Robert Steven Williams

Richard Parker’s son had bugged him for weeks about seeing this hot new band, Needle Exchange. He kept putting Billy off, hoping he’d lose interest the way he had with most things, but he hadn’t. “Sounds like a state welfare program,” Richard said, trying to be funny.


“It’s hardcore rock. Do I diss what you listen to?”

“You mean the guys with all the tattoos and piercings, the ones that scream at the top of their lungs?”

“Dad.”

“Not in a million years,” Richard said. “You’re way too young.”

But eventually Richard agreed on the condition Billy and his friend, Anthony, were chaperoned. Of course Richard didn’t expect to get stuck with the job, and he complained to his wife, Julie, when nobody else volunteered.

“Not on my life,” she had said. “It was your idea.”

And yet Richard quietly looked forward to the show. The last concert he’d seen was John Fogerty back in ’97. The place had been packed with beer bellies and baldheads and it was depressing to know he fit right in.

When Richard had called Barbara Montello, Anthony’s mom, to say he’d chaperone, she’d thought Needle Exchange was a boy band from one of those TV pop shows. “That’s so sweet,” she had said. “I would have just dropped them off.”

On the day of the show, Richard came home early with pizza. Entering through the garage, he almost tripped over the two skateboards leaning against the washing machine. From the kitchen, the boys could be heard playing computer games.

Everything was skateboards at the moment, so it was probably Tony Hawk’s Pro Skater.

The glow of the TV set shone upon the kid’s faces as they coolly pressed controller buttons. “Yes,” Billy said, balling a fist as fireworks erupted on screen.

Billy’s interest in skateboarding had led to snowboarding, and it was on a family trip to Stratton Mountain that he caught the bug for hardcore. Apparently, wool-capped kids on boards needed loud, in-your-face music on the slopes. If Richard had known this, he might have opted for the Caribbean.

“Hey guys,” he called out, “food’s ready.”

It took two more calls for the boys to drop the game controllers.

“How’s school?” Richard asked Billy’s friend, trying not to stare at the kid’s day-glo green spikes. His jean jacket was covered in torn patches, buttons, and giant safety pins.

“Fine, Mr. Parker,” Anthony said. “Thanks for taking us tonight.”

Anthony’s father was a big shot in Fairfield County real estate and his mother was a board member of the private school the boys attended. It made their son’s appearance all the more surprising. But Anthony was a Ken doll gone punk, a sanitized replica of an era long gone. His jacket was nothing like the one Richard had worn in his misspent youth, a jumble of patches drenched in beer and blood. Anthony’s outfit was probably bought at Macy’s. And to think he, Richard, was complaining about Billy’s crew-cut-and-black-clothing phase.

How could Mrs. Montello have thought her son liked boy bands? Did she think that green hair came from an interest in the circus? He knew Needle Exchange wasn’t a bunch of clowns. He’d visited the band’s web site and discovered that they were an upand- coming act that had played the third stage at Oz Fest. Their songs included “Mass Suicide” and “Death by Carbon Dioxide.”

Richard had discussed the lyrics with Billy last week and wasn’t surprised at his son’s bewilderment. It reminded Richard of the time his mom had given him the third degree over the Grateful Dead back in 1972. He’d just bought Skeletons in the Closet. “What on earth does it mean?” she had asked.

He hadn’t a clue and she’d confiscated it. It didn’t matter because Richard got a friend to make a cassette copy, which he’d kept in a drawer underneath his socks. He, too, had been tempted to delete Needle Exchange’s songs from the computer, but he knew his son would just download more.


They popped out of the garage in the SUV just as Julie was coming home from work. Richard lowered the window. “Have fun,” she said. “Don’t let them out of your sight.”

“Thanks, honey. It’s your last chance to join us.”

“I’ve still got work to do,” she said, her cool blue eyes offering no sympathy. She waved at the boys, but they were already plugged into iPods, blasting hardcore into their ears.

Richard saw his son through the rear view mirror and wondered if Billy was just pretending not to see his mother.

In New Haven, Richard found a spot close to the club. When he opened the car doors, the music was loud enough to make him think the band was in the parking lot. He made a joke about that, and Billy rolled embarrassed eyes.

The Tanning Factory was in an old brick building and the entrance was down a side street. An icy March wind bounced off the alley walls. A heavy-set man with a red beard sat by the door.

“Hi,” Richard said, “I called earlier, three for Parker.”

The ticket-taker lumbered off his stool to retrieve the list in his back pocket. Once he spotted the name, he muttered something that got lost in the noise blasting from the corridor.

Richard bent forward and smelled whiskey. “Say again.”

“Let me stamp you.”

Richard got a green smudge, the boys were stamped blue.

