The Crew (A Literary Punk Rock Intellectual Novel)

Coming-of-age in Southern California in the year 2000

Copyright 2024 Michael Mohr

All Rights Reserved

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BUY THE CREW ON AMAZON HERE, EBOOK AND PAPERBACK (or just click the book cover below)

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Praise for The Crew

“Some books mentioned by the characters in this novel include Clockwork Orange, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, On the Road, Catcher in the Rye, and Crime and Punishment. Mohr’s novel deserves a place on the bookshelf near to these great classics.”

Rebecca Jane, Book Reviewer and Influencer Feathered Quill Book Reviews and U.S. Review of Books

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“In The Crew, Michael Mohr magically takes readers back in time to the year 2000. Through the eyes of a teenager, he shares what it's like to go from a bottom-feeding nerd to a die-hard punk overnight—an evocative perspective that you won't want to miss.
Jack Donnigan is just beginning to understand what it's like to be a teenager. He's got pent-up resentment toward his mother and is frustrated with his status as a dweeb. That is, until D.D. (short for Demon DeLorean), one of the prep school's insurgents, pulls him into "The Crew," a rebellious punk rock clique. In "The Crew," Jack discovers a whole new world of freedom. No one can tell him what to do anymore. But after a while of concerts, girls, alcohol, and rule breaking, he begins to question how punk it actually is to be part of a clique.
This is an eye-opening cultural deep dive into a specific time in Southern California when punk was revived. Michael Mohr is a terrific writer, creating a true-to-the-core teenage protagonist. Jack's character is interesting. He realizes he is now a man and can make his own decisions. But where those decisions lead him is often disastrous territory. The punk culture might not have led him down the best path, but it did teach him how to think for himself.
Overall, The Crew is a one-of-a-kind young adult fiction piece. It's more than just a novel—it's a raw and compelling glimpse into the transformative power of finding your own voice. With its great writing, notable coming-of-age theme, clever message for young adults along with deep character exploration, it's an unforgettable story that comes highly recommended by Chick Lit Book Café!

~Book read and reviewed by Micah Giordonela for CLBC Multi-Genre Literary News Team

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“Tense and well plotted, THE CREW goes beyond its own story to teach us about ourselves. We feel for the characters because we can relate to them. This is not merely a punk book. It's much, much more.”

—Allison Landa, author of Bearded Lady: When You’re a Woman with a Beard, Your Secret is Written All Over Your Face

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“I highly recommend this book for teens and parents alike.”

— H. Shamsi, Book Nerdection Book reviews

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“This is a well-crafted and fast-paced story of a group of high school kids in the 90s. The protagonist, Dog, attends a fancy prep school but gets involved with a punk rock loving gang of misfits called The Crew. The reader is pulled into the narrative and action that is, at times, reminiscent of The Dead Poet's Society but with a lot more sex and punk rock action. Highly entertaining!”

—Matthew Long, Beyond the Bookshelf

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“Wow, what a ride! This book had me hooked from start to finish. The story is beautifully crafted, keeping me interested and invested in every twist and turn. The characters are so well-developed, and the author's writing style is simply enchanting. A must-read!”

—Marisa La Fata, Soul Alchemy Healing

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“I became a fan of Michael Mohr’s collections of his Sincere American Writing on Substack. When I learned that he had a book coming out, called “The Crew”, I couldn’t wait to get my copy. This is a must read, you will not be disappointed.”

—Anonymous Amazon Review

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“Once I began reading this book, there was no stopping. When I wasn’t reading it, I was thinking about it. I haven’t read a book this well written and engaging for months. Concern for the 15year old protagonist kept me holding my breath as he fought to belong, then fought against the establishment during the punk rock scene of the ‘90s. In the 60s, we tried to fight the establishment through our ideas of peace and love, and drugs, too. The punk rock scene engendered an anarchical approach with a more violent edge. Each era embraced music reflecting their ideologies. The Crew -a great read for anyone. I hope this author is working on his next book!”

—“GH” via Amazon

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“The Crew” is a fun, intriguing, fast-paced punk rock extravaganza. You follow Dog—the protagonist—through myriad inner and outer changes as he battles his parents, his school, and his demons. Throw in an anarchic punk lifestyle, booze, drugs and girls and it’s a wild, sordid ride. Dog changes, and we change with him. It’s a rollercoaster ride. Highly recommend.”

—Britney Morehouse

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Dedication

Dedicated to my parents: My mother for always supporting me as a writer, and my father for always loving me, even when I was far away. (RIP, Dad.) Last: To Tim Bunce, high school teacher extraordinaire who changed my life and made me love writing and literature. Thank you for the gift.

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QUOTE

“Life had stepped into the place of theory and something quite different would work itself out in his mind.”

--Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

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The Crew

Chapter One

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It was Demon DeLorean—D.D.—who led me to Cannonball.

D.D. and I met up in the parking lot of St. Andy’s after the last bell at 2:30. We got into his busted-up Saturn and drove to my parents’ so I could change clothes before heading south to Oxnard, near Ventura, where D.D. and Cannonball lived. Spiky black hair, tight black Levi’s, pasty white skin and an attitude that bordered on insanity, D.D. was this wild anarchist-punk-rock-rebel who took no prisoners.

Backing out of my driveway on Del Norte Ave—my mother thankfully not home yet—he screeched in reverse and did that balls-to-the-wall, Back to the Future, hair-raising rocket shot down my street. My heart pounced like a baseball bat smacking the ball, ba-boom, ba-boom, and we shot down Del Norte. I was nervous about the neighbors telling my mom but there was no stopping this guy.

My mom had warned me about these kinds of kids. “Trouble with a capital T,” she always said. She just wanted me to be safe and happy, the opposite of her haggard, brutal childhood growing up in Pacific Palisades in LA in the 1960s. Her mom had run off with a Catholic priest, leaving her father and their whole family. The thing with my mom was: She hugged me constantly, told me “I love you” like five times a day. It was oppressive.

“Hey, could we maybe, like, slow down just a bit?”

He smiled, shifting the manual gear, stepping on the gas, speeding down Highway 33 in the direction of the Pacific Ocean. “The first rule of Fight Club is…you don’t talk about Fight Club.”

“What?” I said, confused.

Looking concerned, he eyed me sternly. “You’ve never seen Fight Club?”

Shrugging, I said, “No.”

