by Isaac James Baker
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\nThe air was warm and thick the night we became teenage killers, one of those sweaty, steamy ones when humidity covers Chicago like a wet blanket.\u00a0 It was the four of us: Sterling , Victoria , Whitey and me.<\/p>\n
Sterling was the leader — well, not really the \u201cleader\u201d — we were all anarchists in those days and we didn\u2019t believe in leaders, authority, government, any of that shit.\u00a0 But Sterling was sixteen and he had a car, which meant he determined when and where we were going.\u00a0 To that extent, I guess you could call him a leader.<\/p>\n
Victoria was too beautiful to be called Vicky or Vic or some other cutesy nickname.\u00a0 Just Victoria .\u00a0 We always joked with her that she should become the lead singer of a crust punk band and go by the stage name Victoria Victim.\u00a0 She didn\u2019t like that idea.\u00a0 She said she was nobody\u2019s victim.<\/p>\n
Whitey was called Whitey because he was a Polish Jew and his parents came from Krakow or Warsaw , I don\u2019t remember which.\u00a0 We thought it was ironic.\u00a0 His grandparents had been through the shit with the Nazis.\u00a0 He told me stories about them, stories so fucked up that when I heard them I just sat there like a deaf mute.\u00a0 After we killed the Nazi, Andrew told me he wished his grandfather was still alive so he could tell him about it.\u00a0 He said his grandfather would\u2019ve been proud of him.<\/p>\n
Then there was me.<\/p>\n
We were The Musketeers, plus one, and we were ready for Friday night.\u00a0 We all met at Sterling \u2019s place and hopped into his rusty old Buick, Victoria in the front and me and Whitey in the back.\u00a0 My crew and I were headed out for a great show, The Abused, a thrash punk band from New York.\u00a0 We were gonna drink some beers, sing along with the punk anthems, jump around, pump our fists in the air, slap each other on the back, maybe meet up with some other punks, drink some more beers.\u00a0 We all knew it was gonna be one hell of a night.\u00a0 Anything could happen.<\/p>\n
We rolled down all the windows and lit cigarettes, looking out the sweating pedestrians trudging along the sidewalks.\u00a0 Sterling was playing The Damned on The Brick\u2019s CD player.<\/p>\n
\u201cMan, can\u2019t we change this?\u201d I asked.\u00a0 I wanted something harder, something I could stomp my shoes to, and The Damned strayed a bit too far into that whole wimpy British new wave kind of sound.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s my car,\u201d was his reply.<\/p>\n
Victoria said she wanted to listen to something else, too.\u00a0 Whitey, who was slouched in the back seat with me, was staring out the window at the passing apartment buildings and bodegas.\u00a0 I hit him in the shoulder.<\/p>\n
\u201cYeah,\u201d he replied.\u00a0 \u201cSomething else.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThat\u2019s participatory democracy,\u201d Victoria said.\u00a0 \u201cSorry.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThis car isn\u2019t a democracy,\u201d Sterling replied.<\/p>\n
Victoria scrunched up her brow.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s not?\u201d\u00a0 She crossed her arms in front of her chest.\u00a0 \u201cSterling , you\u2019ve got to be<\/em> the change you want see in…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlright, alright!\u201d Sterling huffed.\u00a0 \u201cSpare me the political speech.\u201d<\/p>\n He ejected the CD and Victoria slipped in The Exploited, which Whitey and I agreed was a better choice.\u00a0 The pounding music crackled from the speakers, muffled and scratchy from the countless hours of full-volume hardcore punk we submitted them to.<\/p>\n Sterling reached into a big brown paper bag shoved in between the two front seats.\u00a0 He threw a can back and I snagged it before it hit me in the face, a Pabst Blue Ribbon.\u00a0 We called it \u201cStreet Cred in a Can,\u201d and we drank as much of it as our teenage bellies could handle, and then some.\u00a0 Sterling told us he got it from his older brother and we should drink up because we were getting close to the Fireside Bowl, a decrepit bowling alley turned infamous punk rock dive.\u00a0 Victoria chugged hers faster than me and then stuck her head into the back seat to rip a belch in my face.\u00a0 I finished my beer and burped in reply, although mine wasn\u2019t nearly as loud.\u00a0 Whitey took a few sips of his beer and then threw it at a yellow Hummer parked on the side of the street.\u00a0 The can smacked the windshield and spewed frothy brew all over the car.\u00a0 I slapped him five.<\/p>\n Victoria scolded Whitey for littering.