Renegades, We Had it Made (Part III)

Click to read:   Part I         Part II

"What made you guys want to see Styx, anyway?" asked Eric.  "They were pretty cheesy, even for the 80's."  Eric never did like the Top 40 stuff, he was more into the hair-and-spandex bands like Def Leppard, Quiet Riot, and Twisted Sister.

"Cheesy?  Are you kidding?" I said.  "Styx was pretty complex as far as their songwriting went.  And they could rock when they wanted to."

"Oh yeah, right," said Eric.  Brutally mocking the vocal stylings of Dennis DeYoung, he started crooning: 

"I'm sailing awaaaaay, set an open course for the Virgin Sea . . . "

Bobby and Katy passionately joined in.  "Cause I've got to be freeeeeee, free to face the life that's ahead of me." 

"Okay, okay," I said.  "I didn't say ALL their songs rocked.  But that was the kind of band I was listening to back then.  Styx, Journey, Foreigner . . . "

"Like I said, the cheesy bands," said Eric.

Obviously we had a difference of opinion on what constituted the best of the 80's, but we did agree that the New Wave movement sucked.   None of us could stand Duran Duran, or even worse, Culture Club.  Boy George, I really DID want to hurt him.

"So anyway, the concert started, and the show was outstanding.  Lasers, special effects, I mean, they were no KISS but . . . "

Styx put on a great show covering their classics like "Blue Collar Man" and "Crystal Ball" as well as some stuff off of their newest album, including the cheesy ballad "Babe".  Dennis DeYoung came to the front of the stage, the lights went down, and he laid it on thick.  "Babe I'm leavin', I must be on my way.  The time is drawing near . . . " 

Throughout the audience, Bics were flicked.  Women cried, men yawned, the fat guy in the Queen shirt who had commandeered Brian's seat continued snoring.

"I don't know why that song is so damn popular," I said, as the final notes dissipated amidst the pot smoke.  "That's probably my LEAST favorite of all their songs."

"Yeah, mine too," said Brian, "but every album needs a ballad.  Plus, it's a good make-out song."

"Speaking of which, how's it going with Lisa?"  She was the senior that Brian was dating.  Since we were only freshman, this was a very big deal.  "You get to second base yet?"

"Second base?  Are you kidding me?  You do know she drives, right?  After the party at Williamson's house last week we drove over to the park and I hit an inside-the-car home run."

"Bullshit."

"Whatever you say, Chris."

I pretended not to believe him, but he just had that look.  I knew he was telling the truth, the lucky bastard.

Onstage, Styx blasted the opening riff of "Eddie" which finally woke up Fat Guy.  He looked around, completely befuddled.

"What the fu - where am I?" he said to no one in particular.

"You're in my seat, that's where you are," yelled Brian, trying to be heard over the music.

Fat Guy stood up and wobbled, then sat back down.  He tried it again.  Staggering past us, he said, "Sorry, man, got kinda fucked up and lost."  For a minute it looked like he was going to make it out to the concourse, but then he took a turn for the worse.  He listed slightly to his right, steadied himself by grabbing the back of an unoccupied seat, and then he gloriously ejected the contents of his stomach all over the occupants of section 402, row G, who immediately scattered.

Styx didn't seem to notice, and continued with the music.

"That's gross," said Katy.

"You have no idea," I said.  "It was mostly beer, but he'd obviously had a couple hot dogs before the concert.  There was puke everywhere, on the seats, dripping down the steps, it got in this one dude's hair.  The Madison Square Garden crew came over and tried to clean it up, but there was only so much they could do . . ." 

We did our best to ignore the blended aromas of weed and vomit while we enjoyed the rest of the show.  After three encores it was all over, and we headed back down to the trains.  This time, of course, the station was much more crowded, but we found our train without much trouble.

"Remember," I told Brian, "we've got to make that connection in Newark again."

"Yeah, and we have to find a pay phone when we get there so I can let my sister know when to pick us up."

We arrived in Newark at about 11:00 and checked the train schedule to see when we'd be getting back to Bound Brook, our final destination.  We found the bank of pay phones and Brian dropped in a couple quarters.

