaimed as he walked swiftly across the small dining area to greet Tina with a hug. “My favorite girl from Brooklyn.”

  Tina smiled. “Vince, this is my boyfriend Joe.” T looked at Joe. “This is Mr. Torrio.”

  Joe put his hand out: “Pleased to meet you Mr. Torrio.”

  The old man took Joe’s hand. “Very nice to meet you, Joseph,” he smiled. “Please call me Vince. You’ve stolen my girl have you?” He glanced at Tina with his palm on his chest. “You breaka my heart.”

  “Yes,” Joe said, “and I intend on keeping her.”

  Vince frowned, “I don’t know about this one Miss Tina.”

  “It’s his birthday Vince, be nice,” she said in a stern tone.

  “Very well. Happy Birthday, Joseph. Today I will be nice.” He laughed. “Tomorrow? I don’t know.”

  Vince Torrio was a New York character who gave Joe an instant vibe of friendship. He was a slight man in a perfectly pressed suit, every detail exquisite. Joe guessed he was in his late fifties with thinning hair, obviously dyed black, enough hair to slick back. He’s probably had the same hairstyle for 30 years.

  Joe witnessed him greet other patrons, interact with diners, and work the room. Vince knew everyone by name and showed affection to most of his customers. Mr. Torrio was the face of the business. When Joe overheard him lightly scold a waiter who’d let them sit too long without a drink. Joe leaned closer to Tina.

  “He reminds me of Remy at Camilles back home. Remy supervises everything. Nothing gets past him. Everything must be perfetto.” Joe made an Italian hand gesture.

  Like Remy, Vince was on top of every detail: food, drinks, plates, cutlery, and linens … all under his watchful eye. After Joe and Tina ordered their drinks and appetizers, Vince picked up a broom slipped outside into the bitter cold, and swept his stoop. Everything was perfetto.

  As they neared the end of their meal, Joe leaned back and threw his cloth napkin on the table.

  Tina smiled. “So, what’s your verdict?” She asked just as Vince walked up.

  “Very good,” Joe smiled. “For New York.” He looked up at Vince. “Italian is my favorite cuisine. Seafood is too. When you combine them….” Joe did the chef’s kiss.

  “He grew up on Federal Hill,” Tina said. “That’s the Italian…”

  “I know it well,” Vince smiled. “You were born there?”

  “I am a son of Providence.”

  “And now you live in New York?”

  “Well,” Joe glanced at Tina. “We’re trying to figure that out. My family is back home and Tina’s here. I’ve come to appreciate rail travel on Amtrak, back and forth.”

  “I have been to Providence. My cousin Frank Torrio is the maitre d ‘ at The Blue Grotto. Have you dined there?”

  “I have not.”

  “When you are finished I’d like to buy you a drink at the bar. We can talk about your town. I was there for a short time after the war before I returned home.”

  Joe smiled and nodded at Tina. After she settled the tab they sat at Vince’s very small bar with only six stools. Vince personally mixed them perfetto dirty martinis as he flirted with Tina. Joe smiled, finding the old man charming. Vince talked of his summer in Providence after the war, working with his uncle and cousins and the places he liked in Joe’s neighborhood.

  “And of course you know Venda Ravioli,” Joe said.

  “Is it still there?” Vince asked. “They were wonderful and they have relatives here.”

  “Venda is an institution on the Hill.”

  As they were leaving, Vince hugged Tina and looked up at Joe. “Someday, Joe, Imma gonna steal her back from you.”

  —-- MELTDOWN —-

  Two days after his birthday, Tina drove Joe and Simon to the Brooklyn gig. Joe was anxious on the way over. His gut feeling was doom but he said nothing of it. Tina and Simon were well aware of his band situation and he was sick of talking about it. As they crossed the Manhattan Bridge in the Chevy Nova he made small talk to calm his nerves.

  “It’s over, Si.” Joe turned to Simon in the back seat. “The Sex Pistols aren’t in the same league as The Clash. I told you their best was yet to come, and it’s here.”

  Simon nodded, “I’m not gonna argue with you. London Calling is the balls.”

  “And it’s a double album. All four sides are great.”

  “I know. I’m conceding the argument.”

  “Thank God,” Tina said. “I’m so sick of this fucking debate.”

  Joe stared at him, “Say it, Si. I need you to say it.”

