—- SEPTEMBER 1979 —-

  Joe had lunch with Simon the day after the canceled gig at The Belmont. They were nursing their drinks with the check on the table. He asked Si if he was ready to step on stage if Johnny let the band down again. Simon restated his position that he’d only fill in for Johnny if Sal was on board.

  “After last night,” Joe said, “I think it’s inevitable that he’ll fuck off on us again.” He sipped his coffee. “Sal will have to see that we need a plan B if he wants the band to survive.”

  “When I hear it from Sal, I’ll believe it.”

  “You’ve said a few times that you’d love to get up and play with us.”

  “Not as a replacement for Johnny,” Simon stirred his tea.

  “I still haven’t seen you play a chord,” Joe smirked. “How do I know you’re not full of shit?” He stared at Si. “All this talk about London music conservatories and playing five instruments could be rubbish.”

  Simon didn’t take the bait so Joe poked him again. “This music degree from NYU, what good is it if you’re not making music? The least you could do is be in some music-related field. You work the third shift at a bakery.”

  “I owe you no confirmation of my skill and knowledge, or an explanation,” Simon said while sipping his tea. “And we do honest work while you sleep in your warm bed.”

  “Right, you don’t owe me, but I sure would like to see evidence of said skills.” Joe smiled. “And you’re right, Tina’s bed is so warm and cozy.”

  “Piss off, wanker.”

  “What are you doing after this?”

  “After what?”

  “Lunch.”

  “Not a bloody thing.”

  “Great,” Joe picked up the check. “I’m buying you lunch and you’re paying me back with two hours of your day.”

  “Oh bloody hell. Even I get sick of record shops. Vinyl is your heroin.”

  “It’s not a record shop. I promise. It’s better. I hope.” Joe threw cash on the table and motioned to the waitress. He stood and pointed north. “Let’s go ya lazy limey.”

  Simon sighed and got up grabbing his brown R.A.F. leather and putting it on as he walked.

  From the West Village, they took the One-train to Chelsea. They were quiet on the train. Joe people watched, including Simon. He was a thick Brit but he wasn’t muscle-bound. Si was a little spongey. He had big hands, like Sal. Joe smiled at him. He couldn’t believe how close he felt to Simon after only seven weeks of friendship.

  They got off at 23rd Street. Joe led Simon West to The Chelsea Hotel. They walked inside. Joe stopped and took in the lobby. He turned to Simon. “Do you know who lives here?”

  “It’s a hotel,” Simon said. “Tourists and businessmen.”

  Joe smirked. “So you don’t know? You’ve been in New York City for what, five years?... and you don’t know Sid and Nancy lived here? This is where they found her last year.”

  “Oh, fuck,” Simon said. “The Hotel Chelsea. Yeah.” Suddenly Simon was interested and began taking in the lobby.

  “They were the riff-raff. The Chelsea has upstanding resident literary giants, like Ginsberg and Bukowski. And there are a few disreputable amongst them.”

  “Huh,” Simon examined a painting. “I didn’t know. I’ve been busy with my studies.”

  “You claim to love New York. You should know more than you do. Dylan lived here.” Joe walked toward the restaurant. “And they all drank in here. Let’s check out El Quiote.”

  After a quick stroll through the hotel’s South American restaurant and bar, they sipped out the El Quiote entrance and they were back on the street. Joe led Simon south from 8th Street to 20th.

  “I have some unfinished business to attend to,” Joe said. “I need to do this before I leave town. I shoulda done it already but Tina is fucking my brains out so hard I’ve become forgetful.”

  “You’re such an arse.”

  “And a lucky arse at that.” Joe stopped in front of a plain office building, three stories. There was an empty street-level unit and one other. On the door read Cohen Studios. Joe pulled the door open and waved Simon in. The reception desk was empty. They stood quietly. No one came out.

  They waited longer.

  Joe snooped around the desk. “Hey, there’s a buzzer. I’m gonna hit it.”

  “No, what if it’s an alarm?”

  “That’s what I hoping for.” Joe pressed the button on the desk. A red light turned on down a hallway. Joe saw the glow. There was no sound. Fifteen seconds passed and a voice called out.

  “On my way.”

  When Marty Cohen saw Joe standing in his reception area he smiled and put his hand straight out, kinda awkward and stiff-armed. Joe took his hand.

  “I’m surprised to see you, Joe,” he said. “I guess I gave up on you.”

  “I’m sorry about that. We’ve been gigging and digging New York, and I just…”

  “He fell in love,” Simon jumped in.

  “Simon,” Joe said, “This is Marty Cohen. He gave me his card at Tommy’s a month back.” He turned to Marty. “Simon’s one of the neer-do-wells at Tommy’s.”

  Marty shook Simon’s hand. Si looked at Joe. “Fucking neer-do-well?” He turned to Marty. “I have a fresh degree in economics from NYU and another in music.”

  “Pfft,” Joe rolled his eyes. “It’s a minor in music. Big whoop.”

  Simon’s eyes bugged. He pointed at Joe. “This mother fucker just graduated high school, and I’m guessing barely… and he’s fucking pissing on my education. A neer-do-well?”