"Hi Jen, it's me . . . we're at the station in Newark . . . yeah, the concert was great . . . we gotta get going so we don't miss the train, but we need you to pick us up at 11:50 . . . okay, thanks.  See ya."

"We good?" I asked.

"Yeah, she'll be there.  Where do we gotta go?"

"Track six, down the escalators."

We hustled down and caught the train with just a couple minutes to spare, and we arrived home right on schedule.  Jennifer was waiting.

"Hi guys, how was the concert?" she asked.

"Great," I said.  "Except for the fat guy that barfed on everybody."

"You kiddin'?  I thought that was the best part," said Brian.  He told his sister the whole story.

We'd decided early on that once we got home from the concert I would spend the night at Brian's house.  When we got in Jen's car, she gave us an accusatory look.

"You guys smell like weed," said Jennifer.  "You weren't getting loaded, were you?"

"No, but the smoke was everywhere.  Is it obvious?" asked Brian.

"Yeah, when we get home I'll put yours and Chris's clothes in the laundry so they're clean in the morning."  For a sister, Jen was pretty cool.

Brian's bedroom had a separate entrance, so we snuck into the house without being noticed by his parents who were asleep anyway.  I borrowed a pair of sweats and a t-shirt from Brian so Jen could throw our clothes in the wash.

"You guys are gonna have to stay up so you can put your stuff in the dryer," she said.

"No problem," said Brian.  "We're gonna be wired for a while yet anyway."

He turned on the TV and hooked up his Atari.  "Wanna play Kaboom?" he asked.

"Sure."

The next morning we got up early.  I changed back into my clothes from the night before, no longer smelling like I'd just left a party at Bob Marley's.  Jen gave me a ride home.  When I walked in my front door, my mom was sitting in the living room watching TV and hooking a rug.  Her latest hobby.

"You're home early," she said.

"Yeah, Brian was going somewhere with his family so his sister dropped me off."

"So, what did you guys do last night?"

"Ahhh . . . nothin'.  Just played video games."

"I can't believe you had the nerve to even try that," said Mom as she cleared away the rest of the dessert dishes.

"Neither could we, actually.  We talked about it for the next couple weeks, we were sure that either you guys or his parents were going to find out somehow."

"I'm surprised his sister didn't rat you out," said Bobby.

"Nah, she was cool.  Besides, I think Brian had so much dirt on her that she pretty much had to keep her mouth shut.  The hardest part was not telling anyone else . . . "

For the next few weeks, Brian and I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.  We knew Jen wasn't going to spill the beans, though.  Over the previous Christmas break, while their parents were out of town, she and her friends had a party at their house.  Brian wasn't supposed to be there either, he was staying with another friend but he'd forgotten something and stopped by to get it, only to find Jen and about twenty of her friends tapping four kegs and a bunch of local frat boys.  He assured her that he'd never snitch to their folks, but it was a pretty valuable bit of information to have handy.

The toughest part was not telling any of our friends about the concert.  There's no way we could've kept the story from spreading and sooner or later our parents would've heard.  As far as I know, our secret stayed between the two of us (three, if you count Jen) until I was an adult, when I shared it with my family over several slices of Grandma's lemon cheese pie.

THE END 

Grandma Ruth's Lemon Cheese Pie Recipe

1 small package lemon Jello

1 cup boiling water

3 T. lemon juice

Dissolve Jello in water, add lemon juice and let cool.

One 8 oz. package Philadelphia Cream Cheese-softened

1 cup sugar

1 tsp. vanilla

1 large can evaporated milk--chilled

2 Graham cracker crusts (You can use the prepared ones, but Grandma Ruth made her own with 1/2 lb. Graham crackers crushed and mixed in 1/4 cup melted butter or margarine and press into pie pan).

In mixer, cream together cream cheese, sugar and vanilla until fluffy. 

Add in COOLED Jello and mix well by hand.

In separate bowl, whip evaporated milk until it makes peaks.  Then fold into cheese/Jello mixture.  Pour into crusts and chill. 

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Renegades, We Had it Made (Part II)

To read Part I, click here.

"Okay, now that's the part that freaks me out," said Mom.  "The two of you alone on the streets of New York.  Anything could've happened, I'm surprised you didn't end up wandering around Times Square."