  Tina watched him in the rearview mirror. Simon exhaled. “The Clash is the greatest English punk band.”

  “Thank you,” Joe smiled. “Now you two can duke out for second place, Ramones or the Sex Pistols?”

  “Bullshit,” Tina said. “It’s not even close. The Ramones are alive and well. Sid, Nancy, and the Pistols are dead.”

  “They’re not a UK band,” Simon noted.

  “The Damned are better than the Pistols,” Joe said. “They’re Brits.”

  “Oh, piss off.”

  They arrived at Gravesend first. Tina and Simon went inside Joe kept an eye open outdoors in the bitter cold. The wind howled with the clanking of the New York transit yard. He wondered if Sal would keep his word. This felt like a moment of truth.

  When the van pulled up Nate and Sal were unusually quiet as they got out and began unloading gear. The moment Joe laid eyes on Johnny H his heart dropped. They made several trips back and forth, then set up the stage in near silence. Once they were done, Nate pulled Joe aside… way aside, behind one of the retired subway cars in the back of the former transit authority warehouse.

  “I promised Sal I wouldn’t tell you this. There was a major meltdown before we left home.”

  “I know something’s wrong. Johnny looks like fucking crap and no one’s talking… so it must be bad.”

  Nate took a deep breath. “Right before Christmas Sal ripped into Johnny for getting high every day. So Johnny stayed with his girlfriend instead of the garage. Last week he missed his Mom’s birthday dinner. His dad was livid. Bats came looking for him but we didn’t know where the girlfriend lived.”

  Joe listened without commenting.

  “After he missed his Mom’s birthday everyone was looking for him. Sal and I went to his clinic and asked a few people if they knew Johnny or the girl he was with.”

  “What people?”

  “Junkies. The place has a constant flow of pathetic characters. We stood outside having a smoke, blending in with the riff-raff.”

  “I can see you blending.”

  “A kid who knew Johnny told us her name was Beatriz and she lived nearby.”

  “That’s still no help.”

  “Right, so we parked across the street at McDonald's and staked out the clinic. That’s when Sal told me we had to be here two days early and we needed to find Johnny. We sat there all day Sunday and a few hours on Monday. Finally, Johnny showed up yesterday with this skanky-looking chick.” Nate paused. “You were right, Joe. She’s a fucking mess.”

  Joe didn’t react so Nate continued. He looked over Joe’s shoulder through the old train car to see Sal on stage.

  “We followed them back to her place. It’s a nasty slum on Northup Street. Sal stopped them as they were going inside and told Johnny we had to leave for New York… in one day. He didn’t look good but Johnny said he’d be at the garage. Last night Sal convinced himself Johnny wasn’t going to show. He was pacing all morning and getting himself worked up. So we went to the house and knocked on the door. Sal demanded Johnny come with us.”

  “Demands don’t work with Johnny.”

  “It didn’t but it wasn’t Johnny. Beatriz got in Sal’s face. He pushed her away. When Johnny stepped in to defend her, Sal and I grabbed him and dragged him to the van with Beatriz beating on our backs.”

  “I’m so glad I didn’t see this shit,” Joe said. “I would have walked. This is insane!”

  “I know! Sal slapped her hard and Beatriz went down. Johnny was livid but what was he gonna do? He’s a fucking wimp. He insisted he would’ve shown up on his own. He was pissed at Sal for not trusting him and for smacking her.”

  Joe stood speechless. What could he say?

  “I suppose it’s possible Sal was just paranoid,” Nate said. “Maybe there was no problem.”

  Joe threw his arms up. “Of course, there’s a problem! That’s why Sal didn’t trust Johnny.”

  “We took Johnny home so he could pack a bag. We already had his gear. The drive here was awful,” Nate said, peering over Joe’s shoulder again to see Sal on stage. Sal was looking over the crowd wondering where his bandmates were. “Johnny broke Sal’s balls. He called him a mother hen. That was the nicest thing said. Sal lost his cool and called Johnny a junkie loser.”

  “Jesus Christ. It never should have come to this.”

  “Sal told Johnny he was throwing your hard work away that you looked up to him and he was letting you down.” Nate paused. “After that, Johnny went quiet. Then he said, ‘You two can go fuck yourselves but I don’t want to let Joe down.’ They haven’t spoken since.”

  Leaning against a subway car, head down, Nate had a look of genuine regret. “I’m sorry. I really am. I should’ve listened to you. I got caught in the middle and you know Sal.”