  Joe laughed and looked at Marty. “I love winding him up. His accent pops when gets going. Simon is an excitable boy.”

  “He’s an arse like that. Puts lovely Tina through hell.”

  Marty's quiet, mundane day was loudly interrupted. He was a bookish Jew, maybe 5’7” and thin. Joe saw a slight resemblance to that guy who directed Jaws but he couldn’t recall the Jewish director’s name. That annoyed him. ‘Fuck, what’s that guy’s name?’ Marty’s eyeglasses and hair created the likeness.

  “So, Marty,” Joe said. “I do feel bad I didn’t get here sooner. I had to check in before we left town just to touch base. I wanted you to know I didn’t blow you off. It’s not like we would be recording this time out… but in the future?”

  “I’m happy to see you.” Marty stepped aside. “Come this way. I assume you’d like to see my studio.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Joe and Simon got the tour. Two sound studios, one larger than the other, two control rooms, one larger than the other. The bigger studio had two isolation booths. Marty walked them past two offices to his artists’ lounge area. As they walked he explained his business.

  “I own the building. The office tenants upstairs pay for this entire operation. I can’t wow you with music credits. This is a working studio. I’ve had hundreds of musicians come through here but not even a one-hit wonder.”

  “We should probably fix that,” Joe smiled as Marty offered him a seat on a couch in the lounge.

  Joe sat down. “We won’t take up much of your time.” Simon sat beside him. “I just wanted to tell you we’re heading home to Rhode Island. The band won’t be back for a while but I’ll be back to see my girl and we’d like to visit again.”

  “That would be great. You’re welcome anytime.”

  “I’ll call ahead,” Joe said, “I might want to use that small studio. This bloke will be with me if that’s okay.”

  “Of course. Just the two of you recording?”

  “No, just to use your space to play loud guitar and work on original music. That’s the missing piece to my band. We only have a handful of original songs and we don’t play them enough. They’re not that great.”

  “They’re fine,” Simon said. “I like You Don’t Want Me.” He turned to Marty. “It’s very Ramones in style and tone.”

  Joe smiled. “I totally ripped off their style. It’s fun to play.”

  “If you call ahead I’ll squeeze you in.” Marty leaned closer and whispered. “Don’t tell anyone but we’re not that busy here.”

  Back on the street, Simon poked Joe. “You pulled a move in there showing me this place and telling Marty you want to record original music. Did you expect me to take the bait?”

  “I’m gonna put that fucking music minor to work if it’s the last thing I do.” Joe turned to Simon as they walked. “Do you have any idea how much it annoys me that you don’t play? You’re letting that education…” he wiggled his fingers. “And these… rot on the vine.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you’ve said it.”

  “This high school punk has done a lot more than you with a lot fucking less… and that’s bullshit, Si. We need to fix that.”

  “What about Johnny?”

  Joe stopped. “This has nothing to do with him. This isn’t about The Young Punks.” He turned and resumed walking. “It’s about you.”

  A half block away Joe shouted, “Steven Spielberg! Fuck. That was driving me crazy.”

  Simon stared at Joe. “What?”

  “Never mind.”

  —-- THE VILLAGE VOICE —-

  The following night, Johnny was not high for the final show at Tommy’s, but he wasn’t well. He started off playing okay but deteriorated as the first set wore on. It seemed to Joe that Johnny might play better on smack than he did without it. That was not a comforting thought. Johnny was trying but struggling to hit his leads and then resorted to his half-assed shortcuts.

  At the bar between sets, Monk called Joe over. “Do you have your setlist written down?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “No. I never show it to anyone outside the band.”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re not Joe Strummer. Let me see it. It's important.”

  Joe pulled a folded piece of yellow legal pad paper from his pocket and handed it to Monk. He then brought it over to the hard punks a few stools down. He unfolded it, read it, and then called out.

  “I have New Rose,” Monk handed the sheet to Zip.

  “I’m taking You’re So Vain,” Zip handed it to Judy.

  Judy ran her finger down the list. “The Saints Are Coming.”

  One by one the punks looked at the list and claimed a song, eight punks in all. When they offered it to Tommy he glanced at Joe and waved them off. He then poured Joe a pint and delivered it.

  “How much?” Clyde asked the group.

  “I’m good for five bucks,” Sunny said.

  Tommy leaned over the bar toward Joe, “They have a pool going. What song will Johnny puke during? He looks like shit, kid.” Tommy looked to the opposite end of the bar. Johnny had his arms folded on the bar, head down.

  “Does he have to puke?” Zip asked. “What if he falls down, or just quits.”

  “It’s all the same,” Monk said. “Hurling, passing out, walking off stage in the middle of the song. Agreed?”

  “What if he walks off between songs?” Roberto asked.

  “I say the last song he played is the winner,” Zip suggested.

  “Hey,” Sunny said, “What if he plays the whole set?”

  “The last song taken takes the cash,” Clyde smiled. “That’s why I took White Punks On Dope, it’s the closer. I’m betting Johnny goes the distance.”

  No one agreed with that bet. Joe appreciated that someone had faith in Johnny. After the bets were placed Monk called over to Joe. “Can we keep this to see how….”

