Two boys bullied me the last year of grammar school on the South Shore. The daily beating were witnessed by friends and classmates. Joe Tully and Mark Scanlon were not in good shape. They stopped after a few minutes and everyone wandered home to watch WHERE THE ACTION IS.
No one ever tried to stop them.
I carried those scars into my teenage years and beyond.
I fought countless times in Boston.
Nothing stopped me.
Not victories.
Not defeats.
I had a chip on my shoulder, but for the most part I protected the weak.
Fags, women, blacks, jews.
I was no superhero.
Just that if I fought that much, it looked better, if it was for a good cause.
This behavior scared women.
None more than my precious Alice from West Virginia.
In 1978 we lived together in the East Village.
Punks, artists, artists.
Alice’s eyes were two colors.
Actually more than two, counting the sparks of gold, agate, and emerald.
Her skin was as smooth as Marvin “Popcorn” Sutton’s moonshine.
I was more than in love, but my violent streak was an obstacle to peace in the valley of East 10th Street.
Never against her.
But she saw me at my worst.
Her gay friends considered me rough trade.
Her girlfriends thought of me as a Neanderthal.
They weren’t 100% wrong.
I liked a fight for a good cause.
I liked them for bad ones too.
Against all odds.
In the end it was against a fight against my hometown bullies, Joe Tully and Mark Scallon.
In the winter of 1978 Alice and her friends organized THE NEW WAVE VAUDEVILLE SHOW at Irving Plaza.
Klaus Nomi was the headliner along with a horde of starry-eyed rockers and artists.
I was asked to be the securit with my friends.
None of us were paid, but we guaranteed free drinks .
The night of the show started slow, but by midnight the auditorium on Irving Place was packed with new wave affectionados. Klaus killed the crowd. He was a star.
At the end of the stage lights came up, signaling time to go home.
I went from table to table telling the guests that they didn’t have to go home, but they couldn’t stay here.
The rest of the security was guzzling liquor at the back bar.
Alice and her friends were flush with of achieving glory for an evening and tomorrow promised more with the B-52s headlining the show.
Only one table remained and I approached the four rockers, telling the same thing as everyone else.
They didn’t like what they heard and a thin-haired guy in glasses asked, “Do you know who I am?”
I had seen him someplace, but had to say, “No.”
“We’re Blondie and we’re not going anywhere.”
“Blondie? I had seen them several times at CBGBs. I liked them and said, “It’s been a long night. Just do me a favor and finish your drinks.”
I turned to walk away, but he grabbed my shoulder. I shucked off his grip and slapped the beer out of his hand.
“Just leave, you cunts. You guys suck.”
I was no music critic and they attacked me as if one of them had said, “One two three four.”
I seized the forelock of the rocker in the glasses and whacked him in the face.
He backed away and I found myself with a hank of hair in my hand.
After that I was buried underneath them and their roadies.
Not a fair fight.
I was used to those.
Alice wasn’t there when I got to my feet.
I had trouble breathing.
Two of my ribs were broken.
I returned to our apartment on East 10th Street and lay on the futon wheezing.
I coughed a little blood.
Nothing serious.
Alice show up at dawn.
She sat in the kitchen.
“A good night.”
“Yes, but you had to ruin it all. Blondie wants to play, but both them and the B-52s won’t perform if you’re there.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the show must go on.”
That morning we slept in separate beds.
Alice left for the show before sunset without saying a word. I wandered north to Irving Plaza and drank in the Polish Bar beneath Irving Plaza.
The Poles toasted me.
I toasted them back.
“Na Zdrowie!” I coughed with pain
I spit up blood for the next two days.
HEART OF GLASS rode the charts to # 1.
I should have sued the band for a hundred-thousand.
Sadly I wasn’t that type of guy.
Fighters never are.
We win.
We lose.
We never cry.
Never.
