A Punker's Notes [Original Novel]

Part One: Entry 20

“My dad’s off in the desert doin’ some biker campin’ shit with my cousin Ernie. We should make some noise at our place,” Jenkins suggests while going through some cassette tapes in the glove-box of the Cutlass.

“Fuck yeah!” Ish exclaims from the back seat. “We’ll get some drums and stuff... I can borrow some shit. It’ll be fuckin’ rad dude!”

We drive around for a couple hours picking up equipment from different people. We get to the Redondo Street apartment in Long Beach mid-afternoon with two guitar amps, a microphone, a snare drum and a floor tom.

In Jenkins' and Frank’s bedroom we haphazardly set everything up. There’s barely enough room in the area between twin beds which are placed on opposite sides of the small space.

“Dude just play a steady beat, any beat,” Ish tells me with his Hondo II Les Paul copy strapped on and plugged into a Rheem amplifier.

Ish starts in on a riff. I don’t have any idea what to do. With a stick in each hand I start hitting both drums at the same time over and over making a steady beat.

Jenkins grabs the mike which has been plugged into the other amp and starts screeching, “Ahhhhhhhhhhh...! Eeeeeee-yahhh...! Ahhhhhhhhhhh...! Eeeeee-yahhh...! Ahhhhhhhhhhh...! Eeeeee-yahhh...! LA LEE...! LA LEE!” He screams this again and again over me and Ish’s barely rhythmic grind.

“You guys keep playin’,” Jenkins sets the mike on a bed and walks out of the room.

“Fuck!” Jenkins laughs a minute later returning to the noise session. “You can hear it all the way out on the street.”

Ish plays a riff on one string, “Doe, doe, doe, doe, doe-doe, doe-doe, doe, doe. Doe, doe, doe, doe, da-da, da-da, da, da. Doe, doe, doe, doe...” It calls for a slow driving beat so I try hitting the snare drum intermittently with my right hand while steadily pounding on the floor tom with my left and it works okay.

“Sal...!” Jenkins improvising again, this time with words rather than mere gibberish starts up:

      Well Sal...! Got revenge...! I said Sal...! He got revenge...!

      On the way to the market..., he saw his wife...

      Yeah she was givin’ head..., to his best friend!

      That put ‘im in a mood ta make ‘im commit a deadly sin!

      Well Sal..., got revenge!

      Yeah Sal...! He got revenge...!

      His mother always taught him to be a nice boy turnin’ the other cheek.

      And learned it in Sunday School where he got brainwashed every week.

      Some saw that as strength some said he was a fuckin’ pussy.

      But you know when he saw that cock in his slut wife’s mouth...

(Doe, doe, doe, doe, doe-doe, doe-doe, doe, doe...)

      I said Sal...! He motherfuckin’ got revenge!

Sal’s saga continues for a while with him stealing a car, crashing it into a freeway embankment then ends up out of his mind in Tijuana on Quaaludes in a knife fight with some locals. The tune fades out and we go down to the Alpha Beta for some Lucky Lager.

We break into the beer after our trip to the supermarket. Then continue making noise throughout the afternoon. Everyone takes turns at drums, guitar and vocals.

“Dude we gotta start a real band. I got connections still, from when I was in Malicious Intent,” Ish goes, half drunk on the cheap beer.

“Fuck yeah!” Ryan jumps in. “I wanna be as big as Social Distortion man. Play a fuckin’ club and the place is packed.”

“I wouldn’t wanna be any bigger than the Damned,” I interject. “I wouldn’t play any place bigger than the Palladium... I’d never play the Forum.”

“Fuck dude! Are you crazy?” Jenkins interrupts. “You know how much money we could make?”

“I don’t care. That’s just sellin’ out... I saw the Clash open for the Who at the L.A. Coliseum and it was lame.”

The pointless conversation is interrupted by the phone ringing.

“Nina, Leann and Robbie wanna come over. They’ll give you gas money if you pick ‘em up.” Jenkins tells me.

I arrive at the Karen Street house to pick up the girls and Robbie just as it’s getting dark. On the way back to the Arceneaux apartment we stop for more alcohol at a liquor store. We put all of our money together buying two twelve-packs of Lucky Lager and a liter of cheap vodka.

The Damned’s Machine Gun Etiquette blares from Jacques Arceneaux’s seventies stereo as we enter the apartment. Jenkins and Ryan walk slowly in a circle in the middle of the living room eyeing each other as if they are in the pit at a gig. Jenkins then shoves Ryan, jumps on the coffee table, makes like he’s doing a stage dive and lands on the couch. I put the beer in the refrigerator of the small kitchen and take out a bottle for myself.

I sit at a small round table in the kitchen. Twist the top off the beer, take a sip and with the cap still in my hand turn it upside down trying to decipher the picture puzzle that’s printed inside. Ryan joins me at the table helping himself to some of the vodka chasing it with beer. The kitchen is adjacent to the living room. The two rooms are separated only by a short partition with a small bar-table atop. So I can see when Jenkins picks up the vacuum cleaner and plays it like a guitar along with the Damned record.