  “Fuck off,” Joe said, snatching it from his hand. He put it in his pocket and turned toward the stage to see a young man standing a few feet away. He smiled at Joe. It was weird. Then he approached.

  “Hi, Joe? I’m Greg Stanhope. I’m with the Village Voice. Could you spare a few minutes?” He gestured to a table behind him where a woman sat. There were two empty seats. Tina walked up behind Joe and hugged him. He turned to her.

  “This guy’s from The Village Voice. I’m gonna talk with him, okay?”

  “Oh,” Tina smiled. “You should do that.”

  Joe had seen this guy at Tommy’s before, at least twice. He sat across from him with the woman between them.

  “This is Mika, my fiance.”

  Joe nodded, “Nice to meet you.”

  She smiled and leaned in, “You guys are great, so much fun.”

  “That’s the word on the street.”

  Joe glanced over at Johnny passed out on the bar hoping he’d get back up for the second set. He didn’t want the Village Voice to print that his lead guitarist was too fucked up to finish a gig.

  “I know you’ve already seen us and you’ll write what you think but I’ll give you three questions. I have to get back up and earn my pay.”

  Stanhope nodded. “This first item is not a question. I want to verify facts I’ve picked up from talking to the regulars, okay? These kids like you.”

  “Sure.” ‘Kids?’ Joe thought. ‘This guy isn’t much older than them.’

  “You’re from Providence. The band has been playing together for a year and a half. You first played this bar in mid-July. You’re going home soon. All good?

  “You did phrase that in a question,” Joe smirked. “but I’ll let it slide. Yeah, that’s all good.”

  “I’ve heard a couple of originals in your set. Do you have any plans to record?”

  “Someday, hopefully soon. We’re working on it. I’ve looked at a studio here.”

  “Who’s writing your songs?”

  “I write our music.” Joe sensed that his short answers annoyed him.

  “What’s the origin of the show? Where did you come up with the tricks?”

  “I wanted to do something different. There are thousands of cover bands playing at bars. You need to stand apart from the pack and grab people’s attention. The singalongs and contests we do make our fans part of the show. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes, that’s why we’re talking. Your show is great. Are you the leader of the band?”

  “Oh no, don’t print anything like that." Joe pointed at him. "We all bring something to the table. Sal is a huge influence on us. He’s our fixer. It’s a long story. And that was five questions.”

  “I know, sorry. Can I verify your names?”

  Joe sighed. “I’m Joe, Sal’s on bass, Nate is drums and Johnny is lead guitar.”

  “Thanks for the time, Joe.”

  “It was nice meeting you,” Joe nodded as he stood.

  The couple smiled from their seats. As Joe was walking away, Greg added one comment. “Hey, you just made a club full of jaded punks in this cynical city sing cartoon theme songs, that’s pretty fucking cool.”

  ”We’re punk rock Vaudeville,” Joe smiled. “a carnival sideshow.”

  Greg grinned and scribbled on his pad.

  Joe walked off thinking, ‘He’s printing that line, guaran-fucking-teed.’

  Johnny got back up and did his job, on the edge, white-knuckling through the second set. Joe noticed he went from pale to green, thinking whoever picked Born To Lose as their song might win the puke pool. Somehow, Johnny hung on and kept his churning stomach in check.

  Near the end of the night, Joe quieted the crowd with the universal stage performer’s move of waving arms like wings to lower the din.

  “Hey. I have a question for you regulars. Has anyone here ever witnessed our resident Brit play guitar?” He paused a long pause. “I mean, Simon talks a good game with his fancy London conservatory music education and his…” Joe paused and then punched the word, “Minor music degree from NYU… but has anyone ever seen him actually perform?”

  Joe looked over the crowd. Tommy was smiling alongside cousin Jerry. They knew Joe had something up his sleeve. Simon did not look happy with so many eyes on him, including Joe’s.

  There were no affirmative answers as Joe scanned over the room.

  He nodded, “Okay, two hundred and forty punks, and not one has seen Simon play?”

  There were no replies, just murmurs, and people looking around at one another and casting gazes on Simon. He squirmed on his bar stool with Monk, Zip, Clyde, Jett, Sunny, and all the hard punks staring intensely at him, smiling, exchanging glances, loving that Joe was calling him out.

  “Wouldn’t you like to see him get up here to prove he’s not full of shit?... or is it shite?”

  The room erupted, especially around the bar. Joe looked over at Sal.

  Sal nodded. “I’d like to see it.”

  “Let’s do this, Si,” Joe said with glee. “Sal’s on board. Show us what you got. Put up,” he paused and pointed at Simon, “or fucking shut up.”

  The room cheered at the drama Joe had created out of thin air.

  “I don’t have my guitar!” Simon shouted from the bar.

  “You can use mine.” Joe pulled his Jag over his head and presented it. “I’ll just sing.”

  The punks cheered. Zip and Clyde pushed Simon toward the stage. He resisted but as the cheers grew the pressure mounted. How could he not accept the challenge? He slowly made his way to the stage. Joe offered him a hand to pull him up. As he landed on stage Simon pulled Joe closer and spoke in his ear.

  “You asshole. You planned this whole bloody day.”

