MAYBE TOMORROW - A novel by Peter Nolan Smith Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The clouded horizon buried the autumn sun and the moonless gloom smothered the Connecticut Hills. Only the headlights of holiday traffic on the Interstate challenged the darkness. Few travelers noticed the rundown motel hidden in the woods off exit 74. Its neon sign had been out of order since the summer. A red GTO with Maine plates was parked before Room # 21. Its door was locked. Inside a kaleidoscope of TV reds, greens, and blue cascaded over the queen-sized bed. A young man and a teenage girl on the mattress watched THE BIONIC WOMAN with opposing levels of interest. Mike Valle tossed the empty beer can into the corner and the skinny brunette in the red dress asked, "When we leaving?"

"After I'm done with my beers." The tattooed mechanic lifted a can of Narragansett from the cooler. "You want one?"

She had barely sipped hers.

"One's my limit." Tammi West grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the night table. She had never been a drinker, although the thirst ran hard in her family. Both sides.

"All the more for me." Mike cracked the can with a beer key and fantasized about a night with Lindsey Wagner. The female lead of the TV show was almost as beautiful as Farah Fawcett, THE BIONIC MAN's real-life wife and # 1 on every males wish list. The girl on the bed offered no competition to either star.

Tammy's shoulder-length hair was a nonspecific brown in contrast the blonde tresses of THE BIONIC MAN's goddess. Her tomboy body was not destined for the centerfold of Playboy. None of this mattered to Mike. Her reputation as his hometown's slut trumped beauty, fame, and fortune. Mike chugged his beer. He was happy to be here and not Kittery, Maine. Away from family and friends with Tammi.

Semi-trailers on the highway sang ‘let's go'. The rising scree of empties signaled this room as their destination for the night. Tammi sat up in the bed.

"You said we were driving straight to New York."

"New York's a hellhole. What's the rush?"

"The more miles between me and Maine the better." The tobacco rasped into her lungs and harvested a cough. Smoking was a new habit. One day old. She hd found the pack in her sister's leather jacket.

"Are you scared of New York?"

"I'm not scared of anything." He had a .38 under his seat of his GTO.

"What about you?" Mike's hand slipped up Tammi's dress. "You afraid of the cops?"

"Yes, and you should be too. You crossed three state lines with a sixteen year-old girl. Somewhere in this country that's against the law." She squirmed out of his grasp and hoped that the danger of transporting a minor might register in his brain.

"Being an outlaw don't scare me." None of his fellow workers at the Kittery Navy had ever accused him of being a deep thinker and he bragged, "I've been to reform school for breaking and entering. Robbing summer cottages was an easy way to get liquor in the winter."

"I'm not looking to break any laws." Her face didn't match the one on the driver's license, which she had stolen from her stepsister. Any stop by the police meant a direct ride back to Kittery, Maine.

"Wild thing, no one's breaking any laws."

The re-run of THE BIONIC MAN paused for a commercial break. Mike hooked a finger into her strands and lowered his face to her hair. The mixture of Breck shampoo and cigarettes was a turn-on and he shut his eyes.

"We're a team. Anyone ever say you're a dead ringer for Faye Dunaway?"

"All the time."

Tammi fought from laughing out loud. The Hollywood actress dated movie stars and she was an underage runaway stuck with a loser.

"That's us. Bonnie and Clyde on the run." Mike unzipped his jeans. "I saw that movie three times. I really liked the scene of them in bed."

"I like the getaway scenes better." Tammi squirmed to the edge of the mattress,.Mike hauled her closer to him. She wasn't getting away.

"I think the hotel scene came first." His left hand flicked open her bra strap. "Bonnie didn't give Clyde a struggle."

She let him fondle her breasts. She wanted out of here. The faster this was over the better.

"You know I could drive your car, while you drink those beers."

"No teenybopper's drivin' my Goat." Mike had worked a winter of double- shifts at the Navy Yard and paid cash for the muscle machine.

"I learned to shift gears from my older sister. She has her license."

Tammi had taken to driving her stepmother's banged-up Cutlass, while the old lady had been asleep. Solo. It had been an automatic. She always brought it back unscratched, but a neighbor had snitched out joy-riding and her stepmother had tanned Tammi's backside with a belt. "You learn anything else?"

The pipe fitter toyed with her nipples.

"Yeah, never take a ride with a stranger."

"That's real funny, because we're not strangers."

"I never met you before." Kittery wasn't a big town.

"That's right, but I know you. Everyone in town does." His right hand mauled her thigh.

"What you hear?" Tammi stiffened with shame.

"Some stories about this and that."

Mike yanked down his pants without getting them farther than mid-thigh. His cock was a flaccid worm. He had drunk too many beers and two Seconals. He rose to his knees and wavered on the mattress.

"They're not true."

"Maybe not, but this afternoon I saw you walking on Tenney Hill Road in that red dress, black leather jacket, and high heel shoes. I told myself, "That's Tammi West." I stopped and asked where you were going and you said, "New York or the highway."

"I don't remember you saying anything about a motel room in the boondocks."

"This was a pit stop for beer and something else. You know what I mean?"

"Men only want one thing from a girl."

"Same thing you gave up to the football team after the Saco High game." Mike tugged off Tammi's bra.

"That story is a lie." She pushed him away with a strength born from a long- held anger. "I went to the Fort McClury with the quarterback, Brad. His friends showed up. Luckily a police cruiser entered the parking lot. The football players drove off. I walked home. Nothing happened."

"Really, well, I heard you did them all and same as this summer at that rich kid's party in York. That a lie too? You make friendly like that and we'll be leaving soon."

"So you want to meet up with that girl from the party?" Tammi couldn't deny the truth, but no one ever listened to her side of the story. She wished he shut up. He didn't.

"Yes, I do."

"We do it, you think you can get back in the car and drive like the devil to New York?"

"You put it that way and I'm Satan's chauffeur." Mike pried apart her legs.

"Then I'm yours." Tammi shut her eyes expecting a rough entry, except the pipe-fitter passed out onto the bed with a snort. She tapped his face lightly twice and once hard before slithering from under him to whisper, "Sorry Clyde, but Bonnie's moving on to better things."

Cars were on the highway. Half of them in the direction of New York. Neither the police nor her stepmother stood a chance of finding her there and come the summer a Greyhound bus would take her to California, Florida, or New Orleans, where Tammi West disappeared forever.

The teenager crept into the bathroom and gently shut the door. She put on her bra and panties, then pulled down the hem of stepsister's red dress. At least Mike hadn't ripped anything.

Tammi stood before the mirror. A quick smear of lipstick and rouge added a couple of years to her face, not that many drivers cared about the age of a teenage hitchhiker. She slinked into the bedroom and grabbed her stepsister's black leather jacket off the floor. The young girl picked up her high heels, plucked $80 from Mike's wallet, then tiptoed to the front door.

The click of the lock was too loud.

"Where you goin'?" The pipefitter demanded through a firefight of blinks.

"Out for some air." Tammi yanked at the door.

"I didn't blow off my mom's turkey for you to split on me." Mike leapt out of the bed and seized her wrist.

"I'm not splitting. I'm just going out for a smoke."

"Then why was your hand in my pants?" Mike kicked his jeans against the wall.

"I'm looking for cigarettes."

"Bullshit. The cigarettes are on the night table." Mike's fingernails painfully pierced her skin. "You're a little thief."

"No, I'm not." She tried to twist free, but Mike wasn't that drunk. "Let me go." "Not until you give me back what you took."

The naked pipe-fitter slapped Tammi's face. The back of her head slammed against the wall and the teenager shook off the stars swimming in her eyes.

"You bitch. I'm gonna teach you."

"You're not teaching me nothing."

Tammi West was no man's punching bag and she swung her high heels with all her might. The stilettos cracked into Mike's skull and his eyes fluttered like a slot machine twirling round and round to skip the cherries. A second shot dropped him to the floor. She grabbed her bag and cigarettes, then darted out of the room across the parking lot into the woods. The underbrush snatched at her legs and she lost her balance in the cold damp grass. The teenager tumbled down the embankment to the Interstate and lost a shoe in the tumble.

Tammi scrambled to her feet on the breakdown lane. The oncoming headlights overwhelmed her vision. Her stepmother had cut out scores of newspaper articles about runaway girls mutilated by highway weirdos. The local police had conducted yearly seminars warning the girls in her high school the dangers of hitchhiking. Never to the boys. She had no choice. She stuck out her thumb.

A supercharged V-8 engine roared in the motel parking lot. Someone had to stop for her and she didn't care, if her ride was a homicidal maniac as long as she was gone before the GTO got here.

A big white Olds lumbered past by a hundred feet to stop in the breakdown lane. Tammi hobbled on one shoe to the passenger door and jumped inside.

"Go, mister, go."

"Go where?" The long-haired driver examined her, as if she were a danger to herself and him.

"Anywhere, but here." Tammi slammed shut the door.

"You want me take you home?"

"Not home. Anywhere, but there too. Go." Tammi prayed that the driver in the suede jacket wasn't a stoner like most of the heads in her high school. She needed a car jockey like in THE DUKES OF HAZZARD. Someone not afraid of fast.

"Okay, I'm going already." The hippie pulled into traffic at a less than urgent speed. "A girl your age shouldn't be out here this time of night."

"I'm 18." The young driver didn't look like a pervert, but Tammi moved closer to the door.

"More like 17."

"17 or 18, I'm old enough to be here or anywhere else as long as it isn't where I was." Tammi rubbed the bruise on her face. "Where you headed, Mister?"

"New York."

"Same as me?" She couldn't believe her luck.

"You have family there?"

"I have no family there, which is why I'm going there." Tammi bit her lower lip and glanced over her shoulder. A hundred headlights filled the highway. Only one of them mattered to her.

"Shit."

The red GTO roared up to the Olds with the horn blowing.

"Who's that?"

"Mistah, I swear to God this guy will kill me, if you stop." Tammi clasped her hands together in a frantic plea. "Go faster."

"You think this piece of shit can outrun a Goat?" The driver looked over at GTO. The Olds 88 had a Rocket V-8. The GTO had a turbocharged 455. The Olds wasn't as fast as the GTO, but it outweighed the muscle car by at least five- hundred pounds. Screams through the passenger window contorted the slick-haired motörhead's face. His words lost on the wind.

"I can't read lips, but your boyfriend doesn't seem too happy about you skipping out on Thanksgiving dinner."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"He's no stranger either."

"Watch out," Tammi shrieked a warning.

The GTO's veered within an inch of driver's side and the hippie steered the Olds 88 clear of a sideswipe.

"This will knock the fight out of that asshole." The hippie reached under the seat to come up with a tire iron.