  Joe said nothing for a moment. Nate stared at him, waiting for words. Finally, Joe spoke. “You realize this is the end, right? I’m done playing with Johnny. He’s a fucking mess.”

  “I know, Joe. And Sal knows. That’s why he’s been trying to…”

  “Fuck, Sal,” Joe cut him off. “Don’t tell him I know of this.”

  “I won’t,” Nate said. “I hope Johnny makes it through the week.”

  “The week? I hope we make it through the night. I’m canceling the Jersey dates.”

  When Sal saw Nate and Joe walking from the far end of the warehouse after he noticed them missing for several minutes he knew Nate had ratted. He didn’t say a word because Sal knew he was wrong and didn’t want a scene.

  Joe stepped on stage. “Where’s Johnny?”

  “He was just here,” Sal said, “like two minutes ago.”

  “Fuck.” Joe jumped off the stage and went out a side door the smokers use. He stepped outside and walked around the massive warehouse. It took a while in the cold which only irritated Joe further. When he returned Johnny was on stage. Nate waved Joe over.

  “He smells like shit. I think he was getting high?”

  “Ya think?”

  The band opened with Johnny’s guitar out of tune. He struggled to make adjustments, trashing the first two songs. It was embarrassing. Confused punks looked on some were laughing. Joe looked down at his feet trying to get through the set hoping to avoid a public meltdown.

  When Johnny H missed his cues, Joe shot Sal a look of disgust. He butchered leads, and stumbled on his feet. Joe began questioning whether he could finish the gig. There was no hiding Johnny H with a sideshow and Joe was in no mood for his own theatrics. He just plowed through one crap song after another. Late in a brutal first set, humiliated, he walked over to Sal and held his hand over his mic.

  “Look at him. Did you do Johnny any favors by keeping his secrets and pretending everything was okay?”

  Sal said nothing.

  Joe walked back to his mic and launched the band into two of his original songs to close the set. In the past when Johnny sucked most patrons probably didn’t have the ear to know he was off. On this night it was obvious to all that Johnny was drunk, high, or both. He stumbled badly on a lead during the final song and stumbled on his feet.

  When he strummed his last chord Joe stepped off stage and went straight to the bar to find Eddie Bags.

  “I’m sorry. Our junkie guitarist is fucked up. I’m not going back up there, Eddie. This is a fucking disaster. You can keep our money. We didn’t earn it.”

  Bags sighed. “Okay kid but you gotta get up there and tell my people. I’m not facing an angry mob.”

  Joe walked back to the stage. He looked over the scattered crowd in the cavernous room. He saw Sal talking to a couple of hot girls in line for the ladies' room. Nate was at the bar getting a beer. He assumed Johnny was outdoors doing his thing.

  “Hey, can I have your attention?” Everyone turned towards the stage. “You may have noticed our guitarist is wasted. He’s probably outside making matters worse. This show is over. I’m sorry.”

  A cascade of jeers and boos rained down on him. Every insult you can imagine was thrown his way, including cups and beer cans. The mob became agitated. Sal looked on in shock. Joe stood tall, trying to not wilt under the barrage. His band had melted down. Joe would not. He took the heat. The jeers went on for maybe twenty seconds but it felt much longer.

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  “I’m sorry. I hope someday I can make it up to you.”

  Sal ducked into the men’s room. Joe jumped off the stage and followed. In the crowded lavatory, he confronted Sal. Sal got defensive. It quickly devolved into a pointless shouting match witnessed by many punks.

  “Not only am I done with Johnny. I’m done with you, Sal. You can’t be trusted. Go fuck yourself.”

  Joe stormed back to the bar where he located T and Simon. They were stunned.

  “Johnny spent the last two weeks with his junkie girlfriend and Sal had to drag him out of her house to make it here.” Joe pointed at the stage. “You saw it for yourself, right? He’s useless and I’m done.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Tina said, putting her arms around him. “It’s not your fault.”

  “I should have stood my ground months ago. It’s my fault it went this far. I’m dropping a dime on those junkie mother fuckers.”

  “The Bronx house?” Tina asked. “Do you think it’s the couple from my building?”

  “I don’t know.”

  As the band broke down the stage in angry silence, Johnny walked in from outdoors, oblivious to what was happening. He looked at Joe, and then Sal.