  Joe smiled, “Yes, I did.” He slapped his R.A.F. shoulder patch. “You can thank me later.”

  Simon took Joe’s ‘64 Fender Jaguar with his friends cheering, strummed a few chords, fiddled, and looked at Joe and then at his punk mates at the bar. He leaned into a mic. “When this nonsense is over you’ll all know how mediocre Joe is on guitar.”

  Paying no regard to Joe’s setlist, Simon launched into a song they had not yet played that night. The band joined in and Joe followed Simon’s lead, singing their punk version of Paint It Black.

  Joe watched Simon play, pointing and making faces at the crowd. Then he sang his parts, paying no attention to the guitars. Joe liked being a frontman vocalist. It was a nice break to not play guitar on every song… freeing.

  Simon didn’t play flashy. He even deferred to Johnny on the lead. It seemed Johnny rose to the occasion, maybe seeing Joe’s latest stunt as a passive-aggressive message… which it certainly was. On the second song, Simon chose The Saints Are Coming by The Skids, a Scottish band. That’s when he cut loose. The band jammed on rhythm while he ripped an extended lead that led them into a long jam, not punk, just a great instrumental jam. When it was over, Joe bowed to Simon.

  “He’s right,” Joe shouted. “I suck.”

  Simon handed Joe his guitar, “This Jag is cherry.” Without another word, he walked off stage to cheering punks. The band completed their set, two punk covers, Rebel Rebel, and the F Troop singalong. When they reached the final song, White Punks On Dope, Clyde yelled from the bar, “You’re the man, Johnny!”

  —-- THIRD WHEEL —--

  Maybe it was the fact they were done playing in New York and he didn’t have to stress about his strung-out guitarist, the moment Joe stepped off the stage at the end of their set he felt a weight of weeks in this city lift off his soul. He had promised Tina she would have him to herself for the last thirty-six hours. He was looking forward to keeping that promise.

  He joined Tina and Simon at the bar. “What the fuck was that commotion during Rebel Rebel?” He asked Simon. “Were you in the middle of that?”

  “Yes. I was walking to the men’s room and this wanker gave me a hard shoulder. I turned and he looked like he was ready to go. He got in my face and threw an elbow.”

  “It looked like more than an elbow.”

  “His mates joined in. Clyde and Monk moved in. It was just stupid schoolboy threats and pushing.”

  “Tommy saw the whole thing,” Tina added. “He called in his goons and they gave him the boot.”

  Simon smiled. “The hard shoulder landed on his arse on the sidewalk, face down.”

  Joe shook his head, “I wouldn’t mess with Tommy’s Goons.”

  After the post-game one beer and one shot, Joe nudged Tina. “Are you ready to roll?”

  “I’m hungry,” she said. “Can we get a bite?”

  “Sure,” Joe said, then turned to the punks. “Alright ladies, we’re out of here. I’ll see you… I don’t know, maybe in a couple of months?” He reached across the bar and shook Tommy’s hand. “Thanks for everything TG. I’ll call you when I know for sure.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Be good, Joe.”

  After saying goodbyes to the crew, saving Simon for last, Joe stepped toward the door.

  “C’mon Simon,” Tina said. “We’re getting food.”

  Joe furrowed his brow and leaned in to whisper, “I thought it was just you and me?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I’ll make the rules. Simon can come for breakfast.”

  Joe shrugged, “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  He didn’t mind having Simon as the third wheel. Joe was glad Tina adored Simon. Life is easier when the best people in your life are also friends, especially if your girl is one of them. This late-night diner tradition was started by them. Simon should be at the last diner stop of their summer in the city.

  When Tina and Simon became Joe’s two best friends in New York they became his sanctuary from the drama and stress of the band. That night, they sat in a booth at The Parkside Grille, rehashing their debate. Joe shared his eggs, sausage, and toast with Tina. He had cherry pie for dessert. Si went for a custard and tea. Tina ordered the chocolate cream pie with coffee.

  “You cannot compare them lyrically,” Joe said. “Joe Strummer writes about the human struggle, injustice, and oppression. The Sex Pistols are just sex and drugs and…”

  “That’s not fair," said Simon. "What about God Save The Queen or Anarchy in the U.K.?”

  “I was about to say anarchy. They have two great songs against two Clash albums. It’s not even close.”

  “And why don’t you cover those Pistol’s songs?” Asked Simon.

  “Everyone covers hits," Joe took a bite of pie. "We do Holiday In The Sun. I prefer B-sides if they’re good.”

  Tina pointed her fork at Joe. “Is that why you don’t play Blitzkrieg Bop?”

  “We play it but not often. Every band plays Blitzkrieg Bop.”

  “I don’t understand why you don’t include The Ramones in this discussion," she said. "I bet they’ve sold more records.”

  “That may be true," Joe said, "but it doesn't make them better. You said it yourself, people buy crap art all the time.”

  “They’re not crap," she protested.

  The Ramones were T’s home band. She grew up in Brooklyn. They were from Queen’s. She saw the Ramones before they made it big. Joe put his hands over Tina’s hand as if he was consoling her.

  “‘We love The Ramones, they’re fun to play but they’re not a serious contender.”