"Mister, don't stop. I'm serious about him killing me." Tammi begged the driver.

"No one's killing anyone tonight." The hippie juked the steering wheel to the left and the GTO avoided sideswiping the Olds 88. "My father always says a car is the most dangerous weapon in America, especially when the driver doesn't give a shit about his car."

"Mister, he has a gun."

The pistol pointed straight at them.

The long-haired driver slammed on the brakes and the GTO nosed ahead of the Olds. A flash of fire spurted inside the muscle car. No bullet cracked the windows and the hippie dropped the tire iron on the floor.

"You're right. We're not stopping." He clenched the steering wheel with both hands.

"What are you going to do?" She locked her fingers together not to God, but to the driver of the 88.

"Not give him a second chance to kill us." The hippie checked the road ahead and behind of the two cars. The Interstate was strangely empty. "Hold on."

The Olds swung behind the GTO and the driver stepped on the accelerator. The solid steel bumper rear-ended the muscle car and the GTO fishtailed off the highway into a copse of saplings. Tammi clapped her hands with delight. The driver pushed the Olds over 100 mph.

"Keep an eye out for the GTO." The hippie didn't break a smile.

"I don't see it." Tammi's heart beat a long drum roll in her chest.

"Good."

A road sign announced an exit a half-mile ahead. The Olds reached the off-ramp in twenty seconds and swept up the exit onto a country road.

"This isn't the highway to New York."

"We're taking the back roads to avoid your friend. It'll add an hour or more, but better than having someone shoot at us again. That okay by you, Cinderella?"

"Whatcha mean, Cinderella?"

"You're wearing a party dress with one shoe, so I think___"

"Mister, this ain't no pumpkin truck and I'm no Cinderella, but I do have a drunk stepmother and a wicked stepsister at home," Tammi snapped, and then apologized, "Sorry, mister. It's been one of those nights."

"I hope they don't happen all the time." He slowed the Olds down to a safe speed.

"Enough." She rubbed her face, nearly on the verge of tears. "You have matches, mister?"

"There might be a pack by your feet. They're not mine, so I have no idea how long they've been there."

"Old is better than none." Tammi lit a cigarette and smoked in silence, waiting for the hippie to say something. It didn't take him long.

"When I was your age, I never hit a woman." He studied the rising bruise on her cheek.

"Guys hit girls and worse all the time."

"This isn't just about the guy with the GTO. Care to tell me about it?"

"No." she sighed a cloud of smoke, then shrugged with adolescent apathy.

The driver shook his head.

"Jack Kerouac in ON THE ROAD wrote that the worst thing about hitchhiking was having to prove to the driver that it wasn't a mistake."

"You want a story, I'll tell you a story. At the Turkey Day pep rally this football jock bragged about how he and his team fucked me and cheerleaders called me a ‘slut'. I fought with the head cheerleader and won. The dean of discipline sided with the goody-two-shoes and I got suspended for two weeks. At home my stepmother and I got into a shouting match. I ran away. That guy in the GTO gave me a ride. He was wrong about my enjoying a cheap weekend in a dirty hotel and I fought him off and ran to the highway. You stopped and off we went. End of story."

Tammi's cigarette trembled in her fingers

"Fucked up Thanksgiving Day."

"You got that right, mister, one more thing. A favor."

"Such as?" The hippie cracked his window to vent the smoke. The cold air felt cold.

"No more questions." Tammi tugged the miniskirt over her knees.

"Sure, if you do me one." The driver shrugged his answer. He had heard enough.

"What?" She expected the worse. "Stop calling me mister."

"You have a problem with ‘mister'? What's wrong with that?" Tammi called every ‘mister' over twenty-one that to prevent their thinking that they were her age, because juvenile fantasies died long deaths in men.

"Mister makes me feel a thousand years old. I'm only twenty-four. You're not Cinderella and I'm not Mister. The name's Sean."

"Mine's Tammi. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to catch some sleep, Sean?"

Tammi laid her head against the cold glass. Maybe the hippie was a killer, but at this point dead sounded better than alive.

"I'll wake you in New York."

"Thanks, Sean." Tammi shut her eyes.

A few minutes later she fell asleep and the Olds 88 cruised along the dark country back roads at the legal limit of 55 MPH.

The hippie turned the radio dial without finding a station. He shut off the staticand glanced over to the girl on the front seat. She should have been home in bed, but her business was none of his and he stepped on the gas.

Ten seconds later the Olds disappeared into the shadowless night. A dog barked at its passing and then the hound went back to sleep. New York was less than a hundred miles away.

MAYBE TOMORROW - A novel by Peter Nolan Smith Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The November sun flashed off a West Village window and the wavering reflection stalked the Christopher Street pier to a lone youth tuning a battered guitar. The bleached blonde twenty year-old broke into a sly smile and the sapphire shimmer transformed the leather boy into a fallen angel regaining his halo. Nearly every mother and father in America would have ordered their children to avoid him as the complete opposite of America's Bicentennial Spirit. His skin pallor rivaled the paleness of the rising moon and no suburban mall stocked his black leather jacket, torn T-shirt, or heavy engineer boots. Most teenagers would have obeyed their parents' command, but not all of them.

The heavenly mirage disappeared with a windmill slash against the steel strings of the Les Paul. Johnny Darling shut his eyes and envisioned a small stage. Overhead lighting enveloped a drummer, bassist, and keyboard player. A teenage Lolita rasped words of love and no tomorrows in imitation of the Velvet Underground's Nico. The imagined feedback of Marshall Amps buzzed in his ears. The audience might have materialized within his eyelids, if a young boy's voice hadn't shattered Johnny's trance.

"Hey, man."

This time of night only gay bashers and leather freaks frequented the derelict Christoper Street piers and the guitarist waited for the last chords to fade beneath the subsonic range before turning to address the intruder. The Puerto Rican teenager in a distressed leather jacket was two inches shorter than Johnny and his slanted eyes hinted at a drop of Han blood in his Taino veins. Times Square johns found Frankie Domingo pretty, despite the scars crisscrossing his seventeen year- old body. Johnny thought the same.

"Thanks for letting me finish?"

"I been waiting thirty minutes." A gust blew a shank of greased hair across

Frankie's olive eyes. "That a new song?"

"Just three chords strung together." Johnny's thumb rubbed his calloused fingertips.

"Doesn't get more basic than that." Frankie rattled off a drum roll with frayed sticks.

"Got these from Jerry Nolan at Max's Kansas City last night."

"How were the Heartbreakers?" Johnny had skipped the last night's show to entertain a customer.

"Straight and the crowd loved them." Frankie hunched his shoulders with a shiver. "They got paid a $100 each. When we gonna get a band together?"

"Now I have my guitar back, we can audition for the other members."

"Great." Frankie stepped from side to side to relieve the damp seeping through his sneakers' paper-thin soles and stammered, "Johnny, you got ten dollars?"

"The pawnshop took my last fifty." Johnny slapped his guitar.

"Damn, I wish we could get out of here." Frankie moaned like a runaway in need of a dime to phone Mom for a bus ticket home. He blew on his fingers. He hated the cold.

"To go where?"

"What about Florida?" Frankie pointed to the cars on the Westside Highway overhead and glanced south, as if the Sunshine State lay beyond the New Jersey docks. "How far away is it? Five hours?"

"More like twenty-four, if you drive straight through the night."

"What about by plane?" The young Puerto Rican's teeth chattered at a 10/10 beat.

"Where we getting the money for two plane tickets?"

"We hijack a plane. Tell them to give us a million dollars like in DOG DAY AFTERNOON?" Frankie had seen that bank robbery movie five times on 42nd Street and pumped his fist in the air. "Attica, Attica."

"Aren't you forgetting how the cops shoot Pacino's friend in the head?" "Movies aren't real." Frankie had seen enough of films on 42nd Street. "DOG DAY AFTERNOON was based on a real bank robbery."

"It was?"

"Yeah, but it ended the same way. With his friend dead." The guitarist grabbed the young boy's thin arm.

"Your parents live in Florida. That sounds like a ‘happy ever' after to me. If you called them, would they wire you money to come home?"

"Yes, and tomorrow night we'll be eating my Mom's homemade apple pie." "I love apple pie." Frankie licked his lips.

"Only one problem." Johnny gestured toward Manhattan.

"Don't say what I think you're going to say."

"I'm not leaving this behind."

"Fuck this city?" Frankie spun on his heels and chucked the battered drumsticks into the river. "All I got here are hustles, an empty stomach and the smell of old man's hands on my skin, and you don't have it much better."

Johnny slipped the guitar into its case and walked toward the elevated highway. "I left Florida for the same reason you want to run away from New York."

"I hope this isn't an intro to the gypsy lady story."

"Why not? The first day I arrived here, this fortune teller in the Village read my palms. LEft for the past. Right for the future. She said my name was destined to be up in lights." Johnny stopped on the curb of West Street and turned to Frankie. "Me and you are going to make it here as rock stars."

"But not tonight." Frankie kicked an empty beer can into the gutter.

"No, not tonight." Johnny couldn't lie to his protege. "Tomorrow Max's will put on a turkey feast for us orphans."

"So tonight?" Frankie could handle anything as long as he was with Johnny.

"Tonight we go to work." The uptown light on West Street changed to green and suburb-bound cars accelerated to catch up with the synchronized signals.

"53rd and 3rd?" Frankie had had his fill of the sissies at those piano bars.

Across the street men prowled the sidewalks in search of nameless sex. There was success for all in the shadows. A few lurked between the trucks parked underneath the elevated highway. How they were celebrating the night before Thanksgiving was no mystery.

"No, tonight we're competing with midnight cowboy crowd."

"Times Square?" Frankie sighed with resignation.

"Times Square is about luck."

"Heads I win, tails you lose and never give a sucker a break."

"Exactly."

"How I look?" Johnny slung the case's strap over his shoulder and pulled up the collar of his torn leather jacket.

"Like a prince." Frankie once more blew on his numb hands. He was cold. "Where anyone from Jerome Avenue meet a prince?"

"My grandmother read fairy tales. They really have princes and princesses?"

"Real as you and me, except they were born in a palace. Not a Barrio in the Bronx or Queens." The chilled air scrapped over Johnny's right lung like a boat striking a reef and he touched his chest. His cough wasn't a cold.

"You meet one?" Frankie was oblivious to his friend's discomfort.

"Not this side of the silver screen." Johnny fought off the shakes, feeling his ‘jones' knocking on the door. "Princes and princesses are like any suckers. We meet one and what we do?"

"We take them for everything." Frankie snapped his fingers.

"And leave them begging for more." The ache faded from Johnny's chest and he draped his arm over the younger boy. "Just one more thing."