<\/p>\n \u201cThese are our streets,\u201d she said.\u00a0 \u201cDon\u2019t shit where you eat.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt was a Hummer,\u201d Whitey said in defense.<\/p>\n He had a point.\u00a0 After all, Hummers exemplified everything punks hated: materialism, upper class elitism, environmental degradation, macho douchebags, all that shit.<\/p>\n \u201cFine,\u201d Whitey said.\u00a0 \u201cThe next time I see a Hummer, I\u2019ll drink my beer and then piss on the car.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAtta boy!\u201d Victoria said.\u00a0 \u201cFuck with The System, but watch out for Mother Earth in the process.\u201d<\/p>\n Sterling slapped a curb with the front of the Brick as he pulled into a narrow parking spot.\u00a0 He threw the car into park and it groaned like the trip had worn it out.\u00a0 We got out and sat on the warmed hood.\u00a0 We all cracked open our second PBRs.<\/p>\n \u201cTo not shitting where you eat,\u201d I said, raising my can in the air.\u00a0 The others said \u201cCheers\u201d and we downed our beers quickly, hoping the alcohol would drain into our bloodstreams and cloud our minds a bit before the show.\u00a0 The Fireside Bowl was serious about not letting minors buy booze.\u00a0 Rules, regulations, identification cards — in a punk rock club?\u00a0 What a bunch of crap.\u00a0 We hated their rules, but it was the best club in town to see street punk shows.<\/p>\n Victoria collected the empties in a plastic bag and, after searching up and down the street for a recycling bin, she threw it in a nearby trashcan.<\/p>\n \u201cGoddamn city doesn\u2019t give a damn about the planet,\u201d she muttered.<\/p>\n Victoria led the way down the block to the club.\u00a0 A couple of punk guys sitting on a curb checked her out, eyed her up and down, but they didn\u2019t say anything to her.\u00a0 I walked up beside Victoria to make them think she was with me.\u00a0 With raised eyebrows, they looked up jealously, puffing away at their cigarettes. Punks are good at not trying to steal each other\u2019s girls.\u00a0 Maybe it has something to do with their left-wing, self-induced guilt for being part of the male gender, the gender of The Oppressor, the gender of The System.\u00a0 In the punk scene, if a guy got laid, most of the time it was because the girl fucked him<\/em>, not the other way around.\u00a0 At least that\u2019s what I\u2019d heard.\u00a0 I would be a virgin for a couple more weeks.\u00a0 It\u2019s kind of funny: I was a killer before I was a lover.<\/p>\n As we approached the club we could hear one of the opening bands slashing away at their guitars.\u00a0 I felt the asphalt below me pulsing with raucous beats, as if the punk band\u2019s riffs were pouring life into the crumbling streets.\u00a0 We paid our eight bucks a piece to a guy with a nose and lip ring and pushed our way into the hall.<\/p>\n The place was already packed.\u00a0 A hot, heavy fog of sweat and cigarette smoke hung in the stale air.\u00a0 It smelled like beer and piss — or maybe just cheap beer, which, after all, smells like piss.\u00a0 There were no fans or windows in the Fireside Bowl.\u00a0 Everything was pretty much black except for a small bar in the back by the bathrooms and the lights on the stage, which flickered on and off chaotically, without rhythm, like a deaf person was running the system.<\/p>\n Once inside, we huddled near the back, assessing the premises.\u00a0 The four of us began moving together to the music, slamming our boots and bobbing our heads.\u00a0 The first band played decent street punk, kind of like early Casualties stuff, but not quite as fast.\u00a0 We were all feeling the buzz and the music.\u00a0 We slammed our shoulders together and punched our fists in the air when the bass, guitar and drums would all stop at the same time.\u00a0 We stomped our boots on the floor together when the music ripped open again.\u00a0 We jumped around, up in the air, sideways, ricocheting off of bigger punks, back to the ground, up in the air again.\u00a0 I was surrounded by tons of people I didn\u2019t know, thrashing around without a care, but I felt more like myself than ever.\u00a0 I was squished between punks on all sides, but I was unchained, free.<\/p>\n During the palm-muted intro to one of the opening band\u2019s songs, Victoria slapped me on the arm and motioned me to come toward her.\u00a0 I danced close by her and as I stuck my head in her direction she kissed me on the cheek.\u00a0 At first I thought it was an accident, like she had bumped into me and her lips just happened to come together on my face.\u00a0 But I looked at her and she smiled.\u00a0 I put my ear to her mouth, offering her the chance to try to yell something to me.