  “If you love all three bands who cares which is best?” she asked.

  Simon pushed his band. “The Pistols made this all possible. They set the stage.”

  “Bullshit," Tina said. "The Ramones released a record before them.”

  Joe laughed. “T’s right but being first through the door doesn’t make you the best.”

  The waitress topped off coffees forgetting Simon had tea. She gasped, picked up his cup without a word, and walked off to get him fresh tea.

  Joe looked at Si. “What about raw talent? Don’t tell me Steve Jones is a better guitarist than Mick Jones.”

  “That, I will graciously concede but I’ll take Johnny Rotten over Joe Strummer as a frontman any day. He's a punk icon.”

  “Is Rotten even in a band anymore? He walked out while they were recording covers for that garbage second album.

  "Sid’s taken over,” Simon said, “and that record isn’t rubbish.”

  “High praise,” Joe sipped his coffee. “Sid wears swastikas. He can go fuck himself.”

  Tina licked her fork. “Joey Ramone is better than Rotten.”

  “I’ll go one better," Joe said, turning to Simon. "The Ramones are better than the Sex Pistols because Sid and Nancy are dead and gone.”

  Simon scoffed. “Nonsense! Not one Clash or Ramones record compares to Bollocks.”

  “I'll give you that. Never Mind The Bollocks is a seminal recording but I think The Clash’s best is yet to come. The Sex Pistols are history.”

  Tina put her hands up. “Okay, enough. Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sorry madam," said Simon. "Do you have something in mind?”

  “No, anything but the same argument you had last week.”

  Joe made a snobby academic voice. “I think we should dissect the influence of neo-contemporary abstract painting on the bourgeois and their vain desire to appear culturally relevant by overpaying for pedestrian art.” He winked at Simon.

  Tina punched him. “Don’t make fun of shit you don’t know about, and where did you come up with that garbage? It doesn’t even make sense.”

  Simon snickered. “It sounded good to me.” He stirred his fresh tea.

  “I made it up. I read your art magazines. I know just enough to fake it.”

  Tina steeled her eyes. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you make fun of art.”

  “My statement isn't without merit. Fools with new money have been buying art to create an appearance of taste and sophistication since… well, forever.”

  Simon looked at Tina. “Is he making fun or does he have a point?”

  She pointed her pie fork at Simon. “He’s pretending to know what he’s talking about. It’s a character he plays to get under my skin.”

  Joe took a sip of coffee. “I hardly believe the issue of plebes driving up the cost of fine art is a topic to be taken lightly. The vanity of the bourgeois is disrupting the balance of…”

  Tina placed her hand over Joe’s mouth. “You can stop now! Simon gets the joke.”

  “Here’s the thing, Si,” Joe lightly pushed T’s hand away. “If one of her artsy fartsy NYU peers recited those exact words she’d take them seriously. But I’m just a clown. She doesn’t respect me so it’s dumb when I say it.”

  “Don’t be a baby. I respect you when you know what you’re talking about. Change the subject.”

  Joe smirked at Simon, then turned to T. “That pie you’re eating is all wrong. Chocolate goes in cakes, not pie. It should be a rule.”

  Tina made a face. “What’s wrong with chocolate cream pie?”

  Simon smiled. “I’m with Joe on this. Chocolate cake is perfect. Pies should be fruit-filled.”

  “Cream is okay,” Joe added. “banana cream, lemon, coconut, but not chocolate cream.”

  Tina protested. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “How do you feel about fruit cake?”

  “It’s disgusting,” she said.

  “Agreed, bloody awful," Simon made a yucky face.

  “You see? Fruit for pies, chocolate for cakes. I rest my case.”

  Tina elbowed him. “You made fun of art and my choice of pie. Is there anything else you want to pick on while you have Simon here to chuckle at your dumb jokes?”

  “He’s not crazy about those shoes you’re wearing," Simon noted.

  “What’s wrong with my shoes?” She put her foot in the aisle to show her shoe. “These are in style and they're not rubbish.”

  “They were in style in 1620," Joe laughed. "Look at the size of that buckle. The pilgrims wore that shit.”

  “You’re such a jerk. These are fine shoes.”

  “Fine for the Mayflower.”

  Tina’s mouth fell open. “Why are you….?”

  Joe just smirked. His favorite thing about teasing Tina was her struggle to hold back a smile while protesting his stupid jokes. She enjoyed it when he sparred with Simon or one of his bandmates but when he turned on her she played defense. T knew if she laughed at his wisecracks it would never end; because making her laugh was Joe’s new favorite thing in the world. He loved her laugh, how she covered her mouth with her hand, or if it was really funny, the way she threw her head back with her mouth wide open. Her big laugh was wonderful. It made him happy.

  Tina raised her hand. “Can we get our check please?” She turned to the boys. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense.”

  “Don’t be a baby. I’m just teasing you.”

  “It’s your number one pastime," she pouted.

  Simon placed his hand on hers. “He only teases the ones he loves.”

  “That’s true,” Joe said as he finished his coffee. “If I didn’t like you I wouldn’t even talk to you.”