"No, no, we were never actually out on the street," I said.  In spite of how it may seem, our venture into the big city wasn't as dangerous as you might think, although if either of my teenagers tried it at age fifteen I'd have killed them.  Penn Station is located directly underneath Madison Square Garden, so to get from the train platform to the arena is just a matter of a few escalator rides.  I explained that to Mom, but it didn't really put her mind at ease.

"Oh, right, because a crowded New York train station is completely safe," said Mom.  She cut a generous slice of pie and handed it to me.  You can keep your damn pumpkin, my mom's lemon cheese pie (using Grandma Ruth's legendary recipe) should be enshrined in the Pastry Hall of Fame.

"Are we talking about the subways?" asked Katy.  "Because I've heard stories . . . "

"Subway system's different," said my father.  "If they tried that, it would've been a whole different situation, especially in the 80's before Giuliani cleaned up the city.  The trains were much safer although I'm with your mother, you guys were pretty dumb."

"Okay, granted, but it's not like we were asking directions from the hookers on 42nd Street."'

"Hey, what did I say about the hookers?" asked Bobby.  "Ix-nay."

"So anyway, we got off the train and . . . " 

We got off the train and headed to the escalators, which took us directly up into the lobby of Madison Square Garden.  We were a little early so we bought a couple hot pretzels and browsed the merchandise kiosks.

"Hey, check out that one," said Brian, pointing to to Official Styx Cornerstone Tour t-shirt.  It was a black shirt with the Styx logo on the front, along with a picture of the band.  On the back was a list of all the concert dates, from March 13 (Chicago) to September 21 (Los Angeles).

You know, like every other concert shirt you've ever seen.

"Yeah, that's pretty cool," I said, "but twelve bucks?  That's insane, how do they get off charging that much for one t-shirt?"

"I know, but think about how jealous everyone's gonna be at school when they see us . . . "

He stopped mid-sentence, as the obvious smacked him in the forehead.  "Wait a minute," he said.  "What are we thinking?  We can't get t-shirts, or a program, or anything.  How would we explain it to our parents?"

I pondered that for a minute, trying to figure out if we could maybe tell our folks that someone else got them for us, or try to keep them hidden for a while.  Nothing really made sense, though, if we took physical evidence home with us we'd just be asking to get busted.  It sucked, but I realized Brian was right.

"Yeah, you're right," I said.  "Damn, those are cool shirts though."


We headed to the doors so we could get to our seats before it got too crazy.

"You have the tickets, right?" I asked.

"Shit, no!  I thought you had them!  What the hell are we gonna . . ."

"Relax, Bri, I'm just messin' with ya again."  I couldn't help myself, he was so gullible.  Like at school when he couldn't remember someone's name (which was often).  He'd see a girl that he wanted to hit on, and he'd ask me what her name was.  I'd always -- ALWAYS -- give him the wrong name so when he went over and said Hi, Stacy! the reply would be something like Yeah, thanks a lot, Brian.  My name's Amy.  Jeez!  He fell for it every single time.

"Okay, where are we sitting?" he asked.

I took the tickets out of my wallet.  "Looks like we're in section 402, row E."  We entered the arena, and headed to up to our seats.  And when I say up, I mean an "we need two oxygen tanks and a sherpa" up.  I think we were actually closer to the stage when we were waiting for the train in Newark.  The opening band, The Now, was about halfway through their collection of terrible New Wave-influenced crap when I noticed a funky smell wafting its way up in the rafters which is to say, our seats.

"You smell that?" I asked.

"What, the marijuana?" said Brian.

"Is that what it is?"

My father interrupted the story, a suspicious look on his face.  "Okay, you said this didn't involve drugs."

"Yeah, I forgot about this part because we weren't actually doing drugs, we just smelled the pot.  We didn't see anyone who was smoking it, but the smell was everywhere."  Having polished off my lemon cheese pie, I handed Mom the empty plate.

"Another piece?" she asked.

"Of course," I said.

"Anyone else?"

Eric and Bobby signed up for seconds while Dad and Katy groaned their refusals.  Mom served me and my brothers and then rejoined us at the table.

