Be Still And Know That I Am

By Julian Gallo

September 1982.  In a working class neighborhood in Queens, New York, sixteen year old Nico Razza is a perpetual outcast, often victim to the taunts of his classmates, peers and neighborhood bullies.  Steeped in Punk Rock culture, he is not only rebelling against society, authority and his peers, but also his recently widowed father, who struggles to keep his family together at the dawn of the Reagan era.  

 

Angst ridden Punk Rockers, Van Halen T-shirt wearing Camaro driving bullies and their brain dead foot soldiers, Lower East Side squatters, Alphabet City junkies, Hardcore bands and the infamous A7 club, Reagan’s promise of “Morning in America” and those left behind who still wanted to believe it, working class angst, High School confidential - when these worlds collide over the course of the next ten days, the lives of everyone involved will be changed forever.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beat Corrida
• Release date: Sep 24, 2011
• ISBN: 9781507054727

Julian Gallo

Julian Gallo lives and works in New York City. His poetry has appeared in over 40 journals throughout the Unites States, Canada and Europe. He is the author of 9 poetry books, "Standing on Lorimer Street Awaiting Crucifixion" (Alpha Beat Press 1996), "The Terror of Your Cunt is the Beauty of Your Face" (Black Spring Press 1999), "Street Gospel Mystical Intellectual Survival Codes" (Budget Press 2000), "Scrape That Violin More Darkly Then Hover Like Smoke in the Air" (Black Spring Press 2001), "Existential Labyrinths" (Black Spring Press 2003), "My Arrival is Marked by Illuminating Stains" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Window Shopping For a New Crown of Thorns" (Beat Corrida, 2007), "A Symphony of Olives" (Propaganda Press 2009) and "Divertimiento" (Propaganda Press 2009). He is also the author of 6 novels, "November Rust (Beat Corrida, 2007), "Naderia" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Be Still and Know That I Am" (Beat Corrida, 2011), "Mediterraneo" (Beat Corrida, 2012), "Europa" (Beat Corrida, 2013), the short story collection "Rapid Eye Movements" (Beat Corrida 2014) and "Rhombus Denied" (Beat Corrida, 2015)

Book preview

beat Corrida

New York

2011

"Be still and know that I am God: I will be exalted

among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth"

Psalms 46:10

September 1982

Queens, New York

Friday

1

Nico Razza walked with his head down, hands in his pockets, his school books wedged tight under his arm.  It was the end of his first week of high school and he was already having a hard time.  He thought about how this year, just like last year and the year before that, was going to be extremely difficult for him.  It was always the same story.  The Crowd, as he always referred to them, were going to be just as moronic as ever.  Only this year may be worse.  He already started hearing the names: Weirdo, Freak, Psycho, plus a new one added to the canon, one in which he had never heard before, courtesy of the neighborhood asshole Tommy Douchebag: Freak-O.  Very good, he thought.  How original.  It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been expecting it but this year it seemed to start the moment he stepped into his new Homeroom class.

All he wanted to do was to go home, toss his books aside, lie down and listen to some Black Flag.  He needed something to release all his pent up rage and a good, loud, raucous punk rock record ought to do the trick.  He never felt so angry.  If he could have punched those who were abusing him in the face he would have but he knew he couldn’t take any of them.  At five feet seven, one hundred forty pounds, there was no way in hell he would ever take on Tommy Douchebag and his boys.  He had to eat shit for the time being.  It wasn’t anything he hadn’t been used to.  He had been eating shit most of his young life. 

He looked down the service road to see if the bus was coming.  He had already missed the last two.  The first one was way too crowded.  He let the second one go because some of those who had picked on him all week were sitting in the back hassling some other kids.  It was better to walk. 

He thought he could see another bus in the distance, its blue frame peeking through the ripples rising from the asphalt.  He ran towards the next bus stop.  The bus came to a stop and the doors opened.  The bus driver immediately gave him a dirty look.  He ignored it, as he usually did, and tossed the coins into the fare box. 

Everyone on the bus stared at him. 

He allowed his eyes to roam over each passenger, most of whom were Catholic school kids in their uniforms who were just as rambunctious and idiotic as any of the public school kids.  He could almost hear what they were thinking.  Who is this freak?  Why does he dress like that?  How does his mother allow him to walk around with his hair looking like that?  How does he get it to stand up like that - and what’s with those boots?  What is he in the army or something?

He had become quite accustomed to the stares, the snickers, the teasing, the little quips.  It only made him more determined to give them what they wanted.  They wanted a freak show?  Okay, let’s give them a freak show. 

He pulled a large magic marker from his back pocket.  He popped off the cap and hopped up on one of the empty seats, reached towards one of the ads and began to write. 

It caused quite a commotion with the tie and blazer wearing Catholic school kids who couldn’t believe he would simply deface public property in full view of everyone.  Nico smiled as he listened to them yelling and carrying on.  When he was done, he jumped down and with a mischievous grin admired his handiwork. 

A N A R C H Y !  

What the hell you doing, you little bastard! the bus driver said.

The bus driver took hold of Nico’s collar and dragged him down the aisle. 

I ought to kick you right in the ass, you little punk, he spat, then tossed him off the bus head first. 

Nico landed face down on the asphalt, his school books sliding away from him toward the curb, the marker still tight in his fist. 

As the bus pulled away, the Catholic school kids began rushing towards the windows, laughing at him, giving him the finger. 

He got up off the ground, returned the middle finger and screamed a litany of curses at them before the bus disappeared from view. 

He wiped the dirt off his jeans, put the marker back in his pocket and picked up his books. 

He resumed walking, head down, hands stuffed into his pockets, his books wedged under his arm.

2

The house was a modest one, a simple two story affair with a patch of dirt in front that had once been a lawn.  The former lawn was strewn with items that no longer fit in the garage. A rusty lawn chair, a couple of spare tires, a number of grey cinderblocks, a broken bicycle, and various car parts which had long since lost their usefulness. 