  “I’ll sign up for that," she said. "Simon, the moment you leave he’ll be the sweetest most kind boyfriend I could ask for. When he has an audience, he has to put on a show.”

  Simon smirked. “I think you like the attention.”

  After they walked out of the diner, Tina had one question as they stood on the sidewalk near Columbus Circle. She hugged Simon. “Why don’t you have a girlfriend? You’re smart and charming and a strapping young lad.” She slapped her palm on his chest. “It makes no sense.”

  Simon shrugged, “I’ve had my share of birds but I’m not good at commitment. I like doing what I do and when you have a girlfriend you have to…”

  “Compromise?” Tina interrupted him. “You can’t meet a girl halfway?”

  “That’s just it, they don’t want halfway. They want you to do what they want, including changing me.” He shrugged. “And I end up resenting that.”

  “Well,” Tina smiled. “You just haven’t met the right girl. I’ll see what I can do about that.”

  Simon embraced Joe, “Good luck with Johnny. Don’t think I don’t know what you did tonight.”

  “What?”

  “You used me to send a message to your band.”

  Joe shrugged, “I won’t deny that.”

  They parted ways at 2:45 A.M. Joe and Tina walked south, Simon east.

  -—- ADDICTED TO LOVE —--

  When they returned to Jones Street, Joe peeked into the band bedroom. It was empty. He was hoping Johnny would be there. Sal and Nate, he didn’t care about. It dawned on him how far his relationship with his bandmates had fallen in less than eight weeks. After using the bathroom, he joined Tina in her bedroom. Her bed had become his sanctuary. He immediately felt safe in Tina’s purple and pink pocket of heaven. She was already down to her panties and bra.

  “Johnny’s not here,” he said. “No one is here. I hope he’s not in 1B.”

  Tina put her fingers gently on his lips. “Sssh, no band talk. You’re on my time now. You promised I could have anything I want.” She reached down to his denim and kissed him sweetly as she unbuckled his belt.

  Joe kissed her while she played below the equator. “I want to play with my favorite toy.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  She fell back on the bed pulling Joe with her. Her hands stayed low as he held himself over her with his arms, kissing her sweetly. Her light touch was magical. After several seconds of winding Joe up, she stopped.

  “In the morning.” Tina pushed up on his chest and rolled from under him.

  “It is morning.” Joe fell to the bed.

  “No, after sleep morning,” she smiled and climbed under the covers.

  “Then why did you make me hard?” He looked down at his rigid cock.

  “Don’t be a baby. I’m just teasing you.”

  Joe smiled and shook his head. “Alright. I’ll just whip the bishop under the covers.” He climbed under and fluffed his pillow.

  “No. Save it for the morning.”

  —-- SEVERAL HOURS LATER —-

  “As I said, I have so many questions,” T said. “I won’t ask them all at once.”

  “Ask anything.”

  Tina sat cross-legged on the bed playing with her favorite toy. She had lube on her side table. She squirted some.

  “This is the hardest you’ve been.” T smiled.

  “You built this boner, baby.”

  T smiled, “Yes. This isn’t a high school hand job.”

  “It’s the deluxe college version.”

  “Question one,” Tina said with authority. “Have you ever measured yourself?”

  “No.”

  Her expression informed Joe she didn’t believe him. “Really? You’ve never measured it?”

  “Nope.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I don’t care. I don’t need the stats. I can see it and touch it anytime I want.”

  “Mmmmm. I envy you,” she said while spreading lube with both hands.

  Joe cleared his throat and proclaimed. “I hereby grant you, Tina Costello, unlimited access privileges to this member and all body parts attached.”

  “Thank you,” she giggled. “I accept this honor with great pride. I’d like to thank the Academy and everyone who helped me along … “

  “Oh shit. My absurdity is rubbing off on you.”

  “I know,” she smiled. “I’m beginning to understand. You make everything big and overstated. It’s weird but funny.”

  Tina added more lube and continued playing. “Full disclosure, I plan on taking full advantage of my privileges. Are there any other perks?”

  “Your exclusive membership also provides these lips, this mouth, and this tongue.” He stuck out his tongue. “You have the sole authority to direct them for your pleasure and gratification.”

  Tina smiled. “I’m gonna like this club. When you say exclusive and sole authority does that mean I’m the only member of your club?”

  “I’m a member, and my member is a member.”

  “Are there any other female members or is this an exclusive club?”

  Joe thought it best to pause and answer with a question. “Is that what you desire?”

  Tina’s expression went from a playful smile to earnest. She looked intently into Joe’s eyes. “Yes. It is. I want you to be mine. If we’re together, I’m with you and no one else. I hope you feel the same.” She hesitated, thinking of her next words. “Because of what you do, you have lots of girls hitting on you. I’ve seen it, they’re all smiling and flirty and all over you. It’s gross.”

  “Why is it gross?” He asked. “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”

  “Okay, maybe it’s not gross. It’s pathetic and desperate. I don’t know. I just don’t like them pawing at you.”

  “I can’t control that. I can only manage myself and my actions.”

  “I understand.”

  Her hands were magic. She added more lube.

  “This is important to me. If being my boyfriend, and mine alone is…” She paused again, “is not something you can do. I need to know now.”

