Punk Like Me

by JD Glass

  • 44 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  falling the rest of the way down,” and “I love you so much I’d walk barefoot on slugs.”

  Yeah, I know, some of the stuff we said was sorta gross (okay, maybe more than sorta), but it was sweet, too, in its own crazy, desperate way.

  At some point, the boys gave up playing the I-love-you-so-much game and focused their energies on keeping Kerry and me apart, and okay, I admit that maybe it was just us girls who were still playacting at the lovesick thing. Despite, or maybe even because of, Joey and Jack’s enforced physical separation throughout this time, Kerry and I had somehow, silently, telepathically, mutually decided that whenever Jack or Joey would let one of us go, we’d attempt to unite, so we could

  “pretend” to run off together, like we were crazy in love or something.

  As we walked onto the gangway for the ferry that would take us home, Joey grabbed my elbow, tugging me rather sharply off to one side.

  “Ow, dude! What the fuck?” I snatched my arm away and rubbed the offended part, and I also favored him with my dirtiest look. Jerk.

  Joey at least had the decency to appear embarrassed. “Hey, I’m sorry,” he whispered, “it’s just that you guys gotta stop playing now. We’re going back to Staten Island,” he explained, with a pained expression.

  “Dude, I know,” I answered, glaring up at him, still rubbing the sore spot. I was positive I was going to get a bruise, and really, since when was he the world sophisticate? I wasn’t the one who needed geography lessons on where was cool and where wasn’t. Double jerk.

  Jack and Kerry caught up with us on the gangway to the boat.

  “Keep manhandling girls like that, Joey, and it won’t matter where they are,” Kerry tossed sharply over her shoulder as she passed, shaking her head. She’d seen and heard the whole thing, and her eyes and mouth had the sharp look of anger.

  Jack stopped to look Joey up and down, then shook his head. “I don’t know about you sometimes, Joey.” He continued to shake his head as he walked past us.

  Joey’s face had been pink from embarrassment before, but with Jack’s words, it drained of color. He opened his mouth once, twice, as if he wanted to respond, but he shook his head to the negative, then gave up. He pressed his lips together and swallowed, and his eyes held something new in them—fear? shyness?—when he looked at me

  • 45 •

  JD GLASS

  again. He held out his hand for me. “C’mon, let’s Þ nd a seat,” he Þ nally croaked.

  We settled in our places on the facing wooden benches on the old boat, back to our original conÞ guration: Jack and Kerry on one side, Joey and I on the other. I leaned my back against him, stretched my legs along the bench, and closed my eyes.

  The rest of the time passed in a companionable, if slightly stilted, silence, and by the time we got off at our train station, it was very late. Only two places were open in the little town—the local tavern and Universe.

  I looked longingly at the entrance of the store as we walked down the stairs, but not only did Kerry and I never hang out there with the guys (well, not both of them—Jack did stop in from time to time, though), I also knew it was time to go home. “Hey, guys, thanks for coming out with us today. I know I had a great time,” I said, turning to face Joey with a smile as we reached the sidewalk. “It was really cool.”

  “Hey, sweetheart.” He smiled in return, lightly resting his hands on my shoulders. “It was a lot of fun. Maybe we’ll do it again sometime, just us?” He almost whispered that last part and closed the gap between us to lean in for a kiss but, and I freely admit I did this, I accidentally-on-purpose missed his intention and turned my head to rest it on his shoulder, accompanied by a big hug.

  I don’t know why, but at that moment, I just couldn’t do it, just couldn’t kiss him again. I felt almost that if I did, I was giving in to him or giving over something that was absolutely mine. I know that might not make sense, but there it is. “Maybe, sometime,” I answered noncommittally, snuggling a bit into his jacket.

  “Okay, guys, get a room, will ya?” Jack teased us.