"I know what you're going to say." Their conversation tended to be scripted rituals on these occasions.

"You're going to tell me not to trust anyone."

"Trust no one is survival rule # 1 in New York." Times Square killed lots of people who broke that rule. "That means me too."

"I'm a big boy." Frankie accepted the warning, since his childhood had revealed the worst New York had to offer the young.

"Then let's head to Times Square." Johnny dashed onto West Street.

"Watch out, Johnny."

Two taxis swerved to avoid the guitarist.

"For what? I'm going to live forever," Johnny shouted from the other side of the street. Believing in anything other than his immortality was a sacrilege, at least until he reached twenty-one and that birthday was more than a year away and a year was an eternity when you were twenty.

Thanks for your support. In order to avoid ads, please donate to blogger.com.mangozeen through Venmo. Any amount will help us. I do have a large family. My Venmo account is @Peter.Smith.18

Much more to come.

First Night At CBGBs

MAYBE TOMORROW - A NOVEL

CHAPTER 1

The November sun flashed off a West Village window and the wavering reflection stalked the Christopher Street pier to a lone youth tuning a battered guitar. The blonde twenty year-old broke into a sly smile, as the sapphire shimmer transformed the leather boy into a fallen angel regaining his halo.
Nearly every mother and father in America would have ordered their children to avoid this aberration of the Bicentennial Spirit, for his skin pallor rivaled the paleness of the rising moon and no suburban mall stocked his black leather jacket, torn T-shirt, or heavy engineer boots. Most teenagers would have obeyed their parents’ command, but not all of them.
The heavenly mirage disappeared with a windmill slash against the steel strings of his Les Paul and Johnny Darling shut his eyes to envision a small stage, whose overhead lighting enveloped a drummer, bassist, and keyboard player.
A teenage Lolita rasped words of love and no tomorrows in imitation of the Velvet Underground’s Nico. The imagined feedback of Marshall Amps buzzed in his ears and the audience might have materialized within his eyelids, if a young boy’s voice hadn’t shattered Johnny’s trance.
“Hey, man.”
This time of night only gay bashers and leather freaks frequented the derelict docks and the guitarist waited for the last chords to fade beneath the subsonic range before turning to address the intruder.
The Puerto Rican teenager in a distressed leather jacket was two inches shorter than Johnny and his slanted eyes hinted the taint of Chinese blood.
Some Times Square johns found Frankie Domingo pretty, despite the scars crisscrossing his seventeen year-old body.
“Thanks for letting me finish?”
“I been waiting thirty minutes.” A gust blew a shank of greased hair across Frankie’s eyes. “That a new song?”
“Just three chords strung together.” Johnny’s thumb rubbed his calloused fingertips.
“Doesn’t get more basic than that.” Frankie rattled off a drum roll with frayed sticks.
“Got these from Jerry Nolan at Max’s Kansas City last night.”
“How were the Heartbreakers?” Johnny had skipped the last night’s show to entertain a customer.
“Great and the crowd loved them.” Frankie hunched his shoulders with a shiver.
“They got paid a $100 each. When we gonna have a band?”
“Now I have my guitar back, we can audition for the other members.”
“Great.” Frankie stepped from side to side to relieve the damp seeping through his sneakers’ paper-thin soles and stammered, “Johnny, you got ten dollars?”
“The pawnshop took my last fifty.” Johnny slapped his guitar.
“Damn, I wish we could get out of here.” Frankie moaned like a runaway in need of a dime to phone Mom for a bus ticket home.
“To go where?”
“What about Florida?” Frankie glanced south, as if the Sunshine State lay beyond the New Jersey docks. “How far away is it? Five hours?”
“More like twenty–four if you drive straight.”
“What about by plane?” The young Puerto Rican’s teeth chattered at a 10/10 beat.
“Where we getting the money for two plane tickets?”
“We could hijack a plane. Tell them to give us a million dollars like in DOG DAY AFTERNOON?” Frankie had seen that movie five times on 42nd Street and pumped his fist in the air. “Attica, Attica.”
“Aren’t you forgetting how the cops shoot Pacino’s friend in the head?”
“Movies aren’t real.” Frankie had seen enough of films on 42nd Street.
“DOG DAY AFTERNOON was based on a real bank robbery.”
“It was?”
“Yeah, it didn’t have a happy ending either.” The guitarist grabbed the young boy’s thin arm.
“Your parents live in Florida. That sounds like a ‘happy ever’ after to me. If you called them, they could wire you money to come home?”
“Yes, and tomorrow night we’d be eating my Mom’s homemade apple pie.”
“I love apple pie.” Frankie licked his lips.
“Only one problem.” Johnny gestured toward Manhattan.
“Don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”
“I’m not leaving this behind.”
“Fuck this city?” Frankie spun on his heels and chucked the battered drumsticks into the river. “All I got here are hustles, an empty stomach and the smell of old man’s hands on my skin, and you don’t have it much better.”
Johnny placed the guitar into its case and walked toward the elevated highway.
“I ran away from Florida for the same reason you want to run away from New York.”
“I hope this isn’t an intro to the gypsy lady story.”
“Why not? The first day I arrived here, this fortune teller in the Village read my palm. She said my name was destined to be up in lights.” Johnny stopped on the curb of West Street and turned to Frankie. “Me and you are going to make it here as rock stars.”
“But not tonight.” Frankie kicked an empty beer can into the gutter.
“No, not tonight.” Johnny couldn’t lie to Frankie. “Tomorrow Max’s will put on a turkey feast for us orphans.”
“What about tonight?” Frankie could handle anything as long as he was with Johnny.
“Tonight we go to work.” The uptown light on West Street was changing to green and suburb-bound cars accelerated to catch up with the synchronized signals.
“53rd and 3rd?” Frankie had had his fill of the sissies at those piano bars.
“We’re not competing with midnight cowboys tonight.”
Across the street men prowled the sidewalks in search of nameless sex. There was success for all in the shadows. A few lurked between the trucks parked underneath the elevated highway. It was no mystery how they were celebrating the night before Thanksgiving.
“Times Square then?” Frankie sighed with resignation.
“Times Square is about luck.”
“Luck being heads I win, tails you lose and never give a sucker a break.”
“You’re learn fast.”
“I try.”
“How I look?”Johnny slung the case’s strap over his shoulder and pulled up the collar of his torn leather jacket.
“Like a prince.” Frankie blew on his numb hands.
“Where anyone from Jerome Avenue meet a prince?”
“My grandmother read me fairy tales. They really have princes and princesses?”
“Real as you and me, except they were born in a palace.” The chilled air scrapped over Johnny’s right lung like a boat striking a reef and he touched his chest wishing his fingers could probe beneath his ribs.
“You meet one?” Frankie was oblivious to his friend’s discomfort.
“Not this side of the silver screen.” Johnny fought off the shakes, figuring his ‘jones’ was knocking on the door. “Princes and princesses are like any suckers. We meet one and what we do?”
“We take them for everything.” Frankie snapped his fingers.
“And leave them begging for more.” The ache faded from Johnny’s chest and he draped his arm over the younger boy. “Just one more thing.”
“I know what you’re going to say.” Their conversation were scripted rituals on these occasion.
“You’re going to tell me not to trust anyone.”
“Trust no one is survival rule # 1 in New York.” Times Square killed people who broke that rule and he turned to Frankie. “That means me too.”
“I’m a big boy.” Frankie accepted the warning, for his childhood had revealed the worst of what the New York had to offer the young.
“Then let’s head to Times Square.” Johnny dashed onto West Street.
“Watch out, Johnny.”
Two taxis swerved to avoid hitting the guitarist.
“For what? I’m going to live forever,” Johnny shouted from the other side of the street, for believing in anything other than his immortality would have been a sacrilege, at least until he reached twenty-one and that birthday was more than a year away and a year was an eternity when you were only twenty.

I wrote MAYBE TOMORROW IN 2000. I had been living in Thailand and send the manuscript to various publsihing houses and literary agents via the Thai mail. Probably twenty at $30 a shot. Manuscript, synopsis, and letter of intent. Never a reply and I stopped the process. Twenty-five yeasr later I've decided to challenge the process once more. First thre chapeter, synopsis, bio. A trimmed process. Since July I've sent MAYBE TOMORROW to more than thirty agents in the US and UK and have received two rejections and one request for the full manuscript. Keep your fingers crossed.

Maybe Tomorrow Hudson River 1976

After hours at Cisco’s Disco on 15th Street Sean had stripped off her shirt and banged a tambourine over his head. Men writhed with Babylonian excess next to the Giant Cisco Can. Men danced with Babylonian excess. Anything went in the crowded club. Caroline and he had sex in the bathroom. Men peered over the stall’s walls, urging to fuck her like a mercenary and Caroline demonstrated her versatility with a natural scorn directed at the voyeurs. It had been their night to shine amongst the stars and now the winter dawn was withering the velvet blue from a purgatorial sky and the World Trade Towers cast a lengthy shadow on the two bodies lying atop a man-made sand dune on the landfill.

A rumble of powerful engines stirred Sean from his slumber on a pile of cardboard boxes. Her fur coat shielded their body from the cold. A powerful rumble of engines coursed along the Hudson and Sean nudged the blonde heiress.

”We better leave.” They were the only people in sight.

”What for?” She embraced him with a feline whimper.

"Anyone in those buildings across the street might mistake us for murder victims.” Thousands of windows overlooked the landfill.

“And they’d be dead wrong.” Caroline closed the fur coat to provide them a warm cocoon. She seemed imprevious to the cold, as if no blood ran in her veins.

“The police might arrest us for trespassing.”

"The police are asleep this time of the morning, besides I was waiting for the slack tide. Look.” She nodded to the river.

A great ocean liner was steaming down the Hudson, flanked by two tugboats.

"One day all this will be covered by apartment buildings and you won't see this sight, unless you’re living in a luxury duplex. Have you ever been on a ocean liner?”

To read more go to this url

https://maybetomorrow1976.blogspot.com/2011/02/maybe-tomorrow-novel-by-peter-nolan_1070.html

New York Desolation - Poem November 30 1976

A last kiss through cold steel bars
Accompany your parting glance
Our worlds, met and joined
Drift away in this final act
Your steps echo off tunnel walls
Becoming your last trace
And they too vanish under the roar
Of the subway that gives you escape
In that moment I call out desperate
) You don't turn around and I leave the station
On Lexington Avenue the pre-dawn light takes your place
You go to your empty bed and sleep
Pretty boys on 53rd and 3rd greet me
Yawns say hello too
I ignore both
Dwelling in the past
Remembering long-lost seconds we shared at dawn
Once this pain would have crippled me
Today the agony makes my soul steel
I suppose if I wasn't so tired
I might even have cried
Only my soul has long been bankrupt
And the morning haze blocks out the sun
That cursed sun
It's no friend of mine
Nothing is now
Nothing but pain

MAYBE TOMORROW Chapter 5 by Peter Nolan Smith

Nightlife on Bleecker Street panned out after the Village Vanguard. Sean gazed out the taxi's window at the forlorn sidewalk grilled yellow by cruel chrome streetlights. This was how New York looked unprotected by the eyes of love and he turned to Johnny.