Nico opened the front gate, walked the cracked, weed infested strip of concrete that lead to his front door.  The outer door had lost its screen a long time ago and it barely closed correctly anymore.  He often wondered why they even left it there. He pulled it open, listening to it creak on its hinges, put his key in the main door and stepped inside. 

The house was a mess as usual. He called out for his father but no one had answered. Then he remembered not seeing the beat up old brown Buick Skylark in the driveway. 

He went straight to his room, not even bothering to see if his sister Giovanna was home as he usually did. He wanted to be left alone.  He slammed the door shut, threw his books down on the floor and immediately walked over to his stereo.  He plucked Black Flag’s Damaged from the collection and put it on, flopped on the bed.  He closed his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the music. 

We are tired of your abuse!  Try to stop us!  It’s no use!

He felt all the rage within him slowly melting away. He began to fall asleep but was startled by a loud knock on the door. 

Dad can’t be home, could he? 

He jumped up and lowered the volume on the stereo.  He had been told a thousand times not to blare that shit in his room at top volume.  He walked over to the door and opened it.  It was Giovanna. 

What? Nico asked, displeased with the interruption.

I didn’t hear you come in, Giovanna said, pushing her glasses back up her nose with her finger.  I didn’t know you were home until I heard your records.

What do you want?  I want to take a nap.

You don’t want to hang out with me today?  I wanted to talk to you about school.

We’ll talk later.  I want to take a nap.

He closed the door in her face, went back to bed, leaving the volume of the stereo low.  He closed his eyes, tried to resume sleep. 

He lied there, staring at the numerous photocopied flyers from all the shows he had been to taped collage-like to his wall.  He didn’t know why he kept them.  They were mementos, something to remember a time and place where he could go and not be the target of abuse.  Those who went to these shows were just like he was.  A secret little tribe that hung together and supported one another. 

Thirsty and miserable, always wanting more.

He got up from the bed and went over to his book case.  Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell.  He always loved this book.  He must have read it a four times already.  There was something about the protagonist he could relate to.  An outsider. 

He read only a few pages before he felt sleep creep up on him again.  Before long, the book fell open face down on his chest and he was fast asleep.  

3

The needle hadn’t ejected from the record and it kept bouncing back and forth from the last groove to the label.  It woke him up.  Dazed, he looked at the alarm clock on the night table.  He had only slept for a little over an hour.  He stood by the stereo, watching the light blue label spinning around and around, trying to keep is eye focused on the Unicorn logo, seeing if he could follow it around with this eyes without losing sight of it.  After managing that a couple of times, he decided to give up, take the record off the turntable and gently place it back in the cover.  What else was there to listen to?  He chose How Could Hell Be Any Worse? from Bad Religion, put it on the turntable. 

Early man walked away as modern man took control....

There was a knock on his door.  It was Giovanna again.

He stared at her looking up at him through her thick, plastic framed glasses.  He didn’t get annoyed this time.  Even though his little sister was often a royal pain in his ass, he adored her.  After all, they really only had one another and they had to look out for one another.  They each knew they were in a unique situation around the neighborhood.  Everyone else from a broken home lived with their mothers.  They were the only kids who lived with their father. 

What is it? Nico asked. 

Do you know where daddy is? Giovanna asked. 

He’s probably working, why?

No reason.  He’s usually home by now.

Nico looked at his clock again.  Maybe he had to work some overtime.

Giovanna looked down at her feet. 

What’s the matter?

I need help with my homework and daddy often helps me.

Nico sighed, looked up at the ceiling.  A spider web was beginning to form in the corner near where the paint had long ago peeled away from the surface. 

What is it on?  Your homework?

Social Studies.

And Daddy was going to help you? 

What are you learning about?

We’re learning about the Soviet Union.

Really?  They’re teaching that now in your school?

Giovanna nodded.  She had no understanding at all.  What was the Soviet Union?  Wasn’t that Russia?  What did she care about the Soviet Union?  All she cared about were her glitter stickers, the latest Tiger Beat magazine and Rick Springfield. 

Do you have the books with you? Nico asked.

Giovanna nodded again, looking up at him with her dark brown eyes which looked three times their size through the lenses of her glasses. 

Go on, Nico said with a sigh.  Bring your books.  I’ll help you.

Giovanna broke into a smile then trotted off to her room, her pigtails bouncing as she ran. 

Nico let out a sigh and patted his pockets for a cigarette, then stopped himself.  He didn’t like to smoke in front of his little sister.  She knew Daddy didn’t want him to smoke either, never mind the fact that Daddy puffs away at nearly two packs of Marlboros a day while sucking back his Rheingolds in front of the television every night.

We gotta be damned to be free...

He glanced at the record player and turned it off.  If he was going to help her, he didn’t want the music to distract her.  As he waited for her to return to his room, he thought about his mother. 

He missed her so much.

4 

Gaetano Razza sat at the bar smoking through his Marlboro listening to his coworkers argue over whether the Jets or the Giants were going to make the Superbowl.  Both teams weren’t even going to come close, he thought, yet these two assholes were arguing over it like they were going to pass some sort of legislation in congress over it.  He looked over at Dennis and his inseparable cohort Peter.  He didn’t really care for them but he had to work with them and it was Peter who got him his job so he had to put up with them.  He did his best to maintain some level of civility. 

Guy!  Guy! yelled Dennis from the other side of the bar.  This dick thinks the Giants have a chance this year.  Not with that offense, I told him.  He’s fucking pipe dreaming.

He don’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, Peter said.  What the hell does he know about sports anyway?

What the hell do either you morons know about anything other than fitting pipe? Gaetano thought. 

I don’t know, Gaetano said.  I don’t really follow football all that much.  I couldn't care less.  He took another sip of his Rheingold. 

Yeah, that’s right.  You’re a baseball fan, Dennis said.  That’s a sport for fucking homos, right Peter?  Football is a man’s sport! 

Dennis walked over to him.  Gaetano didn’t bother to look up.  He just wanted to finish his beer, smoke his Marlboro in peace and go home.  He had to start dinner for the kids.  Why couldn’t that lazy son of mine learn to cook something for a change?  It would be great to come home to a cooked meal for once.  He hadn’t had one since Concetta passed on. 