  Sal walked over and broke the news. “Joe called off the rest of the gig and he quit the band.”

  Johnny looked back at Joe who was standing with his amp in one hand and guitar in the other. Joe saw his sadness under the fog of heroin. At least Johnny was clear-headed enough to know it was over. No words were spoken. Joe handed his gear down to Tina and Simon and then looked back at the guys.

  “I didn’t quit the band, Sal. I started this band. It’s my band. I kicked you and Johnny out of my fucking band.”

  Joe was on a manic rush for the drive back to The Village. He talked fast, first expressing his anger over what Sal did and then Johnny. “I’m worried about Johnny. We need to disconnect him from those scumbags and get him home.”

  “How do you plan on doing that?”

  “Hopefully, Sal has the good sense to drive home tonight.”

  —- MISSING IN ACTION —-

  The following afternoon, the phone in 3C rang. Sal did not have the good sense to drive home. They got a room at The Chelsea and Johnny disappeared. Sal and Nate had been waiting all day for him to return.

  “What is it you want me to do, Sal?”

  “I don’t know where he is. Can you help us find him?”

  Joe said nothing for an uncomfortably long moment. “I’ll be out front in twenty minutes. Come pick me up.”

  When Sal picked Joe up on Jones Street, he barked at him in an agitated tone. “Where the fuck are we gonna start looking?”

  “Jump on the FDR north and get us to Yankee Stadium.”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “Quit bitching, asshole. You asked for my help. Just fucking drive. I’ll tell you where to go… like I always do.”

  On the way Joe told Nate and Sal the tale of him tailing Johnny to his flophouse. They found an empty parking spot a few doors from the apartment.

  Sal was still annoyed. “What the fuck do we do now?”

  “Let’s drag him out of there,” Nate said.

  “If Doug is in that basement he has a gun,” Joe said flatly.

  “So we’re just gonna wait here to see if Johnny comes out?” Sal said.

  “I fucking got you here,” Joe barked. “Do I have to decide everything? What’s your plan, Sal?”

  Sal stared at him, fuming. After an agonizing eighty minutes, with Sal bitching and Joe not speaking. Johnny emerged from under the stoop. They jumped out and ran at him. The shock on his face would have been funny under better circumstances.

  Sal reached him first. “Johnny, C’mon, we’re going home. You’re coming with us.”

  Johnny’s tone was anger dulled by heroin. “I’m not going anywhere. How the fuck did you find me?”

  Sal grabbed Johnny’s collar. “Let’s go, get in the van.”

  Johnny H pushed Sal’s hand away. “Fuck off!”

  Sal grabbed his collar again and pulled him close. “You’re coming with us.”

  Johnny spit in Sal’s face.

  The next several seconds seemed to happen in slow motion. His nasty mucus missile landed on Sal’s nose, across his lips, and on his chin, and spray splattered his face. Nate and Joe shared a glance. Joe thought Sal was going to pound Johnny. The fire was in his eyes. Sal glared angrily into Johnny’s cold, emotionless gaze. Sal’s rage gradually faded into a sadness Joe had never seen in him.

  “I quit your fucking band,” Johnny said as he pushed through Sal with a hard shoulder. “Fuck off.”

  Johnny H never looked back. Sal stood there with saliva drooling down his face. He pulled his shirt up to wipe it off. “What the fuck am I gonna tell his old man?”

  “For once,” Joe said calmly, “you tell Bats the truth. Give him Tina’s phone number. If he wants to collect his son I can help.”

  Sal didn’t like that plan. “He’s gonna lose his shit. Have you ever seen Bats angry?”

  “Nope, and I don’t plan on it either. You’ll face the music. You should have called Bats months ago.” He pointed at Sal. “It never should have gone this far.”

  Sal stared back, expressionless.

  Joe turned to walk away. “That’s the best we can do. Go home. I’ll take the subway back to the Village.”

  Nate stopped him. “Hey, Joe. Good thinking following Johnny here.”

  “Yeah, well, somebody has to think.”

  —- KICKING AND SCREAMING —-

  Joe had no clue and no interest in what drama unfolded in Providence. As far as he was concerned everyone let Johnny down, even his Dad, as well as Pops, and himself. Joe felt responsible for how it all began, the summer in the city.

  Johnny Bats was furious with Sal for dragging his son to New York in the condition he was in. He was especially angry that Sal had left him behind. When he finally calmed down, John Senior phoned Joe.

