The Crew

By Michael Mohr

All freshman year Jack Donnigan wanted to ditch the nerds and become cool. When Jack—a protected 16-year-old sophomore at St. Andy's Prep in Southern California in 2000—gets accepted into The Crew, a renegade punk clique on campus led by the nefarious and intelligent Cannonball ("Cannon"), he is thrilled. But he soon challenges Cannon's leadership by starting a secret relationship with Sarah—a punk-feminist who Cannonball mysteriously says is off-limits—trying hard drugs, and jumping on stage at punk shows. 

 

Jack's relationship with Mom becomes strained. He stays out late and rebels for the first time. The faculty at St. Andy's—wanting to dismantle the cult hero status of The Crew—organize a coup. They plan to nail the perceived leader: Jack Donnigan, who's been conned by Cannonball. Jack's mentor is his unconventional English teacher, Mr. Bryce, who teaches Jack a more nuanced world view. 

When the faculty nail Jack, Mr. Bryce does his best to save the floundering student. But when Jack is kicked out of his folks' home, expelled from school, and Cannonball steals Sarah by spreading a web of lies: Who will save Jack from himself?

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Mohr
• Release date: Mar 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224385836

Michael Mohr

Michael Mohr is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer, former literary agent's assistant and freelance book editor. His fiction has been published in: The New Guard; Concho River Review; Adelaide Literary Magazine; Bethlehem Writers' Roundtable; Fiction Magazines; Tincture; and much more. Mohr's articles have been included in Writers' Digest, Writer Unboxed, Creative Penn, MASH, Books & Buzz; and more. Mohr edited White American Youth, a memoir by Christian Picciolini, a former neo Nazi who changed his life (Hachette, Dec 26, 2017) as well as Breaking Hate: Confronting the New Culture of Extremism (Hachette Feb 2020). Christian's MSNBC TV docu-series aired in 2020 (Breaking Hate). Michael also edited Deborah Holt Larkin's "A Lovely Girl: The Tragedy of Olga Duncan and the Trial of One of California's Most Notorious Killers," as well as dozens of other authors. Michael's writing/editing website is www.michaelmohrwriter.com. Find his regular writing on Substack at: michaelmohr.substack.com (Sincere American Writing)

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Praise for The Crew

Tense and well plotted, THE CREW goes beyond its own story to teach us about ourselves. We feel for the characters because we can relate to them. This is not merely a punk book. It's much, much more.

—Allison Landa, author of Bearded Lady: When You’re a Woman with a Beard, Your Secret is Written All Over Your Face

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I highly recommend this book for teens and parents alike.

— H. Shamsi, Book Nerdection Book reviews

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This is a well-crafted and fast-paced story of a group of high school kids in the 90s. The protagonist, Dog, attends a fancy prep school but gets involved with a punk rock loving gang of misfits called The Crew. The reader is pulled into the narrative and action that is, at times, reminiscent of The Dead Poet's Society but with a lot more sex and punk rock action. Highly entertaining!

—Matthew Long, Beyond the Bookshelf

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Wow, what a ride! This book had me hooked from start to finish. The story is beautifully crafted, keeping me interested and invested in every twist and turn. The characters are so well-developed, and the author's writing style is simply enchanting. A must-read!

—Marisa La Fata, Soul Alchemy Healing

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I became a fan of Michael Mohr’s collections of his Sincere American Writing on Substack. When I learned that he had a book coming out, called The Crew, I couldn’t wait to get my copy. This is a must read, you will not be disappointed.

—Anonymous Amazon Review

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Once I began reading this book, there was no stopping. When I wasn’t reading it, I was thinking about it. I haven’t read a book this well written and engaging for months. Concern for the 15year old protagonist kept me holding my breath as he fought to belong, then fought against the establishment during the punk rock scene of the ‘90s. In the 60s, we tried to fight the establishment through our ideas of peace and love, and drugs, too. The punk rock scene engendered an anarchical approach with a more violent edge. Each era embraced music reflecting their ideologies. The Crew -a great read for anyone. I hope this author is working on his next book!

—GH via Amazon

The Crew is a fun, intriguing, fast-paced punk rock extravaganza. You follow Dog—the protagonist—through myriad inner and outer changes as he battles his parents, his school, and his demons. Throw in an anarchic punk lifestyle, booze, drugs and girls and it’s a wild, sordid ride. Dog changes, and we change with him. It’s a rollercoaster ride. Highly recommend.