Guy, what’s with you?  Why are you so quiet today?

Gaetano looked at Dennis’s reflection in the bar mirror.  He stood there with his dirty white T-shirt, spackle splattered jeans, and his cigarette between his two sausage fingers.  His gut hung out the bottom of the T-shirt.  Either his T-shirt was too small or he was getting too fucking fat, he couldn’t tell which.  Dennis’s blonde mustache was stained brown just under his nose from all the years of blowing smoke through it, and his light brown hair was thinning at the top, starting to show more skin with each passing day.  His crystal blue eyes seemed to sparkle in the lights of the bar.  They always made him look like he was on something. 

No reason, Gaetano said.  Just a little tired.  It was a rough day today.

You’re telling me, Dennis said, taking the stool next to him, and we still got a lot to do on Monday.  It’s a big job but thank God for it.

Hear hear, said Peter. 

Peter could have been Dennis’s twin, Gaetano thought, except that Peter was much smaller in stature and not nearly as fat.  He had a bit of a beer gut but didn’t they all at their age?  He wore a mustache as well, only his was more the Fu Manchu type, running from under his nose down to the sides of his mouth.  It was always uneven.  One side was always thicker than the other.  He even dressed like Dennis, right down to the same brand of construction boots.   

I’m grateful for this job, Peter continued.  I’d be so fucked without it.  I got alimony to pay and everything is getting so expensive lately.  That and the fact that the unemployment rate is through the roof, any job I can take, I’m grateful for, regardless what it is.  I’d even haul shit if I had to, especially in this economy.  Thank God for Reagan, that’s all I have to say.  He’s going to straighten shit out, you’ll see.  The Russians?  He’s got them shaking in their boots.  You watch, everything is going to turn around under this guy.  You wait and see.

Yeah, I like Reagan too, Dennis said.  He seems like one of us, you know?

Gaetano didn’t say anything.  He could give a shit about Reagan or just about anyone else.  He didn’t like politics or politicians.  All he cared about was being able to work, being able to provide for his kids and not having to deal with assholes like Dennis and Peter. 

Did you vote for Reagan? Dennis asked.

I didn’t even vote, Gaetano said.  Fuck all those guys.  They don’t give a shit about any of us.

You didn’t vote? Peter said.  That’s why things never change, you know.

Gaetano nodded, didn’t say anything.  Talking politics with these two was akin to trying to talk about physics with the quarterback of the Jets.  He drained the rest of his beer, squashed his cigarette out in the little black plastic ashtray. 

Got to go, fellas, he said getting up from his stool. 

Already? Dennis said.  It’s Friday!  What’s the rush?

Yeah, it’s Friday! said his parrot. 

I got to get home to the kids.  I got to make dinner.  I got responsibilities, unlike you guys.  You guys don’t have any kids.

So?  What does that mean?  They’re old enough to take care of themselves now, right?  How old’s your boy now, fifteen?  He’s a big boy.

My daughter is thirteen.  She’s the baby.  Besides, I promised I’d help her with her homework tonight when I got home.  Is there a problem with that?

Dennis looked at Peter, shrugged. 

No, there’s no problem with that.  Hey, don’t get defensive, all I was saying...

No offense taken, guys, Gaetano said, but I just have to go.  See you Monday.

He walked out of the bar towards his beat up Buick Skylark parked a little ways up the street.  He walked past a couple of closed up storefronts, an empty lot with broken glass strewn all over the place and a small group of kids sitting on a Camaro blasting rock music.  The leader of the pack was a zit face with long feathered hair, a mustache and a crucifix dangling from his ear.  He sat with both his hands on his thighs, his elbows turned out, holding court over his friends who looked up at him as if he were the messiah.  He could feel their eyes follow him as he walked by but he didn’t give a shit.  What were those little punks going to do? 

He drove off home, taking the local roads.  He didn’t want to chance the expressway, especially since he had just been drinking.

5

You know who that was? Tommy Quinn said.  That was that little freak’s father.

What little freak? asked Scott McNally. 

That freak with the hair! Tommy said.  You know?  From school?

Really?  That’s his father?  He seems like a normal guy.  How did he wind up with a son like that?

Tommy spit on the ground.  Who knows?  That kid’s always been a bit of a freak.  I know him from the neighborhood.  I went to Junior High with him too.  Always been a freak.  Never talks to anyone, keeps to himself.  He’s an asshole.

Didn’t his mother die? asked Heather Dutton.  Maybe that’s why he’s so weird.

What are you defending the little freak now? Tommy said.  Since when do you feel so sorry for the little faggot.

Tommy, that’s not nice.  It’s sad to lose your mother at such a young age.  What’s wrong with you?

Yeah, his mom was hot too, said Andy, another one of Tommy’s little crew.  She was a real piece of ass.

Andrew! Heather shouted.  What the hell is wrong with you?

"Don’t call me that.  It’s Andy!  I don’t like being called Andrew, all right?  How many times to I have to tell you?"

Take it easy, Tommy ordered them.  They immediately did so, obeying the master. 

Tommy spit again, tapped his pack of Marlboro Lights against his palm.  Whatever the case may be, that little fuck better watch his step this year.  Like I said, he’s always been a bit of a freak but now he seemed to have gone overboard.  That fucking hair, man.

Scott and Andy laughed.  Tommy’s quips were always hilarious, even when they weren’t.  Heather remained silent.  She was the only one of the crew that didn’t take Tommy’s shit. 

What do you guys want to do tonight? Heather asked, trying to change the subject. 

I don’t know, Tommy said.  Maybe go cruise Franny Loo?

Again?  Why don’t we do something else for once?

Like what?

Heather didn’t say anything.  She had no ideas. 

I’m down for Franny Loo, Scott said. 

Me too, echoed Andy.

All right, then Franny Loo it is, Tommy said, putting a cigarette between his lips. 