“Isn’t your dad a football coach or somethin’,” I ask Ryan.

“Oh yeah he’s an assistant coach..., defensive line coach.”

“Does ‘e want ya to play?”

“Yeah..., since I got kicked outta Buena Park High and transferred to his school he’s always buggin’ me about it.”

“I almost played in high school, wide receiver, but it didn’t happen. That was in Michigan when I changed from Christian school ta public school. Me an’ my friends used ta play out in my neighbors’ backyard with full on helmets and jerseys and shoulder pads and shit... Full contact drivin’ each other inta the ground head first and shit.”

“Fuck... Rad.”

A game of spin-the-bottle gets started in the living room as our conversation turns to pro ball. The idea of kissing Leann or Nina is more enticing than the NFL so we join the game.

“You guys can play, but if your spin lands on a guy, you have to kiss him,” Nina sitting to my right on the carpeted floor lays down this rule as she spins an empty Tyrolia wine bottle.

“Like this,” she says after the bottle’s spout stops and points at Leann. Nina leans over and gives Leann a full-on tongue kiss.

“Yeah,” Leann agrees enthusiastically after the kiss, “it’d be rad to see you guys make out.”

“Fuck that!” Ryan yells.

“Fuck,” Leann responds, “I’d just love to watch a guy do another guy.”

“Fuck yeah,” Nina starts in as I spin. “Could you imagine, like Bowie and Iggy Pop together?” I luck out and the bottle points in Nina’s direction. She comes close to me for a wet kiss while Leann keeps the topic alive.

“Could you just imagine Iggy fucking Ziggy up the ass? That’d make me so hot I’d come just watchin’ it.”

“Fuck!” Jenkins yells as the bottle points towards Ryan after a spin then endures an open mouthed kiss.

I give Ish a peck on a pudgy cheek after my next spin which upsets the girls a little. I ignore them and after my next spin, end up with a sloppy kiss from Nina.

Then I start kissing Nina between turns. Even when I’m supposed to kiss one of the other guys I cheat kissing Nina instead.

Ryan, Ish and Robbie lose interest and turn their attention to the TV first, then start playing quarters. Jenkins meanwhile takes a cue from me and kisses Leann a few more times than the game calls for.

Spin-the-bottle winds down and when Nina goes to the kitchen for another beer I corner her. I drive her against the wall making out for a couple minutes. Nina stops things and heads into the living room.

Ryan bounces a quarter off the coffee table into a glass filled with beer then skulls it instantly.

Jenkins, who has joined the game, fills the glass back up with Lucky Lager. He bounces the quarter off the side of the glass.

“Fuck...! I missed again!” he yells.

I take an occasional turn at the game. My attention is more focused on Nina who is pressed firmly against me on the couch.

“Fuck this game!” Jenkins flips out after missing for the fourth time in a row. He picks the glass up slings it beer and all through the opening out into the kitchen. He then lures Leann away to Jacques’ bedroom to show her some of his dad’s bondage gear.

Ish and Ryan sleep on the couch in slouched positions open mouthed with Nighthawks on the TV. Robbie is passed out on the floor snoring. Nina gets up and walks into Jenkins’ and Frank’s bedroom. I follow her noticing on my way that Jacques’ bedroom door is now closed.

“I’m sleeping here,” Nina takes one of the twin beds and suggests that I sleep in the other.

I lie in the bed opposite her for a couple of minutes then can’t contain myself any longer.

“I don’t wanna be over here.”

“Where do you wanna be?” she asks.

“Over there.”

“Okay.”

I navigate my way through the musical equipment. We’re immediately kissing but it doesn’t feel as passionate as it was earlier. I’m concerned about blowing a good chance at fucking this cute, sexy girl. I pull her t-shirt up and shove my face into those big boobs. Then I’m sliding a hand down into her underwear. Immediately she’s breathing hard and fast. I stroke her inner labia with my middle finger while sucking on her tits. I pull her panties off then quickly get out of my clothes. She still has her top on. It’s kept above her breasts by their firmness and size. I don’t bother with pulling the shirt off, but instead spread her legs. Trashed on the vodka and beer, I clumsily shove my cock at her pussy.

I push hard but it won’t go in. I stop. Crouch down and carefully make sure her lips are spread far enough apart. I give it another try not forcing so much this time just doing my best to work it in a little. I keep at it, but she is so tight I can only get halfway in. I keep moving in and out but absolutely can’t get in any farther than that.

I’m content with this degree of penetration. We continue in the missionary position for at the most three minutes when I realize that I am about to come. I’ve been selfishly over-concentrating on how good my dick feels in that little pussy. I pull out spilling my load onto her belly and some in her pubic hair. Nina stands, walks to the bathroom, cleans up then returns lying down in the bed opposite mine.