"Are we there yet?"

"Almost." Johnny slapped on the plastic divider. "Stop on Mulberry."

The taxi driver braked next to a scrawny tree and his two passengers got out of the Checker. Three derelicts stood around an oily fire and Sean asked suspiciously, "Why we getting out here?"

"I thought a walk would help you get a feel for the city."

Johnny paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk.

"It looks more like purgatory."

"You'll get used to it." Johnny secretively shifted the knife in the small of his back, as they passed a cluster of cardboard shacks sheltering shivering bodies.

"I won't be here long enough." Sean envied the derelicts' sleep and toyed with walking back to the hotel. It might be haunted by Cheri, but at least the bed was warm. "You said CBGBs was close."

"I was telling the truth. This is other end of Bleecker Street from where Bob Dylan performed in the Sixties and it wasn't cool then and it isn't now."

An old man in rags lurched from a shallow doorway to verify Johnny's statement and stuck out a palm roadmapped with crevices and scars.

"Got a dime to spare an old wino?"

"Sure, Pops." Johnny seered the lines of the old drunk's lost past and short future. $5 shocked the red-faced alcoholic, who gasped, "God bless you, young man."

"Have a good drunk on me."

"Bless you, young man."

The old man wobbled across the silent street into the abyss of shadows. The derelict bar on the corner of Houston and the Bowery charged twenty-five cents for a shot of bottom shelf whiskey. Its closing hours were determined by the last dollar left in the bar.

"That was a generous donation." Sean gave bums his spare change.

"I hope someone might do the same for me, if I ever that low." Johnny motioned for them to continue walking down the sidewalk.

"You have a long way before you reach the bottom."

"A car hits me and I'm an old man before my time." Johnny had witnessed the city’s mercilessness too many times to believe in the survival of the fittest.

"I’m lucky with cars."

Sean reflected on the old superstition that bad luck comes in threes. The car chase had been the first, Cheri's desertion had to be # 2 number one and meeting Johnny could well be number three.

"That's a plus for a car thief." Johnny stopped at a wide avenue. "I've been here before.” Sean declared to his own surprise.

"You been to the Bowery before?" No one accidentally visited on a boulevard renowned for its flophouses, drunks, and broken dreams.

"I came with my family to New York in the early Sixties."

"Families don't come to the Bowery."

"We were coming from the Statue of Liberty."

His father had also taken them to the Empire State Building, the Rockettes, a steak dinner at Tad's, and St. Patrick's Cathedral. "We were driving back to the hotel and I saw a man lying in the street and asked my father, if he was dead. He said that the man was a Bowery drunk."

"Those old boozers are tougher than an old dog's paws and so are punks."

Johnny nodded across the avenue to the leather-jacketed crowd underneath a white awning emblazoned with the letters CBGBs. The Palace Hotel next door was a close relative to the Terminal Hotel and Sean glared at his new acquaintance with a twinge of disappointment.

"This is it?"

"What's outside has nothing to do with what's inside. This is punk's opera house."

"Like La Scala."

"You ever been to Milan?" Its opera house was world-famous."

"I've never been to Europe, but so what?"

The hippie's disapproval intensified Johnny's impatience to rip him off and he leapt off the curb to dart through a surge of speeding cars and taxis.

"Last one across the street buys the first round."

A rattling Checker bore down on Johnny and Sean braced for the soft crunch of steel into a body, except the thin blonde gracefully vaulted across the hood onto the traffic island and dodged two newspaper trucks to safely reach the opposite sidewalk, where he shouted, "I'll take a Wild Turkey."

Johnny had challenged death twice in two seconds, but Sean's mother had cautioned him to walk the other way from any menace to life and limb. He would still be living in the suburbs, if he had followed her instructions, so crossed the Bowery to find Johnny arguing with two men carrying guitars.

"You use the drugs, you have to pay."

"I owe you nuttin'," sniveled a crow-haired guitarist, resembling Keith Richard, if the lead guitarist had died instead of Brian Jones.

His pointy rat boots, straight-legged black Levi's, a stained tuxedo jacket, and a skinny tie knotted loosely on the collar of a rumpled shirt were the fashionable antithesis to Sean's Frye boots and plaid shirt. The loiterers on the sidewalk were similarly attired in leather jackets or narrow lapel jackets. Sean felt out of place and even more so after Johnny seized the zombie's guitar.

"Where's my $50."

"Hey, I gotta be at Max's in thirty minutes." The rocker feebly wrestled for the guitar and Johnny shoved him into a pile of garbage.

"Give me the money and I'll give you the guitar."

The onlookers hooted, as if this was a long-running sit-com, and the rocker offered shrilly, "I'll give you the fifty at Max's."

"Wait in line with the other twenty junkies you stiffed today? Fifty or no guitar."

"Okay, okay." The skeletal musician forfeited a crumble of bills. "Now gimme my guitar."

"Been a pleasure doing business." Johnny released the guitar and the junkie rocker rambled up the Bowery. The thin blonde pocketed the cash and turned to Sean. "This ain't Kansas or the Emerald City. Trusting no one's the first rule of this city and the second is always obey the first."

A taxi stopped at the curb and the back door opened for a bleached blonde in a miniskirt, ripped fishnet stockings, and gleaming black high heels straight out of fetish stroke book.

Glowering on the sidewalk the milk-white dominatrix sneered with crooked teeth, "You have a problem with your eyes, caveman?"

Sean stammered, "I haven't seen anyone dress like you before."

"You sayin' I'm a whore?" She flashed sharp fingernails at Sean’s face.

"Sheila, this is my country bumpkin cousin, so cut him some slack." Johnny stepped between them.

"This is really related to you?" The blonde's laugh sounded like her first of the night.

"Can't you see the resemblance, Sheila?" Johnny leaned over to Sean’s face.

"I get it. You're country cousins." The blonde dominatrix blew the bewildered hippie a kiss and entered the club with a sadistic swagger. When the door shut, Sean asked, "Why she dress so slutty, if she isn't asking me to look?"

"The girls at CBGBs wear trampy clothing, because they are whores or strippers, who might break your teeth or ask you home for a fuck. I'll let find out for yourself which is worse." Johnny opened the thick door and Sean's eardrums buckled under a subsonic boom. The last band he had heard this loud was Blue Cheer and his guide shouted, "Now hold onto your wig. No more Abba. No more Bread. No more Boz Scaggs. This is the world of tomorrow today."

The pure power on the stage drew Sean forward and a stringy-haired giant in a yellow construction helmet halted his progress with a meaty hand. "Five dollars."

Sean dropped $5 before the bearded man at a desk and beelined for the front of the club, where four men in black leather jackets, torn blue jeans, sneakers, and scraggly hair performed a blindingly fast version of CALIFORNIA SUN.

The singer resembling a wigged mantis yelled indecipherable lyrics to the frenzied audience. Each song raced to its end in less than two minutes and Sean unconditionally joined the crowd's bopping worship of the hard-driving quartet. When the band had exhausted the audience's energy, the longhaired gnome announced their encore, "PT boat on the way to Havana."

The heaving mob surged forward and he asked a mulatto teenager with a safety pin stuck in his cheek,

"What's the name of this band?"

"The Ramones." The pimply kid rolled his eyes at Sean's ignorance.

He had never heard of them, but judging from the number of people emulating the band's get-up, this band had existed for several years.

A minute later the Ramones finished their encore and the jukebox blared a song about Chinese Rocks. Most of the audience surged to a narrow hallway behind the stage and Sean fought his way to the bar, where Johnny handed him a long-necked Bud. He drained the bottle in three gulps and ordered a Wild Turkey from a redheaded bartender wearing a skimpy tube top. After downing the shot he called for another round.

"So how great is this place?" Johnny was pleased by the wad of bills in the hippie’s hand.

"I don't know about the place, but the Ramones reminded me of these bands; the Remains, and the Ramrods." Sean had always been puzzled by the Surf Nantasket bands' failure, while Three Dog Night crammed the Top Ten with covers. "They were sort of like the Ramones."

"I know the Rockin' Ramrods. They had this great song about the wind." Johnny preferred MR. WIND to their modest hit BRIGHT LIT BLUE SKIES. "Punk is the bastard son of Garage Rock."

"The Ramones play here much?" The alcohol boiled in his empty stomach.

"Ever since this band Television convinced the owner to change the format from country and bluegrass on Sunday nights. They lied about performing original Bluegrass music, but drew about fifty people paying a buck and this record producer named Marty Thau talked the owner into letting other local bands playing at the bar. Soon you had Patti Smith, the Heartbreakers, Richard Hell, the Dictators, the Shirts, dBs, and Mink DeVille. Max's Kansas City joined the act and over in England there's the Damned, Clash, Stranglers, and Sex Pistols. LA and Frisco are starting scenes. France has Plastic Bertrand. Course the radio won't air punk, because the record companies force the kids to listen to shit."

"Like Foreigner and Yes." The Ramrods had failed for the same reason. "On the way here the radio played only one real song."

"No, ROADRUNNER."

"The Modern Lovers?" Johnny nodded to a chubby bearded man from Satellite Records. Nick Arcc was a piece of work, but was also well connected with a number of record labels.

"I saw them play on the Cambridge Commons."

"Who else you see?"

Two teenage girls in pink polyester dresses interrupted his reply by kissing Johnny and the younger squealed with delight "We loved you in THE MAN WHO FELL TO EARTH. Can we have your autograph?"

"Sure, darling." Johnny faked an English accent and scrawled a name on a paper napkin. The two girls swooned away and he explained, "They mistook me for David Bowie and who am I to destroy the illusion? You've heard of David Bowie, right?"

"Sure."

"So you still in a hurry to leave town?" Johnny sipped at his whiskey.

"I might hang around a little longer." Sean's eyes followed the sashay of a wild-maned blonde in a rubber dress and Johnny warned, "Heel, boy, that's Dove tonight. Tomorrow morning he's Dave."

"She walks like a woman and talks like a man, Lola, La-La-La-Lola." Sean quoted the infamous Kinks song, rubbing his forehead. The graffiti-marred mural on the opposite wall was wavering into a fuzzy abstract painting and his tongue had been thickened with glue.