Inside, they huddled together in a long, dark corridor. Young people stood wall-to-wall, many with shaved heads, tattoos, and piercings. The floor was slick from spilt beer and what smelled like piss seeping from the toilets. The drums reverberated stronger against Richard’s chest with each step further into the club. “Okay guys,” he shouted, “let’s stick together.”

Richard wanted a better look at these hooligans but was afraid to stare at eyebrows trimmed with silver rings and ears that appeared caught in barbed wire. When Richard had turned thirty, he’d considered an earring, but Julie had nixed the idea. That yearning was long gone, but for the first time that evening, he was glad Anthony and his spikes were part of his entourage.

It took about a minute to weave through to the concert hall. Much to Richard’s relief, the opening band, Torture Chamber, finished just as they arrived. A dusty, gray light cast a pall over a crowd of roughly seventy-five; the place could easily hold another two hundred.

Richard’s eyes stung from the cigarette smoke, but it had no effect on the boys, as if youth provided immunity to toxins. At least the place had sprinklers. Richard wanted to discuss safety with Billy, the importance of knowing how to get out in an emergency, but his son and Anthony were preoccupied at the merchandise table, fondling twenty-five-dollar tee shirts.

“Not now,” Richard said. “Listen up.” He pointed out four exits. “At the first sign of trouble, head for one. Okay?”

The boys nodded.

“Don’t go all the way up front. Stay together. We’ll meet right here after the set. Understood?”

“Don’t worry, Dad, we’ll be cool.”

The second band, Ferret Face, was about to start. Richard had an urge to hug Billy before they went off but only nodded as they disappeared into the crowd.

Richard sighed. It was time for a drink. He squeezed by two chunky guys standing sentry at the bar in back, an area no larger than a bus. The watered-down beer arrived in a plastic cup.

The lights dimmed and the drone of a distorted, fuzzed guitar ricocheted about the plywood walls. Richard leaned on the barrier separating the drinkers from those under age. Standing next to a jackhammer was preferable to listening to Ferret Face. He should have brought earplugs. How could Billy like this crap? He laughed to himself when he realized he sounded just like his old man. How would his Dad have reacted at a Who concert? He’d have been petrified, as if abducted by aliens.

He’d tried to explain that to Billy once. His son laughed.

“Come on, Dad, they do stupid car commercials.”

Maybe Richard was just too old to get it. He listened for a few more minutes, trying to keep an open mind. Ferret Face stayed on one chord and the singer screamed something unintelligible at the top of his lungs. Nah, this band sucked.

Several guys with Mohawks marched into the hall, led by three shirtless kids in army fatigues. They carved out a space in the middle of the crowd like piranha, aggressively moving from side to side. At first, Richard thought it was a fight, but the security guard next to him wasn’t bothered. The gang whipsawed back and forth with elbows and outstretched hands spinning like propellers.

Richard was hip enough to know a mosh pit wasn’t a Jewish barbecue, but this wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen. This was a daredevil dance, a game of chicken, a run with the bulls in Pamplona.

Richard searched for the boys and spotted them at the edge of the merchandise table. Both faces were focused on the band, oblivious to the mayhem ten feet away.

“What’s going on?” Richard shouted at the guard by the bar entrance.

The beefy guy laughed, then said something that dissolved into the blaring music. Richard leaned into the man and cupped his ear.

“…it’s all in fun…they take it out in….on…streets doing crack or some….”

Richard smiled, pretending to understand.

The guard motioned to come closer, and Richard did, his ear now feeling the moist warmth of the bouncer’s breath. “If someone falls, they’ll give ’em a hand, but if things get out of control, don’t worry, we haul ’em out.”

Richard nodded. “Good to know.” Maybe the guards weren’t bothered by these nutcases, but Richard didn’t want to take chances. He downed his beer and headed toward the merchandise table to get closer to the boys.

The music pounded on, but between songs the crowd quieted as if they were in the eye of a hurricane. Even those propeller arms stopped. The demon-possessed singer now spoke to the audience as if he were Opie from Mayberry. “Thank you so much, Connecticut. It’s great to be here. Now be safe. We’re just having fun, right?”

Four more songs and each sounded the same, just louder. Richard checked his watch; it was only eight.

During the next number, three staff hauled a kid toward the exit. Six thick-muscled arms manhandled this blur of flesh through the narrow corridor where Richard now stood. Late to react, he was sucked in and spun around.

“You son of a fucking bitch,” one bouncer said to the kid being escorted.

Richard twisted through this rugby scrum, maneuvering to what he thought was safe ground, and then a sharp elbow caught him like a thwack with a hammer. Richard backed away as the commotion moved toward the exit. Clutching his shoulder, Richard turned toward the stage to find the boys. They were right where he’d last spotted them, clueless to what had just happened. It could have been worse.

But what if Billy and Anthony had been in the way? He had to get them out of here, but that human pit had shifted between him and the boys again; he could never cross it. Richard would have to wait until the set ended.