What time should I pick you up, Heather?

I don’t know, Tommy.  The usual time, I guess.

Okay.  Then we’ll get these dicks, he said, gesturing towards his friends. 

Just make sure you wait on the corner.

What’s with your dad anyway?  Why don’t he like me?

It’s not that he doesn’t like you, Tommy.  That’s the way he is with every guy I date.  Don’t take it personally.

Tommy didn’t say anything, spit on the ground again. 

All right, let’s get out of here.  See you all tonight.  Come on, Heather.  I’ll drive you home.

Scott and Andy walked off to their ride, a beat up, Frankenstein version of a Trans Am that Andy had hobbled together in his garage.  He had bought a broken down piece of shit from his cousin and worked on it day and night to get it into working condition.  He was good with cars.  He thought it was the coolest ride ever and he often drove up and down Francis Lewis Boulevard trying to show it off to the girls while blaring Mötley Crüe but everyone knew it was a piece of shit and laughed about it behind his back. 

Scott checked his reflection in the car window, fixed his hair with his fingers.  For as much as Scott wanted to be just like Tommy Quinn, there was no way in hell he would ever be.  Scott was fat, although he carried himself as if he were muscular.  His hair was a curly mess which he never combed out and was always out of control.  His hygiene was questionable at best and he often smelled like cabbage due to his mother’s cooking.  He was never able to get any of the girls around the neighborhood.  He didn’t have a car.  Without a ride, Scott was as desirable as a leper.  No girls ever looked his way.  That’s why he loved hanging around Tommy Quinn.  He got all the girls.  Whenever he was around, the girls were around.  Such was the pecking order of the neighborhood.  Some people were cool but they aren’t cool enough in some instances.  Their place in the chain had been decided and once it was decided, it was there you remained. 

Tommy gunned the engine, screeched out of his parking spot, looking in the rearview mirror to see if anyone had noticed.  Only his cohorts did, who stood a half block away by Andy’s Trans Am with two goofy looks on their faces.  Tommy Quinn had impressed them again. 

Heather wasn’t so impressed.  She sat quietly in the passenger seat, looking straight ahead listening to a much too loud version of Breaking The Law by Judas Priest.  Tommy not only loved to race his Camaro around the neighborhood but he loved to blast his music as well.  He had spent a lot of money getting his sound system hooked up on his baby.  It was the envy of every guy in the neighborhood.  Even the Older Guys, that amorphous tribe of elder statesman, now in their twenties and thirties, who still raced their cars up and down Francis Lewis Boulevard trying to impress the younger girls.  Many of these guys were married and had families of their own.  Some things never die and for some, youth is a hard thing to let go of. 

Tommy watched Heather chewing her gum, cracking it on the roof of her mouth with her tongue.  He had always wanted to get with Heather, the hottest girl in the neighborhood.  Every guy had tried for her but only very few succeeded.  He always knew that she liked him but she kept playing games with him.  Heather mostly dated guys a little older than herself.  Guys with the souped up cars and a little money; those who could parade her around the neighborhood and show her off to all their friends, most of them being dumber than a rock.  The only thing they had going for them was their wallets and their wheels.  Soon they would graduate high school and dump her for a college girl.  Sometimes she would dump them first, just after the Prom, so she wouldn’t have to be the one getting dumped.  She earned herself quite a reputation around the neighborhood for being one of those girls who was nearly impossible to obtain.  Tommy eventually succeeded. 

Heather always liked Tommy but she had to be sure things went according to her terms, not his.  She’s had him jumping through hoops, doting on her, kissing her ass, taking all sorts of abuse from her.  He had to hold on to her.  It meant life and death to his rep around the neighborhood.  If Tommy Quinn couldn’t control her, who would? 

Are you mad at me or something? Tommy asked, trying to sound tough but suppressing the extreme worry he was feeling.  He always worried that one wrong move, one wrong statement, would send her packing.  He was getting tired of it. 

She didn’t say anything. 

Tommy looked at her long blonde hair, styled in many waves and flips, the meticulous application of her make up, making her look at least eighteen, not the sixteen year old she was.  She had big blue eyes, a button nose and full red lips.  Two giant feather earrings dangled from her ears and her breasts were unusually well developed for her age, pushing against her Journey T-shirt to the bursting point.  Her jeans were tight, seemingly painted on, and they hugged her hips and her ass perfectly, showing off a figure that was very mature for a girl her age.  It’s no wonder why many of the older guys went mad over her, he thought.  She’s mine now.  Fuck them. 

What did I do now? Tommy asked, virtually pleading. 

I don’t like the way you pick on that kid, she said. You got to be kidding me, he said.  Why are you defending that freak?

Tommy... 

It was that look.  Always that God damned look. 

We’re just fucking with him, Heather, that’s all.  Just having a little fun.  We’re not going to hurt the little guy, if that’s what you’re worried about.

You better not, she said.  If you do, I swear it’s over between us.

Tommy became enraged.  It was yet another example of how she always tried to emasculate him. 

What’s with you?  Seriously.  Are you friends with him or something?

No, we hardly ever talk to one another.  He lives on my block.  I’ve known him since we were kids.  He’s a quiet kid and I feel sorry for him that his mother died so young.  He really changed after that, you know?  It’s horrible.  You should have seen him at the funeral.  He was beside himself.  I felt really bad for him.  I tried to imagine how I’d feel if that had happened to my mother.

Tommy didn’t say anything.  He honestly didn’t give a shit one way or the other what happened to Nico’s mom. 

Yes, it’s sad, I agree with you and I guess I can sort of see where you’re coming from.  That must be hard on the kid.

Heather didn’t say anything, looked him over, trying to judge his sincerity. 

Anyway, forget him.  I’m sorry, all right.  I promise, I won’t fuck with him, all right?

You better not, Tommy.  I’m serious.

Tommy never allowed anyone to give him an ultimatum.  Heather was the only human being on earth graced with this privilege. 

The Camaro screeched to a halt and he lowered the radio.  He kissed Heather goodbye. 