He shook his head like a madman. “Jesus Christ, kid!” He sighed loudly. “Ok, this is going to be a whole reprogramming. A big project. Starting from Square One. Shit. You probably still think you need parents, that we need cops…you do don’t you... c’mon, Dog, admit it!” He’d already nicknamed me “Dog” due to my last name: Donnigan.

“Um…well…doesn’t everyone need parents? Wouldn’t our society fall apart without police?”

D.D. slammed a palm against his head, swerving, nearly losing his lane completely. “Oh, man, this is gonna be a lot of work. Amateur alert! The first thing you’re gonna do is read ‘1984.’ And then ‘A Brave New World.’ And you need punk education. It all started with a band called The Ramones, in 1974, hailing from Manhattan’s Lower East Side of New York City. Before them were Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison. You’ve heard of them haven’t you?” His tone dripped with caustic sarcasm.

“Yeah,” I said, feeling like a total idiot.

It was sophomore year. The truth was, freshman year, I’d been relegated to hanging out with the terrible, dreaded nerds. That had felt like having a rusty screwdriver jacked into my guts, piercing the viscera, slashing my soul. “You’ll make new friends,” my mom had promised.

“Alright, Dog, shut your mouth and listen to me and you’ll be okay. But don’t tell anyone else how stupid you are.”

We landed in Oxnard, off Highway 101. I was about to meet Mexican Johnny. He lived in a squat house where 16- and 17-year-old kids existed in their own filth and squalor, according to D.D. The city had abandoned the house and there was no landlord. Rent free, these kids were dropout runaways.

My stomach lurched as we closed the gap, getting closer to this new reality. I wanted so badly to impress D.D.—and finally meet Cannonball—but I was terrified, too. I was walking into unknown territory. I was going against my mother’s wishes, which both enthralled and saddened me. I needed this. It was some kind of rebirth. I could still feel the warmth of my mother’s tight bear hug from that morning, her hand running through my hair, saying, “I love you, Jack. Have a good day at school.”

We parked along the curb and D.D. shoved his door open throwing me a harsh glance. “Don’t say shit, Dog. Just follow me, alright?”

I nodded. It felt like ascending on a rollercoaster. The drop would be intense. What was I getting into?

We walked up to the moldy, rotting door. I smelled the mildew. D.D. stuck a Winston in his mouth and lit it. Looking tough and cool and mean in all the ways I wasn’t, he knocked on the door. The knob jostled and I heard voices. A guy with a huge afro opened the door. His eyes were contracted and red circles surrounded them. He was tall and thin, wiry legs that were covered, like D.D., in black ripped jeans. He sported a motorcycle jacket, equally torn and beat-up. He reeked of weed and cigarettes. It was disgusting and my first impulse was to turn around and run.

Inside, the place was falling apart. A few other guys nodded or ignored us and sat around on an L-shaped couch in the living room, staring at nothing. There was a messy, vile kitchen with rust-stains in the sink and dishes stacked, filthy and smelly. A hall led to a series of rooms. On the walls were posters. One was a massive picture of four guys in leather studded jackets, spiky bracelets on their wrists, spiky black hair like D.D., sneers on their faces. They stood holding each other’s shoulders, looking pissed. It said, “THE SEX PISTOLS, 1978: THE WINTERLAND BALLROOM. EVER GET THE FEELING YOU’VE BEEN CHEATED?”

The guy who’d let us in, with the afro, approached with something in his hand. He opened his palm. In it was a hypodermic needle and a bent spoon along with a small baggy with powder.

“Want some?” he said.

Shocked, I said, “What’s that?”

What was this place? My mom would murder me. This represented everything she’d tried to restrict me from, hold me back from, protect me from. It was like when she drove me to school, freshman year, and she’d have to brake suddenly; she’d always hurl her arm across my chest, a mother protecting her child. I hated when she did that. I loved my mom beyond words, but, since I’d been a pre-teen, some pressure, some resentment, some anger had been growing. She’d done things when I was a child, made mistakes.

“No,” D.D. said, breaking in-between us. “He ain’t initiated yet, Johnny.” He swiveled his head, staring at both of us. “Johnny, meet Dog, my newest recruit. Dog, meet Johnny, a veteran of The Crew.” We shook hands; his dirty, slimy paw gripped my clean, manicured one.

“Welcome to The New Church, kid. Your world’s about to explode.” He ripped his hand away then opened his palm fast as if an explosion were occurring.

“C’mon, Dog,” D.D. said, snatching me away from Mexican Johnny.

We walked down that mysterious hallway, bare white walls, past the darkness, arriving at a door. D.D. tried to open it: locked. He pounded a fist. “Cannon, let us in. It’s D.!”

“What’s The Crew?” I asked, innocently.

“Shhh,” he chided. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

And then it happened. Cannonball.

Nodding for us to come in, he eyed me with those intense, steady blue eyes you could almost see through, handed me a Mickey’s 40-ounce bottle, half-drunk, and said, sadistic smile, “Hey kid. I hear you’re ready for The Crew.” He looked over at D.D. and smiled an evil grin. Puckering his lips, he continued, “Is it better to have chosen evil than to have good imposed upon him?”

My heart pattered hard against my chest. I wanted to run and simultaneously stay, stay forever. I was hooked and terrified. This was my last chance. I could simply turn and walk away, down the hall, out the door, up the block. Find a bus. Go home. Be safe. I could even relate the story to Mom. She’d be mad that I’d defied her and gone with D.D. to this squalid house in Oxnard, but she’d be proud that I left, made the “right choice.”

“What does that mean?”

Cannonball grinned deeper. “It’s a quote from a novel called ‘A Clockwork Orange,’ kind of my bible, if you want to know the truth. Words to live by, kid.” D.D. plucked a beer from a mini fridge in the corner and tossed it to Cannonball. He popped it open, never averting his eyes from me for a second. He took a swig, beer dribbling down his chin. “My name’s Cannonball. What’s yours?”

I stepped forward. “Jack Donnigan.” D.D. stared at me brutally. “Dog, I mean.”

“Nice to meet you Dog.” He took another swig. “You know why they call me Cannonball?”

There was a lump the size of Antarctica rising in my tight throat. I wanted to breathe deeply but I knew if I did that I’d look like a pansy. They’d laugh at me. Swallowing that lump back down, I said, meekly, “No.”