"Okay," I said, "so Brian told me that it was marijuana that we were smelling.  I don't think he'd ever smoked it himself, but he recognized it right away . . . " 

As far as I knew, Brian's experience with marijuana was minimal at best.  He'd never talked about it, and given our friendship, I'm sure it would've come up at some point.  However, he did have his older sister Jennifer and a 22-year old brother so I guess he'd been exposed to it, at least indirectly. 

The Now wandered their way thorough their last song, and the crowd went mild.  Even by opening act standards, these guys sucked.  They were a lot like The Police, if Sting suffered a mild stroke, drummer Stewart Copeland lost the feeling in his left hand, and guitarist Andy Summers was replaced by the top three finishers in an Elvis Costello look-alike contest, all playing keyboards.  Badly.

"Man, I'm getting hungry again," said Brian, as the house lights came up for intermission.

"Me too," I said.  We had never heard the term "contact high" before, but in retrospect we were probably suffering from second-hand munchies.  We headed out to the concession stand and got in a very long line.  After what seemed like forever, we ordered a couple burgers and sodas and took them back to our seats.  When we arrived back in section 402, row E, however, Brian had a Goldilocks and the Three Bears moment.


"Dude, look.  Someone's sleeping in my seat."

Passed out, to be precise.  Our intruder had an enormous belly peeking out from underneath a faded Queen t-shirt, and a face cratered with acne scars.  He was snoring.  

"What are we gonna do with this guy?" I asked.

"I'm gonna wake him up," said Brian.  "HEY!  FAT GUY!  WAKE UP AND MOVE YOUR ASS, THIS IS MY SEAT!"

Fat Guy didn't stir, if anything his snoring got louder.

"Screw it," I said.  "Just leave him alone, the row's not full anyway.  Besides, when Styx comes out everyone's gonna be standing."

Just as I said that, the lights went down, the crowd went nuts, and a voice boomed over the loudspeakers . . . 

"HELLO NEW YORK CITY!  PLEASE WELCOME . . . STYX!"

They led off with "Renegade".



TO BE CONTINUED . . .




d

Renegades, We Had it Made (Part I)

It was about twelve years ago on Thanksgiving when my parents learned the truth about their oldest child, their charming, compassionate, law-abiding son who never did anything to dishonor the family.  The golden child, really, the one who spent every waking moment setting a good example for his brothers Eric and Bobby, and his baby sister Katy.

I'm speaking of course about myself.

We were all sitting around the dinner table scarfing down turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and Mom's famous green bean casserole, the one she makes with French's french fried onions.  On most holidays, our family enjoyed reminiscing about our respective childhoods, funny stories from the past.  Dad told the one about Eric talking his way out of a beating with the phrase, "You wouldn't hit your own kid, would ya?" and Mom reminded us of the time Bobby and our cousin Jay destroyed a ceramic gnome that was minding its own business in the neighbors' garden.

Not wanting me to be left out of the fun, Eric said, "There's gotta be a story about Chris getting in trouble, what are we forgetting about?"

Mom stuck up for me.  "He's never really done anything all that bad, not that I can remember."

"Not that I got caught at, anyway," I said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Dad.

"Okay," I said. "There is one thing I've never told you guys, but the statute of limitations on grounding has to have run out by now, right?  I'm thirty-three, you can't punish me for this."

"Well, let's wait and see," said Mom.  "You know, I think I still have your Hot Wheels tracks around here somewhere."  When we were kids, our orange Hot Wheels tracks were our mom's weapon of choice when it came to administering parental discipline.  It worked, those things stung like hell.

"Hold on, Chris, are we going to be sorry you told us about whatever it is?" asked Dad.  "You didn't get herpes from a hooker in Tijuana or something, did you?"

"No, that was Bobby," said Eric, through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Hey, ix-nay on the ookers-hay!" said Bobby.

"Nah," I said, "it's nothing that horrible.  Nothing illegal, no drugs.  Just something you didn't really need to know about at the time."

"Okay then," said Dad.  "Let's have it."

