Just a Bunch of Punks

Punk rock Stacy dumped a pile of guys’ clothes on the floor. She’d found them on a curb near her house. “Dig in, ” she said. I grabbed the black pointed-toe cowboy boots. But her new guy-pal, hovering nearby, hesitated over 2 pairs of brown, wonky square-toed boots. “Hey, I want those black ones,” he protested. And continued, “Look, Stace, I bought you breakfast, I deserve them!” She laughed, countering, “Yeah, you know who deserves them? The guy up the street who originally bought ’em, but guess what. He’s dead! Losers keepers.. or weepers.. or something like that.. Ha!” She advanced, staring him down temptingly then brushing past with just a kiss on the cheek.That night I went to the Living Room punk show with a pint of Southern Comfort stashed in my dead-man boots and was glad when Stacy walked in. She said, “I ditched that dude. Don’t worry. He’s a junkie. I’m only doing safe stuff now.. liquor, cigs, maybe a joint.” I told her, “Then it’s my lucky day. I have all three in my van.” She grabbed my hand and we headed to the big parking lot, quietly abuzz. She lounged back in the passenger seat, long intricate hand-made earrings dangling, reflecting muted dome lights of punk bands’ vans with Jersey and New York plates. And after a drink and a toke, she closed her eyes, striking a nearly angelic pose, of innocence amidst the punk army about to kick love squarely in the face. Her eyes turned slowly. She smiled, lit a Marlboro and got the restless look again. With a single vault she hopped seats, opened my door and landed a pretty violent kiss, making us both tumble clumsily out onto the pavement, laughing with a young body’s defiant bounce. Then suddenly serious, she announced, “C’mon buddy, you’re missing the show!”