He took another hefty chug of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. “Because if you mess with me I’ll explode like a cannonball.”

Control your breathing, Jack. Calm. I nodded. Or at least I think I nodded. I felt so nervous I wasn’t sure what I did.

“Drink that forty, kid.”

I stared down at the giant green bottle in my hand. I was an alcohol virgin. I was a virgin in every way. Innocent. But, I sensed, that innocence was about to be obliterated. That feeling returned, from earlier: I need this. My mom was so lovely and bubbly and warm, but her strict, incessant rules were killing me. It hurt that I was going to do this, stick the knife into her torso and twist. Defy her regulations, her rules. But I couldn’t help it. The days of bouncing on her thighs in the Jacuzzi in our massive backyard, asking my father questions about the Milky Way; those days were over. This was about revolution. It was about change. It was about embracing the chaos.

Action. This was the only way. These guys were a portal: They would lead me through.

With a quick intake of air, a slow release, and a pleading internal prayer, I lifted the bottle, nodded at Cannonball, and drank.

Soon I started to feel the buzz.

I was ready for the initiation.

Chapter Two

An hour later I walked outside the sliding glass doors of the squat into the back yard to take a piss. The buzz, after another few beers, was intensifying. I hadn’t called my parents, and it was late, on a school night. They had no idea where I was. I hadn’t even left a note. The realization that I would be in big trouble was present, but the inhibitions were lowered, my body electric and alive with the warm sensation of approaching drunkenness.

In the process of zipping up, my urine pooling at the trunk of a lone cypress tree, I sensed some premonition right as a gust of wind pulsed through, shaking the leaves of the tree above me. A shadow-figure moved from around the other side of the tree trunk. A girl. Suddenly in the moonlight, I saw her: She was petite, Asian, ashen face, chopped black hair like a boy. And sexy as hell. Her tiny hand was placed against the trunk as if it held some supernatural power. She was stunning, like some midnight punk rock ghost-girl.

She approached. My stomach pitched and roiled, like boiling water. A dart of tense fear shot down my spine. Girls had never been my strong suit. And there was something about this one, some strange vibe: I felt drawn towards her but also some bell tolled in the depths of my soul. A word floated to the surface of consciousness: Beware.

“You’re the new kid,” she said. It was a statement, not a question. Her voice was high and it sent a thrill up my body like some exciting, living current.

Stupidly smiling, I said, “I guess I am.”

The girl tore off a small, rough piece of bark from the tree. “Be careful, Jack.”

Crash! Cannonball flew into me with a force bestowed upon him by the gods, knocking me to the grass into a sitting position. I was in shock from being hammered down so fast, out of the blue. The wind had been zapped clean out of me. A nauseous feeling snaked its way through my gut and I suppressed it as best I could.

“Dog my man, you don’t look so good, what you NEED is another drink, that’ll fix you right up.”

I eyed Cannonball and saw two of him, drunken twins, his blonde spikes towering over me, deadpan blue eyes, grin plastered, another forty in his palm somehow.

Where was that mysterious girl? She’d disappeared. And how did she know my name?

Before I knew it liquid was being dispensed over my shirt and pants, all over my body, the stench of lighter fluid strong, and then the glow of a match sailed through the air landing on my chest. Fire ripped off my body like crazy magic illusions and the orange-red flames licked and popped. I smelled the stench of burning clothes, singed cotton.

Desperately, I tried to stand up but fell right back down. I was powerless. Would I die? Reinvigorated, gaining momentary sobriety in the fight for survival, I jumped up, grabbing hold of the cypress tree next to me. My whole shirt was covered with lighter fluid—on fire!

Shuffling forward, away from the tree, like some zombie on fire, I swiped wildly at the flames which had begun to singe skin and had by now drawn a group of idiots surrounding yours truly, including Johnny, Bone—who I’ll get to later—and Cannonball. After a few seconds Cannon said, “Now!”

D.D. jogged over from behind some bushes with a bucket of water. He dumped it over me and the flames died. I shivered and breathed heavily. Looking up, I saw that everyone was watching me. Most punks had their arms crossed and were nodding. Mohawks and Chaos Spiked hair. Leather jackets with silver studs. Tight plaid pants and stitched-up jeans with holes and punk patches. It seemed I had crossed some threshold, some boundary which bonded me to them. The whole thing was insane but there was no way I could walk away from this: I felt the hook through my lip already.

Cannon approached. He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You’re one of us now, Dog. Welcome.”

Raking my hand through my sopping wet hair, I said, “I’m part of the New Church?”

Cannon grinned like he had when I first met him. “Now we go to the gig.”

“Hey Dog: You ready to conquer the heathens?” Cannon said, wrapping his head around from the front seat.

We were in D.D.’s Saturn; I was in back, D.D. driving, heading to my first punk rock show ever, in Ventura, at a venue called “Skate Street.” It was an indoor skate park with half-pipes and rails and a venue upstairs for underground punk shows. Windows down, D.D. careened through Oxnard, blasting this band we were about to see called Unknown Society.

Driving to the show in D.D.’s DeLorean was agonizing and thrilling at the same time. Terrifying was more like it. And yet: It was as obvious as getting into D.D.’s car earlier that day, on campus. Who were these guys, these crazy kids I’d seen yapping to each other every morning at St. Andy’s on the lawn by the gym, gesticulating, throwing their arms around each other, spilling secrets, all before the first classes started? The kids I’d yearned to know, to meet, to follow? In a fit of bravura I’d purposefully bumped into D.D., who I knew would take me to the leader. And now I was here, in their car, drunk, heading to my first punk show.

It was wild. It was absurd. It was…fantastic. But my mom. My mom. My. Mom.

D.D. parked the car and we entered the dragon’s lair, which consisted of an army of revolutionary energy. The tattooed guy at the door marked the backs of our hands with a thick black “X,” indicating we’d paid our two bucks.

It felt like war. The space was packed. It smelled like bad body odor, beer, pot and leather. Mohawks and liberty/chaos spikes (they’d filled me in on the punk lingo) adorned scalps and sneers were plastered on faces. Some guys appeared older, in their early twenties, and sported red braces, Doc Martin boots laced up tight, blue jeans and shaved heads.

