A Punker's Notes [Original Novel]

Part One: Entry 11

We’re parked just a few cars back from a barricade on Bay Street that runs parallel to an inlet leading to the Long Beach Marina on a sunny southern California morning. Just in front of the barricade is a stage where a band sets up. Jenkins and I sit in the Cutlass each with a beer between our legs. One of the Brandenburg Concertos comes softly from the Cutlass’ stereo on KFAC, a classical radio station.

“Oh fuckin’ check this out,” Jenkins laughs spying a group of youngsters walking towards us from the stage area.

The guys and girls all have relatively short hair with long bangs sweeping at an angle down across their foreheads. They wear soft suede round toed boots the tops folded back around their ankles. One guy wears pegged purple pants with an untucked black long sleeve dress shirt. Another guy wears a gray fedora pushed back far enough so you can see his bangs clearly.

“New Romantic fucks,” Jenkins mutters as they pass by, takes a swig of beer and points to the radio. “Me and Frank played classical music when we were in primary school... In an ensemble or somethin’ when I was like eight and he was twelve... Stuff like this.”

We watch groups of people go past, check out girls. A beat up dented pale yellow two-door ‘67 Corvair with a U.K. Subs sticker on the rear bumper goes by. Unable to find a parking spot the driver does a Y-turn and cruises back past us. Jenkins closely eyes the mohawked and liberty-spiked guys and girls in the car. Then the Corvair heads back to Ocean Boulevard and makes a right.

“Remember that painting I was pissed off at when you stayed at my house last time?” I refer to a self portrait I had kicked around my family’s garage in frustration.

“Uhh... Yeah.”

“I ended up callin’ it, ‘Jack Sturm Burns in Hell.’ ”

“Cool.”

“Anyway..., my painting teacher thought it was rad... An’ he was all ravin’ about it in class last week.”

“Did ‘e grab his balls and scream, ‘Ahhh?!!!’ ”

“Yeah dude..., He fuckin’ grabbed his balls and screamed, ‘Ahh...! You’re on fire! You’re burning up inside!’ ”

“Here come those Corvair punkers,” I spot them in my side view mirror. They approach us, just a few cars back. Jenkins then rummages through the small pile of cassette tapes sitting between us on the front seat.

“Sorry dude,” he jams a tape with ‘Germs’ scrawled on it into the stereo. Flips the glove box open. Hits the switch on the equalizer within. The spiked, studded and engineer booted super-punkers walk past. Our immediate surroundings are hit with an onslaught of power. Darby Crash growls, “I’m Richie Dagger, I c’n stomp and swagger, I c’n take on all ya hero-ro-roes. I’m Richie Dagger. I’m young and haggard the boy nobody ow-ow-owns...”

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Photo by George Bonev