See you tonight, he said.  I’ll pick you up right here.  Seven o’clock?

Seven’s good, Heather said, kissing him again, then stepped out of the car. 

Tommy stared at her ass as she got up from the seat. 

He watched her walk down the block and waited until she was out of sight before peeling out from the curb.  He looked in his rearview mirror to see if anyone was impressed.

6 

Gaetano Razza parked the Buick and turned off the engine.  He sat in the car for a while, smoking through his cigarette, looking around the yard.  What a mess, he thought.  What the hell kind of parent am I?  He knew that some people in the neighborhood weren’t too keen on the idea of him raising his two kids on his own, as if it were their business, but he knew he had to keep up appearances to keep the social workers away.  This was not an easy thing to do.

Gaetano grew up in the neighborhood and he was like most others who grew up there; products of blue collar families who often had construction jobs or jobs as electricians, truck drivers, or bricklayers.  There were a few Wall Street types living there but not too many.  They were usually those guys who didn’t want to follow in their father’s footsteps and did whatever they could to get a secure office job.  Despite their white collar jobs and cushy offices, they were still blue collar guys at heart.  A white shirt and a tie didn’t hide this fact either, which some of them found out when they began working at these jobs. 

Gaetano didn’t have the skills or the brains to land himself an office job like that.  He was a man whose destiny was always having to work with his hands.  He wasn’t a stupid man by any means.  He wasn’t smart enough for the world of finance though he was smart enough to know who he was and how to take care of himself and his family.

The years were starting to wane on him now.  Nearly forty, his body was just not in the same shape as it used to be.  Twenty years ago he could work twelve hours a day, seven days a week and still have time to hang with his buddies, play some softball, have a barbecue with his friends and their wives and be up early on Monday morning, ready to work.  Ever since Concetta died, he hadn’t felt the need to do anything but he had two little kids to support now and one of them was reaching that age where the whole world seemed to be plotting against him.  He understood this, but his son didn’t understand that he understood.  Gaetano’s problem was that he wanted his boy to grow up too fast.  It was time to become a man.  Get your shit together, grow up and help me around here, was his thinking.  Instead he’s watched his boy descend into some kind of world that he knew nothing about.  He became more withdrawn and started listening to that crazy music of his, started to dress like some kind of serial killer and did that awful mess with his hair.  He even dyed it more black than it had already been.  His son.  Using hair dye.  He didn’t know what to do about it. 

The only weakness that Gaetano had was alcohol, especially on days when he thought of his beloved Concetta.  He missed her more than anything in the world and though he considered himself a good Catholic, he cursed God nearly every day since she died.  How can a loving God strike down such a beautiful loving woman at such a young age?  She was only thirty-six when she died.  She had a whole life ahead of her.

When he drank too much he would often get abusive and he took his rage out on his son who had not yet figured out how to be a proper man.  Whenever he saw him dressed that way, with his dyed black hair sticking up and out in all directions, wearing those combat boots and torn up jeans and T-shirts, he wanted to belt him one.  In his more lucid moments he fully understood what was happening with the boy.  Trouble was, the lucid moments were becoming few and far in between.

He got out of the Buick, took one last pull from the cigarette and flicked the butt end into the dirt.  He took out his keys, walked slowly to the door.  He hoped that Nico had at least cleaned up his room.  He wasn’t in the mood to start cooking a dinner for three either.  Before opening the door, he checked his wallet.  He had forty-eight dollars in it.  Good.  He didn’t have to cook tonight.  They’d simply order a pizza. 

He stepped inside, looked around his home.  Another fucking mess.  He sighed heavily, thinking about how immaculate Concetta had always kept it.  He felt the anger rising to the surface.  He held it in check, opened the refrigerator and grabbed himself a cold can of Rheingold.  It opened with a hiss and after taking one long healthy gulp from it, he felt much better.  Anger subsiding. 

He walked down the hallway towards the bedrooms, peeked in Giovanna’s room and saw it empty.  He then walked over to Nico’s room.  The door was open.  Nico and Giovanna were sitting at Nico’s desk, their backs to the door.  They weren’t aware that their father had just come home.  Gaetano watched as Nico tried to explain who Vladimir Lenin was to her and tried to help her pronounce his name correctly.  He stood in the doorway, holding his beer, smiling.  They looked adorable, especially Giovanna, who looked so much like her mother it was scary.  Almost identical, except for the glasses.  He truly loved his children more than anything in the world.  He just wished Nico would stop his nonsense and start getting his shit together. 

He decided to leave them alone and walked back into the living room.  He flopped on the couch and turned on the TV, watched Eyewitness News.  Something about a robbery in Brooklyn, something else about a fire in the Bronx, then something or other about Reagan and Andropov.  In other words, the usual shit.  He got up from the couch and started changing the channels, trying to find something to watch.  The Met game was on and they were playing the Phillies.  They were losing, of course, but it was better than watching Bill Butel droning on and on about Reagan and his latest economic policies.  He took a sip of beer, sunk into the couch.  The Mets were losing 4-1.

7

The telephone rang.  And rang.  And rang.  Nico looked up from his sister’s text book.  Dad’s still not home?  He got up from the desk and darted into the kitchen to answer the phone.  When he got to the end of the hallway, there was his father, asleep on the couch, his head turned to one side, his can of Rheingold in his hand, the TV still showing the ball game. 

Nico answered the phone.  It was Skunk. 

Nico! he said.  What’s going on?

Not much, Nico said.  I’m helping my sister with her homework.  What’s up?

Listen, there’s a great show tonight down at A7.  Do you want to go?

That meant going all the way down to the Lower East Side and considering the condition of his father, that meant no one would be able to look out for Giovanna.  He had to turn it down.

I can’t, Skunk.  You know the deal.

Again?

It seems that way.

Oh, man.  Are you sure?  It’s going to be a great show.  Great bands on the bill tonight.

He looked at his father, then at the clock.  It was still early.  Only seven o’clock. 

I’ll let you know, Nico said.  It depends on if my dad gets up or not.  Call me back in about an hour.  I’ll know for sure then.