D.D. threw his arm around me. “Too bad Bone couldn’t make it tonight. He’s teaching some newbies the ropes. Indoctrination is his deal,” D.D. said, scrunching my shoulder. “But you don’t even know what that word means, do you Dog?”

“No,” I said, scared of the energy in the room. “Who are those guys?” I pointed to the red-braced dudes.

Cannon’s lips quivered into a sneer, like the guys in that Sex Pistols poster. “Skins, brother. Pricks that Bone likes to puke on.”

“Like Nazis?”

“Shhhh,” D.D. said, scrunching harder. “Quiet, man, you’ll get us killed. No, not Nazis.” He scanned around, paranoid. “They’re ‘trad skins.’ Evolved from English mods in the 60s. Blue collar guys with a work ethic. We don’t let those Hitler-saluting Nazi scum come in here. Ever.”

“What do you mean? You…fight them?”

Cannon shoved me, right as a mosh-pit started to move, a labyrinth of sweaty bodies all swirling in slow motion. “Of course man! We fight everyone, with words or with fists!” he yelled as I fell backwards into the bodies.

The band hit the stage. The front man was thin, tall, a worn beanie over hawk eyes. It was the front man who would explode into the sound, unleashing his force full-throttle, validating for all of us that this was the place to be. The first song blasted through me, through my confusion, through my fear. I knew it right then and there. I was home. Every part of my being belonged here, knew it was true. This was a refuge for kids who wanted to break free from their parents’ restrictions.

My mother would lose her mind if she saw the characters in this feral place. That knowledge excited me. I could almost feel the metaphorical chains being pried off my ankles. Yes, I was worried, frightened about what the consequences might be. But: I’d come this far, I’d be damned if I turned back now. There was a picture on our fridge of me and my dad standing in front of an Amtrak train when I was five years old, about to head north to Waldport, Oregon, to visit my grandmother. I’m holding his big hand, looking up at him. Back then, I admired him so much. He was my hero, my everything.

Those times were done. I was in the here and now. There was history and there was the present.

Flying in a sadistic circle, round and round we went, sweat pouring down hard, slick bodies, the stench of stinky body odor, anger melting, a vibrating throng of punk rockers intent on letting it all out. Mohawks flew around and brushed my skin; knuckles punched and raised in the air in protest; shouts rose to the ceiling, singing along with the lyrics. I was pushed and shoved beautifully from all directions. Exhausted, the alcohol swirling in my system, for the first time in my life I felt like I was truly alive, on fire, having my own independent experience, free from the strictures of my parents.

Someone pulled me out of the rumbling, raucous circle, to the front of the stage, pounding past flesh. Cannon.

“Dog! Good stuff, huh! We go right up to the front; the spot to be, always!” Cannon shouted, somehow behind me, his hand gripping my shoulder. He was like some shaman of the punk underworld; he could appear wherever he wanted, like magic.

“I want you to stage dive, Dog,” Cannon said.

Confused, I looked up at him and said, “Like, jump off the stage?”

He nodded, a sinister smile spreading.

“I dunno man. It’s my first show.”

His grip tightened on my neck and he started pulling me forward, toward the stage. One song—fast, hard, heavy—ended and another one began. They all blended into one sonic chaotic chorus of cacophony.

“Listen, Dog,” Cannon said, yelling into my ear, the pumping bodies still slick and startling behind us, the guitar, bass and drums still moving the machine of punk rock, danger hovering in the air, “there’s this 19^th century Russian author, Fyodor Dostoevsky. He wrote a novel called Crime and Punishment.”

He waited while a particularly loud guitar and drum section blasted. Then some drunk punker crashed straight into Cannon; he turned and shoved the kid right back, hard. I thought there’d be a fight but the kid just jumped back into the pit, disappearing. This was ludicrous. Man: It was so awesome. I was alive!

Cannon returned to me and again threw his arm around my shoulder like he was my older brother. I’d known the guy less than a day and I already sensed I could trust him. The thought struck me: I wasn’t going home tonight. For the very first time, I was going to resist my parents. I was going to say “no.” I made a choice, right then and there: I would stand tall, push back, shove hard. It wasn’t about doing what Cannon and D.D. told me to—though I would do whatever they said—so much as it was about my right to resist. This meant power. Control. Destiny.

The faces of the nerds I’d spent time with freshman year buzzed across my mental landscape. I wanted to hurl my fist into one of their faces. But they’d been so unbelievably kind. Compassionate my mother would probably say. Whatever. I wanted to smash their compassion.

“In Crime and Punishment,” Cannon continued, “there’s a line at the end, ‘life replaced theory.’”

I yelled back. “What does that mean?”

“Alright,” the singer on stage said, “we got two more songs. Make ‘em count, punks…”

“That’s for another time, Dog; the time is now!”

He shoved me forward and before I knew what I was doing, my legs began a mechanical process, power surging through each muscle. I reached the stage quickly, after pushing through rank, wet bodies, and started hoisting myself up. All of the sudden I felt hands behind me, on my back, under my feet. They were helping me! The other punks were actually assisting me in the preposterous idea of getting on stage and hurling my body into the crowd.

The pushing succeeded and before I knew it I was on the stage, standing awkwardly. I stared down at the vibrating bodies below. Cannon was a few people back, arms crossed over his chest, his spiky blonde hair plastered to his face from sweat. He cupped his mouth and yelled something but I couldn’t hear it. He pointed. To my right, I noticed my foe: security guard. Not just a security guard; a security guard about 6’5, massive arms fully tattooed, and a look on his face that said, “If I reach your body, you’re going to wish for months that I hadn’t.”

There was no time. I had but one choice. I backed up a few paces to where the drummer was banging his sticks, took a deep breath, did the sign of the cross as a precaution, and ran straight ahead, closing my eyes.

I jumped, landing face first into a bed of body-gyrating hysteria—countless heads, arms, hands, sweaty, slippery bodies. A mass of moving restlessness rocked me back and forth, back and forth, away from the stage, now left, now back toward the stage, my eyes losing focus in the pendulum movement. I was some king punker, being held aloft by the people. It was as if I defied gravity. Forget every birthday I’d ever celebrated. This was better. Cooler. More badass by a million.