  Joe met her eyes again, pausing before answering. She put him in a spot. What’s he going to do, say no, and risk aborting this magical hand job? Tina had the upper hand but he let her twist in the wind while awaiting his reply. It was a long moment. When Joe saw her expression change, he let her off the hook with a smile.

  “Sure, why not? I got nothin’ else going on.”

  Tina stopped and slapped his package.

  “Ouch! Take it easy there,” he crossed a leg over in defense.

  “You did that on purpose. You let me think you had doubts.”

  Joe grabbed her and pulled her down, wrapping his arms around her, nose to nose. “There is no doubt,” Joe said sincerely. “I want this, just you. From the moment we met, I felt this way.”

  “Me too,” she said sweetly.

  Joe kissed her, and again.

  “Can I measure it?” She asked.

  “What?” Joe leaned back. “Can’t we have a sweet moment? Does it have to be all dick all day?

  Tina slapped his ass, “When we’re naked? Yes. I just want an official measurement.”

  “Why?” Joe defensively pulled the sheet over his junk.

  “You may not need the stats,” she said. “but I’d like a number.”

  “Why?”

  Tina jumped up, threw on her silky robe, and snuck into the living area where Nate and Sal were watching television and eating Joe’s box of Captain Crunch.

  “You need milk,” Nate said flatly, crunching on kid’s cereal. “We killed it.”

  Tina fished around in her junk drawer, ignoring Nate, then returned to her bedside with a wooden ruler.

  Joe shook his head. “Seriously?”

  “Yes, I’m doing this in the name of science.” She smirked as she crawled onto the bed. “Sex is biology, biology is science.”

  Tina sat cross-legged at Joe’s left staring at him. Joe held the sheets over his junk. “You’re not measuring my dick.”

  “Okay,” she shrugged. “I guess I’m done playing.”

  She had the upper hand. He knew it but he also knew she couldn’t keep her hands off him.

  “I can hold out longer than you can,” she smiled. “Is that how you want to spend…”

  Joe flipped the linen aside. She smiled, squirted lube, and resumed her massage. He exhaled, watching her play with both hands, thinking of how this trip changed his life and how lucky he was. When she was satisfied his member was ready for science. She deployed the ruler. Leaning over Joe, Tina made her official determination.

  “Just a tad over eight inches. That’s a nice number. I like it.”

  “I’m not eight inches.”

  “How do you know if you’ve never measured it?”

  “I just watched you. I saw where the tip was on the ruler. It’s definitely under eight inches.”

  “You’re the subject. I’m the judge. Shut up.” T tossed the ruler aside and went back to her favorite new toy. Joe leaned back, smiling at her, amazed at his good fortune.”

  He was addicted to love and is now a true believer that love and sex together were the greatest high of all. Joe was delighted that Tina wanted sex more than he did. He never had to make a move. It was her way to start the day and if she didn’t, T would find a time and place to get what she wanted; mid-day, evening, late at night. Sex could happen at any minute… as if Joe was on call. She was the girl of his dreams.

  —-- CITY DAY —--

  Saturday should’ve been a sleep-in and fuck all-day affair but after Tina won an Olympic gold medal for a marathon handjob, she had other plans. How could he protest?

  “C’mon, let’s go. Get dressed.”

  “For what? You said you wanted thirty sex hours.”

  “That was a joke. I’m hungry and I want to go out.”

  Joe whined, “Why can’t we order some delivery and stay here? We can do a naked lunch.”

  “Nope. My time, my rules.” She pinched his big toe. “Get up and get dressed. I want to have a city day.”

  That’s what T called a day of running around the city. “Let’s have a city day!” and off they’d go to wherever she dragged Joe, parks and museums were her go-to destinations. Joe had little say in the matter as they ventured off into the concrete jungle. Tina herded Joe to the subway for a ride to a secret destination. Going north on the A-Train, she tugged on his sleeve.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You just did.”

  Tina rolled her eyes, “How are we going to make this work, me here and you in Providence?”

  “I have some thoughts,” he said. “but it depends on what happens with Johnny.”

  “Okay. Let’s assume he gets clean and the band stays together. How are you going to manage the band, being on the road and being with me?”

  Joe exhaled, “I’ll happily accept that challenge if Johnny gets his act together. I’ve thought about it. I have a plan.”

  “What’s the plan?”

  “We have ten year-round clubs in New England and a few seasonal beach bars. We have four New York clubs if that place in Queens works out.”

  “What place in Queens?”

  “I got a lead on a bar in Flushing, The Metropolitan Club.”

  “Oh, my God. I know The Metro, that’s my old hangout. My first underage beer was at The Metro. I can’t believe it. This is great. I know so many people there.”

  “Cool. I didn’t have time to book anything this trip but when we come back it’ll be on the schedule.”

  “I can’t wait,” Tina side-hugged him as the train stopped at a station. “I haven’t been there since last summer.”

  “Anyway,” Joe continued. “My plan was for Sal and I to take a road trip up north to scout some bars in college towns. Vermont and New Hampshire have small schools we want to check out and we hoped to find some venues up there to add to the circuit. My plan was to create routes that take us through those towns, and another route in Southern New England. That was my thinking before we came to New York.”