—Britney Morehouse

Dedicated to my parents: My mother for always supporting me as a writer, and my father for always loving me, even when I was far away. (RIP, Dad.) Last: To Tim Bunce, high school teacher extraordinaire who changed my life and made me love writing and literature. Thank you for the gift.

Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

The Crew

Chapter One

It was Demon DeLorean—D.D.—who led me to Cannonball.  

D.D. and I met up in the parking lot of St. Andy’s after the last bell at 2:30. We got into his busted-up Saturn and drove to my parents’ so I could change clothes before heading south to Oxnard, near Ventura, where D.D. and Cannonball lived. Spiky black hair, tight black Levi’s, pasty white skin and an attitude that bordered on insanity, D.D. was this wild anarchist-punk-rock-rebel who took no prisoners. 

Backing out of my driveway on Del Norte Ave—my mother thankfully not home yet—he screeched in reverse and did that balls-to-the-wall, Back to the Future, hair-raising rocket shot down my street. My heart pounced like a baseball bat smacking the ball, ba-boom, ba-boom, and we shot down Del Norte. I was nervous about the neighbors telling my mom but there was no stopping this guy.

My mom had warned me about these kinds of kids. Trouble with a capital T, she always said. She just wanted me to be safe and happy, the opposite of her haggard, brutal childhood growing up in Pacific Palisades in LA in the 1960s. Her mom had run off with a Catholic priest, leaving her father and their whole family. The thing with my mom was: She hugged me constantly, told me I love you like five times a day. It was oppressive.

"Hey, could we maybe, like, slow down just a bit?"

He smiled, shifting the manual gear, stepping on the gas, speeding down Highway 33 in the direction of the Pacific Ocean. The first rule of Fight Club is...you don’t talk about Fight Club.

What? I said, confused.

Looking concerned, he eyed me sternly. You’ve never seen Fight Club?

Shrugging, I said, No.

He shook his head like a madman. Jesus Christ, kid! He sighed loudly. Ok, this is going to be a whole reprogramming. A big project. Starting from Square One. Shit. You probably still think you need parents, that we need cops...you do don’t you... c’mon, Dog, admit it! He’d already nicknamed me Dog due to my last name: Donnigan.

"Um...well...doesn’t everyone need parents? Wouldn’t our society fall apart without police?"

D.D. slammed a palm against his head, swerving, nearly losing his lane completely. "Oh, man, this is gonna be a lot of work. Amateur alert! The first thing you’re gonna do is read ‘1984.’ And then ‘A Brave New World.’ And you need punk education. It all started with a band called The Ramones, in 1974, hailing from Manhattan’s Lower East Side of New York City. Before them were Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison. You’ve heard of them haven’t you?" His tone dripped with caustic sarcasm.

Yeah, I said, feeling like a total idiot.

It was sophomore year. The truth was, freshman year, I’d been relegated to hanging out with the terrible, dreaded nerds. That had felt like having a rusty screwdriver jacked into my guts, piercing the viscera, slashing my soul. You’ll make new friends, my mom had promised.

Alright, Dog, shut your mouth and listen to me and you’ll be okay. But don’t tell anyone else how stupid you are.

We landed in Oxnard, off Highway 101. I was about to meet Mexican Johnny. He lived in a squat house where 16- and 17-year-old kids existed in their own filth and squalor, according to D.D. The city had abandoned the house and there was no landlord. Rent free, these kids were dropout runaways.

My stomach lurched as we closed the gap, getting closer to this new reality. I wanted so badly to impress D.D.—and finally meet Cannonball—but I was terrified, too. I was walking into unknown territory. I was going against my mother’s wishes, which both enthralled and saddened me. I needed this. It was some kind of rebirth. I could still feel the warmth of my mother’s tight bear hug from that morning, her hand running through my hair, saying, I love you, Jack. Have a good day at school.    

We parked along the curb and D.D. shoved his door open throwing me a harsh glance. Don’t say shit, Dog. Just follow me, alright?

I nodded. It felt like ascending on a rollercoaster. The drop would be intense. What was I getting into?