While the band droned on, he mulled over what to say. How would he have reacted to his father yanking him from a concert? A dumb question, since he never would have been caught dead at a show with his dad. And how many times had Richard slipped into the house late, as a teen, stoned out of his mind, eating bowls of cereal before hitting the sack. More than once he’d found his parents up waiting, and he’d had to explain the smell of smoke on his clothes and the bloodshot eyes, denying all charges.

Another mind-numbing song pummeled the crowd while four police officers stood beside that merchandise table, laughing amongst themselves. Richard felt foolish. Maybe he was overreacting. What if he and the boys just found safer terrain in back?

Richard walked to the entrance for some fresh air. The guy with the red beard smiled. “How you making out?”

“The kids are having a good time.”

“Too much for you?”

Richard stroked his stubbled chin. “I saw the Sex Pistols once.”

“You lucky bastard.”

“It was a long time ago, but it was intense. A lot of people got hurt.”

“It happens,” the doorman said. “But we keep a sharp eye out. We know who the troublemakers are. These guys look tough, but they’re all pretty decent.”

Richard didn’t recall CBGB’s smelling this bad or the music as overwhelming. He’d also been a few years older than the boys when he’d first sneaked into a rock club. The stuff he’d done as a teenager. If his son only got into a fraction of the mischief he had at their age, he was in for trouble. Maybe the doorman was right. These kids looked tough, but it was all a masquerade, make believe, just like Anthony’s punk jacket from Macy’s. Richard ignored the dull ache in his shoulder and headed back to that merchandise table.

Soon the set ended and the house lights came on. Billy and Anthony were already at the prearranged spot, looking as if they’d just come off a roller coaster.

“You guys okay?” Richard asked, scanning the boys for signs of trouble.

They nodded with cool detachment.

“I almost got run over by those bouncers,” he said, feeling like a wimp as the words came out. Actually, the shoulder felt better.

“We’re fine, Dad. No problems.”

“I’m thinking we should stay over there.” Richard pointed to a place in the corner.

“Come on, Dad. We’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”

The club began to fill, like water returning to a flushed toilet. Most were young adults, but a few teens were sprinkled about, some even younger than the boys. Richard pointed to the back of the room. “It would be better to stay over there.”

Anthony glanced at Billy as if Richard had just suggested training wheels for his BMX bike. “We’ll be okay, Dad, really.”

Richard sighed. “Be careful and stay out of the fray. We’ll meet back here after the next band.”

The boys slipped off into the crowd to await band number three, Formula 1.

Richard maneuvered through this sea of youth feeling like an old tugboat. “Sorry,” a pierced couple said as they bumped into him. Richard nodded, trying not to look annoyed. That dull ache in his shoulder was back. He should have been tougher, at least insisted that they stay in the rear. At least he wasn’t an embarrassment for Billy. Richard certainly couldn’t have said that about his old man. And if he were honest, he’d seen worse behavior in the upper deck at Jet’s games.

Richard headed for the men’s room hoping he’d made the right decision. Two guys stood at the urinals, another was in the stall, while someone else pissed in the sink. When the stall cleared, Richard stepped in. A roll of shriveled toilet paper sat on the lid, prune-like. Good thing he didn’t have to take a crap. In 1975, he and his girlfriend, Carol, had driven down to Philadelphia to see the Who. She’d been holding a pee since Trenton and, by the time they got to the Spectrum, she was bursting. The line at the ladies room was a mile long so Richard ran interference in the men’s. Most of the guys thought it was hilarious. While Carol was in a stall, a Spanish kid in the corner was selling acid to suburban teens. Three cops walked in, a scuffle ensued, arrests were made. The police ordered everyone out. Carol emerged from the stall red-faced.

That night Richard and Carol had tickets in the second row, and when Townshend took his guitar and hurled it into Keith Moon’s drum set, chunks of equipment flew in every direction. It was a wonder no one got hurt. His parents certainly would have had a heart attack if they had witnessed it. And here he was, thirty years later, on the verge of his own cardiac arrest. As he left the men’s room, a guy filled the sink with water. When he started to drink from it, Richard said, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“What?” the guy said, slurping a handful. His eyes were glazed from God-knew-what drug. Richard shrugged and walked out.

When Formula 1 finished, he met the boys at the mixing board. This time their faces were covered in shiny sweat and Billy was rubbing his elbow. “What’s wrong?”

“They were great.”

“What’s with the arm?”

“It’s nothing,” Billy said, his hand quickly dropping to the side.

“William.”

“I’m fine, Dad, okay.”

Richard knew he was lying. “That’s it, we’re out of here.”

Anthony took a step backwards, looking toward the stage.

“Dad.”

Richard grabbed Billy by the shoulder. “We’re going.”

“No,” Billy snorted.

A bald guy with two nose rings got between them. “Chill out you two. You’re killing the vibe.” He yanked Billy free.