I turned around, noticing Captain Steroids still attempting to grab me. I began to body swim away, feeling the flesh and bone and skulls beneath me. The punks knew what to do. They pulled me back down, myriad arms helping, as if a massive squid forcing my return to solid ground. Feet once more on floor, at the last second I found an opening in the wall of bodies and pushed through as the crowd absorbed me back into the mass. I was gasping for air—wrecked, exhausted—and totally ready for more. I couldn’t believe I’d gone my whole life without having this, without realizing it was here. It was an awakening, for sure. A signal. A new door.

It seemed to be a symbol, jumping off the stage, as if I’d leapt into some bear pit of chaotic splendor. There was no turning back. Sometimes you have to take chances. Damn straight. Cannon had carried me over to the next world.

All the years of maternal suppression, the times my mom had chosen herself over me, her middleclass “values” over what I wanted, craved so badly, it all melted away here. Like an emotional ticking time bomb, that internal pressure building, building, with nowhere to go, I was at last exploding, the rubble showering the city in my mind. I thought of meeting Mexican Johnny, how he’d said my world was about to explode. He was right.

Chapter Three

The next day, when classes were over, D.D. and I sat in his Saturn in front of my parents’ gate. The hangover had faded, having been like some professional boxer tapping my skull repeatedly. I’d gone to the bathroom between classes, throwing cold water on my face. Cannon loaned me his Dead Kennedys T-shirt and a fresh pair of jeans so I wouldn’t look/smell like death. Being set on fire hadn’t exactly made my clothes shine.

The engine rumbled. D.D. peered at me. “Man looks in the abyss, there’s nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that is what keeps him out of the abyss.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

He snatched a cigarette from the pack on his dash. Unknown Society was playing, barely audible, from his CD player.

We’d been here just yesterday but that was practically a lifetime ago. Being in Oxnard at the squat house and then at the show, compared to here was…bizarre. It was like going from Russia to LA.

“You’ll be alright, Dog. Remember. When you stare into the abyss, you’re only facing death. None of us can avoid it.”

“That’s supposed to be comforting?”

Shrugging, he said, “Well, no, not exactly. But true. Let go, Dog. Let the pieces fall where they may.”

He extended his white pasty palm. I grabbed the hand and shook.

“Good luck, brother.”

I nodded, reached behind me for my pack and got out. Before I could say another word D.D. burned rubber in reverse, careened onto Del Norte like a drunken psycho, halted for one second, blasted Unknown Society out his open window, hit the lever and absolutely exploded down Del Norte, that Back to The Future maneuver once more, like some insane NASCAR driver.

And, just like that, I was alone. Facing the gate.

Instead of taking the front way, on the winding concrete sidewalk which wound through the perfectly mowed grass and along the 12-foot-tall Bougainvillea, protecting us from the street and the lurid, lurking world, I opted instead for the garage entry. I walked down the driveway, remembering years ago, playing basketball—Horse—out here with my dad and uncle at Christmas. How innocent I’d been only two years back. Hell, one year back. Two days ago.

My hand gripped the old garage door handle. The screws were loose—had been for years—and when I lifted it the handle rose and I thought, as always, that it would come clean off. The palpable stench of fresh cut grass, old tools and gardening equipment assaulted my senses. I walked in, closing the massive garage door behind me with a heavy clang. The garage door shook. Darkness prevailed. The musty, pungent aroma hit my nostrils. I thought of D.D.’s words: Man looks in the abyss, there’s nothing staring back at him. At that moment, man finds his character. And that is what keeps him out of the abyss.

Face the abyss, Jack, I whispered to myself. But my palms were sweaty, hands slightly quivering, gut thumping.

I opened the door leading from the garage into the spare room. It was empty except for a lone bed, perfectly made, and a Pointer Sisters poster, from the 80s. The room once belonged to my older half sister. It sometimes led my mind to wander the corridors of time and remember the painful things I didn’t want to recall: Jason, the older neighbor kid up the street who, when I was eight or nine years old, put his father’s nine-millimeter handgun into my mouth, pulled the hammer back, counted down, and acted like he was going to kill me. Or the time when my mother, unable to cope with my constantly waking her up due to nightmares, when I was seven, my father in New York on a business trip, told me to get dressed, put me in the car, and drove us across town at three A.M., dropping me off at her psychiatrist’s house.

I’d never forget that stark, horrific feeling of abandonment; it sat inside of my stomach, eternally, like a stone.

I climbed the blue-carpeted steps and stood by the pool table. It was my grandmother’s from literally 100 years ago. A relic from the past.

A few steps and I stopped. The abyss, Jack. Be brave. Have courage.

We bumped into each other. She walked out from the living room table, where’d she’d no doubt been grading her master’s nursing students’ papers from Cal State Dominguez Hills near LA. My mother stood in the crossroads between the kitchen, the long brick hallway leading to both our rooms, and the entranceway to the living room table.

Arms crossed over her chest, bobbed auburn hair rounded at the corners above her shoulders, usually soft almond eyes penetrating and pissed, she eyed me like a foreigner, some criminal who’d broken into her private residence.

“Jack.”

Embarrassment and shame blossomed inside like cancer. Swallowing the guilt, I stood there, waiting. I hadn’t expected this reaction inside myself.

Face the abyss.

“I called St. Andrews today, looking for you.” She half squinted, as if trying to see if I’d attempt to tell a lie. In a fast scan, her eyes swept over my clothes, the new jeans and punk T-shirt, black with the red D.K. symbol for Dead Kennedys.

“Mom, I—”

“They told me you were on campus, safe, so I let it go. I knew you’d come home.”

“Yeah, of course I’d come—”

Her bloodshot eyes watered, tears streaming down her face. “I almost called the police, Jack!”

Face. The. Abyss. I tried to conjure and hold D.D.’s words in my mind, to think of Cannon as my older brother, which he was. He was more than a brother. He was some kind of savior.

“Mom. I love you. I’m sorry I didn’t come home. But don’t you think you’re being a little…over-the-top?”

I’d never spoken back. It was only now that I’d harnessed the courage to say these words.

The arrow stuck the mark.

She shifted her feet, anger filling her face. “Over-the-top? Over-the-top?! Do you know how hard your father and I have to work so you can go to private school?”

This comment was illogical. I’d wanted to go to Nordhoff, Ojai’s public school. Or Ventura High, on the coast in Ventura, where my half sister had gone in the 80s. It’d been them, my folks, the Fascist regime, who’d forced me to go to Catholic school. Which was damn ironic given that Mom’s family had been torn apart in the 60s as a result of a Catholic priest stealing away her mother. It was “because of the quality education,” my parents had said. Yeah. Right. The education. Whatever.