We walked up to the moldy, rotting door. I smelled the mildew. D.D. stuck a Winston in his mouth and lit it. Looking tough and cool and mean in all the ways I wasn’t, he knocked on the door. The knob jostled and I heard voices. A guy with a huge afro opened the door. His eyes were contracted and red circles surrounded them. He was tall and thin, wiry legs that were covered, like D.D., in black ripped jeans. He sported a motorcycle jacket, equally torn and beat-up. He reeked of weed and cigarettes. It was disgusting and my first impulse was to turn around and run.

Inside, the place was falling apart. A few other guys nodded or ignored us and sat around on an L-shaped couch in the living room, staring at nothing. There was a messy, vile kitchen with rust-stains in the sink and dishes stacked, filthy and smelly. A hall led to a series of rooms. On the walls were posters. One was a massive picture of four guys in leather studded jackets, spiky bracelets on their wrists, spiky black hair like D.D., sneers on their faces. They stood holding each other’s shoulders, looking pissed. It said, THE SEX PISTOLS, 1978: THE WINTERLAND BALLROOM. EVER GET THE FEELING YOU’VE BEEN CHEATED?

The guy who’d let us in, with the afro, approached with something in his hand. He opened his palm. In it was a hypodermic needle and a bent spoon along with a small baggy with powder.

Want some? he said.

Shocked, I said, What’s that?

What was this place? My mom would murder me. This represented everything she’d tried to restrict me from, hold me back from, protect me from. It was like when she drove me to school, freshman year, and she’d have to brake suddenly; she’d always hurl her arm across my chest, a mother protecting her child. I hated when she did that. I loved my mom beyond words, but, since I’d been a pre-teen, some pressure, some resentment, some anger had been growing. She’d done things when I was a child, made mistakes.

No, D.D. said, breaking in-between us. He ain’t initiated yet, Johnny. He swiveled his head, staring at both of us. Johnny, meet Dog, my newest recruit. Dog, meet Johnny, a veteran of The Crew. We shook hands; his dirty, slimy paw gripped my clean, manicured one.

Welcome to The New Church, kid. Your world’s about to explode. He ripped his hand away then opened his palm fast as if an explosion were occurring.

C’mon, Dog, D.D. said, snatching me away from Mexican Johnny.

We walked down that mysterious hallway, bare white walls, past the darkness, arriving at a door. D.D. tried to open it: locked. He pounded a fist. Cannon, let us in. It’s D.!

What’s The Crew? I asked, innocently.

Shhh, he chided. You’ll find out soon enough.

And then it happened. Cannonball.

Nodding for us to come in, he eyed me with those intense, steady blue eyes you could almost see through, handed me a Mickey’s 40-ounce bottle, half-drunk, and said, sadistic smile, Hey kid. I hear you’re ready for The Crew. He looked over at D.D. and smiled an evil grin. Puckering his lips, he continued, Is it better to have chosen evil than to have good imposed upon him?

My heart pattered hard against my chest. I wanted to run and simultaneously stay, stay forever. I was hooked and terrified. This was my last chance. I could simply turn and walk away, down the hall, out the door, up the block. Find a bus. Go home. Be safe. I could even relate the story to Mom. She’d be mad that I’d defied her and gone with D.D. to this squalid house in Oxnard, but she’d be proud that I left, made the right choice.

What does that mean?

Cannonball grinned deeper. It’s a quote from a novel called ‘A Clockwork Orange,’ kind of my bible, if you want to know the truth. Words to live by, kid. D.D. plucked a beer from a mini fridge in the corner and tossed it to Cannonball. He popped it open, never averting his eyes from me for a second. He took a swig, beer dribbling down his chin. My name’s Cannonball. What’s yours?

I stepped forward. Jack Donnigan. D.D. stared at me brutally. Dog, I mean.

Nice to meet you Dog. He took another swig. You know why they call me Cannonball?

There was a lump the size of Antarctica rising in my tight throat. I wanted to breathe deeply but I knew if I did that I’d look like a pansy. They’d laugh at me. Swallowing that lump back down, I said, meekly, No.

He took another hefty chug of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Because if you mess with me I’ll explode like a cannonball.

Control your breathing, Jack. Calm. I nodded. Or at least I think I nodded. I felt so nervous I wasn’t sure what I did.

