Sucker Punch

The CBGB's bathroom had many uses. The rooms' main purpose was the traditional release of body waste. Another was spray-painting or magic-markering a band's name atop the thousands of previous honorees of the toilet hall of fame. The inhalation of cocaine or heroin in the stalls was more popular than shooting up dope or speedballs. The smell of the urinal kept all activities short and sweet. There was no mirror in the men's room, so self-grooming was reserved for the women's room. Its state of filth reflected Hilly's acceptance of sexual equality. He thought that his clientele deserved nothing better than the worst and that grungy atmosphere suited some people's desire just fine.

After all we were punks.

One night I was at the bar. A red-haired girl in torn fishnet stocking and black plastic mini-dress asked for a JD and coke. Her hair was tousled by the wind and her mascara ruined by tears. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her billowy breasts were a 38-A. A languid gaze betrayed her dabbling with 'ludes. Our dialogue headed in one direction and after two minutes she downed her drink.

"Let's go to the bathroom."

She grabbed my hand and pulled me through the crowd. I signaled to BG behind the bar to watch my beer. The Cramps were on stage. Luxe was singing SURFING BIRD. The brunette waved to the bass player. He gave a sardonic grimace and nodded to indicate that he had been there before. As we passed the dressing room, the opening band called out her name.

"Brenda."

The redhead was popular with musicians. I didn't need to ask why. We descended to the basement and the redhead led me into the ladies room. She pushed open the door to a stall and locked it shut.

"Keep your back to it and don't let anyone in." She dropped to her knees with the grace of a ballerina auditioning for SWAN LAKE.

I was single, 25, and a punk. We lived for sex, drugs, and rock and roll. This scene most certainly answered the sex part of the equation. A minute passed with her writhing on the tiles. She pulled down the top of her dress.

"When you're ready, cum on these."

I was good at following orders.

A man stormed into the bathroom and pounded on the stall's door.

"Brenda, you in there?" Only a boyfriend sounded that angry. Brenda lifted a fingernail to her lips and stood to pull up her dress. Heaven was not to be mine this evening. She kissed me and opened the door. The man was my size and wearing a leather jacket and engineer boots. His eyes narrowed with fury.

"Brenda."

She laughed in his face.

"We were only doing drugs." She held up a packet of cocaine.

"Brenda's my girlfriend." He wasn't buying her lie.

"Then that means you're next."

Something about sex in a bathroom brought out my cockiness and I returned to the bar to get my beer. The Cramps had finished their set. The bass player winked at me. BG asked if I had a good time.

"Good enough." Another two minutes would have changed my answer. A hand tapped my right shoulder.

The gesture was a classic lead-in to a sucker punch.

I figured it to be the boyfriend.

I ducked and a fist swung over my head. It was the boyfriend. I was too close for a counter-punch, so my hands reached our to clutch at his throat. He responded with the same tactic. Within seconds we were choking each other to death. I couldn't breathe. He was in the same boat.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Brenda taking the drummer of the opening band outside. Her boyfriend noticed her exit as well. Unable to speak our eyes conveyed a call for a truce.

"You had enough?" He gasped for breath.

"Sure, you want a beer?" Neither of us were on Brenda's date list for the moment. "Why not?" He leaned on the bar regaining his breath. Guadalcanal and I became friends after that evening. We never mentioned Brenda in our conversations. She became a cabaret singer with too much style to go to the bathroom with men anymore, but at one time she wasn't bad enough.

Guadacanal and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Like I said.

We were punks.