All right, man.  I’ll call you in an hour.  Think about it, though.  It’s going to be a great one.

Nico hung up the phone, walked into the living room.  He stared at his father, trying to decide whether to just let him be or try to wake him up.  He could just be sleeping, he thought.  If he were drunk though, he’d start catching all kinds of shit and he didn’t know if he wanted to risk it.  He decided not to risk it.   

He went back into his room. 

Daddy’s home, he said. 

He is? Giovanna said excitedly, getting up from her chair. 

Nico held her by the arm.  Don’t bother him.  He’s sleeping.

Oh, Giovanna said.  She knew what this meant. 

Let’s just get back to your homework, all right?

Giovanna sighed, turned her attention back to her textbook. 

Okay, read this part and then I’ll question you after it, Nico said. 

He watched her as she read silently.  He thought about how all of this had been effecting her.  She was only ten years old when their mother died.  She really did look like Mom, he thought.  His father always said that but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see it.  They had the same face.  When she grew up, she was going to cause much heartache for the boys.  He had no doubt in his mind that she was going to have many admirers.  Now is about the time all this should start, he thought.  Right now it’s only those thick glasses holding her back.  Once Dad was able to get her contacts and she filled out more?  Look out.  He feared that he would be busier than ever keeping an eye on her. 

He wanted to be absolutely sure that his little sister didn’t fall in with the wrong crowd.  That was very easy to do in this neighborhood.  Too many assholes around with nothing to do so they go around like little wolf packs looking for trouble, doing their drugs, and other sorted things.  Many of the girls were already laid by the time they were Giovanna’s age.  Some of them even got themselves pregnant.  It was just too easy to slip into the dark side here.  That is why he wanted to get out of there so badly.  Once he was eighteen, he thought, he was out of there.  He still had two more years of the hell of high school before he could do that.  His sixteenth birthday was just around the corner.  One year closer to freedom.  In the meantime he had planned to keep a very close eye on his little sister. 

Keep reading, he told her.  I’m going to see if Daddy’s all right.

Nico walked back into the living room to look in on his father.  He was still in the same position, his body flickering in the glow of the television set, his hand still clutching the can of Rheingold.  He walked over to him, carefully took the can out of his hand.  It was half full.  He looked around the living room and saw no other cans lying around.  Perhaps he had been mistaken. 

He was about to dump the remainder of the beer when he heard his father call out to him. 

Where are you going with that?

I was going to dump it.  You were sleeping.

Was I?  What time is it?

It’s about a quarter after seven, Nico said, trying to read him. 

Shit, I’m sorry, he said, sitting up, rubbing his face with his hands.  It was a rough day today.  I’m exhausted.  What time did you say it was?

Seven fifteen.

You guys must be hungry.  Shit.

Gaetano got off the couch, reached for his wallet and pulled out a ten dollar bill. 

Here, he said, handing it to Nico.  Call for a pizza tonight.  I’m just too tired to cook.

Cool! Nico said.  What kind?

Whatever you want.  Just ask your sister.

Gaetano laughed when he heard his little girl yell, Yay! when told they were getting a pizza for dinner.  Nico came back to the living room.  The consensus was a large pie with sausage. 

As Nico went to call in the order, Gaetano turned his attention back to the game.  The Mets were now losing 6-1.

Nico came back to the living room, sat down next to his father. 

Gaetano looked at his son for a moment.  He loved him dearly but he just couldn’t take this new direction he seemed to be going in.  He hated the hair, especially.  He also noticed the change in his listening habits.  It went from the Beatles to all this shouting and screaming, ranting and raving.  It always sounded like a war zone in his room whenever he played his records.  His clothes?  He was beginning to dress like a bum.  Gaetano wasn’t all that knowledgeable about what this Punk Rock stuff was.  All he knew was that he hated it and it seemed to be turning his son from a good, clean cut kid into this freak of nature.  It’s no wonder why the kids in the neighborhood picked on him.  He worried about this new generation.  They seemed all screwed up.  It was no wonder with the dolts who gave birth to these kids, he thought.  All he had to do was think of the idiots on the job site, most of whom were around his age, and it no longer surprised them that they would turn out screwed up kids.

Twenty minutes later the pizza arrived.  Nico went to the door and paid for it while his father set the table. 

Go get your sister, he said. 

Giovanna! Nico yelled from the door.

I could have done that.  Go inside and get her like a human being.

There was no need.  Giovanna came running out of the room, excited and ready to dig in to the delicious pie that had just arrived. 

Gaetano handed out the slices and they began to eat, silently at first.  Every night at dinner Gaetano thought of nothing but Concetta.  The one empty chair at the table always reminded him of her absence.  He always set a plate for her as if she were there.  He liked to think about it as if she were just coming home late. 

Dad? Nico asked.  Can I go out tonight?

It depends.  Where to?

There’s this show going on downtown...

Downtown?  Where downtown?

On the Lower East Side.

Gaetano never liked the idea of his son going down there.  It wasn’t safe.  He knew the area where he liked to go.  It was a shit hole of abandoned buildings and drug addicts. 

Who are you going with?  Not alone.

No, of course not.  With Skunk.

Gaetano didn’t like this kid.  He seemed like trouble.  He met him a couple of times when Nico brought him around the house.  He seemed pleasant and respectful enough but he had this look about him that said that behind the facade of this polite but rebellious kid was a troublemaker of the worst order. 

How do you plan on getting there?

Skunk will probably drive.

His father thought about it a moment.  He didn’t like the idea but he also wanted his boy to start being a little more independent and responsible. 

What time do you think you’ll be home?

I don’t know.  Not too late.  Maybe one?

Gaetano took a bite of his slice of pizza, let it drop back to his plate. 

All right, he said.  Just don’t get into any trouble.

Thanks, Dad! 

Well, it looks like it’s you and me, kid, Gaetano said to his daughter.  Want to watch TV with me?

Giovanna looked at him through her thick glasses.  Only if we don’t watch any sports.