Drink that forty, kid.

I stared down at the giant green bottle in my hand. I was an alcohol virgin. I was a virgin in every way. Innocent. But, I sensed, that innocence was about to be obliterated. That feeling returned, from earlier: I need this. My mom was so lovely and bubbly and warm, but her strict, incessant rules were killing me. It hurt that I was going to do this, stick the knife into her torso and twist. Defy her regulations, her rules. But I couldn’t help it. The days of bouncing on her thighs in the Jacuzzi in our massive backyard, asking my father questions about the Milky Way; those days were over. This was about revolution. It was about change. It was about embracing the chaos.

Action. This was the only way. These guys were a portal: They would lead me through. 

With a quick intake of air, a slow release, and a pleading internal prayer, I lifted the bottle, nodded at Cannonball, and drank.

Soon I started to feel the buzz.

I was ready for the initiation.

Chapter Two

An hour later I walked outside the sliding glass doors of the squat into the back yard to take a piss. The buzz, after another few beers, was intensifying. I hadn’t called my parents, and it was late, on a school night. They had no idea where I was. I hadn’t even left a note. The realization that I would be in big trouble was present, but the inhibitions were lowered, my body electric and alive with the warm sensation of approaching drunkenness.  

In the process of zipping up, my urine pooling at the trunk of a lone cypress tree, I sensed some premonition right as a gust of wind pulsed through, shaking the leaves of the tree above me. A shadow-figure moved from around the other side of the tree trunk. A girl. Suddenly in the moonlight, I saw her: She was petite, Asian, ashen face, chopped black hair like a boy. And sexy as hell. Her tiny hand was placed against the trunk as if it held some supernatural power. She was stunning, like some midnight punk rock ghost-girl.

She approached. My stomach pitched and roiled, like boiling water. A dart of tense fear shot down my spine. Girls had never been my strong suit. And there was something about this one, some strange vibe: I felt drawn towards her but also some bell tolled in the depths of my soul. A word floated to the surface of consciousness: Beware.

You’re the new kid, she said. It was a statement, not a question. Her voice was high and it sent a thrill up my body like some exciting, living current.

Stupidly smiling, I said, I guess I am.

The girl tore off a small, rough piece of bark from the tree. Be careful, Jack.

Crash! Cannonball flew into me with a force bestowed upon him by the gods, knocking me to the grass into a sitting position. I was in shock from being hammered down so fast, out of the blue. The wind had been zapped clean out of me. A nauseous feeling snaked its way through my gut and I suppressed it as best I could.

Dog my man, you don’t look so good, what you NEED is another drink, that’ll fix you right up.

I eyed Cannonball and saw two of him, drunken twins, his blonde spikes towering over me, deadpan blue eyes, grin plastered, another forty in his palm somehow.

Where was that mysterious girl? She’d disappeared. And how did she know my name?

Before I knew it liquid was being dispensed over my shirt and pants, all over my body, the stench of lighter fluid strong, and then the glow of a match sailed through the air landing on my chest. Fire ripped off my body like crazy magic illusions and the orange-red flames licked and popped. I smelled the stench of burning clothes, singed cotton.

Desperately, I tried to stand up but fell right back down. I was powerless. Would I die? Reinvigorated, gaining momentary sobriety in the fight for survival, I jumped up, grabbing hold of the cypress tree next to me. My whole shirt was covered with lighter fluid—on fire!

Shuffling forward, away from the tree, like some zombie on fire, I swiped wildly at the flames which had begun to singe skin and had by now drawn a group of idiots surrounding yours truly, including Johnny, Bone—who I’ll get to later—and Cannonball. After a few seconds Cannon said, Now!

D.D. jogged over from behind some bushes with a bucket of water. He dumped it over me and the flames died. I shivered and breathed heavily. Looking up, I saw that everyone was watching me. Most punks had their arms crossed and were nodding. Mohawks and Chaos Spiked hair. Leather jackets with silver studs. Tight plaid pants and stitched-up jeans with holes and punk patches. It seemed I had crossed some threshold, some boundary which bonded me to them. The whole thing was insane but there was no way I could walk away from this: I felt the hook through my lip already.  

Cannon approached. He placed his hand on my shoulder. You’re one of us now, Dog. Welcome.