"Are you alright?" Johnny asked with a grin, for the two Quaaludes in the hippie's first drinks were hitting home.

"I'm fine." Sean couldn't feel his fingers. "The MC5 played at my high school and so did the Stooges. I saw the New York Dolls in Cambridge. They were junkies.”

"Something wrong with that?"

"They tend to fall off the stage." Sean wavered against the bar and Johnny asked with mock interest,

"You play in a band before?"

"Me and my friends had a band." The Hung had three gigs in the summer of 1968. Their final show had touched off a riot and his subsequent arrest had terminated his rock star career. "I was the bass."

"Really?" The hippie was filled with surprises.

"I'm as good as anyone on that stage tonight." Sean's hands clustered into a Joe Cocker cramp over an imaginary bass and several girls in beehives giggled at the drunken hippie fingering the air bass. "Man, I'm feeling a little weird."

"You need air." Johnny steered him from the club, as giant doorman in a yellow work helmet shouted, "You don't have to go home, but you can't stay here."

"What'd you do to me?" His brain was disintegrating into cold mush and Sean staggered through the front door.

"Nothing."

"You drugged me." Sean reached for the lapels of the leather jacket. A sharp point punctured his index finger and he yelped in pain.

"Stay still." Johnny warned, gingerly extricating a hook from the hippie's skin.

"Damn." Sean sucked at the pinpoint puncture.

"An English trick. You sew fishing hooks under your collar to prevent anyone grabbing you for a head butt." Johnny peeled down his collar. "You should be thankful I filed off the barbs."

"Try any other secret weapons and I'll kill you." The threat sloshed out of Sean.

"Calm down, I have nothing up my sleeve." The alley behind CBGB's was the ideal setting to rob the hippie. Johnny started for 1st Street, but was blocked by the junkie guitarist and three New Jersey bikers, who rarely visited CBGBs in compliance with the 3rd Street Hell's Angels unwritten ban on competing gangs entering their auxiliary clubhouse.

"Where you headed, queer boy?" The biggest biker with clenched fist blocked the sidewalk.

"I haven't the time for this crap." Johnny tried to sidestep him and the biker shoved him. "Why not, fairy boy? Got a hot date?"

"With someone a little more handsome than you." Johnny's hand sought his shank. Sean stepped in front of him and shouted at the bikers, "Piss off?"

"Piss off?" the smaller biker demanded in disbelief.

"You deaf or stupid?" Blank anger was clearing the fog in his head. "Or both?"

"Listen to this granola hippie." The biggest biker poked Sean’s chest, figuring his size and weight lopsided any altercation in his favor. "You should have stayed on the commune. You people______"

"You people?" Sean belonged to no group.

"Go suck yogurt, hippie boy." The biker shoved Sean against the wall, "What are you going to do, you piece of shit?"

Sean had fought the Boston Police at anti-war demonstrations. Billyclubs versus baseball bats and he responded to the biker's challenge with a left jab squarely to the nose, shattering the cartilage.

The biker cupped his nostrils to stem the bleeding.

Sean followed up with a knee to the groin.

The biker collapsed onto the sidewalk and Sean confronted his startled friends, "You also asking for it, cause I'm dealing it out."

"We're leaving."

The bikers lifted their fallen friend to his feet. The junkie guitarist had disappeared into the night.

The fight was over for Sean, until the biker mumbled, "I'll be getting you for this."
p>Red Halley lived in his hometown’s dump. The Korea war veteran had boxed in the ring and fought on every street in Boston. Sean sometimes gave him money for Thunderbird.

Red Halley paid back the donations with pugilistic advice and had one time said that if a man says he's out for revenge, you might as well hit them before he gets a chance to come back and get you, so Sean buried his foot into the bigger man's stomach.

"Enough is enough." Johnny restrained Sean from sending the biker to Bellevue Hospital. As the bikers vanished onto 2nd Street, Johnny clapped the hippie's back. "You're more a fighter than a lover."

"You drugged me." Sean slapped away his hand.

"It's just the drink," Johnny protested to deaf ears, as the Quaaludes toppled the hippie against a pole. He hailed a passing Checker and poured his defenseless victim in the back, telling the driver their destination. "West Street."

On the ride over to the West Village he rummaged through the unconscious hippie's pockets, twice counting the money, twice putting it back. Frustrated by his conscience"s untimely arrival, Johnny punched Sean's arm. "Arise and shine, flower boy."

"Huh."

The hippie had to improve on that response, since the conclusion of his evening depended on his answering three questions and Johnny asked, "Beatles or Rolling Stones?"

"The Stones." The Lynn Police had stopped the 1966 Rolling Stones concert at Manning Bowl with teargas. The horde of screaming girls had scared the riot squad and the Beatles were too cute for be trouble, plus his mother loved ELEANOR RIGBY.

"Doors or Velvet Underground?"

"And it was allllllright?" Sean recalled Tammi's comment about the Doors and sang off-key.

The hippie was bound to fail the clincher and Johnny asked, "David Bowie or T-Rex?"

"Bang a gong." The dead were easier to deify than the living and Johnny sighed, "Was that a guess?"

There was no answer, because Sean's gaze was fixed on a distant blankness and his head lopped forward like someone had slice his spinal cord. He wasn't a pretty sight, but then it never was when the final destination for the night was oblivion.

To read the rest of MAYBE TOMORROW, please purchase on Kindle Amazon for $6.99 at the following URL http://www.amazon.com/MAYBE-TOMORROW-Peter-Nolan-Smith-ebook/dp/B00HYEMNM8 I promise you a good ride.

The Ramones - California Sun 1976

I was walking down the Bowery in 1976. I heard a band playing a breakneck version of CALIFORNIA SUN from inside a white-stuccoed bar. I walked inside, paid my admission, and walked to the stage, mesmerized by the leather-jacketed quartet. In less than a minute I was hooked by the Ramones and still am to this day.

Photo by Roberta Bayley

To hear CALIFORNIA SUN, please go to the following URL

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjCa8i5JDF4&feature=kp

MAYBE TOMORROW on Kindle

Several years ago I went to a Nan Goldin show at the Whitney Museum with a Park Avenue divorcee. Claudia came from a good Philadelphia famiily and the black and white photos were a shock to her upper-class sensibilities. "These people look so tragic." Her assessment of Nan Goldin's subjects was true, but I knew many of people in the photos and said, "It wasn't like that. Back then." And like that I wrote MAYBE TOMORROW a novel set in 1976 about a gay hustler, a teenage runaway, and a car thief, who form a punk band to rip off a rich kid, only to fail because they succeed musically for one night. There are few novels about punk and MAYBE TOMORROW is based on true stories from my life and those of my friends from CBGBs, Max's, and the Lower East Side. They live on in MAYBE TOMORROW. CHAPTER ONE

The November sun flashed off a West Village window. The wavering reflection stalked the Christopher Street pier to a lone youth tuning a battered guitar. The twenty year-old broke into a sly smile, as the sapphire shimmer transformed the blonde leather boy into a fallen angel regaining his halo.

Nearly every mother and father in America would have ordered their children to avoid this aberration of the Bicentennial Spirit.

His skin pallor rivaled the paleness of the rising moon and no suburban mall stocked his black leather jacket, torn T-shirt, or heavy engineer boots.

Most teenagers would have obeyed their parents’ command, but not all of them.

The heavenly mirage disappeared with a windmill slash against the steel strings of his Les Paul and

Johnny Darling shut his eyes to envision a small stage. The overhead lighting enveloped a drummer, bassist, and keyboard player. A teenage Lolita rasped words of love and no tomorrows in imitation of the Velvet Underground’s Nico. The imagined feedback of Marshall Amps buzzed in his ears and the audience almost materialized within his eyelids.

“Hey, man.”

A young boy’s voice shattered Johnny’s trance.

This time of night only gay bashers and leather freaks frequented the derelict docks. The guitarist waited for the last chords to fade beneath the subsonic range before turning to address the intruder.

The intruder was Frankie.

The Puerto Rican teenager in a distressed leather jacket was two inches shorter than Johnny and his slanted eyes hinted the taint of Chinese blood.

Some Times Square johns found Frankie Domingo pretty, despite the scars crisscrossing his seventeen year-old body.

“Thanks for letting me finish?”

“I been waiting thirty minutes.”

A gust of wind blew a shank of greased hair across Frankie’s face.

“That a new song?”

“Just three chords strung together.” Johnny thumbed his calloused fingertips.

“Doesn’t get more basic than that.” Frankie rattled off a drum roll with frayed sticks. “Got these from

Jerry Nolan at Max’s Kansas City last night.”

“How were the Heartbreakers?” Johnny had skipped the last night’s show to entertain a customer.

“Great and the crowd loved them.” Frankie hunched his shoulders with a shiver.

“They got paid a $100 each. When we gonna have a band?”
“Now I have my guitar back, we can audition for the other members.”

“Great.” Frankie stepped from side to side. A cold damp seeped through his sneakers’ paper-thin soles and he stammered, “Johnny, you got ten dollars?”

“The pawnshop took my last fifty.” Johnny slapped his guitar.

“Damn, I wish we could get out of here.” Frankie moaned like a runaway in need of a dime to phone home.

“To go where?”

“What about Florida?” Frankie glanced south, as if the Sunshine State lay beyond the New Jersey docks.

“How far away is it? Five hours?”

“More like twenty–four by car.”

“What about by plane?” The young Puerto Rican’s teeth chattered at a 10/10 beat.

“Where we getting the money for two plane tickets?”

“We could hijack a plane. Tell them to give us a million dollars like in DOG DAY AFTERNOON?” Frankie had seen that movie five times on 42nd Street and pumped his fist in the air. “Attica, Attica.”

“Aren’t you forgetting how the cops shot Pacino’s friend in the head?”

“Movies aren’t real.” Frankie had seen enough of films on 42nd Street.

“DOG DAY AFTERNOON was based on a real bank robbery.”


“It was?”

“Yeah, it didn’t have a happy ending either.” The guitarist grabbed the young boy’s thin arm.

“Your parents live in Florida. That sounds like a ‘happy ever’ after to me. If you called them, they might wire you money to come home?”

“Yes, and tomorrow night we’d be eating my Mom’s homemade apple pie.”

“I love apple pie.” Frankie licked his lips.


“Only one problem.” Johnny gestured toward Manhattan.


“Don’t say what I think you’re going to say.”

“I’m not leaving this behind.”

“Fuck this city?” Frankie spun on his heels and chucked the battered drumsticks into the river. “All I got here are hustles, an empty stomach and the smell of old man’s hands on my skin, and you don’t have it much better.”

Johnny placed the guitar into its case and walked toward the elevated highway.