  “How does this change your plans?”

  “It doesn’t. It just changes how I look at the map. I’m thinking of running both routes through New York so I can have time with you during every road trip.”

  Tina leaned against him, “That’s sweet. How often would that be?”

  “I won’t know until we add new clubs, maybe every couple of weeks, or three.”

  “I’d only see you every three weeks?”

  “If we have four clubs in the city I would start or end each road trip here. I’d book us for a week in the city. Then, in between those road trips, I’d have a week off, so you’d have me for two weeks.”

  “Okay, that’s not so bad.”

  “It’s really up to Johnny. If he can’t get his shit together I’m back to square one.”

  On this day, she planned another day of park-hopping. Tina set course for a set of parks Joe had never been to. She decided they’d start at the park furthest from home and worked their way back to The Village.

  They emerged from the subway at 125th Street, the edge of Harlem, and made their way to Morningside Park. After strolling south through the park they walked west, holding hands. Joe pointed to a church. “I have to go in there.”

  Tina leaned back, “You, in a church?”

  “It’s not a church, it’s a cathedral,” He pulled her up the steps of St. John The Devine. “This is the diocese mothership. It’ll only take a minute.”

  “I hope the roof doesn’t fall in.”

  After Joe’s brief errand in Catholicism, Tina led him east to Riverside Park on the Hudson River. They ambled south from 110th Street to 64th. New Yorkers walked along the Hudson River, some jogged past them, enjoying a warm and sunny September day. Tina stopped to pet a dozen dogs, guessing their breeds and getting their names.

  “I want a dog someday,” she said. “I want my kids to grow up with dogs, and a cat.”

  “I’ll make a note of it.”

  They stopped for an Italian Ice. Tina suggested they share one. Treat in hand, moving east back into the city she handed him the cup. Joe looked inside.

  “Jesus,” he stared at her. “It was big of you to save me some. I knew I should have gotten my own.”

  “Don’t be a baby.”

  They weaved their way to tiny West End Park, past The Lincoln Center and The Met. They stopped at a public school playground and watched kids and teens shooting hoops. Joe grabbed a loose ball that got away from a teen. He stepped onto the court, set his feet, and launched his rainbow shot from the corner. It doinked off the rim, straight up, and fell through. The kids cheered, he raised his arms and turned to Tina.

  “Lucky bounce,” she said.

  “You don’t get the bounce if you’re not real close,” he held his finger and thumb a half inch apart. “Hey, are we near Tommy’s?”

  “Yeah,” T pointed. “It’s a few blocks that way.”

  He would have preferred staying in, enjoying the warmth of her bed and body but this was a great day. Joe enjoyed Tina being his personal tour guide. She loved her city and got excited telling Joe facts about the park system and her urban developer hero, Robert Moses.

  They walked blocks, and blocks, through more tiny parks, and into Rock and Soul Records to browse. Joe bought the new Robert Gordon rockabilly album. At Bryant Park, they shared a snack from a street vendor, a huge sugary pretzel. Tina handed Joe the nub.

  “What the fuck?” he said, holding the last inch of pretzel. “You ate the whole thing.”

  “I did not.”

  “I had one corner, and now this.” He held up the nub.

  “Right,” she smiled. “I didn’t eat the whole thing.”

  It didn’t matter what they were doing as long as he was doing it with her. After a long day linking her favorite spots, they took a short subway hop back to The West Village where they stopped at a market for groceries. Joe planned on cooking dinner and spending his last night at home. In the market, picking meat and produce, Joe imagined this as his future; with this woman, in this city, with this lifestyle.

  Back a 3C with no bandmates in sight, T watched Joe work in the kitchen thinly shaving fresh garlic. A pair of strip steaks sat on the cutting board. He reached under her sink, way in the back, and pulled out a cast iron skillet.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “I bought it at that second-hand shop. I just reseasoned it yesterday when you were at orientation.”

  “That’s why the apartment smelled when I got home.”

  “My dad grills at home. We can’t do that but Pops taught me this; cast iron, butter, and garlic, very simple.”

  Joe sliced potatoes and onions to make a small casserole and had green beans in her steamer ready to go.

  After they enjoyed their steak dinner, Joe was quite pleased with himself. He had impressed T with another home-cooked meal, the fourth he had prepared for her. She offered to do the dishes.

  “I’ll clean the cast iron," he said. "No soap can ever touch that pan.”

  “Okay. I’ll leave that on the stove. I can’t decide which dinner is best. Your meatballs were excellent and I liked the roasted chicken but these steaks may have been number one."

  “You didn’t like the sausage and roasted veggies?”

  “That was good but not a contender.”

  “There’s no need to choose if they’re all good.”

  Tina hugged him, placing a gentle kiss on his lips. “Let me tidy up here and then change into my pajamas.”

  “Why bother? They’re not staying on for long.”

  She moved a shopping bag she had set on a table by her phone. The light on her answering machine was flashing. They had missed it because it was obscured by the bag.

  “Oh, I have messages.”

  Beep. “Tina, Joe… it’s Tommy. Call the bar. Simon’s in the hospital.”