  “Mr. Bucci, I’m really sorry about Johnny. We tried to get him home. I know where he is. If you want to come get him. I can help.”

  “Okay kid, I need to put a crew together.”

  “It was ugly. He spit in Sal’s face. He needs help.”

  “I understand. We’ve done this before. I’ll call back tomorrow.”

  Two days later, Johnny Bats and a pair of his ‘associates’ showed up at Tommy’s. They sat at the bar for twenty minutes talking over a drink. He met Tommy and a few punks. Italian goons from Providence stared silently at New York punks, not unlike Joe’s first visit to the bar. When Bats and his crew were talking alone, Tommy leaned into Joe and the punks.

  “If I was casting a mob movie those guys would be in it.”

  Joe, Bats, and his two-man crew piled into Senior’s brand-new Cadillac and drove to his son’s flophouse in The Bronx. Joe was on another stakeout. John Senior was impatient, as bad as Sal but quieter. Joe concocted a plan.

  “What if I knock on the door and get Johnny outside? If you guys stand on the stoop above the door, he’ll never see you.”

  Bats nodded. “Great idea.” He looked at his goons in the back seat. “You two grab my kid. I’ll pull the car up when you have hands on him.”

  Joe banged on the door and called Johnny’s name. He pounded a second time and a third. The same druggie chick from 1B answered. The Italians were directly above her looking down on them.

  “I must speak with Johnny. It’s very important.”

  She said nothing. She turned and walked inside. A minute later, Johnny came out wearing his leather. He pointed down the street. “I have to grab some smokes. Let’s walk.”

  The big Italians were on him before he knew what was happening. Bats had the car double parked in a flash. They dragged Johnny to the back of the Cadillac, his legs kicking. Bats held the trunk open. Joe cringed at the thud of Johnny landing hard inside the trunk, and the lid slamming shut. It was a real-life mob scene. They hurriedly climbed back in the car and sped off as onlookers gawked. Johnny kicked and screamed in the trunk. Joe gave Bats directions.

  “Take a left turn at the stop sign a few blocks down you can drop me off. I’ll catch the train back to my girl’s place. You can take Jerome Avenue north to the highway.”

  “Okay, kid.”

  “Why did you throw him in the trunk?”

  “So I can’t punch his face when he runs his mouth.”

  “How long will he be in there?”

  “Until we get out of the city.”

  Johnny was still banging around inside the trunk.

  A goon laughed. “By then he’ll be so exhausted there’ll be no fight left in him.”

  “Hey,” the other goon pointed. “Is that Yankee Stadium?”

  “Yes,” Joe answered.

  Bats pulled to the curb. “Thanks, kid. I’ll take it from here.” He shook Joe’s hand. “You’re a good man. I know you tried to do the right thing.”

  “Can you let us know how he’s doing?”

  “Will do. Ya know, I was hoping to meet that doll of yours. Johnny speaks well of her.”

  “Maybe someday.”

  On the subway back to The Village, Joe was overcome with emotions. He fought back tears. He worried about Johnny. He thought about him kicking and screaming in the trunk of a Cadillac. Joe felt sadness for how far his friend had fallen, from Johnny Cool to Johnny H.

  Everything Joe had worked for was gone. He was back to square one. As he walked through the West Village to Jones Street, he made a resolution, not a bullshit New Year's promise he'll break before February - a resolution for life.

  'I will never let drugs destroy what I've built... never again.'

  —-- THE YOUNG PUNKS ARE DEAD —-

  Joe sat in bed pondering his future. His back was against the headboard. Tina emerged from the bathroom. She flopped on the bed beside him and kissed his cheek.

  “Do you feel better?” She looked into his eyes.

  “Yes, but not even your Olympic Gold Medal blow jobs can solve my problems.”

  “Did your problems go away while I was taking care of you?”

  “Of course,” Joe laughed. “I was not thinking of Johnny and Sal when my dick was in your throat.”

  Tina smiled. “That’s good to know.” She cuddled up against him. “What are you thinking?”

  “The same thing I was thinking on the way over here. Johnny is history. I will never play in a band with a junkie. Sal cannot be trusted and Nate doesn’t have the balls to do the right thing.”

  “So the band is done?”

  “The Young Punks are dead. Sal can go fuck himself.”

  “You can still keep the name,” Tina noted. “You created the sideshow, Joe. You can take that wherever you go. It’s your show.”

