rock-and-roll pedestal—he was the driving force behind the Scar Boys, the band was his idea, and he made most of the decisions. We were, or at least I believed we were, nothing without him. He was our David Byrne, our Iggy Pop, our Brian Eno. But all along he’d been posing as a rock star, playing dress up. As far as Johnny was concerned, we were just four kids from the suburbs who didn’t have the right to think they could be anything more.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “that’s exactly what I thought.”
“C’mon Harry, get real. Do you have any idea what a long shot this would be?” He waved a dismissive hand at the three of us. “Grow up.” Johnny could be such a jerk when he was trying to win an argument. I remember once, at a rehearsal, Johnny and I disagreed on a chord change in the bridge of a song we were working on. It started friendly enough, but after a few minutes, in one of the rare moments where I didn’t immediately back down, Johnny got fed up and started saying “Blah blah blah blah” at thetop of his lungs anytime I tried to talk. I would say “But I think—” and Johnny would say “Blah blah blah blah.” I guess he thought he was being funny, but I mean really, who does that? It was enough to shut me up and we played the song Johnny’s way.
So it wasn’t a surprise that on the ride back from the CBGB’s gig, I did what I always did when he went on the offensive—I crawled back into my shell.
“Even so,” Cheyenne chimed in, “I kind of thought we were going to give this a try for a while.” As was so often the case, Cheyenne was able to disarm Johnny with a simple, offhanded comment. Johnny didn’t have a ready answer. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, Chey beat him to the punch. “Can’t you defer?” She reached her hand out and very gently held his wrist. “This thing feels like it has momentum,” she added. “What if this is, like, our one chance?”
Johnny was looking at Chey, trying to find something to say, when I saw a trace of pity in his eyes. He felt sorry for us. Johnny wasn’t just a tourist, he was a Potsie. He had everything—popularity, good grades, parents that fawned over him—he didn’t need this.
It was different for Richie, Cheyenne, and me. The band was a lifeboat, a way out. A way out of what? I’m not sure I know. But the three of us needed the Scar Boys like a methadone addict needs his junk, and I know something about that.
“What about Richie?” Johnny finally blurted out,turning away from Chey and staring straight at me. Knowing I was the weakest link, he focused his attention where he thought he could do the most damage. It was a trick my dad used all the time. Johnny was groping for any angle, any way to turn the discussion in his favor. “He still has a year of high school left.”
“The school ain’t goin’ nowhere, John,” Richie answered. “It’ll be there when I get back. Besides, I’m not in school over the summer.”
Johnny sat back. “The summer.” He said it out loud. This was new information. He thought about it for another minute before saying it again, “The summer.”
We were silent for a long time. The only sounds were “Radio Clash” coming from the car speakers and the occasional whoosh of passing traffic.
“Hey,” Johnny said, sitting forward all of a sudden. It startled me. “I have an idea, let’s do a tour in the summer.”
Silence. No whoops, no hollers.
“Whaddya guys say?”
Yeah, the twit actually said all this without a trace of humor or irony. I’d come up with the idea of a tour, and Richie had come up with the idea of doing it in the summer, but Johnny just pretended like this had been his show all along. The sick part is that we let him do it. The three of us just mumbled our agreement.
“Then it’s settled. We’ll do a tour and be back by themiddle of August so I can go to school.” He clapped his hands together and smiled.
I hadn’t been ready to admit it before
“Yeah,” I mumbled, “that’s exactly what I thought.”
“C’mon Harry, get real. Do you have any idea what a long shot this would be?” He waved a dismissive hand at the three of us. “Grow up.” Johnny could be such a jerk when he was trying to win an argument. I remember once, at a rehearsal, Johnny and I disagreed on a chord change in the bridge of a song we were working on. It started friendly enough, but after a few minutes, in one of the rare moments where I didn’t immediately back down, Johnny got fed up and started saying “Blah blah blah blah” at thetop of his lungs anytime I tried to talk. I would say “But I think—” and Johnny would say “Blah blah blah blah.” I guess he thought he was being funny, but I mean really, who does that? It was enough to shut me up and we played the song Johnny’s way.
So it wasn’t a surprise that on the ride back from the CBGB’s gig, I did what I always did when he went on the offensive—I crawled back into my shell.
“Even so,” Cheyenne chimed in, “I kind of thought we were going to give this a try for a while.” As was so often the case, Cheyenne was able to disarm Johnny with a simple, offhanded comment. Johnny didn’t have a ready answer. When he finally opened his mouth to speak, Chey beat him to the punch. “Can’t you defer?” She reached her hand out and very gently held his wrist. “This thing feels like it has momentum,” she added. “What if this is, like, our one chance?”
Johnny was looking at Chey, trying to find something to say, when I saw a trace of pity in his eyes. He felt sorry for us. Johnny wasn’t just a tourist, he was a Potsie. He had everything—popularity, good grades, parents that fawned over him—he didn’t need this.
It was different for Richie, Cheyenne, and me. The band was a lifeboat, a way out. A way out of what? I’m not sure I know. But the three of us needed the Scar Boys like a methadone addict needs his junk, and I know something about that.
“What about Richie?” Johnny finally blurted out,turning away from Chey and staring straight at me. Knowing I was the weakest link, he focused his attention where he thought he could do the most damage. It was a trick my dad used all the time. Johnny was groping for any angle, any way to turn the discussion in his favor. “He still has a year of high school left.”
“The school ain’t goin’ nowhere, John,” Richie answered. “It’ll be there when I get back. Besides, I’m not in school over the summer.”
Johnny sat back. “The summer.” He said it out loud. This was new information. He thought about it for another minute before saying it again, “The summer.”
We were silent for a long time. The only sounds were “Radio Clash” coming from the car speakers and the occasional whoosh of passing traffic.
“Hey,” Johnny said, sitting forward all of a sudden. It startled me. “I have an idea, let’s do a tour in the summer.”
Silence. No whoops, no hollers.
“Whaddya guys say?”
Yeah, the twit actually said all this without a trace of humor or irony. I’d come up with the idea of a tour, and Richie had come up with the idea of doing it in the summer, but Johnny just pretended like this had been his show all along. The sick part is that we let him do it. The three of us just mumbled our agreement.
“Then it’s settled. We’ll do a tour and be back by themiddle of August so I can go to school.” He clapped his hands together and smiled.
I hadn’t been ready to admit it before
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