  “Forget the room,” Kerry corrected, “we’ve got to get home. It’s only getting later, and Nina’s the one who’s going to get grounded.” I rolled my eyes at her reminder, because she was unfortunately right about the grounded thing, and disentangled myself from Joey’s arms. “Yeah, let’s get this show on the road,” I agreed. I held Joey’s hand as we started walking past all the sleepy little houses in our sleepy little town, toward the familiar—home—Joey and I in front, hands held and swinging along, Jack and Kerry a step behind us. We passed identical manicured patches of green on the way.

  “Yo, Nina,” Kerry’s voice broke through the suburban silence,

  “you up for tomorrow at CB’s?”

  • 46 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  “Yeah, I’m cool,” I answered her over my shoulder. “Do you want to catch the afternoon show?” Not that I knew who was playing or anything—I’d never been to CBGB’s before—I was just being, well, you know, cool. Besides, I might never have been there before, but I knew where it was, who some of the most famous musicians to come out of there were, and, especially, that they had two shows just about every Sunday, and most of them were “all ages permitted.” Even more importantly, I’d been dying to go for the longest time.

  “DeÞ nitely!” she answered enthusiastically, “if we catch the twelve o’clock boat—”

  “Hey there, wait a second!” Joey interrupted and stopped in his tracks to protest. “You already went out to the Village today. I thought we’d hang out together tomorrow!” Joey looked perplexed, annoyed, and something else I couldn’t deÞ ne underneath the streetlight. His hair, always so very light colored, shone white, and his face was so very pale, except for his lips, which he held closed tightly, so tightly that they thinned and the very edges of them were almost purple.

  “We hung out together today, Joey,” I explained. “No more than two dates a month, remember?” He opened his mouth to speak, but I held up a hand to forestall him. “No, really, I meant that when I Þ rst told you, and I still mean it. I like to hang out with my friends. I hung out with you today. Tomorrow, I’m hanging out with Kerry. It’s my time.” Jack and Kerry decided to give us a little space and dropped farther behind us, murmuring to each other, maybe even having the same conversation (I never did ask, and so I never knew). Or they could have been just making out.

  As the homeward walk resumed, Joey ran a hand through his hair. “But I just miss you,” he tried again. “We don’t spend a lot of time together. You really would rather spend time with her than with me? You just spent the whole day with her.” His mouth twisted with incredulity and something else, and whatever that was, I didn’t like it.

  In fact, not only was I starting to get a little annoyed, I remembered the bullshit with Robbie, and I was going from a little annoyed to a little angry. But now wasn’t the time to discuss it. I would deÞ nitely bring it up in the future though, privately.

  I inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Joey, today was our date—a double date, yeah, but a date, ” I explained patiently. “You meet me every other day, if not almost every day, outside of Universe and study with me just as much. You eat dinner at my house so often my parents are starting to

  • 47 •

  JD GLASS

  think you’re one of their kids. I think they’re waiting to give me your hand-me-down jeans! I don’t get to see my friends a lot, and they’re important to me, too.”

  Joey watched my eyes intently as I spoke, and I touched his arm lightly to reassure him. “Besides, you want me to be a well-rounded, healthy individual, don’t you?” I smiled up at him, wanting to take some of the sting out of what I’d said.

  Joey dropped his head and sighed. “Okay, you’re right, I’m sorry.

  But…” and he raised his head to look into my eyes, “you’ll call me tomorrow, when you get home, I mean?”
>
  “Sure.” I grinned up at him, all annoyance temporarily gone. “And I’ll actually have stuff to tell you about.” We stopped walking; we’d Þ nally arrived at the corner of the block I lived on, right in front of my house. I looked up at the light that shone out from the second-ß oor window, the windows of my parents’ room.

  This meant they were waiting for me, probably watching the clock.

  Well, another end to another day, I thought as I climbed the three steps of the front stoop, then turned to face Joey, who had stayed on the sidewalk. Ironically, this was one of the few times we were ever actually physically eye to eye. “Hey, have a good night!” I smiled and leaned in to give him a quick kiss, but Joey had slightly different plans.