  “I’m not starting a new band and using the same name. It would be dumb. I know Simon could work the carnival but I don’t know who else will be in the next band. You need the right personalities to do a stage show.”

  “You do most of the heavy lifting.”

  “Yes, but the other guys must be willing to play a role. You need to improvise on stage and not everyone has that talent.”

  “But you do.”

  “I don’t think I’m being cocky saying I can think on my feet and make the most out of weird situations.”

  Tina laughed. “You’re the one who makes it weird.”

  Joe went quiet. Tina’s head rested on his chest. She traced circles on his tummy wanting to ask questions but not wanting to pressure Joe. He had enough on his mind. She cunningly devised an angle to get there without asking.

  “So, I guess that’s the end of your Sons of Providence name too. If you and Simon start a new band you’ll probably find a new bass and drummer here, right? You’ll be the only Rhode Island guy left.”

  “Yeah. I guess we’ll be a New York band.” He fell into her trap.

  “And Marty is here,” she added. “You want to record with him, right?”

  “And you’re here,” Joe went exactly where she wanted him to go. “I dread telling my sisters I’m moving to New York. Jackie predicted it and she’s going to lose her mind. I can see the girls crying. It’s going to suck.”

  Tina smiled but Joe couldn’t see it. “So you're moving here for good?” Her heart did tiny cartwheels.

  “It would make no sense to live in Providence with a New York band. I’ll be riding the rails to see them, a lot. You’ve been warned.”

  “I understand,” she squeezed him. “I’m excited that you’ll be living with me.”

  “Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to give up some closet space. I have a lot of shit back home: clothes, records, books, guitars and amps. We might need a bigger boat.”

  .

  —-- TEARS AND PROMISES —-

  On the train ride to Rhode Island Joe had one thing on his mind, how to tell his sisters he was leaving home. The train was his angle. Amtrak made the distance easy to manage. He’d been doing it since last summer.

  He was also thinking about Pops. He wanted to speak with the old man but he was not feeling charitable enough to visit the garage. Pops facilitated a shit deal that Joe felt pressure to accept even though he knew in his bones it would blow up in his face. Sal wasn’t the only Mancuso with his fingerprints on this fucked up end of his band. Pops played a major role.

  Joe didn’t tell anyone he was coming home. He took the ten bus from Kennedy Plaza. Passing under the Holy Hand Grenade he stared out the window at the Italian Strip. He got off the bus near The Church of The Holy Ghost and walked with his black leather pack and duffle bag. He couldn’t walk in and announce the band was done and he was moving to New York. That would be a shitty thing to do and he could imagine it going terribly wrong.

  Joe had very few cards to play and he had to play them perfectly.

  He walked into the kitchen to find Jeanie at the kitchen table and Jules with her head in the refrigerator. Jeanie looked up and smiled.

  “Joey.”

  Jules pulled her head out of the fridge. “Hey. You didn’t say you were coming home.”

  “Am I not allowed to surprise you?” He hugged Jeanie.

  “But you said you had gigs in New Jersey and…”

  “My band schedule has changed. I have some unexpected time off.”

  “Cool,” Jeanie smiled. “Can we go to the record shop?”

  “I’m counting on it,” Joe said. “I’m still looking for the new Damned record. Where’s Jackie?”

  “She’s doing some church thing with Mom,” Jules said.

  “I’m worried about her,” Joe muttered.

  “Why?” Jeanie asked.

  “She’s becoming too churchy like Mom. Sister Superior.”

  “She’s not that bad,” Jules laughed.

  “Yeah, well, she’s still in training. It gets worse the older they get. Look at Memere. She’s worse than Mom. Jackie is from a long line of neurotic Catholic women.”

  “What about us?” Jeanie said.

  “You haven’t displayed the symptoms yet. Why aren’t you at church with Jackie and Mom?”

  “Because church is boring,” Jeanie said.

  “And those ladies that Mom volunteers with are mean,” Jules added.

  “Ya see,” Joe smiled. “There’s still hope for you. Jackie is a lost cause.”

  The kitchen door opened on the word hope. Jackie walked in to hear Joe’s last sentence. The look on her face was priceless. Jules and Jeanie were delighted, big smiles. Joe just exhaled and went into spin control.

  “What do you mean I’m a lost cause?”

  “Where did you just come from?”

  “Church.”