“Mom, it was you guys who pushed me into going. I wanted to go to Ventura High or Nordhoff, remember?” Don’t lay your adult guilt trip on me, mom.

Hooking her arms at her side, like malevolent mother’s wings, she said, “Listen, Jack. You’re 16. As long as you’re living in our home and we’re paying the bills you’ll follow the house rules. And the house rules state you shall not act like you’re 21, leaving for a whole night without even so much as calling. You’re not an independent adult. You’re a kid.”

That word, “kid,” hung in the air like a dangerous, deadly cloud, seeming to echo, rebound off the walls. I was a kid. So what? I had power now, and no one could take it away from me.

“Mom, you can’t keep me in a cage. How can I respect you if you don’t trust me?”

A look of contempt passed over her face but was blunted by another look, more curious. She whipped an auburn bang away from her forehead. “And what am I supposed to trust you with?”

Abyss, Jack. Abyss. I took a deep breath. “Everything.”

I was underwater, deep down, at the bottom of a pool, struggling to come up for air, swimming desperately, my arms waving in lucid arcs, but somehow never making it free. Or maybe it was like being at the bottom of a dry well, screaming for help, no one there to save me.

My mother unhooked her arms from her side, scanned behind us out the French doors, past the perfectly mowed backyard and bone-shaped pool, over the fence, all the way to the distant Topa Topa mountains, capped with snow, the jagged peaks a reminder of St. Andy’s Prep.

Turning, she faced me again. “When I called today Mr. Watson issued a personal warning. He said you’d been seen talking with Anthony Pomper, who I’m told has developed a bit of a reputation on campus, and his crony, Derek Dempsey, another troublemaker.”

(Mr. Watson was King Fascist: Our headmaster. Derek Dempsey was D.D.’s real name. Anthony Pomper was Cannon’s. He’d almost landed the tag ‘Pumper,’ but, because he exploded sometimes, ‘Cannonball’ had stuck.)

“Yeah. It’s true. I met Cann—Anthony and…Derek a few days ago. They took me to a rock show in Ventura.”

Her hand reached to the wall near where we were standing. Fingers tapped out a quiet beat in her head. She sucked in a breath. “Jack, I know what those kids are about. Mr. Watson confirmed. They listen to punk rock. That stuff’s angry and violent. It’s forbidden in my house.”

“You don’t know anything about punk music, mom! That’s not fair!”

She was drawing a goddamn line in the metaphorical sand. This was going to be a war. I needed supplies. I thought of the windows of the house being smashed out, boots stomping around the rug, down the brick hallway, stuff stolen. A punk revolution. Viva!

The image of the swirling, sweaty, sadistic mosh pit blared into my mind, everyone crashing into each other, wet, hard bodies, sneering faces, pierced noses, tattoos, Mohawks; the core of chaos. It represented something so new to me, so beautiful, so holy, that her insinuation that punk was wrong or immoral offended my soul, my very nature. I wanted to scream at her, blame her for everything, every time she’d failed me, let me down: The gun incident; dropping me off at her psychiatrist’s house; the time I was molested in my room by my parents’ friends’ 19-year-old son, when I was eleven; the month she was institutionalized for a nervous breakdown when I was 14.

Lifting a finger, pointing it at me, she said, “Life’s not fair, Mister.”

“Why can’t I make my own choices? What’s so wrong with that?”

She shook her head. “You think you know so much. What do you know, Jack? Huh? What do you know?”

I waited, paused a beat.

“I just…” I stopped, reaching for the impenetrable words. “I just want real friends, mom!”

“Jack, you’re not going to hang out with those boys. They’re trouble with a capital ‘T.’”

Wow. She’d actually said it. She’d. Said. It. Ridiculous.

“Can’t you just trust me?”

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” she said, eyes squinting harder than before, as if staring at me like Cannon. It was a weird juxtaposition. Imagining the two together was like imagining Oprah and Eminem. It just didn’t work. It wasn’t possible.

“Are we done?”

Her lips clamped tight, concealing her frustration and rage. The need for controlling her only son was deep but I was, at last, fighting back. It was never-before-seen in the Donnigan household. It’s amazing what a little confidence booster can do, what guys like Cannon and D.D. can push you into.

“For now we’re done, Jack. But I want you to come home directly after school tomorrow. And if you go out, in the future, I want a parent’s phone number. Is that clear?”

Without answering, I flipped around and trudged down the brick hallway, heading towards my room. Before reaching the arch which led to my room, my folks’ room and the bathroom in the middle—reminding me of my mother and I writing long apology letters to each other when I was younger, slipping them under each other’s door after a fight—I heard her repeat the question.

“Jack. Is. That. Clear?”

I stared into the abyss. Nothing stared back.

Not answering a second time, I’d spoken with the most confidence yet, and had declared the most startling statement. And I hadn’t uttered a single word.

Chapter Four

A week later, sitting at one of the blue metal picnic tables perched on the grass at St. Andy’s campus, prior to the first bell, me and Cannon riffed. Tall stucco buildings surrounded us on all sides. Red-tiled Spanish roofs slanted. The river-rock pebble driveway wound through and around campus. The familiar, annoying white statue of St. Augustine stood at the edge of the lawn, by our Chemistry class.

Students crisscrossed the lush, vast lawn, heading to their respective classes. It was so bizarre, being with him in the morning now, like I’d seen him and D.D. most of freshman year, longing to know them. And now here I was. How many times had I watched the two punks from afar, with a nerd on either side of me discussing Dungeons and Dragons, talking about their useless, lame lives?

“Hey, Dog, riddle me this, guess what’s on the agenda tonight?”

Cannon had picked up the mantra “riddle me this” from his father. Lorenzo was this crazy man in his early forties who was somehow a parent. Living in a sweet apartment on the sand in Oxnard Shores, he was usually gone, according to Cannon snorting coke and drinking at some local dive bar called The Rudder Room. Lorenzo would say: “Riddle me this, son, if my house ain’t clean when I get back from the Rudder Room, you’re going to wish you weren’t born.”

“I don’t know, Cannon, the ultimate destruction of the world? Anarchy? The apocalypse?”

He grinned. “Even better. Punk party. My dad’s house. Everyone’ll be there.”