“I ran away from Florida for the same reason you want to run away from New York.” Johnny stopped on the curb of West Street and turned to Frankie. “Me and you are going to make it here as rock stars.”

“But not tonight.” Frankie kicked an empty beer can into the gutter.

“No, not tonight.” Johnny couldn’t lie to Frankie. “Tomorrow Max’s will put on a turkey feast for us orphans.”

“What about tonight?” Frankie could handle anything as long as he was with Johnny.

“Tonight we go to work.” The uptown light on West Street was changing to green and suburb-bound cars accelerated to catch up with the synchronized signals.

“53rd and 3rd?” Frankie had had his fill of the sissies at those piano bars. “We’re not competing with midnight cowboys tonight.”

Across the street men prowled the sidewalks in search of nameless sex. A few lurked between the trucks parked underneath the elevated highway. How they were celebrating the night before Thanksgiving was no mystery.

“Times Square then?” Frankie sighed with resignation.

“It’s all about luck.”

“Luck being heads I win, tails you lose and never give a sucker a break.”

“You’re learning fast.”

“I try.”

“How I look?” Johnny slung the case’s strap over his shoulder and pulled up the collar of his torn leather jacket.

“Like a prince.” Frankie blew on his numb hands.

“Where anyone from Jerome Avenue meet a prince?”

“My grandmother read me fairy tales. They really have princes and princesses?”

“Real as you and me, except they were born in a palace.” The chilled air scrapped over Johnny’s right lung like a boat striking a reef.

“You meet one?” Frankie was oblivious to his friend’s discomfort.

“Not this side of the silver screen.” Johnny fought off the shakes, figuring his ‘jones’ was knocking on the door. “Princes and princesses are like any suckers. We meet one and what we do?”

“We take them for everything.” Frankie snapped his fingers.

“And leave them begging for more.” The ache faded from Johnny’s chest and he draped his arm over the younger boy. “Just one more thing.”

“I know what you’re going to say.”

“You’re going to tell me not to trust anyone.”

“Trust no one is survival rule # 1 in New York.” Times Square killed people who broke that rule and he turned to Frankie. “That means me too.”

“I’m a big boy.” Frankie accepted the warning, for his childhood had revealed the worst of what the New York had to offer the young.

“Then let’s head uptown.” Johnny dashed onto West Street. “Watch out, Johnny.”
Two taxis swerved to avoid hitting the guitarist.

“For what? I’m going to live forever,” Johnny shouted from the other side of the street, for believing in anything other than his immortality would have been a sacrilege, at least until he reached twenty-one and that birthday was more than a year away and a year was an eternity when you were only twenty. TO READ MORE OF MAYBE TOMORROW ON KINDLE BOOKS, PLEASE GO TO THE FOLLOWING URL http://www.amazon.com/MAYBE-TOMORROW-Peter-Nolan-Smith-ebook/dp/B00HYEMNM8 $6.99 isn't much for a time machine ride to 1976.

THE DARK SWARM by Andrix

Music from Andrix

Words from MAYBE TOMORROW

Please go to the following URL

http://andrix.bandcamp.com/track/the-dark-swarm

Da Bronx Then

When the Bronx was Da Bronx.

1976.

The birthplace of Rap.

A neighbor has a photo of two boys playing basketball with a tenement on fire in the near background.

That's the way it was.

The Ruins Back Then

When the Bronx was Da Bronx. 1976. The birthplace of Rap. A neighbor has a photo of two boys playing basketball with a tenement on fire in the near background. That's the way it was.

Letter To A Legend

mr. cecil taylor I was walking down the street the other day and found myself engaged in conversation with the construction foreman renovating the house next to yours. Having worked in metal we spoke about scrapping rust from the ironwork on the stoop as well as our health. Both of us are in our early 60s and still work blue collar jobs. I live on South Oxford between Lafayette and DeKalb and we discussed property prices. I told him that in 1976 I had lived over of Berkeley Place. We rued not having the funds to purchase a house back in those days and he mentioned that a pianist was living next to the construction site. “Cecil Taylor. He plays jazz.” “I’ve heard the name.” I didn’t say much else, but I’m writing this letter because I had met you back in 1976-77 through James Spicer. I had shared that apartment on Berkeley Place with the silver-haired impresario until a friend of mine from the Gaslight Pub robbed too many banks one weekend. I found less unsettling digs in the East Village, but remained in contact with James. One night in 1978 I received a phone call from NYU. James was very sick. I sat with him for hours, singing songs. The doctors had no idea why he was dying from pneumonia. He wasn’t scared, except at the dawn, then he calmed down as I whistled FAVORITE THINGS. Probably off tune. I recall you being a big Knicks fans. I came from Boston. I’m still a Celtics fan, but I have a nice Knicks bag for you. Good for carrying sheet music. Last time I saw you play was at the Ocean Club. Please get in touch, otherwise you can find me at Frank’s Lounge and ask for Pete the Boston white guy’. They know who that is. Peace Peter Nolan Smith 347-822-7001 ps listening to "Imagine the Sound" I finally get it. To view IMAGINE THE SOUND, please go to the following URL http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cP5L8tjnB6w

You Bet I Would - Blondie @ Coney Island

MAYBE TOMORROW - A novel by Peter Nolan Smith Chapter 6

Sean woke to a throbbing headache, swollen knuckles, and a delirious argument about Robert Kennedy’s having contracted his brother’s death to avenge Marilyn Monroe’s murder by the FBI.

Opening his eyes, he discovered that he was naked in Cheri’s old room.

The afternoon sun was slipping below New Jersey’s low skyline across the river painting a silver glimmer on the ominous clouds’ underbelly. Most of today, which was Thanksgiving was gone and he settled into the pillow with images of last night screening in his head as a film burnt by a bulb; the Ramones, the beers, the fight outside, the chorus from T-Rex BANG-A-GONG, and then a blank coma until now, which had a simple explanation.

Johnny had drugged him at the bar.

Johnny had brought him to the hotel.

Johnny had undressed him.

In a dazed panic Sean tottered across the room to his jeans. He fumbled with his wallet, expecting the worst, except his money was still there. Relieved on his fear he collapsed on the bed, destined for another bout of unconsciousness, except a brunette in a Chinese silk bathrobe entered the room. Sean blinked to clear his eyes and croaked, "Cheri."

The thin artist smiled, as if yesterday's vanishing act had been a joke.

"I'll show you funny." Sean leapt from the bed and yanked the brunette by the hair to discover that he had ripped a wig off Johnny’s head.

Stunned by Cheri’s second disappearance, he sputtered, "C-ch-cheri____."

Sensing Sean wasn’t amused by his deception, Johnny backed away out of striking distance. "Cheri left me her clothes, but I had you fooled, right?"

The car thief responded with a punch to the wall.

A crack snaked from ceiling to floor and the shouting ceased next door. He whacked the wall with repeated rights and lefts.

”Enough already.” Johnny bearhugged the hippie, who didn’t put up much resistance, and said, “Bet you freaked your parent, teachers, psychiatrists, and girlfriends with this violent streak, even more after you told them it excited you.”

”I wasn’t that way as a kid.” Sean’s daily beatings by his 7th Grade schoolmates was a secret that he wasn’t sharing with a man disguised as his ex-lover and he shook off the guitarist. "Did you drug me?"

The truth was more convenient than Johnny’s initial impulse to lie. “I slipped two Quaaludes in your beer.”

“Why?” Last night Sean would have voluntarily downed the muscle relaxants.

“Cheri was supposed to be the lead singer in my band and you scared her off with your puppy dog love.” Johnny glanced at the hippie’s crotch. Unexpectedly aroused by the longhair’s Neanderthalism he tightened the robe’s belt around his waist and leaned against the doorjamb. “So I decided to rip you off.”

"But you didn’t?" Sean was unnerved by Johnny’s stare.

"You protected me.” Johnny’s code of ethics arose from an instinct for survival, instead of greed. “Not many people do that.”

"I would have helped anyone.” Sean pulled on his jeans and searched for his shirt.

“But you helped me.”

“I’m straight.”

“No one said you were gay.” A majority of the hustlers on 8th Avenue were heterosexual, saying they were on the game for the money, but Johnny knew better. His first sex with a male had been with an older man in the bathroom of a 42nd Street movie theater. He had been twelve. The bald man’s fellating him was more satisfying than the parish priest’s furtive groping, though not as intoxicating as his experiments with Dave. In Florida he had tried to date girls. Getting to first base had proved too much work. Men were so much more easy. They never said stop.

“I know how you people think.” Sean’s friends at Boston’s 1270 Club asserted no man was completely straight.

“Spare me the ‘you people’ bias.” Johnny favored straight men; ironworkers, sailors and firemen to gays. “Besides I’m not here to discuss sexual hang-ups. Reason #2 why I didn’t rip you off is that yesterday I met this rich kid. We formed a rock band GTH. Going To Hell. He’s the organist, I’m on guitar, and my friend, Frankie, is on the drums. Cheri was supposed to be the singer, but we’ll find another girl quick. How you like to be bass?”

"I haven't played bass in years." Sean had mastered the chords for DIRTY WATER, WIPEOUT, FEVER, HEART OF SOUL, and several garage hits in 1967 without achieving any virtuosity on the instrument.

"Most musicians on the punk scene haven’t struck a triangle in a school play.” Musicians generally regarded bassists as one step above roadies, although The JBs’ master, Fred Thomas, had unceremoniously carried James Brown to the pinnacle of Funk.“Cheri mentioned you were a poet. Maybe we can cannibalize a poem for lyrics."

“I might have one or two.” Sean’s skepticism about Johnny’s proposition was blinded by a vision of rock and roll stardom.

“Good.” Johnny baited his interest further. “Music consists of chords. Chords played at the same time and speed with other instruments. All you have to learn for punk are three-chord progressions in certain keys. No one has to be Mozart. We rehearse a month and put on a couple of showcases. I have connections in the record business and within two months, we'll sign a contract.”

"Overnight success rarely happens overnight for anyone around from the beginning.” Sean had watched Aerosmith struggle for years in a cramped apartment on Commonwealth Avenue. They would have starved if it wasn’t for the generosity of BU co-eds.

"You’re right.” The hippie wasn’t stupid, once you discounted his falling in love with Cheri. “Being in a band is hard work.”

“I’m not scared of work.” Sean had driven taxi eight hours a night to pay for college.

“So you want to be a rock and roll star?” The question had been a hit for the Byrds in 1967.

Sean hesitated for a second. This stranger had dosed him with ‘Ludes. He was gay and a possible drug addict, but this very risky long shot offered a better option than hitchhiking to LA to sleep on the beach.

"Sure, why not?" It wasn’t like Johnny was going to mickey him again.