“Dude I was standin’ right here,” in the morning I hear Jenkins laughing. He’s leaning against the bedroom’s doorjamb talking to someone. “I could hear my dad..., for like ten minutes, in the bathroom goin’, ‘Oh yes my little man..., Oh my little man..., Oh-ooh my little man, Oh-hoh my little man.’ ”

“No fuckin’ way dude!” Ish explodes.

I doze off and am awakened a second time by Ryan who’s got the guitar plugged in playing it through one of the amps. He sits at the end of the bed where Nina still sleeps. He has somehow strapped the mike around his neck with a coat hanger.

“Come on all you people,” Ryan sings while playing the guitar. “I want you all to COME... COME along with me and get happy... Get happy with me.”

Then Jenkins walks into the bedroom, “Hey man, let’s have a total fuckin’ Sunday afternoon rager.”

“Fuck yeah!” Ryan comes back.

“Yeah man,” Frank’s comin’ up here from San Clemente with Tim van Lier... And I’ll call Willard and shit.”

“Yeah..., get the Cellinis over here and Onack and some other Garden Grove people...” Ish is excited thinking of anyone he can. “Scott Pollock, Pete Girghle—”

“My dad wouldn’t be cool with it,” Jenkins cuts Ish off, “but fuck him. He’s been gone for like two weeks with his fag biker friends and he only gave me and Frank like twenty dollars for food before he left.”

I’m in Frank and Jenkins’ bedroom scrawling some lyrics for our “band” in a notebook I’ve picked up from the floor. I hear Nina’s raspy voice on the other side of the wall coming from Jacques’ room.

“Jacques Arceneaux must enter me first,” she’s slurring.

“He’s not here,” I hear Willard, the eldest of the Arceneaux boys. “He’s out in the desert gettin’ fucked up the ass by Cousin Ernie and God knows who else.”

“Jacques Arceneaux must enter me first!” Nina repeats.

“Well I’m here now baby!” I hear Ryan’s voice midst some orgiastic activity going on over there.

“He totally fuckin’ digs me,” Nina goes on. “Last time I stayed here, in the morning he was all prancin’ around in nothin’ but a jock-strap goin’, ‘And what would you like for breakfast me lady?’ ”

“Yeah man,” Willard cracks. “He loves cock, but he can’t resist chicks with big tits.”

I’ve been switching between bourbon and vodka. I’m face-down on Jenkins’ bed the thing doing somersaults and twists. I sit up. Get my eyes open controlling things so I won’t puke. Things settle and I’m struck with the eminent need to compose a piece of literary mastery about head coach Bud Grant’s recent retirement from the NFL. I open the notebook and start scribbling again.

Then I stand from the bed with poem in hand to see how the rager is going.

Mark Cellini is standing naked with a hideous B.C. Rich Mockingbird guitar strapped around his neck. He’s snorts a black-beauty from atop a large brown hi-fi speaker cabinet. The capsule has been cracked in two sitting next to a white line that is disappearing up Mark’s nose.

“I fuckin’ let a demon inside my body once man...!” Mark grabs a microphone strapped to the vacuum cleaner handle. “Yeah...! No bullshit! Me and my sister were tryin’da put a hex on a cop that lives on our block ta make him go nuts and shoot one of his kids usin’ black magic! And I let a green mist come inside me, I breathed it in. I got all high and shit and ran out in the backyard screamin’ and threw myself headfirst into my dad’s tool shed.”

“Hey man,” I grab the microphone. “I wrote a poem about Bud Grant.”

I start reading:

      In fierce winter storms he stood stoic facing the advance

      Never pardoned the weak

      Close to the pinnacle

      Ever short of attainment

      Never given deserv-ed tribute

      Now he shoots in fields and fields away—

“What the fuck?!” Mark yanks the mike from my hand. “We don’t wanna hear no fuckin’ poetry!”

“It’s ‘bout Bud Grant... You know who Buddd GGrrant is right?”

“Of course I know who fuckin’ Bud Grant is!” Mark is irate. “But he ain’t got nothin’ ta do with no faggot poetry shit!”

Then, “Ahhh!” Mark screams and starts strumming the out of tune guitar in an up-and-down motion. An ad-hoc band has assembled in the corner of the living room.

“Now...!” Mark pauses, yells, “Let’s fuckin’ get it right this time!” And the combo starts in on a rendition of the Misfits’ Astro Zombies.

Jenkins is atop the coffee table doing his version of some Tai Chi moves. His arms and legs move slowly as he holds a half-pint Popov bottle in one hand taking small sips from time to time.

Willard emerges from Jacques’ bedroom skulking around brandishing a bottle of Coors Light randomly kicking furniture. He tips the bottle straight upside down guzzling it. Slams the empty firmly into the living room drywall knocking a big hole in it. Laughs, “Let’s see how my faggot father likes that!”


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Photo by Tim Wright