<\/p>\n \u201cLet\u2019s just do this forever.\u201d<\/p>\n The drums and bass kicked in and I had to scream so she could hear me.<\/p>\n \u201cDo what forever?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis!\u201d\u00a0 She held her hands in front of her, opening her arms before the crowd.<\/p>\n One kid was helping another up off of the floor.\u00a0 A fat guy was letting a skinny kid use his shoulder as a crowd surfing launch pad.\u00a0 Faces, jackets, patches with safety pins, spiky hair and piercings all blurred together into one, a punk rock rainbow rising from the surging crowd.\u00a0 The vocalist was screaming about unity and, during the chorus, he let six or seven punk kids jump up onto the stage and sing the rest of the song.<\/p>\n \u201cOkay!\u201d I yelled in affirmation.\u00a0 \u201cThis is<\/em> it, isn\u2019t it?\u201d<\/p>\n She nodded.\u00a0 The band\u2019s song ended and the crowd breathed in at once, everyone stopped moshing and stuck their heads up to try to suck some fresh air.\u00a0 I was already sweaty and we had just gotten there.<\/p>\n I think I was a little drunk from those two beers.\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t feel much.\u00a0 When you\u2019re packed in that tightly, smashed between so many sweating, thrashing punks, it\u2019s like you almost don\u2019t feel a thing.\u00a0 Almost.<\/p>\n I sure felt it when I was slammed forward onto the floor.\u00a0 My face hit the ground and a bright flash shot across my field of vision.\u00a0 I tasted blood in my mouth and felt throbbing pain in my temples.\u00a0 The force that knocked me down was so intense that I knew it wasn\u2019t just some kid pogo dancing around.\u00a0 This was intentional.\u00a0 I was on the floor because someone wanted me there.<\/p>\n I looked up, stunned, disoriented, at a towering pillar of a skinhead.\u00a0 My vision was blurry for a few seconds, but I quickly realized what I was dealing with.\u00a0 He was the whole package: shaved head, black leather jacket (even though it was one of the hottest nights of the summer), jeans tight around his bulging waist, iron cross on his belt buckle, combat boots like waffle irons.\u00a0 His shirt said something in Old English script.\u00a0 I never got to read the entire thing.\u00a0 I\u2019m sure it was just some racist bullshit.<\/p>\n \u201cHeil Hitler!\u201d the skinhead shouted.\u00a0 All the kids I was surrounded by had scattered like roaches, leaving me sprawled out alone on the floor.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d was all I could think to say.\u00a0 It seemed an appropriate response.<\/p>\n \u201cSalute!\u00a0 Take pride in your pure blood, white brother!\u201d the man said, his jowls flapping like a bulldog\u2019s.\u00a0 His opened hand jutted out firmly in front of him.\u00a0 A black swastika was singed into the skin on his wrist.<\/p>\n I looked around to see Sterling backed against the wall behind the skinhead.\u00a0 Victoria had her hands over her mouth, her leftist sensibilities no doubt rattled by this six-foot-something mound of muscle, fat and hatred.\u00a0 I couldn\u2019t see Whitey anywhere.<\/p>\n Everyone else stood back as far as they could get, fear burning in their eyes.\u00a0 There were dozens, maybe hundreds of them.\u00a0 There was only one Nazi.\u00a0 He stood alone, defiant, his huge, oppressive shape demanding all the attention.\u00a0 He and I were now the show, and all eyes were on us.<\/p>\n \u201cSalute!\u201d he commanded again.\u00a0 \u201cNow!\u201d<\/p>\n Standing to my feet, wobbling, I spat blood on the floor.\u00a0 I remember being worried that I had lost a tooth.\u00a0 I remember thinking that adult teeth don\u2019t grow back.\u00a0 I pondered this fact like it was some spectacular mystery I had just now finally understood.<\/p>\n I told the Nazi that I wouldn\u2019t salute him, that I wanted no part of his hateful system, that he should go fuck himself.\u00a0 I did all this by saying, simply, \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n He didn\u2019t ask me again.\u00a0 Pounding the ground with his boots, he stamped toward me.<\/p>\n That\u2019s when my mates jumped in.\u00a0 They threw off their self-preservation instincts and dove in to protect me.\u00a0 I didn\u2019t even know most of these kids, but they knew I was in trouble, and punks protect their own.\u00a0 They leapt on the skinhead\u2019s back like a pack of wolves working together to take down a bear.\u00a0 The Nazi threw one kid off with a snap of his thick right arm, sending him sliding across the floor into a wall of other punks.\u00a0 Two others clung to his jacket, but he shook them off by thrashing his limbs.