The Punk and the Professor. Billy Lawrence

Steven and Ryan were the kings of theft. They’d walk out into the parking lot of the store with cassettes in their pants, their sleeves, their hats, their socks, and who knows where else. Sometimes they would make out with as many as ten cassettes a piece. By the time I was twelve, I had built a cassette collection of three hundred, which included the entire Aerosmith catalogue. Our TSS raids contributed to at least half of my collection. Andy was uninterested in stealing, or perhaps just knew better, and would ride a bike around the store crashing into things. His crashes always made for a perfect distraction and always earned him a cassette. I think he earned himself the entire Def Leppard collection that way.

      $$$

      One time Steven and I went in alone. This was a mistake because there weren’t enough distractions. An employee spotted Steven putting an L.A. Guns cassette down his pants and confronted him. Steven conceded and was brought away. I later joked that it must’ve been his choice of music that got him nabbed this time. He yelled for me to go get his uncle. Surprisingly they let me walk right out and hadn’t seen me pick off a Black Sabbath cassette in the B section. I crossed the parking lot and made my way the short trip back to Steven’s house. His scruffy looking, shirtless uncle opened the door and I told him what happened. He cursed and told me to hold on. He came back with a t-shirt on, busted through the screen door and hopped off the steps. I started to walk back with him, but he told me to get on.

      We were lucky he was the one home. His uncle picked him up, punched him in the shoulder, and told him not to do it again. Steven listened. This was nothing compared to when his father came back into town and got angry with him. Now that Steven was bigger, he’d fight back. Imagine a twelve-year-old battling with his thirty-something father in a driveway fistfight? These two went punch for punch on the lawn. Steven was that good. But it was bloody and upsetting, and I usually had to walk away just before Steven would lose. He wasn’t that good, not yet.

      Steven and I had boxed a couple of times for fun. We wore real gloves, but his punches were too much to take. There was so much power behind his punches, so much emotion. I had a headache after just a few punches. It wasn’t like I was a weakling either. I knocked out our friend Gary with only a few punches and he was far bigger than me. I took down Andy a couple of times in the first round too. But Steven, he’d just stare at me blankly when I hit him. He had so much fight in him.

      14

      AFTER A FEW YEARS in the apartment, we left for the house. Don bought a small four-bedroom house in the middle of town a few miles away from our old neighborhood by the bay. The house had a small fenced in backyard and a studio apartment above the garage. My bedroom window looked out across the street at a town baseball field where I could watch Andy hit rockets out of the park for his league team. I hated baseball, but I liked watching his games because I always wanted to see my pal put another one over the fence.

      The American dream of owning a house had been achieved, yet it seemed to be more of a sinking burden on Don. The night his music ceased had been several years earlier, but loud music during the day started up once we moved into the house. His system got bigger, more expensive, and louder— rattling the shingles right off the side of the house. I could hear the bass from houses away down the street. Neighbors surely mistook this as a teenager gone mad while his parents were out. A teenager— exactly what Don was battling, not me, but himself. The teenage Don was pushing back against the adult Don and the life he had begun but was not fully committed to.

      Quitting his nine to five day job as a legal assistant and abandoning his dream to be a lawyer, he propelled his small part-time business into a full-time empire of contracts. Detailing cars at the dealerships worked well for both the adult and teenager inside— sleep late until 2 pm— be home for dinner— go to work at 8 pm after the dealer is closed and no one is there to look over you— and stay out until the early parts of the morning. Later I would learn from an older sister of a friend how Don’s late nights “working” had evolved into partying, all confirmed by the fights my mother would have with him screaming over STDs, women’s perfume, and bottles of pills. He no longer had much of a stepfather role— that he threw away for the role of the out of control older brother. We were about fifteen years apart in age, but far closer in other ways. I think there were times when he was far more out of control than I ever was. One morning I opened the door to leave for school and he was just coming in from a long night out. He stood there surprised, embarrassed, in a quiet daze. I said good morning and went my way. Other mornings he slipped in the door while I was upstairs getting ready, but I heard.

      Don tried to find control. When he bought the house, he gained a garage as a sanctuary to store his possessions in. There were several hardcore locks on the doors and we didn’t go in there. But we knew what was on the other side: the Bentley, a collection of Rolex watches and other jewels, and a pistol he showed us once. His man-cave treasures and a safe in the bathroom closet were odd because we didn’t really have any money and most of the time the cupboard in the kitchen was bare. And we weren’t truly a family that could trust one another, not with so many secrets stored away.

      $$$

      After just half a year living at the house, my mother left Don. We packed up one night while he was out at work and drove off to my grandmother’s house where we hid for several days. Don called my grandmother, but she told him my mother needed some time and would call in a few days. After a week, my mother called him and told him where we were. My mother threatened to leave him. He asked her to think it over for a while. Her mother and Andre offered to buy her a house if she got away from him. Mom was in a crux.

      Staying as my grandmother’s guests in her great big house on the water was an everyday reminder of what we didn’t have. Tension seemed to be growing in this house now too. JP was bouncing off the walls. Poor Andre was working more hours, probably to get a break from us. To get away from it all, I walked the streets in her ritzy neighborhood whistling and listening to my cassette Walkman. Sometimes a fog would come in and spook up the neighborhood.

      My teacher Mr. Flannery actually lived in the next town over from where my grandmother lived and he offered to pick me up in the mornings. He pulled up to this great big house in his shitty old VW and picked me up for the thirty-minute commute to school. It was still early because he had prep time before the students arrived, so he’d drop me off at Gene’s house. Gene and I would sit and talk as he finished getting ready and then we’d walk to school together.

      It was good but strange to be back in the old neighborhood down by the shore on the south side. I hadn’t been gone that long, but just a few months feels like a lifetime when you’re a teen. Some days I would go back to Gene’s house after school, especially if it was a Friday. On Friday nights his father and sister would go out and we’d have the house to make as much noise as we wanted. We’d set the room up as if it were a stadium stage. Wearing sunglasses and wigs, we’d put on a lip synching air guitar show in the mirror that no one could rival. We’d work our way through the entire Appetite for Destruction album. Sweat, laughs, and fun— memories no one can take from you.

      $$$

      Something saddened me about the separation and I started crying one day in the car with my mom. I told her I missed Don. Maybe it was the fear of having to leave all my new friends just when I started to fit in. It had taken so long and now I would have to start all over. She pulled me closer and hugged me and told me it would be all right.

      Of course, I was being selfish. If Don was not treating her right, she had every right to leave, and we would find our way.

      Most of my friends came from broken homes. Paul lived with his father. Gene lived with his father. Steven lived with his mother, but his estranged father would pop in. Ryan lived with both, but they were divorced and lived on different floors of the house. Many others only lived with their mother, as I had for most of my childhood. Andy and Jeff were the only ones with both parents together and their parents were a lot older. Maybe all parents ought to start waiting until they’re older.

      In the end, we spent two cold winter months away at my grandmother’s house and then my mother took him back and agreed to come home. Don had apologized and blamed his recent aggression on a head cold and bad medicine that clouded his mind. We moved back in and went on as if nothing had happened. It was