  The kiss he gave me almost swallowed me whole, and I could barely breathe, not out of desire, but out of sheer suffocation. How could such a small, delicate face have such a large mouth? I asked myself as I desperately tried to not smother.

  “Yo, Joey, you trying to eat her face? I think your girl is turning blue!” joked Kerry from the street corner where she and Jack stood.

  “Yeah, dude, it’s like watching the Holland Tunnel come to life!” Jack added.

  Joey broke off his devouring kiss. “You’ll call me tomorrow?” he asked a bit anxiously, searching my face.

  “As soon as I get in.”

  “Okay then.” Joey smiled at me and gave me a kiss on the cheek.

  He was happy, so very happy, that I was going to call. I felt a little bad about being angry with him before. He was just so, so kidlike, I guess.

  In fact, I felt like I was watching a kid who’d been promised ice cream as he bounced down the walk to the sidewalk where Kerry and Jack waited.

  • 48 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  “G’night guys!” I called over to them and waved. “Magpie, whoever gets up Þ rst calls, ’kay?”

  “Hey, no problema, Hopeful!” she called back, “g’night!”

  “Night, Jack, Joey!” I called out again, and waved some more.

  “G’night, Nina!” they both called back, and with that, I opened the door and went inside.

  What happened after this point isn’t too important, except maybe this. I went up to my parents’ room where they watched television and waited for me, and a quick glance at the cable clock told me I was home with a whole half an hour to spare. Not bad, really. I wasn’t in trouble, and since I was early, there’d be a good chance I’d be able to go out the next time I asked to—like tomorrow.

  My parents did the normal mom-and-dad thing and asked me all about my day, so I truthfully told them everything—well, except for the part about the date switching and especially not about that weird “this-is-gonna-happen” thing that didn’t by the train tracks. I had the funny feeling that they wouldn’t have been very happy with that. It wouldn’t be too long before I learned how right that suspicion was.

  I kissed them each good night, and as I went through the door, I stopped. It was time for the big question. “Hey, Mom?” I turned and asked her, “I um, I was kinda hoping to go to CBGB’s tomorrow with Kerry. Is that okay?”

  “Kerry again?” my father grunted from his side of the bed. “I don’t like that kid. She’s a lowlife punk,” and he picked up a book off his nightstand to read.

  “Honey,” my mother murmured chastisingly to him and laid a calming hand on his forearm. “Sure, baby, if you’re going to be home before six.” She turned away from my father to face me. “Are you meeting or going with anyone else—Joey or Jack or anyone?”

  “No, Mom, just us,” I answered, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

  “Harrumph,” grunted my father, never taking his eyes off his page,

  “Joey’s a Nazi, Jack’s a ß ake, probably a fag, probably both fags. Both useless. Should’ve been drowned at birth…” He trailed off, immersed in the depths of his book.

  It was uncanny. It was almost like he knew about the game we’d all played and freaked me out a little, well, maybe more than a little.

  But still, Joey and Jack had been very clear. It was just a game, a little

  • 49 •

  JD GLASS

  make-believe, a little horsing around among friends. Which meant my dad was wrong.

  With that in mind, my mom and I shared a look; then, taking a deep breath and squaring myself in the door frame, I asked, “Why, Dad? For being useless or for being”—my mouth went dry and I swallowed—

  “faggots?”

  Dad snapped his head up from the book with a shocked look on his face, either surprised that he’d spoken aloud or, more likely, that I’d questioned him. “What?” he asked sharply.

  Now, maybe a smarter person would’ve said nothing, and maybe a better person would have let it go, but to be truly punk is to stand up for your ideals and do the right thing, no matter what. In other words, open your mouth, question authority, and take the consequences that come your way, no matter what they are. “Should they have been drowned at birth for being useless, for being faggots”—I took a breath and folded my arms over my chest to pretend a calm I didn’t feel—“or both?” I watched him stonily.

  Did he know how close he was to maybe talking about me? If that was me, would he have wished me drowned at birth, too? I had to know.