We can watch whatever you want to, he told her.  You got to finish eating first.  You too, he said to Nico.  Please do something about that fucking hair, will you?

8

At nine thirty Skunk was outside the house. 

Okay, Dad.  I won’t be home too late, Nico said, heading for the door. 

You’re going to go out with your hair like that?

Of course.

Suit yourself, he said.  Don’t expect to meet any girls tonight.

There are plenty of girls at these shows, Dad.  I meet them all the time.

Then how come you never bring any of them home?

I don’t know....

Gaetano laughed.  Just have a good time.  Don’t get into any trouble, you hear me?  If I ever have to pick you up from the police station, I swear I’ll kill you.  Don’t think I’m kidding you either.  I will kill you.

I’ll be fine, Nico said and headed out the door. 

Skunk’s car was a 1979 Buick LaSabre, a hulking mess of dented steel and peeling paint.  It was once his father’s car but his dad had since bought a new one.  He decided rather than junk this dung heap, he’d keep it for his son to use. 

Nico ran around to the passenger side, hopped in.  The cassette player was blasting the Circle Jerks, a favorite of Skunk’s.  Nico closed the door and Skunk rode off into the night, heading towards the Brooklyn-Queens expressway. 

I was a hippie.  I was a burn out.  I was a drop out.  I was out of my head...

I’m glad that your dad let you go tonight.  It’s going to be a fucking killer show, man!

Who’s playing?

Urban Waste, Distorted Youth, Heart Attack, Adrenaline O.D., and a few bands coming up from D.C. I never heard of.  Ever hear of Government Issue?

No, I never heard of them.

Well, I guess we’ll see them tonight.  I also brought this.

Skunk pulled a huge bag of weed out of his back pocket. 

We’re going to get wasted before the show in Tompkins Square Park.  We’ll see if anyone is around first.  I don’t want them smoking any of my shit.  They always fucking bogart the shit, you know what I mean?

The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was clear for once.  Nico always liked going over the Williamsburg Bridge.  He loved the sight of the skyline at night.  He rolled down the window to get a better look, plucked a cigarette from his pack, lit it. 

You know who I’m hoping is there tonight? Skunk said, lighting his own cigarette.  Jessica.

Who’s Jessica?

You know.  The one with the short, dark, spiky hair?  The big blow job lips?  I’ve been trying to get with her for the longest.  She’s not always there, though.  Hopefully she will be tonight though.  It’s too good a show.  She’s got to be there tonight.

Nico wished him luck.  There was no way that this Jessica was going to even look his way much less get with him.  First, she looked at least three years older than him.  Second, there was a good reason why everyone called him Skunk.  He simply refused to bathe.  He always thought it was because of the white streak in his hair.  He had no idea that everyone thought he stank to high heaven.  Nico was used to his peculiar noxious odor.  He usually only smelled him the moment they met up.  After a minute or so, he didn’t smell him anymore.  He had gotten used to it.  Everyone else tried to keep their distance from him.  Nico tried to tell him once, albeit politely, but Skunk got very defensive.  He decided to just leave things well enough alone. 

Hey, maybe what’s her name will be there.  You know?  From school?

I highly doubt it, Nico said.  Have we ever seen her there?  Ever?

You never know, my friend.

What’s her name was Inez Marzán, a beautiful little Puerto Rican girl Nico had seen around school the past week.  She was into Punk Rock too but she didn’t look like she was.  She dressed normally.  When he saw her around the hallways she was usually dressed in tight dungarees and some sort of T-shirt that advertised what band she was into for that day.  The first time he ever saw her she was wearing a Dead Kennedys shirt.  She was hanging around a couple of friends who looked like all the other Puerto Rican girls at the school did, usually dressed in their Hip Hop regalia.  Inez stood apart from them with those T-shirts of hers.  Even her notebook had Black Flag blazoned across it, a tell tale sign that she was not like the rest of The Crowd.  He wanted to talk to her but he couldn’t work up the nerve.  As luck would have it, she wound up in his social studies class and she sat at the front of the room on the left hand side while he sat in the back on the right hand side, giving him the perfect vantage point to stare at her all through class.  He didn’t think she ever noticed him though although he often tried to walk around her, allowing his hair and clothes send her a signal that they were part of the same secret tribe. 

Skunk navigated the junk heap onto Delancey Street.  New York in all its squalor.  Bums, hobos, junkies, Punks and normals - all mingling together.  He loved this scene.  There was nothing else like it in his mind.  He found it such a relief from the boredom and the idiocy of his own neighborhood.  If only his father would allow him to come down here more often, he would make this place his regular hangout. 

Skunk made the right on Saint Mark’s Place and slowed down a little.  The street was crawling with Punks on their way down to the club.  He kept poking his head out the window to see if there were anyone passing by that he knew.  The Punks walked in small groups among the gaggle of tourists and other East Village types.  This was the street for Skunk.  He often came down here to hang out but he mainly stayed by himself, walking the street back and forth, looking for people to hang out with.  He often didn’t and after a while of making his presence known to God knows who would hop back on the train and return home. 

As they approached First Avenue the neighborhood quickly disintegrated.  Many of the buildings were burnt out and abandoned.  Those that remained didn’t fare much better, their doorways being shelters for junkies sticking needles into their arms or clusters of three or four Punks downing forty ounce beers out of a paper bag, passing it between them.  Bums strolled back and forth up and down the street with battered paper cups looking for some loose change for either booze or junk.  Garbage and broken glass was strewn everywhere.  Skunk was excited.  He was in his element.  When he saw the group of Punks sitting on the sidewalk, their backs against an abandoned building covered in graffiti, he knew he had arrived in his own personal Mecca. 

As luck would have it, a spot opened up just short of Avenue A. 

We’re here, my friend, he said.

They stepped out of the car, made their way across the street to Tompkins Square Park.

