by P G Loiselle
Amy held me until I was ready to talk further. She had all the patience of a saint at that moment.
“My mother’s name was Annelie and my father’s Morris. They met in Florida the summer after my father graduated High School. Heard it was love at first sight. After a few months, they eloped and moved back to Rhode Island. Grandfather Moore was furious and demanded they get the marriage annulled. My father dealt with so much bullshit his whole life and wasn’t going to put up with it anymore. He packed his stuff, got a job as a milkman for the Maplehurst Dairy and found a cozy apartment in Lonsdale. Turns out that Grandfather Moore was a stingy, money hungry son of a bitch and more concerned with his image and his possessions than anything else. Grandmother Moore was even worse. A bigoted, self-centered, horrid woman she was. My father hated them. Hated his own name too, Morris Moore.”
Amy caressed the top of my hand with her thumb. It was a simple forward and back again gesture, but that repetitive motion soothed me. She gave me a reassuring look and I continued.
“Before moving in with my grandparents, I had absolutely nothing to do with them and probably never would have. After my parents died, the State offered them money if they’d take me in and they must have jumped at the chance. I went from living in the most loving household a kid could wish for to being thrown into a depressing, hateful place. They despised me, and let me feel it, like in a fairy tale with wicked grandparents. I swear, if it weren’t for Stevie, and Mr. Jameson, and me moving in with them, I’m sure I would’ve killed myself. Then again, I most likely would have gunned down those damn grandparents of mine first.” A lump of disgust engorged my stomach; I burned with a sickening rage, reliving those horrific memories. After some deep breathing, in and out, the loathing gradually turned to pity. How miserable their lives must have been, I thought and calmed myself with one long sigh. “It’s too late now. Grandfather Moore croaked a few years back from a heart attack, and Grandmother Moore followed right after, causes unknown.”
Amy removed her hand from mine and moved it to the side of my head. She started stroking my left temple with her thumb in a rotating motion while massaging my scalp with her four fingers. “I’m so sorry you had to deal with all that…that horribleness. But those dark days, they’re over, done, finito. You have us now. We’re your family and always will be. And that history of yours, well, that helped make you the person that you are today. Didn’t it? And it’s time to focus on your future instead, and everything that’s ahead of you. Luke, baby, you rock, and you’ll show the whole Universe.”
She said it so straight as if it were a scientific truth. And those words of hers somehow brought me back to the good and decent world I’d forgotten. It was as if I was burning up inside for the past sixteen years, and the fever finally broke. I glanced around the dank, makeshift apartment; it was as if all the curtains had slid open to reveal a world of distinct color and contour that I hadn’t witnessed since that fateful day when I was eight, save from beholding the magic of being onstage.
“You’re the one who rocks, Amy. I never thought that I’d feel so relieved by telling you about my rough start in life. I feel better about myself, and how it ended up.”
“You should. And that’s what best friends are for. Now let’s think about what we do about that peckerhead, Stone.”
After that moment was over, we did lots of thinking and got no further than we were already. We were the hunted, or at least we still thought, and had no idea how to turn that around, not yet anyway. The only plan we had was to wait until they made the next move, which she insisted had to be soon, and counterattack, somehow. That’s not even a plan in my book since we can’t force them to do anything. Oh, and Amy kept stressing this one mantra that we had to swear to abide by no matter what. Over and over she kept saying, “Don’t let them separate us, like they did with me and my father. We can only win if we stick together like a tongue on a frozen metal fence.” Kind of like what I said to Mike.
Towards the end of the evening, we agreed that it’d be too risky to meet like that every night. I’d wait until the weekend, after the gig in Woonsocket and hope that we’d have more to go on. I also agreed to bring Stevie so he can stay engaged. There’s safety in numbers Amy kept repeating, maybe to convince herself that we have a one in a million chance to be victorious over Stone and his organization. In the meantime, Piano Mike would look after her and make sure our little princess, or should I say Robin Hoodette, had what she needed. Right before I left, she also said it’s time to accelerate the undercover work and gave me a letter to mail to her detective.