"All right.  It was when we were still living in New Jersey, I was fifteen . . . " 

My best friend Brian and I were sitting in his bedroom playing video games.  He'd just gotten an Atari, the brand-new, state of the art system, and we were taking turns at a game called Kaboom where a villain who looked like the Hamburglar dropped bombs that you had to catch in little swimming pools.  There was a knock at the bedroom door.

"Can I come in?"

It was Brian's older sister Jennifer, 20 years old with a body that would make Suzanne Somers dress in a gunny sack for the rest of her life.

"I got those Styx tickets you guys wanted."

"Holy shit, are you serious?" asked Brian.  We had asked her if she could get us tickets, but we were basically just bull-shitting, as usual.  It was more like, hey, wouldn't it be cool to go see Styx?  Neither of us had been to a concert before, and we'd given absolutely no thought as to the logistics involved.

"Yep, here they are."  She handed me the envelope.  I opened it up and saw two tickets that read:

STYX

Madison Square Garden
Saturday, April 5, 1980
7:30 PM

"Wait, Jen, there's only two tickets here," said Brian.  "Aren't you coming with us?"

"No, why?"

"Uh, well, how are we supposed to get there?"

Fortunately, I'd had some experience making the trip from New Jersey to Madison Square Garden.  From the time I was about five, my Aunt Patti took me on regular trips into the city to see the Harlem Globetrotters, Disney on Parade, and the Ringling Brothers Circus.  All of these events were at the Garden, and I knew we could take the train to New York without much trouble.  We hatched a plan.

It started off with the old, "you tell your parents you're spending the night at my house, and I'll tell my parents I'm staying at yours" trick.  If we got together on the Saturday afternoon of the concert, our folks wouldn't expect to see us again until Sunday morning at the earliest.  Jennifer agreed to drop us off at the Bound Brook train station late Saturday afternoon, and pick us up that night, after the concert.  The rest was up to us.

"My God, you've got to be kidding me," said Mom, as she took the lemon cheese pies out of the refrigerator.  "You two actually took the train by yourselves?"

"Yeah, I knew what I was doing, though.  Remember, Aunt Patti used to take us all the time.  Besides, we were fifteen.  It's not like we were a couple of nine-year olds."

"It's different by yourself though, dude," said Bobby.  "You're lucky you didn't get mugged."

"You DIDN'T get mugged, did you?" asked Katy.

"Nah, we were fine.  We were never even outside for more than a couple minutes . . . "

We bought our train tickets at the Bound Brook station and waited on the platform.  The train was almost empty, just a couple in their twenties and an old guy in a cardigan sweater.  No one that looked like Son of Sam or Bernie Goetz.  

"So now what?" asked Brian.  He'd never taken the train into the city before, so he was depending entirely on me.  He didn't seem nervous about it, though.  He wasn't the kind of kid who got worked up about anything, really.  He was in ninth grade and his girlfriend was a senior.  Self-confidence was not a problem.

"In about half an hour we're gonna get to Newark.  We have to change trains there, which isn't usually a problem but we might have to hustle to make the connection."


"What if we miss it?"

"Well, then we're screwed.  We'll have to spend the night at the train station and go home tomorrow."

"WHAT?"

"Nah, I'm just messin' with you.  Trains come by every twenty minutes, we'll just catch the next one.  We got plenty of time, worst case scenario we miss the opening act."


At fifteen, I was completely cool with the possibility of missing the connection.  When I was younger and traveling with Aunt Patti, though, the mere thought of being left at the station terrified me.  I thought we really would have to spend the night and sleep on benches or something.  One time on the way home from the circus, we missed the connection, by only a couple seconds.  In fact, as the train pulled away, the conductor looked right at me as I stood on the platform screaming "STOP THE TRAIN!  STOP THE TRAIN!"  He didn't stop the train and I didn't stop crying, not for twenty minutes until the next train arrived.  Even at six, I felt sort of stupid.

Brian and I arrived in Newark and checked the connection schedule.  "Looks like we've got about ten minutes," I said.  Our train's gonna be on Track Two, that's down a level.  Let's go."  He followed me down the escalator, and we made the connection with no problem.

The second leg of the trip, from Newark to Penn Station, was a quick one.  Before we knew it, we were in New York City.

TO BE CONTINUED . . . 


d