Raking my hand through my sopping wet hair, I said, I’m part of the New Church?

Cannon grinned like he had when I first met him. Now we go to the gig.

Hey Dog: You ready to conquer the heathens? Cannon said, wrapping his head around from the front seat.  

We were in D.D.’s Saturn; I was in back, D.D. driving, heading to my first punk rock show ever, in Ventura, at a venue called Skate Street. It was an indoor skate park with half-pipes and rails and a venue upstairs for underground punk shows. Windows down, D.D. careened through Oxnard, blasting this band we were about to see called Unknown Society.

Driving to the show in D.D.’s DeLorean was agonizing and thrilling at the same time. Terrifying was more like it. And yet: It was as obvious as getting into D.D.’s car earlier that day, on campus. Who were these guys, these crazy kids I’d seen yapping to each other every morning at St. Andy’s on the lawn by the gym, gesticulating, throwing their arms around each other, spilling secrets, all before the first classes started? The kids I’d yearned to know, to meet, to follow? In a fit of bravura I’d purposefully bumped into D.D., who I knew would take me to the leader. And now I was here, in their car, drunk, heading to my first punk show.

It was wild. It was absurd. It was...fantastic. But my mom. My mom. My. Mom.

D.D. parked the car and we entered the dragon’s lair, which consisted of an army of revolutionary energy. The tattooed guy at the door marked the backs of our hands with a thick black X, indicating we’d paid our two bucks.

It felt like war. The space was packed. It smelled like bad body odor, beer, pot and leather. Mohawks and liberty/chaos spikes (they’d filled me in on the punk lingo) adorned scalps and sneers were plastered on faces. Some guys appeared older, in their early twenties, and sported red braces, Doc Martin boots laced up tight, blue jeans and shaved heads.  

D.D. threw his arm around me. Too bad Bone couldn’t make it tonight. He’s teaching some newbies the ropes. Indoctrination is his deal, D.D. said, scrunching my shoulder. But you don’t even know what that word means, do you Dog?

No, I said, scared of the energy in the room. "Who are those guys?" I pointed to the red-braced dudes.

Cannon’s lips quivered into a sneer, like the guys in that Sex Pistols poster. Skins, brother. Pricks that Bone likes to puke on.

Like Nazis?

Shhhh, D.D. said, scrunching harder. Quiet, man, you’ll get us killed. No, not Nazis. He scanned around, paranoid. They’re ‘trad skins.’ Evolved from English mods in the 60s. Blue collar guys with a work ethic. We don’t let those Hitler-saluting Nazi scum come in here. Ever.

"What do you mean? You...fight them?"

Cannon shoved me, right as a mosh-pit started to move, a labyrinth of sweaty bodies all swirling in slow motion. Of course man! We fight everyone, with words or with fists! he yelled as I fell backwards into the bodies.

The band hit the stage. The front man was thin, tall, a worn beanie over hawk eyes. It was the front man who would explode into the sound, unleashing his force full-throttle, validating for all of us that this was the place to be. The first song blasted through me, through my confusion, through my fear. I knew it right then and there. I was home. Every part of my being belonged here, knew it was true. This was a refuge for kids who wanted to break free from their parents’ restrictions.

My mother would lose her mind if she saw the characters in this feral place. That knowledge excited me. I could almost feel the metaphorical chains being pried off my ankles. Yes, I was worried, frightened about what the consequences might be. But: I’d come this far, I’d be damned if I turned back now. There was a picture on our fridge of me and my dad standing in front of an Amtrak train when I was five years old, about to head north to Waldport, Oregon, to visit my grandmother. I’m holding his big hand, looking up at him. Back then, I admired him so much. He was my hero, my everything.

Those times were done. I was in the here and now. There was history and there was the present.

Flying in a sadistic circle, round and round we went, sweat pouring down hard, slick bodies, the stench of stinky body odor, anger melting, a vibrating throng of punk rockers intent on letting it all out. Mohawks flew around and brushed my skin; knuckles punched and raised in the air in protest; shouts rose to the ceiling, singing along with the lyrics. I was pushed and shoved beautifully from all directions. Exhausted, the alcohol swirling in my system, for the first time in my life I felt like I was truly alive, on fire, having my own independent experience, free