“He’s my son,” Richard said.

“Oh,” the pierced guy replied, slipping back into the crowd.

Richard sighed.

“Please, Dad.” Billy tugged on his sleeve. “You saw the Sex Pistols for crying out loud.”

“Oh, God,” Richard said, “I was older.”

“Yeah, but you’re with us. We’re fine.”

“Jesus.” Richard ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat on the bald spot. “Don’t let me regret this, you understand?”

Billy smiled, and in that face, Richard saw his wife’s narrow jaw and determined upper lip, chin thrust upward in an act of independence.

Roadies preparing the stage for Needle Exchange tested microphones and banged drums; each thud shook the walls. Richard’s palms grew clammy, his brow was wet, and that dull ache was still in the shoulder. They could have been on the highway now, heading to a diner. And if not for that pierced guy, they would have been.

The club was now filled to capacity and when Needle Exchange appeared, everyone surged forward. The squadron of elbows and arms prepared for take off. Richard had leaned against the wall to keep clear of the crowd, but now screaming fans surrounded him, and there was nothing he could do. The lead singer, with the obligatory armful of tattoos and shaved head, took the microphone. In a sheepish voice he said, “Now let’s have some fun, watch out for one another. Okay?”

They opened with their minor hit, “Mass Suicide.”



It’s time to leave
Not to breathe
Come with me
And you’ll see
We’ll fly high
Through the sky
Join us for

A MASS SUICIDE


The sheer volume hit Richard like a tidal wave. Fists foisted into the air like Nazis. At least the police were still here, and the staff stood ready, but none made a move despite the mayhem.


We’ll fly high
Through the sky


Richard lost sight of the boys.


Join us for
A MASS SUICIDE


All evening they’d been a stone’s throw from the merchandise table.

“Billy,” he called out, scanning the crowd.

At that Who show, the opening band had been a reggae group, Toots and the Maytals. The twenty-thousand fans were standoffish through Toots, but once the Who took the stage, everyone jumped up, and those in back rushed forward. Richard and Carol were swept up by the energy just as the kids were here, now that Needle Exchange was on. Carol and he had stood on chairs and cheered. It was loud, the lights were bright, and Daltry’s vocal soared through speakers taller than a five-story building—it was the most exhilarating experience of Richard’s teenage life. Richard had seen the same look of awe on Carol’s face as he saw now on the faces of Billy and his friend.

By the fourth song at that Who show, a raging river of bodies had surrounded Carol and Richard. They’d managed to keep afloat for several more songs, and then, during “Won’t Get Fooled Again,” Carol slipped. Richard jumped down to retrieve her. It was dark and cold on the concrete, and she was on her knees, dazed. “Take my hand,” Richard called out, but she couldn’t hear him. She was crying and he didn’t know what to do. They had been alone amongst thousands of people.

Needle Exchange would soon be over, and that would be it for Billy. Kids under eighteen had no business here. Well, it was a learning experience. The boys had fun and they’d all be home soon enough. Maybe on the way back, they’d stop off at that diner.

Richard had been lucky that night with Carol, too. He had managed to get beside her, and together they had crawled to higher ground. They watched the rest of the show from a safe distance. They weren’t up front when Townshend smashed his amplifier. For all Richard knew, some of the kids had been hurt that night from flying debris.

Two bouncers pushed through the Needle Exchange crowd once again. This time, Richard deftly sidestepped the commotion. They held a kid, his nose bloodied.

“Christ,” Richard muttered to himself. “Poor bastard.”

When Billy appeared behind the bouncers, looking like a mouse on the run, Richard realized who the injured boy was. “Oh my God.”

Richard called the Montellos from the hospital, then his wife. Julie arrived twenty minutes later, and Billy ran to her, wrapping his arms around her waist. In the waiting room, he fell asleep on her shoulder.

Richard paced back and forth in anticipation of the Montellos, breaking out into a cold sweat. He felt like having a cigarette even though he’d given up smoking twenty-years ago. His ears still buzzed from all that noise.

Anthony’s folks burst through the emergency room doors and after speaking to the doctor, they cornered Richard. “What happened?”

And as Richard told the Montellos about the events of the evening, the disbelief simmered in their eyes, much the same as it had with Richard’s own parents the night he’d come home late from that Who concert. Mom had sipped instant coffee at the kitchen table. Dad chain-smoked. The echo of Townshend’s guitar still rang in Richard’s ear, and he had hungered for a bowl of cereal.

Anthony came out of the emergency room and stumbled toward his mother. He had a large bandage on his nose; his punk jacket from Macy’s was splattered with blood. Mr. Montello continued to rant. Now it was something about a lawyer. But the buzz of Needle Exchange still bounced inside Richard’s head. He wondered what kind of cereal was at home and whether there was enough milk in the fridge.