  “You’re in high school hanging out with the old ladies.”

  Mom walked in as Joe said that line. “What are you doing here?”

  “Causing trouble,” Jackie said.

  “I’m just saying that you’re one of them now. You’re an old Catholic lady in training. Look at them, Jackie. That’s you in thirty years.”

  “Why are you home?” Jackie asked. “I thought you were going to Pennsylvania.”

  Joe decided that was his opening and now that all the women were in the room he could start his campaign. “Have a seat. You too, Mom. I have some news.”

  Mom’s face went from confusion that Joe was home unexpectedly to concern in a millisecond. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. I’m fine. Sit down.”

  Five of six kitchen chairs were taken.

  “Why do I always get the gimp?” Joe's chair wobbled on three legs.

  “What happened,” Jackie said as her butt hit a chair across from Joe.

  “That band is dead. Johnny is on drugs and I can never play with him again. I can’t trust Sal. I quit the band.”

  Joe was grateful no one reacted quickly. He needed them to think this through and do the math on their own. His girlfriend lives in New York. His band is done. They should figure out what’s next.

  “Is Johnny okay?” Jules asked. “Did he overdose?”

  “No,” Joe put his hand on Jules’ hand. “He’s in rehab in Massachusetts. He didn’t O.D. but he’s pretty messed up.” He was glad Jules asked about Johnny.

  “What’s he on?” Mom asked.

  Jackie knew but she wasn’t taking that question.

  “Heroin,” Joe said flatly.

  “Have you ever…”

  “Ma! No!” Joe cut her off. “I have never and I never will. I just said I can’t be in a band with him. I want nothing to do with addicts.”

  Mom nodded. “Okay. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. I get it. I’ve seen some bad stuff, Ma. I’m not gonna lie. Watching Johnny go down the drain was hard. I’ll never do it again.”

  “What are you going to do without the band?” Jackie asked.

  Joe needed that question to give them another clue. “I’ll start a new band with Simon.” He then watched their eyes knowing the wheels were turning in their female brains.

  “In New York?” Jackie won the cookie.

  “That’s where we’ll be looking for musicians.”

  “Are you moving to New York?” Jules did the math too.

  “Well, I’ll be on the train a lot, back and forth, like I have been.”

  “But you’ll be living in New York?” Jeanie said, her voice cracking.

  “I’ll be doing what I’ve been doing, back and forth.”

  “I knew it,” Jackie said. “Before you left for New York I said it and then again after you met Tina. I knew you would never come back.”

  Jeanie flung her arms around Joe and sobbed. Jules was fighting back tears and slowly losing her battle.

  “I’m here now,” he said to Jackie. “I always come back. I’m sorry it’s not as much as you like but I will always come home. Because this is where you are.”

  “I knew it too,” Mom said.

  Jules joined Jeanie in hugging Joe, a sister on each side. Jackie and Mom just stared at him, disappointed. This played out exactly as he figured it would. He didn’t have to spring the bad news on them. He played his cards perfectly. The slow realization is softer but the tears still come.

  “Can’t you just be honest with us?” Jackie finally said. “Just say you’re moving to New York to live with Tina.”

  “I will be living with Tina and I promise I will be riding the rail to get home as often as I can. I’m sorry this happened suddenly.”

  “It didn’t, Joe. It took six months.”

  And that was that. The bad news was delivered. The tears would fade. Joe talked with each sister during his visit making assurances and promises.

  “I’m not the only one who can take the train. You can come to New York and visit Tina and I.”

  That was a good angle as all three sisters liked the sound of that. He took Jules and Jeanie on an East Side record shop and bookstore day and had pastrami sandwiches at The Waterman Deli in Wayland Square.

  “If you think this is good,” he pointed at the pile of meat. “Wait till you visit us in New York. They stack it almost an inch higher than this.”

  Three days into his visit he felt they had accepted his future as a New Yorker. Joe shuddered at the thought of it. Him a New Yorker? Fuck no. He’ll always be a son of Providence.

  —- THE END —-

  Except it’s not the end. It’s not even close to the end. This is just the end of the Providence chapters of All The Young Punks. After 28 chapters I still don't know if anyone is reading this. I didn't want to quit Royal Road in the middle of the book so I dragged this story to the end of book one. The lack of reader engagement and no evidence anyone is following this story leads me to believe there is no room for my punk writing on Royal Road.