For me, getting home last night was almost like getting there, a bumpy scream through the moonlit air. Except this time, the shadows were more like friends than foes, masking my return and ensuring a safe journey.
Tonight, I wrote a song. The coincidences seem odd and enthralling: Amy and I, a parallel past of dying parents; both growing up under patriarchal tyrants; ending up at the same lawless, blood-money laundering front of a company; being drawn together by music, the love of a good ball busting and genuine caring for each other; not to mention living alone in houses made for small families. And with Stevie: how meeting him saved me, put me on track to not become one of those merciless serial killers who blamed everything on an unhappy childhood; the way he shared his art of showmanship without getting jealous of me upstaging him; his understated Ying compared to my hyperbolic Yang; how Mr. Jameson took me in and practically adopted me as his own pup and cosigned the loan for me to buy my house, the only castle I have. I don’t believe in destiny, but sometimes it’s hard to doubt it and ignore that fact that we’re all connected somehow, in some way.
“Connections”
Standing there a waiting / Licking dry her tears
Met her in a parking lot / Just counting down the years
It seemed just like a dream I had / Back when I was ten
I never will forget it / And regret it now and then
But we found the time / Played it right /
And rode the night again
Chorus:
Got one on the counter / Got two in the draw
got three in my pocket / I forget where I’ve got four
Connecting me, connecting me / I know that I’ll find more
Got five in my suitcase / And I’m heading out the door
Got the letter last night / She sends her smiles to me
The scene was so damn beautiful /I had to turn my cheek
I fell for that one once before / When I was twenty-five
I never will forget it / Cuz it sure keeps me alive
And we found the drum / Played it tight /
And rode the night again
[Repeat Chorus]
You’ll never see it coming / So quickly round the bend
Just a simple turning point / Another tale to spin
So, open up your ears / Let what’s to be, just be)
And feed upon the beat / That you’ll feel inside of me)
And we’ll find the stage / Dance all night /
And ride it once again
[Repeat Chorus]
Speaking of connections, I’m way past due in connecting with my unconsciousness. Midnight has come and gone, and we’re due onstage in less than twenty hours. I don’t expect a show to end all shows, but you can always count on the State’s northern assembly to put up some solid support. I better be well-rested so I can give it my all and not run the risk of a possible disappointment. Since Sunday, each day has gotten better, and a great gig would help the week to finish on a high note.
Saturday, July 18, 1987
Woonsocket, the French capital of Rhode Island, where the people ‘pahk the cahs side by each’ and ‘throw babies down the stairs some candy’, isn’t really a Mecca of high culture. It is the home of the Rockin’ Steady, though, where we performed last night. If you compared it to New York City, what Harlem is for Blacks, Woonsocket is for Frogs, Canucks, Snail Snappers,
or whatever derogatory term you want to call those French Canadians. Now I’m not a racist or anything like that, but in Rhode Island, we call people playful nicknames based on their origin. Me, I’m half Mick and half Limey. Moore is of the Irish sort, and Sully is pure Brit. Now Tommy’s from Manville, the Lincoln village that borders Woonsocket, and his last name is Lafarge. I call him Le’ Frog all the time, and why should he care? It’s only to bust balls.
We agreed to meet at the practice pad at five thirty in the afternoon; haul the gear over to the club by six thirty; set up and do a sound check by eight, latest; start our first set by nine thirty; and wrap everything up by one thirty so they could have the place evacuated by two, the legal closing time on a weekend night. The Rockin’ Steady is kind of a dive, and we generally couldn’t be bothered with the dump. We made an exception since Tommy’s cousin, Mo, runs it, and he’s been bugging us to play there forever. We’re not snobs, but we also want to maintain more of a higher quality image, still rock and roll but not of the bottom basement sort. Besides that, we don’t want to oversaturate the area by playing too often in the same small radius of Providence, our musical hometown, and next Friday we’re scheduled for another evening at the Showroom. Since Tommy owed it to Mo, we decided to do it as a charity event. All the money from the door, a donate-what-you-want price, was to go to some charity that the audience itself would propose and vote on.