<\/p>\n Right before he was about to reach me, his fists readied in front of him, Sterling jumped up and gripped his arms around the skinhead\u2019s neck.\u00a0 The Nazi threw his arms back, trying desperately to pound Sterling hard enough to force him to loosen his grip.\u00a0 But Sterling was determined.\u00a0 Nothing could force him to let go.\u00a0 At that moment, two punks attacked the Nazi\u2019s legs, ripping them out from under him.\u00a0 The giant fell flat on his ass with a resounding thud.\u00a0 Sterling still held his grasp, refusing to budge, trying to choke the massive fascist.<\/p>\n The Nazi was down.\u00a0 We\u2019d done it.\u00a0 But we didn\u2019t stop there.\u00a0 Hell no.\u00a0 The violence spread like poison through my veins, through all of us.\u00a0 We had tasted blood, and we wanted more.<\/p>\n I stomped on the downed skinhead\u2019s chest as hard as I could.\u00a0 I was a skinny kid, so I couldn\u2019t have done too much damage, but I kept kicking and kicking until my feet hurt.\u00a0 The Nazi kicked and punched in defense.\u00a0 His steel-toed boot slammed a kid in the face so hard I heard his nose break like splintered wood.\u00a0 The kid, blood streaming from his face, fell backward onto the floor screaming.\u00a0 His screams sounded oddly hilarious.\u00a0 While the Nazi\u2019s punches and kicks were heavy and powerful, he was slow, and the punks moved fast, hitting him with dozens punches and kicks each second.\u00a0 The whole time he kept screaming, \u201cBring it on you traitors!\u00a0 You scum!\u00a0 You white niggers!\u201d<\/p>\n Each time he yelled at us we hit him harder.<\/p>\n Whitey, out of nowhere, entered the fray.\u00a0 Down on his knees, he smashed his fists into the skinhead\u2019s neck.\u00a0 Whitey slammed him in the temple, recoiled in pain, and screamed that he had broken his wrist.\u00a0 But wounds would have to be tended to later.\u00a0 The battle wasn\u2019t over yet.\u00a0 We kicked the Nazi in the ribs, the face, the neck, the legs, for what must\u2019ve been several minutes, although I\u2019m not sure.\u00a0 Amidst the pounding of flesh on flesh, time seemed to stand still.<\/p>\n Through the chaos, someone screamed \u201cStop!\u201d<\/p>\n Several punks jumped back like their mothers had caught them doing something they weren\u2019t supposed to be doing.\u00a0 One by one, we stopped punching and kicking.\u00a0 The blood in our veins slowed.\u00a0 We all took breaths as the rage began to drain from us.\u00a0 It was Victoria who had screamed.\u00a0 She pushed herself between us and the Nazi, shoving and shooing kids off of his body.<\/p>\n When everyone backed off, I saw just how much blood was splattered on the floor.\u00a0 I looked at my shoes.\u00a0 The toes were smeared red.\u00a0 Nothing looked particularly special or pure about this blood.\u00a0 What the hell was the Nazi talking about?\u00a0 His blood was a dark, dirty red, just like the stuff that comes out of your nose if you pick it too hard.<\/p>\n Victoria pressed her fingers against the skinhead\u2019s throat, kneeling.<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s dead,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n I tried to swallow and almost choked.\u00a0 Now that the battle was over, I felt a thick, pulsing pain in my mouth.\u00a0 I ran my tongue across my gums.\u00a0 I had <\/em>lost a tooth, one of the ones on the bottom.\u00a0 It was an adult tooth, I told myself, one of the ones that would never grow back.\u00a0 I cursed aloud and kicked the dead skinhead in the belly as hard as I could.<\/p>\n I got down on my hands and knees, searching around the club\u2019s floor for my tooth.\u00a0 I don\u2019t know why.\u00a0 It\u2019s not like a dentist could\u2019ve stuck it back in.\u00a0 It didn\u2019t matter, though, because I couldn\u2019t find it anywhere.\u00a0 There was just too much blood. by Isaac James Baker The air was warm and thick the night we became teenage killers, one of those sweaty, steamy ones when humidity covers Chicago like a wet blanket.\u00a0 It was the four of us: Sterling , Victoria , … Continue reading
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\nISAAC JAMES BAKER<\/strong> was born in Belmar, New Jersey, in 1983. He grew up surfing and causing trouble on the Jersey Shore long before words like \u201cSnookie\u201d and \u201cThe Situation\u201d further diminished the Shore\u2019s already terrible reputation. He writes poetry, short stories and novels, and is working on his master\u2019s degree in fiction writing from Johns Hopkins University. His novel, Broken Bones<\/em>, the story of a young man\u2019s struggle in a psychiatric ward for anorexics, is forthcoming from The Historical Pages Company. He lives in Washington, D.C.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"