The Topa Topa mountains behind the Administration building were stunning, as always, and the sun struggled to rise above the craggy peaks, which seemed sharp and jagged as a knife. Ojai was such a beautiful town, and yet, so boring. Horrendously boring.

I faced Cannon. “I’ll be there.”

“Hey,” Cannon said, “You get your mom off your back?”

Sighing, I said, “Not exactly. I gave her your dad’s number. She said she’d call him. At first she said I wasn’t allowed to hang out with you guys at all, but then…we worked it out.”

Cannon sneered. “I know. She called my pops.”

My eyes grew wide. “Really? When? What happened?”

A cackle shot out from his mouth. “Couple days ago. Don’t worry, Dog. My dad is the biggest bullshitter in the world. He covered for you.”

I stared down at the grass, my eyes swiveling. She hadn’t said anything about a phone call. After our fight we’d apologized to each other and “started over,” one of our little rituals. She’d said I could stay out one night a week if I promised to be safe and gave her Cannon’s dad’s phone number. She’d decided to take a chance and trust me.

“Remember that Russian novelist I told you about, at the show,” Cannon said, breaking my reverie. “Dostoevsky?”

I nodded.

“That line at the end, ‘life replaced theory.’ Remember how I told you that?”

“Yeah.”

“In the novel it’s about the protagonist realizing his immature, naïve theories about life are bullshit and discovering that what really matters is living, seeking experience, being true to himself. In the end, rotting away in prison, he realizes that the only thing which can save him is love. He’s redeemed, resurrected like Lazarus.”

“That’s deep but I don’t really get it,” I said.

“Don’t you see, Dog? Life replaced theory! It’s existential, in the vein of Sartre. By jumping off that stage last week, you metaphorically dove into the rabbit hole. You made a choice. You took the colored pill. You…actually changed the course of your existence.”

Our eyes met and his pierced mine like no other kid’s ever had. There was another side to Cannon, a deeper side, a more intelligent side, even possibly a sensitive side. It nearly shocked me to the core. It made me disbelieve everything Mr. Watson had warned my mother about, everything my mother had said, about punk rock, about “those kinds of kids,” all of it. Intelligence wasn’t solely defined by a classroom.

At that instant a kid showed up and seemed as if he’d been listening to our conversation. We glanced up in unison, beaming our eyes at the invader of our territory. Unlike me, D.D., Cannon, Bone or any of the other malcontents in our Crew, this one was short and overweight. The kid stood maybe 5’6, but heavy, a real bruiser with broad shoulders and a huge wiggling pouch for a belly.

His eyes were what enthralled me; they were full and fierce with talons for pupils, telling us in some subtle way to beware.

In my mind I saw a brave new soldier in the war of the avant-garde, yet at the same time he gave me the creeps. With his goofy outfit countered by those deranged eyes and sinister grin, the kid was a balance of opposing inner forces. What also struck me was that he was alone. He was alone not only physically, but I could sense he was alone in spirit, in disposition. In other words, welcome to the club.

“I’m Cannonball. That’s Dog. What’s your tag, man?”

“Tag? I’m Justin. Transferred from Oxnard High.”

“Oxnard; that’s my turf! We’re both from the Nard! Dog, are you hearing this?!”

Cannon growled at us, commander to platoon squad, as if we were 20 feet away in a military barracks. “Justin, we’re gonna have to tag you something else, but for now that’ll do, take a seat.”

Justin sat and we engaged in a three-way pseudo-intellectual conversation about the ability or lack thereof of institutional education to tell us what the hell to do. During the course of our debate we came to the realization that good ole Justin had…a CAR! I in fact had my driver’s license but Mom said if I wanted a car I needed to raise my grades to A’s. As of now, they were more like B’s and C’s. Except for English Lit. That was A all the way. I’d been taking the bus or walking or getting dropped off by Mom. Until D.D.

“That’s what we need, right Dog? D.D.’s always going out somewhere with Laura and we’re sitting here with our thumbs up our asses. We need wheels. Justin, you’re in. I can start riding up to school with you since we both live in the Nard and that’ll be that!”

Out of the blue, D.D. approached, hips swaying like some demented, angry anarchist, looking confused and pissed. He stopped at Justin and walked a circle around him, once, dramatically. “Who the fuck are you?”

“D.D., Cannon and I rescued him from certain middleclass death, St. Andy’s DOOM! He’s a new soldier, good kid, smart, kinda funny and suuuper weird, which is the best part of all, really, you’ll see man!”

Cannon watched me, arms crossed over his chest—his thing—clearly pleased that his new recruit, his new buddy, his new little brother, was rising in the ranks, pulling his weight, making his own calls. If he could’ve gotten away with it on campus, I think he’d have whipped out a cigarette and plunked it in his mouth, just to look cool. But he couldn’t, of course. There were rules at St. Andy’s.

D.D., incredulous, turned and stared first at Cannon, then at me, and finally at Justin, as if deciding whether he should pull rank or let it go. “Well, he seems a bit deficient, but I guess if Cannon says he’s ok, I can let it go, but seriously, a little warning next time.”

Justin, who’d been standing there looking unsure, loosened up as D.D. extended his palm. They shook hands and I saw an almost intimate understanding, reflecting some cryptic agreement which clearly extended beyond the present. It resonated as one of those times when a captain meets one of what will become his best new recruits, shaking the hand of destiny. It was Cannon’s ship but D.D. was his number one captain. He wanted D.D.’s approval.

“Are you willing to do whatever it takes to protect The Crew?” D.D. said.

His fat lip curling upward into an arrogant grin, surprising us, Justin said, “What the hell does that mean?”

D.D. got serious. “Listen to me you rat-bastard. I run this show. You’ll do as we tell you or you’re out!”

A hand slashed across D.D.’s chest. Cannonball to the rescue. He’d jumped up like lightening. “D., it’s a good thing. Look, the guy’s tough; he’ll be security. Plus he’s going to drive me around. He lives in our hood. You won’t have to take me everywhere.”

D.D. appeared stunned. “He lives in The Nard?”

“That’s right,” Cannon said. “Justin’s a killer, look at im.” He paused. “Wait a second.” He looked Justin over again. “You’re a big guy, Justin. And there’s something…animalistic about you.” He smiled. Walking over to Justin, he placed his palm on his thick shoulder. “I hereby christen you The Bear.”