I got to our practice place, located in an old Pawtucket mill building, right before meeting time and everyone was out front with their heads in their hands or in Dale’s case, pacing while cursing obscenities I didn’t even know existed.
“What may I ask is going on?” I said.
“What’s going on, I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Dale bellowed. He was steaming mad. “Those frickin’ low life, scumbag, limp dick blowhards broke into our room and demolished the whole place, including my brand spankin’ new Sonor Phonic double bass drum set that I just got last week. And now, six days later, it’s in pieces. Completely unplayable. Keith Moon couldn’t have crashed up a kit this bad. We can forget about tonight and probably any other night if this is a sign of what’s to come.”
“The rest of the stuff looks pretty busted up too,” Tommy added.
“Ok, slow down,” I said. “We’ll find a solution. As they say, whoever ‘they’ are, the show must go on. Let’s go inside and check out the damage.”
“What’s the use,” Piano Mike said as he sat, hunched over and sulking.
Stevie stood there, mute, looking defeated.
“Are you all losers or what?” I said. “You going to fight back against these sons of bitches? Or wussy out?” A feeling of staunch determination rose up within me, and I casted a burning look upon each of them. “Stop your belly aching, and let’s go in like I said.”
Without another word, they filed in line as I led them into the chaos that used to be our practice space. Dale led the pack of sad sacks, and Stevie trailed in last position. I entered the room and gosh dammit, they were right. It was as if a cyclone had flattened the place. Shard upon shard of busted fragments decked the entire perimeter. Wood, plastic, metal, fabric, wire, paint, and other assorted materials, recently held together in the molecular form intended, were now spread across the floor in multi-sized bits and piles, the result of a Mafioso melee devised solely to intimidate us. It was heartbreaking to witness all those beautiful, meticulously crafted, sound producing objects fall prey to Stone’s diabolical attempt to halt us from doing what keeps us together best. As I said to the band, the show must go on and I meant it. We only needed to figure out how.
“Ok, here’s what I want you to do,” I said. “P.M., Dale and Stevie, start sorting and putting all the parts in the right places. Tommy, there’s a payphone down the street, you know where it is, right?”
“Yep,” he said accepting my orders.
“Call your cousin, Mo. Tell him what happened and see if he can scrape together some equipment for us. I’ll grab my other guitar at home, and Stevie has about ten of them in his cellar. What about your bass?”
“It’s in the car. My amp’s shit the bed, though, and my practice amp at home ain’t got enough balls.”
“Relay that to Mo. I’ll check out the other practice rooms to see if anyone could lend a helping hand and maybe a microphone or two.”
We all went to work on our individual tasks. It was like a scavenger hunt, and I felt a slight tingle of excitement in the race to get what we needed for the gig. I scored a Marshall half-stack amplifier/speaker combo and two vocal mics from a musician friend. The other rooms were abandoned, so I went back to the others.
“How’re we doing? Can we salvage anything?”
“Well, I cobbled together a small drum kit with an old snare I had tucked away and a bass drum I fitted with a new head,” Dale said, seeming more hopeful than before. “Some of my cymbals were still intact too, unbreakable those Paistes. Was also able to jimmy rig some cymbal stands by mixing and matching the pieces. Still could use some toms to get the full effect. Guess I’ll have to forget the double bass too.”
“That should at least get us through on the drum side,” I said. “What about you guys?”
“The amp for the stage piano still works, but they trashed the keys,” Mike said.
Stevie looked up from the floor. “Nothing,” he said with more breath than timbre as he arranged worthless bits of material like a million-piece puzzle.
We were making progress but not enough, and time wasn’t on our side. After all that optimism I tried to spread, I was starting to think that hope was the only thing we had left, and that didn’t make a sound.