"Then come to my room. I have a bass with your name on it." Johnny snatched his wig off the floor and Sean followed him down the hallway to room 314.

"You'll have to excuse the mess.” Johnny opened the door.

The room was slightly bigger than #301, yet was crowded to the ceiling by the hundreds of LPs and 45s precariously piled against the walls. Unmatched shoes cluttered the floor and three amps towered over the bed. A blowdown of guitars was stacked in the corner and Johnny picked up to a Fender Bass. "Play that."

"Now?" It had been over ten years since he last held a bass.

"Ain't no time like the right time,” the guitarist quoted the old Blues Project song.

"And, baby, the right time is now." Sean’s fingers crabbed over the thick strings trying to find the corresponding chords. 


“Close.” Johnny responded with encouragement.

”But not every close.” The years of neglect had erased every progression from his memory.

”Playing bass is like falling off a bike. You’ll remember it if it hurts.” Johnny plugged the guitar and bass in two small Peavey Amps, emitting matching buzzes and the thump of the bass.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough.” The guitarist reduced the volume. “My neighbors sleep late. You know the song LOUIE LOUIE?"

“Of course.” The Kingsmen’s cover of Richard Berry’s song had surprised everyone in 1964.

”Watch my fingers. These are the basslines.” Johnny strummed the four classic chords and Sean clumsily repeated AAA*/*DD*/EEEE/*DD*/AAA*/*DD*/*DD*/EEEE/*DD*.

"You weren’t lying about being in a band.” Johnny arched an eyebrow.

“All the cover bands played LOUIE LOUIE in 1968.” Sean missed the bridge and apologized for the error.

“As long as you learn from your mistakes, no problem. Now follow me.” Johnny guided the ex-hippie through the chorus, bridge, and hook. Sean followed doggedly for several minutes, appreciating the economy of Johnny’s style. "You weren’t lying about being in a band. You’re great.”

"Me and about ten thousand other lead guitarists in America, but the core of LOUIE LOUIE is the basis of punk, except it’s faster and louder and stripped down to the basics." Johnny cued a 45 on a dusty stereo. "Here’s an oldie from your hometown. DIRTY WATER.”

“The Standells weren’t from Boston.” DIRTY WATER had been the encore of that fateful pool party in 1967 and his fingers fumbled over the frets. "Sorry."

“Don’t say sorry, until you’ve done something really wrong.” Johnny recalled his own traumatic birth on guitar and strummed a chord in imitation of the Who’s Pete Townsend. "Plus you can’t get any worst, right?"

"I'm not so sure about that."

“Let me help you.” The guitarist positioned the hippie's fingers to an e-chord and started strumming his guitar fast. “We’re going to play this chord over and over again.”

“How many times?” Sean’s fingertips were red from abuse.

“You’ll when to stop.” Fifteen minutes later Sean put down the bass. His hands had reached their limit.

"That's enough for today." Johnny turned off the amps

“Great.” Sean balanced the bass against the wall and stood up to leave, even though he had nowhere to go.

"Take it with you. It’s yours."

"I can't." He wasn’t sure if he could ever play bass.

"It's not a gift. It's an apology.” It was the least he could offer for having dosed the hippie last evening.

“I’m not a musician.” Sean wanted to dip his fingers in ice.

“Trust me, you will be.” Johnny threw on a leather coat and swept a handful of coins from the table. “Wait a few minutes here, I have to call the drummer and the rich kid.”

The door shut and Sean flexed his fingers. Whatever Johnny’s game was, he was certain that the pain in his fingers would never translate into skill. If he left tomorrow morning, he could be in LA within five or six days. He was almost out the door, but caught the cover of AFTER BATHING AT BAXTER'S on the floor.

He had listened to the Jefferson Airplane’s third album a thousand times at his hometown library and reverently withdrew the vinyl disc from the sleeve. The surface was unscratched and he cued SPARE CHAYNGE on Side B. Picking up the bass he ineffectively tried to match Jack Cassady’s solo by plunking single notes on the top steel string. Johnny was right. If he practiced three or four hours a day, he would improve over time, never to perfection, but Sean decided to stick it out with GTH to achieve a long suppressed boyhood fantasy of rock and roll fame.

As Grace Slick sang the lines to COMBS IN HIS HAIR, Johnny entered the room and remarked, “I have to say this about the Airplane. They followed the very successful SURREALISTIC PILLOW with a devastatingly uncommercial LP and I respect them for freaking out the record company people by dosing the golden goose of Flower Power with LSD. How are your hands?"

"They feel like the Mafia failed to pull out my nails."

“It’ll get worst before it gets better.” Johnny smiled at the hippie’s simple humor and said, “I told you about this rich kid. We’re meeting Little Richie Rich at Max's. It was Warhol’s old hang-out and they put on a Turkey dinner for the punks.”

"Do the Underground go to Max’s?" The flame in his heart for Nico burned with eternal devotion.

"Sometimes Lou Reed shows up, but he’s more into trannies than hippies." Johnny tugged on Sean’s thatched roof of split ends. "And this is seven years too Woodstock for CBGBs."

”You think I need a haircut.” Sean recollected Cheri's calling his hair a mane. The compliment had become an insult and he touched the scraggly hair.

"More a mowing. Come with me." Johnny dragged Sean to a hallway alcove, where a beer-bellied drunk slept on a distressed Barcalounger.

"Hey, Dynamite, time to work." Johnny knocked on the doorframe.

”What the fuck?” The alcholic’s eyes were the color of ham and eggs. He focused on Johnny and groused, "Ya shoulda cum befer I drunk my wine."

Two empty Muscatel bottles lay at his feet.

”I can afford a barbershop?"

"There aren't any more 'real' barbershops and course hair salons are fine, if you want a suedehead like Danny Terrio.” Most American women loved TV’s SOLID GOLD puppy-cute disco-dancing host. The girls at CBGB’s preferred scruffy over spit and polish. "If you’re after disco, you can join ten million people wearing polyester dancing to the 110 beats per minute, otherwise I'm giving you the chance to kill that unhappy hippie beating up a car.”

"Did I look that unhappy?” He had been blinded by the rush of blood..

“Almost suicidal.” There was nothing to gain by sparing the hippie the truth. “Or murderous.”

”That bad.”

”But not as bad as that hair.” “Okay, I surrender." Sean had grown his hair to emulate the flowing locks of the Ultimate Spinach's guitarist. Not one girl in Boston had ever noticed the similarity. He sat on a three-legged stool and the puffy-faced drunk lifted a pair of shiny scissors.

“Nuttin’ to worry ‘bout, hippie boy. I usta cut hair fer da Marines."

"No buzzcuts."

“Well, it ain’t gonna just be a trim either.”

For the next five minutes Dynamite mercilessly shorn his head. Each snip strangely lightened his head, as Johnny spoke about various bands at CBGBs and Max’s; the Ramones, Television, Cramps, Dictators, Wayne County, the Mumps, the Voidoids, Heartbreakers, and their vain struggles against the power structure of radio.

“AM won’t give any punk songs a shot, despite the length of the 45s being tailor-made for their format. The Ramones are trying to release ROCAKWAY BEACH waiting for next summer, but the DJs don’t want to risk their careers on a band that also recorded I WANNA BE SEDATED, so instead the kids get SILLY LOVE SONGS and DISCO DUCK and FM is worse with the DJs pretending to be hip, but we’re going to change all that. You, me, and GTH.”

“We are?” Sean liked a good fight, but challenging th had learned teaching at South Boston High School that the st

“Congress controls the FCC, which in turn instructs the radio stations which songs to play. They even had J. Edgar Hoover investigate LOUIE LOUIE for depravity.”

“There was no ‘fuck’ in that song.” Sean had played the 45 a hundred times without hearing the infamous swear word. Millions of other teenagers had conducted their own research with similar results.

”Of course not. The reason they tried to suppress LOUIE LOUIE was that it broke the format and now regional radio stations are switching to single-format playlists, making it impossible for local bands to break nationally without a push from the record companies who aren’t interested in anything other than the steady diet of crap to placate the parents of tomorrow by spinning rock ‘classics’. Nothing new. Always HEY JUDE or STAIRWAY TO HEAVEN or worst.”

“So it’s one big plot?” Sean was hoping that Dynamite would stop soon.

“No one’s that smart, are they?”

"No one has to be smart to fool the American Public.” Dynamite lowered the scissors and slumped into the Barcalounger. “HL Mencken said that or something like it.”

"How's it look?" Sean’s head felt like another person’s skull.

"Like you were just paroled from prison, but the girls at CBs will die for you.” Johnny brushed off his new friend’s shoulders and stuck five dollars in Dynamite's top pocket. “Now for a change of wardrobes.”

“What’s wrong with these?" The Levi bell-bottoms were from Walker’s on Boylston Street.

"If you have to ask, then you might be a lose cause." Johnny led Sean to his room, where he culled a pair of black jeans and a torn t-shirt from a clump of clothing.

"Try them on. I promise I won’t peek when you’re taking off those hippie rags.”

Sean smelled the clothes. They were relatively clean and he stripped off his jeans and teeshirt.

“I don’t know about this.” The new clothing was tight enough to have been plundered from a younger sister's closet and he wished that the management of the Terminal Hotel had provided mirrors in the rooms, but it was probably for the best that their tenants never saw their reflection at this late stage of the game.

"You'll fit in at CBs just fine.” Johnny handed the ex-hippie a pair of suede black boots to complete the outfit. “You hungry?"

"A little." Pulling on the boots Sean was magically two inches taller than in his Frye boots. His mother had burned his pointy-toed Cuban heels after the Hung’s final performance in 1966.

"Like I said Max’s having a Thanksgiving dinner for punk orphans.” Johnny was changing into the same clothes as the previous evening. “It won’t have mom’s apple pie, but the food won’t kill us.”

"MY friend Red Tate used to say ‘Whatever doesn’t kill you will make you wish you were dead.”

”A wise man.” Johnny was liking the ex-hippie more than was good for a hustler. His blue eyes threatened to hurt any casual lover and Johnny warned himself that falling in love was for suckers.

"The wisest in town.” Red Tate would fit right in at the Terminal Hotel and Sean thought about home for a second. His mother would be serving dessert to his father, brothers, and sisters. A few friends were always invited to fill out the table. They had to be asking where he was and he swore to phone them later.

”Wisdom in short demand in this hotel, but you were smart to not leave New York. You have a new look, a kicking bass, and a warm place to sleep.” Johnny didn’t expect thanks for these gifts and shut off the lights. “Plus I have a proposition for you.”

”What?” He doubted that it was legal.