“Alright,” D.D. said. He faced Justin. “You’re in, kid. But no more lip from you.”

“The first rule of Fight Club is, you don’t talk about Fight Club?” Justin said. We all stood there, knocked off our stools so to speak, wondering how the hell he knew.

Justin placed his fat, bulbous palm on D.D.’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, man, I’m cool. I get it. The Crew,” he said.

“The Crew,” we all repeated, as if we were in fact in the movie Fight Club.

Chapter Five

It was deep in the night at the punk party, at Lorenzo’s, after I returned from the bathroom, three-quarters drunk, that I spotted the mysterious chick I’d seen that first night right before being set on fire.

The upstairs living room was packed with people. Crass—this English punk band—played loudly, interweaving with rambunctious chatter. Talk filled the room. Smoke undulated everywhere. Bottles clinked. If you closed your eyes it all sounded like nothing, just languid, garbled language. Cannon, thankfully, was preoccupied, talking to D.D. in the corner, facing the other way.

Ghost Girl was standing outside, on the balcony, alone. Wind blew her short clipped hair around. She wore blood-red lipstick, blue jeans, Chuck Taylors. A leather jacket, new, too big for her small frame, was wrapped around her.

She and I locked eyes, her giving me that stare. You know that stare, the one that fixes on your soul for what seems to be forever, but truthfully only lasts a second.

Leaning against the railing, intensely eyeing me from her perch, her hand rose as if from out of the void. A single sexy finger lifted and she pulled it toward herself twice, indicating I should come to her. The waves crashed behind her in the distance, white froth simmering and spreading as the tide rose. No one else seemed to be in the room. Almost in a state of shock—in the same kind of trance I’d been in when I first met her at The Squat—I walked over.

“Meet me outside in five minutes,” she whispered. “You go now. I’ll come after.”

She sounded assured, confident. Building pressure pulsed from somewhere deep down inside of my belly. A girl, showing interest…in me? Anticipation etched its way inside of my gut. I both wanted something to happen and didn’t. To say it was outside my comfort zone would be an understatement. But some part of me yearned for this, needed it the same way I needed Cannon’s friendship.

I trudged across the room, away from the group, seeing Cannon still talking to D.D. as I left, not seeming to notice my Great Escape. I became a silent apparition, floating, disappearing down the stairs and into the full moon night. Outside, I tromped around Lorenzo’s garage and started down the street, sand butting up to the asphalt. A surfer’s paradise, the waves crashing only 50 yards away. What now? What if she didn’t come?

Just as I was beginning to worry, I heard the muffled shuffle of shoes on sandy street. I turned around and there she was, the tiny Asian who hung out with the berserk punkers from St. Andy’s Prep. Without a word, she approached and slid her hand into mine, as if she’d been expecting this all along. Her palm was warm; it fit into my hand like it was meant to be.

I didn’t want to do this. It was too terrifying. No. I needed this. I’d been waiting forever. All the girls at school, freshman year, who’d passed me up. They’d smile, that fake grin, then go for the cool guys, the jocks, the sports dudes.

We walked along the street by the sand a while, not speaking, the tension rising in my chest like when I’d first stage dived at the show. I had no idea what to do or say. My palm felt like some slimy, sweaty wad of flesh. I wanted to yank it away, go back to my comfort zone, but I also wanted to shove her against a parked car, make-out for the first time.

I slowed down and stopped, her arm stretching as she kept moving. “Wait,” I said.

Smiling, perfect white teeth, she pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “What?”

I tried to speak but no words came out. Again. Nothing. Then I said, “Why’d you tell me to meet you?”

Her smile became tweaked. She flipped her bangs. “Why not?”

My breathing sped. I swallowed. “You’re…I don’t know.” I paused, searching for the words. Humility always worked. “I’m new. I’m a nobody. And besides…who are you?”

Ghost Girl stepped toward me. She got real close. Slowly, she lifted her hands and lassoed them around my waist. I felt her forearms clench my torso. I understood right then and there why boys went psycho for girls. Irresistible. It was like some toxic, sexual energy.

“I don’t think you’re nobody. Cannonball and Demon seem to have taken a real liking to you. The last few guys that tried to join lasted less than a day.”

I swallowed. “I’m not much beyond that.”

She pulled herself toward me. Her body was clamped to mine. I heard her beating heart, felt her soft breasts squished against my chest. My mind went into overdrive. This was beyond being set on fire, beyond the show, beyond anything. Wasn’t I supposed to be the one making the moves? I looked away, at the sand, trying to remain calm. The image of her hand ripping off that piece of bark from the cypress tree at The Squat that night played in my mind.

Her hand rose, gripped my chin, and moved my face toward her. Our eyes caught.

“I’ve seen Cannon with you. The way he talks to you. He respects you. I’ve never seen him like this.”

Her body got even closer, arms wrapped around me tight. Her breasts heaved against my chest. My dick stirred and I was certain she felt it, but if she did she said nothing. I wanted to cry or scream or dance or run or…something. Anything. But no: I only wanted to be right here right now. This was spectacular. Perfect. Like the punk show, like drinking, like everything: I’d never done this before. Not really.

“Jack,” she said, staring madly into my eyes.

My mother had said my name just the other day, but this was so much different. One had stemmed from suspicion, pessimism, criticism, disappointment. And the other? It stemmed from lust. From desire. From yearning.

I sensed my hand shaking. Why was I such a pansy? Because, I answered myself: You’ve never done this before, Jack.

Her hands crawled from the back of my waist, up my spine, to my neck. Her fingers were warm on my nape. She caressed the skin. She pulled my head down to her. Before I knew what was happening we kissed; our mouths were dancing, her tongue slithering around my tongue, exploring, lips smacking, French kissing.

In the heat of it, not thinking, tabula rasa, I got carried away and lifted my hand, seeking her breast. She halted, snatching the invading flesh.

“Later, Jack.” She clasped my hand with both of hers, grinned a weird, all-knowing grin, and let my hand drop; it thudded against my thigh like a piece of metal.

As she turned and walked away, leaving me absolutely stunned (and happy!), she made it maybe 10 feet and then stopped, turned, and said, “By the way. I’m Sarah. I go to St. Andy’s. I should’ve mentioned: Cannon has a thing for me. He’s been trying to make me his girl for months.”

I had crossed my brother.