9 

Tommy Quinn’s Camaro rolled into the parking lot of the 7-11.  There were quite a few people hanging around, more than he had expected.  They all sat on the hoods of their cars, the windows rolled down, radios blaring.  Everyone were either drinking bottles of Budweiser and smoking cigarettes or standing around some dude’s open hood, examining the car’s engine as if they knew what they were looking at.  Tommy Quinn loved to roll into the parking lot with his stereo system blaring.  He just had to show off how advanced it was.  This time he drove through, circling the parking lot a couple of times for good measure, blaring The Ocean by Led Zeppelin.  Heather was by his side, cracking her gum and playing with her hair, trying to look attractive to all the muscle bound boys huddling around their cars.  Scott and Andy sat in the back seat, barely visible to anyone, impressed by all the souped up rides they wish they could have for themselves.  Every one of the guys with the cool cars had some beautiful girl hanging on his arm. 

Tommy found an empty spot.  He turned off the engine, leaving the radio blaring.  He lit a cigarette, rolling the pack back in the sleeve of his T-shirt.  He tossed his feathered mane over his shoulders and strutted over to the hood of his car, opened it.  Heather stood right behind him. 

Scott and Andy walked over to the open hood and looked at the engine, making some impressed noises. After Tommy did some irrelevant and useless tinkering with the engine, he closed the hood and sat on it, helping Heather up to sit next to him.  Scott and Andy stood in front of them, looking around at everyone, feeling awkward, somewhat out of place.  If they had their own ride with them, they could also show off their engines.  Not tonight, though.  Tonight they belonged to their hero. 

Anyone feel like a beer? Tommy asked.  I know I do.

Yeah!  Let’s get some beer, Scott said. 

Tommy pulled a Harley Davidson wallet out of his back pocket, handed Scott five dollars and told him to go buy a six pack of Budweiser from the 7-11.  He snapped the wallet shut, put it back in his pocket, it’s chain, which was attached to his belt loop, jangled lightly on the hood of his car. 

As Scott ran off to do his bidding, followed by Andy, he turned to Heather.  She had done her hair, redone her makeup, and found the most revealing jeans imaginable to show off her curvy hips and prominent ass.  Tommy was happy because he knew some of the guys in the parking lot were checking her out and there she was sitting with him.  What he didn’t know was that she had been with at least half of these guys in the past year and a half. 

There’s JoJo, Heather said. 

Who?

JoJo, Heather said.  You don’t know him?

Tommy looked over at the tall, muscle bound kid in the tight white T-shirt and dark blue jeans.  His hair was black and slicked back over his head and he wore a belt with his jeans, fastened with a Jack Daniel’s belt buckle.  He too had his pack of cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve.  He poked and prodded through the engine of his Trans Am as his girlfriend hung on his arm.  JoJo had apparently taught her a few things because she seemed to know what he was talking about.  He looked a little older than the rest of them. 

Where do you know him from? Tommy asked. 

Heather smiled.  He’s a friend of a friend.

Tommy looked at JoJo who continued to twist caps, pull plugs and generally fiddle with his engine.  He didn’t like this JoJo.  He didn’t even know him but he knew he didn’t like him.  He sensed that Heather was trying to make him jealous.  He didn’t like that. 

Look at that piece of shit he’s playing with, Tommy said.  Where the fuck did he get that piece of shit?  It looks almost as bad as Andy’s car.

Scott and Andy had returned with the six pack just in time for Andy to hear his hero’s assessment of his ride.

It’s not a piece of shit, he said, offended. 

Tommy looked at him.  Your car is a piece of shit, Andy.

Heather continued to look over at JoJo, who had closed the hood, lit a cigarette and leaned against the car, not quite sitting, not quite standing.  His girlfriend had her arms wrapped around his waist and was looking up at him.  JoJo must have been at least a foot taller than her. 

Who’s that girl he’s with?

That’s Jeanine, Heather said.  He’s been with her for some time now.  She goes to our school too.  You don’t know her? 

No, I don’t recognize her.

She’s friends with my friend Sarah.

Tommy didn’t say anything, continued to smoke his cigarette. 

Scott started pulling the beers from the six pack.  He handed one to Tommy first then one to Heather, then he and Andy got one for themselves. 

Hey Tommy, Scott said.  What do you think of that guy’s car?  Isn’t that cool?

Scott was pointing out JoJo’s Trans Am.  Scott was highly impressed with it, so white and new, the gold bird on the hood gleaming under the parking lot lights. 

Ah, Tommy said dismissively.  His ain’t shit.  It’s all exterior.  I bet that piece of shit can’t do even half the speed mine can.

You’re probably right, Scott said, not wanting to offend him.  I like the way it looks.  I wish I could get a car like that.

You’ll never have a car like that, Tommy said. 

Tommy put his arm around Heather, kissed her.  Scott and Andy felt uncomfortable, feeling like a third and fourth wheel, but they maintained their composure, stood around admiring all the amazing vehicles spread throughout the parking lot.  Tommy always did this whenever they all hung out.  A few token sentences then he would start making out with Heather, leaving the other two to their own devices. 

Scott and Andy wandered the parking lot, talking to some of the guys about their cars, getting grand tours of their engines, trying to learn a thing or two about how to care for them. 

The sudden screeching of wheels caught everyone’s attention.  A black GTO with fully tinted windows came careening into the parking lot.  Tommy looked up.  That’s Tony Sparanza’s car.  He gently pushed Heather away and looked around for his two idiot friends who seemed to have disappeared.  Where the hell did those two assholes go?  He saw them standing around JoJo’s car checking out the paint job and the detail and looking rather impressed with it as JoJo seemed explained how it was done.  Tommy put both his index fingers into his mouth and whistled loudly toward them, then turned to see where Tony Sparanza’s car went.  It was circling the parking lot, much like everyone else did upon arrival. 

Scott and Andy looked over and Tommy waved his hand, called them over.  They obediently ran over. 

Let’s get out of here, Tommy said.  Let’s take a ride.

Tommy opened the door, Scott and Andy climbed into the back seat, pulling the passenger seat back for Heather to get in.  Tommy closed the door and ran around to his side, firing up the engine, and