  My father put his book down and sat up straight. For maybe half a second, I thought he’d get up and maybe actually come over and, well, let’s not get into that. My body tensed just in case, but he simply readjusted his blankets and took his glasses off.

  “Oh, I don’t care if they’re faggots,” he dismissed, “so long as I don’t have to watch ’em. What I do care about,” he said, punctuating his words with his glasses, “is that they’re useless know-it-alls.” He slipped his glasses back on, then picked his book up again and found his place. “Same as that good-for-nothing Kerry.” And with that he buried himself back in his reading, signaling that this friendly interpersonal exchange was over.

  My mom looked at me, sympathy and concern in her eyes, and I’m sure she would have come over to hug me, but I just shook my head as noncommittally as possible and shrugged.

  “Whatever,” I responded as my cheeks began to burn with the unfairness of it, “but they’re not Nazis, and they’re not useless. They’re nice people—they’re my friends.”

  Why was it that he just never got it? My father, I mean. He used to be my friend, he used to listen, really listen, and talk and share, and

  • 50 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  now, well, I don’t know, it was just different, and not in a good way. I mean, it seemed everything he said was “faggot this” and “fags that,” with the Nazi thing thrown in here and there for good measure. And he just kept picking on me, just a constant criticism of everything I did—

  like nothing I could do was ever right. I tried not to let it bother me, but it hurt, and I didn’t understand it. Well, whatever. It would probably work itself out eventually, I thought to myself. It was probably some weird midlife phase or something he was going through.

  I turned back to my mother again and asked, “So, is it okay, Mom?

  Tomorrow, I mean?”

  “Sure, honey, just be back by six, okay?” She smiled at me, a little sadly, I thought. It seemed she’d been doing a lot of that lately.

  Yes! This was great. Houston, we’re a go for countdown! “Thanks, Mom, Dad,” I said. “Good night.” I went over and gave my mom a big hug, which she returned, then made my way to my room.

  “How do you expect her to Þ nd a real boyfriend if you keep talking about them like that? How is she supposed to have friends?” I heard my mom ask my dad as I walked down the hallway.

  “Damn kid has got to learn, hon, there are idiots in this world.

  Don’t want her to become a lowlife street punk faggot,” he answered decisively.

  “Don’t you dare say those things about my daughter,” I heard her respond heatedly. I could just imagine her expression, the
hand up in the air demanding silence, the tight twist to her lips. Dad must have wisely decided to drop it at that point, because the rest of their conversation faded to soft murmuring. Me, though, I stood stock-still, perhaps even a bit frozen at the door to my bedroom, the happy feeling I’d had momentarily before completely gone. Instead, my stomach clenched and a sour taste built in my mouth. I thought of going back to their room and almost turned around. But I’d already said what was on my mind earlier. What would be the point if I went back now? He wouldn’t listen, anyway.

  Fuck it. I went to sleep.

  • 51 •

  • 52 •

  PUNK LIKE ME

  CHAPTER SIX:

  WEIRD SCIENCE

  The morning dawned as another unusually warm November day, and Kerry called me Þ rst thing in the A.M., just as I was stepping out of the shower.

  “It’s your punk friend!” my father called in a teasing tone from his room where he’d answered the phone.

  “Which one?” I yelled back as I toweled my head. Hey, if he wanted to play, I could play, too. Sometimes it was funny and we’d even laugh.

  “Smart-ass kid—don’t be a punk with me,” he grumbled, but I could tell it was a relatively good-natured grumble. “It’s that girl.” He emphasized the word to make sure I understood full well that even if he was in a good mood, he still disapproved of her.

  “Yeah, tell her I’ll be right there,” I called back to him as I jumped into a towel, then grabbed my clothes and ran on tiptoe feet across the hall to my parents’ room. Why does everyone do that when their feet are wet? It all drips on the ß oor anyway, and your feet still get dirty.

  “Yo,” I greeted as I grabbed the phone from the pillow where my father had left it. “You ’bout ready?” I was pulling on my favorite black jeans and struggling to keep the phone line out of my shirt as I pulled it over my head.