”I’ll tell you about it tomorrow, but for now let's go. That food won’t last forever.” Johnny pushed Sean out of the room and locked the door. It wasn’t much protection against a professional thief, but most of the residents of the Terminal Hotel were on disability and practiced honesty in everything other than lying to themselves.

They hurried down the stairs into the lobby, where Sean caught the reflection in a cracked mirror and tried to fingercomb the spikes out of his hair.

“Stop. That’s a million dollar look."

"More a million lira." Ernie shouted from his post. “In a $1 bag.”

Johnny flipped the old drunk the bird.

“One day I have to leave this shithole.”

They exited from the hotel into the icy night. A frigid wind gnawed through their clothing and Sean wished her was wearing a sweater. under his leather jacket. Johnny hailed a Chevy taxi and they jumped in the back, happy to be warm.

”Max’s in Union Square.”

”I know the spot.” The driver had a heavy foot with the gas and criticized the country with a manic intensity.

“We’re lettin’ in too many foreigners into America. One day this city won't have any American-speakin’ taxi drivers." The rant lasted for the entire ride.

"At least we won't have to listen to foreign idiots," Johnny whispered, as the taxi braked in front of the Max's.

Half-heartedly subscribing to the driver's prophecy, Sean tipped the driver a dollar before getting out of the Checker.

That was generous,” Johnny commented on the sidewalk.

I drove cab in college.” It seemed colder here than on the river with a sharp wind slipstreaming through the park. Clouds were lowering in the evneing sky. Coming from New England Sean could feel snow in the air..

”Are we going inside?” The soles of the boots were paper-thin.

”Just a second.” Johnny lingered on the sidewalk to greet three skinny girls in plastic jackets and pants. They peered over his shoulder at Sean and Johnny said, "This is Sean, our new bass.”

“You’re starting a new band?” the cutest girl asked and Johnny said, “GTH. Going to Hell’.”

“Sexy devils,” the three girls cooed with Jersey accents and the shortest girl flirted with Sean. “You speak or you the strong silent type?”

“I___” he managed to say before Dove exited from the club with a Slavic-skulled man in his twenties. The blonde was wearing a slick white leather coat and eyed the newly scalped Sean with a withering yearning.

"Appears you have another convert to the cause, Johnny. He playin' for your team?"

"No, he’s on the I-want-girls side," Johnny snapped and Dove quickly retorted, "How he’d feel about being traded to the in-between league?"

Her escort's face muddied with murder and Dove quelled his jealousy with a kiss, then entered the taxi with a wink at Sean.

"Is Dove’s friend aware she's a he?"

"Dove has this strange power to suspend men’s belief in reality with the promise of dirty weekend in a cheap hotel." Johnny hoped Dove was careful with this Russian mafia thug. A 9th Precinct cop had mumbled a nasty tale about his reputed KGB connections. They sold icons and bad paper, also killed people that they didn’t like whenever they were drunk and snorting coke.

"I'd never mistake her for a woman." The Adam's apple and oversized hands were dead giveaways.

"No one mistakes Dove for anything more than what she is, but remember the word 'never' has a funny way of becoming always in New York.”

“Thanks for the warning."

Johnny and Sean walked through the shrouded entrance into the bar, where the jukebox was playing IMAGINE. One of the girls kicked the machine and the record skipped to the Kinks’ ALL OF THE DAY. Sean tried to rake his hair into order and Johnny drew away his hand.

"I told you before messy's in. Play your cards right and you'll get laid plenty, because we’re here for sex, drugs, and rock and rock, right?"

”I guess so.” Sean’s habitual drug use of marijuana and LSD had vaporized his college years. He had first had sex with his father’s secretary. Other girls had followed, although never enough to satisfy his libido. Maybe it’d be different in New York. “I like those girls.”

”The three from Jersey. We can do better than that.” Johnny gestured for the skinny hangers-on to scram and the trio sat at a wall booth with two members of the nearly defunct New York Dolls. The bartender placed a vodka-tonic in front of Johnny and asked Sean, "Drink?"

"A Heineken and a plate of turkey," Sean answered and a frosty green bottle was slammed on the bar. When he sniffed at the mouth of the bottle, Johnny asked, "I wouldn’t try that twice?"

"You told me 'never trust anyone', right?"

"Glad you're listening." Johnny nodded to the manager of the scene’s top electronic duo.

"Everyone here your friend?"

"A novelist wrote if you had two friends, you were blessed. Three meant you were a liar. These people are no one’s friend.” Johnny pointed to a pasty-faced man wearing black lipstick. “That thin man in the corner.”

“The Josef Goebbels look-alike?” Sean had studied German in high school and college.

"Klaus is a cook by day and at night an opera singer with an unearthly castrati alto, though his balls are intact." Johnny shifted his attention to a Latin brunette with an angelic face. "Maria is sixteen. A Wall Street banker pays for her acting lessons around the corner at the Adler School, but she prefers balling musicians more than the executive or Lee Strasberg.”

"Maybe I'll get lucky one day."

"Sorry, bass players get the girls.”

"McCartney got Linda Eastman.”

“Don’t mention his name in my presence. John was the best Beatle, although Yoko was no prize either. Why don’t you get yourself some food.” Johnny pointed to the buffet against the wall. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

”What about you?”

”I’m a light eater.” Johnny hadn’t eaten in two days and felt no hunger.

As you like it.”

Johnny leaned against the bar and observed the ex-hippie load his plate with free food. His manners bespoke a middle-class family background in Boston. He should have been working at a bank or a law firm and Johnny suspected that the detour from his destiny had something to do with his violent streak. Any further conjecture was postponed by Frankie's exit from the bathroom.

The teenager was high and Johnny grabbed his arm.

”What?”

”I have someone I want you to meet.” Johnny pulled Frankie over to the table at which Sean was sitting.

“Sean, this is Frankie. He's the drummer for GTH. Sean’s our bass.”

“And Cheri?” Frankie shook the stranger’s hand, remarking on the lack of calluses on his fingertips. He was no musician. No one on this scene was anything, but a cheap show.

“She left for Paris.” Johnny’s eyes flashed a warning for Frankie to drop the subject. “We’ll find another singer.”

Frankie was glad to hear Cheri was out of the band.

"So where's our angel?"

"Angel?” Sean imagined that he had misheard the young boy.

"He’s talking about Charles, our organist. And there’s nothing celestial about him other than he hasn't been in public much, so both of you act cool or else he'll retreat back to his monastery. There he is.”

Charles Ames III was at the door, wearing newly purchased punk attire.

With the new haircut the three girls in plastic mistook him for Brian Eno, Roxy Music’s keyboard player. Johnny saved Charles from utter confusion by saying, “He’s with me.”

“Sorry, Johnny.” The girls went back to the Dolls’ table and the guitarist led away the shaken millionaire. "Glad you made it."

"This is the place?" Charles surveyed the dingy bar.

The stark interior was a stunning contrast to the Carlyle Hotel’s luxurious Bemelsman Room, where he had earlier dined with his father, a woman eager to become the fourth Mrs. Charles Ames II, and his sister. None of them had commented about his haircut, although during dessert his sister Caroline had asked if he were attending a Halloween party. He hadn’t bothered to answer her glib jibe and had excused himself from dinner earlier than expected, but his family was used to his unexplained departures.

"It’s early and the show happens upstairs much later.” He handed Charles earplugs to lessen the volume of the Dictators' CARS AND GIRLS on the jukebox. "Stick these in your ears."

"Thanks." Max’s lacked Times Square’s energy, but its inhabitants belonged to a same class of people as those lurking along 8th Avenue. Charles didn’t belong here. His family mixed with the elite from Sutton Place, Millbrook, and Palm Beach. The previous generation had produced a senator and several judges, yet Charles Ames III stood to gain nothing by following the footsteps of his predecessors.

“This isn’t about Max’s.” Johnny called over the other two band members. “Frankie and Sean have been in bands and you’ll learn fast, Charles, plus the music business has always been more about faddy appearance than anything else and they have this new way of showing music called ‘videos’, which will help sell records. The mop tops made the Beatles, the Dolls without the drag clothes were a flash sensation, and Elvis minus the sequins was a fat slob. If the look is right, then you can fake the music. Are you in or out?"

Riding in the Lincoln had exhausted its possibilities. "When do we start?"

"I've rented us a place in Chinatown to rehearse."

Charles Ames III had been dreading this moment since meeting the blonde hustler.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, I covered the first month.” Nothing scares off a rich person faster than a poor person asking for money, even if it’s one dollar, then again this wasn’t a rip-off. This was the start of a band. “After that we'll kick in equal shares."

"I don't have an organ." The guitarist’s refusal delighted Charles.

"Go to Sam Ash in Times Square and ask for Slow Ed. He deals with the keyboards. Buy a B-3. Used, if possible. Pay him in green and you won't have to pay the tax." Johnny received a 10% commission from recommended sales for cash transactions. "Can we meet tomorrow Eight O’clock at the Terminal Hotel?"

"The Terminal Hotel?" Charles doubted that any his family had stayed at this establishment.

"Oh, it's a real treat on Jane Street. Your driver will find it.”

“I’ll be waiting on the steps,” Frankie said eagerly, for Charles was the epitome of a prince in this city. Johnny had come through again in a big way and this time for a trip to the big leagues.

"I’ll be there on time." Sean nervously wolfed the rest of his turkey.

“You live there.” Johnny laughed, “You better be on time. Anyone up for CBGBs?”

“CBGBs?”

“It's the less classy bookend to this place."

"Less classy than this?" Charles didn’t really care, for any bar was more cheerful than the hospital room in which his back and head had been stretched by wires to reconnect his neck to his spine.

"The Bowery is worst than Union Square. Where’s your car?”

“Outside.” The Lincoln’s engine was running to facilitate any get-away.

“Great, we’ll be riding in style.”

The four of them left Max’s and got into Charles' ride without noticing a short-set man in a black sweater writing down the license plate.

The Lincoln made the light at 14th Street and a voice from Union Square Park shouted Nick Arcc’s name. The furry twenty-five year-old turned to see a quartet of scrawny musicians from Cleveland walking across the street. He greeted them with a smile, for The Dead Boys’ pockmarked singer with the Prince Valiant haircut was most assuredly his type.

“How’s it going, boys.”

“We’re ready for turkey and drinks,” the mottle-skinned bass declared in the moth-bitten leopard-skin pants and the A & R man announced, "First round on me."

As the band cheered his generosity, the bearish A&R man checked the license number. Its beginning with a number instead of Z indicated that the Lincoln was privately owned. The pale punk in the new clothes came from real money and Nick Arcc wasn’t above weaseling in on another hustler’s game. Only time would reveal, if it was for pleasure as well as profit.