Right when even I was about to give up, Tommy rounded the corner with his sloppy build, feet sliding beneath him like he was running in place. As he ricocheted into the room, he slipped on all that rubble and fell on his ass. Without batting an eye, he busted out the news, excited and out of breath. “Guess what, guys, guess what. Mo made some calls and got us the whole shebang. The band that’s playing tomorrow is bringing their stuff tonight for us to use. Mo said those guys in that band frickin’ love us and are wicked psyched. Mo’s spreading the word about the break-in and said the club’ll be packed. We only got to bring guitars and my bass.”
“Tommy, you the man.” I said, fully elated. “Mo the man too. Huh, guys, what’d I tell you? I said we’re going on as planned and that’s what we’re doing, right? So, let’s do it.” I was slap-happy, bordering on frantic. “Ok, what first? Wait, I know. Stevie and I will make a run to pick up our guitars. You three go straight to the club, and we’ll meet you there. Any questions? No?” I said without waiting for an answer. “Good”.
They closed shop while I told my musician friend that we didn’t need his gear and invited him to check us out at the Rockin’ Steady. We walked out of the building together, feeling triumphant.
Waiting for us in the parking lot were four of Stone’s lackeys resting on two dark Cadillacs that could have been on loan from a funeral parlor. The tubby brute I already had the pleasure of meeting outside my house and his idiot sidekick, Rodney, were there trying to look mean, contorting their facial muscles and rubbing their knuckles. Two other dimwit guns for hire, had joined their party as well. Rodney’s superior, Babyface I’ll call him, seemed to be in charge. Dale instantly got right in his kisser and verbally started tearing him a new A-hole, swearing, screaming and threatening him, using every vile word he had in his vocabulary. The other three hoodlums reached into their Miami Vice white suit coats, and I jerked Dale back by his collar.
“Really,” I said, as if disappointed but not knowing how to begin. “First you destroy thousands of dollars’ worth of our equipment, ruin our whole night and now its standoff at the OK corral. We told you everything we know, cooperated 100% and thought that would have been the end of it. What more do you want from me, I mean us?”
All four of them bore dope
y grins following Babyface’s lead, and their heads were bobbing and nodding as they let the tension build. Finally, their fat headed leader spoke. “Now that’s a very simple question with a very simple answer, and you know what that answer is. Don’t you, Luke?” Babyface accentuated the L in Luke.
“Not sure how many times I have to say it. First of all, none of us know where your so-called property is; secondly, we have no idea where Amy is. And to tell you the truth, I’m nervous about it myself. For all I know, you might be the ones who could tell me where she is.”
Dale interrupted. “Let’s waste these grease balls. We’ll make it a fair fight, four-on-four, no weapons. What do you say you bunch of mama’s boys?”
I thrashed Dale with a disappointed father-look and he stood back.
Babyface laughed and his cohorts followed like a pack of hyenas.
“Sorry about that, Mr…What was your name again?” I said.
“I’m not telling you my name,” he growled, seemingly bothered by the question. “And your buddy Dale over there is lucky to have a pal like you to keep him in check. Otherwise he’d be on his way to the bottom of the bay.” Dale’s jaw dropped. Babyface knew his name. “And you, Tommy; and you, Piano Boy, pleasure to see you again by the way; and you, Mr. World Famous Steven Jameson, you’re also lucky to have Luke here as your, well, friend, I guess you call it.” He smirked, squinty eyed as he studied our reactions. “Or maybe not so lucky.”
“Yeah, not so lucky,” Rodney said and started again with his uncontrollable snorting snicker like the first time we met.
Babyface sneered at his sidekick, and it shut him right up. “As I was about to say, he’s the guy who got you all into this predicament. I got no beef with you other guys. You’re just associated with the wrong person, the leader of the band.” He was propped up like a rooster as he scratched his distended gut on both sides. “I’d say that’s not so lucky.” Next, he targeted Dale. “Ok, you’re a piece of shit and duped us into buying your worthless car before we even knew who you were. But you’ll repay us, one way or another.”