Chapter 5

I was so excited by seeing The Clash behind the stage at the Capitol Theatre that I checked them out for real when they played a string of dates at Bond’s International Casino in Times Square with Kraut in June 1981, supporting their Sandinista album. Later, I saw them at Shea Stadium on October 13, 1982, supporting Combat Rock. The headliner for the show was The Who. I recently sold the Clash shirt I bought that night and got some decent money for it. The New York Dolls’ David Johansen opened the show, then The Clash went on and tore the place up. Then I left. I didn’t want to see The Who. I was an ignorant punk rock kid. To this day I haven’t seen The Who. I got into them when I was older and by then they were a shadow of their former selves. Hey, at least I got to see The Clash multiple times.

Around the time of the Bond’s International Casino shows, I started dating my first real girlfriend, Elsie Blanco. She was a goth chick from New Jersey I met at a small concert. I liked her smile and the sound of her voice. Her eyes were riveting. She didn’t have great taste in music. She introduced me to the music of Siouxsie and the Banshees, Bauhaus and Joy Division. I was never a big fan of that stuff, but I was happy to put up with it to be with her—especially since she let me get into her pants. She also introduced me to a bunch of her friends, which widened my social circle.

While I was getting lucky with Elsie, my family had a bit of good luck as well. The insurance companies finally settled the lawsuit with my stepfather’s lawyer after we were rear-ended at the beach. We each got about $4,000, which allowed my mom to move the family to Florida.

The insurance company’s attorneys put all of the money allocated for Rudy, Mayra, Freddy and me in a trust that we couldn’t touch until we were 18. But my mom and stepdad wanted to buy a house right away. She hired a lawyer to draft up papers that let us sign our shares over to her so she would have enough cash for the down payment. After all the beatings my mom had taken for me, I was happy to sign over my share of the money; I owed her that much. I didn’t want to move with them to Florida, though.

The more independent I became, the worse life got at home. Home wasn’t a home anymore. Maybe it never had been. The point of no return came when we were living on 11th Street in Union City, New Jersey, which is right on the other side of Manhattan. I was playing one-on-one basketball with my friend Jose. I had a curfew on weekdays and had to be home by 8 p.m. The game was really close. I was having fun and lost track of time. When I checked my watch I was already past my curfew.

“Fuck, man! I gotta go!”

I grabbed my ball and sprinted home. I walked in the door, short of breath. I bounced the basketball once on the floor and that set off my stepfather. He was holding something, but I didn’t know what it was. Then I saw it was a broom and figured he had been cleaning up. I thought he was going to put it down and yell at me for being late. I turned around to walk away because I didn’t want to hear it.

The next thing I knew, something hit my back. I heard a snapping noise and saw a broken broom handle fly across the room. It didn’t hurt, so I shrugged it off. I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to go to my room and lie down. Then there was a sharper crack just to the left of my spine. My stepdad had dropped the useless broom, picked up a hammer and hit me with it—hard. I figured he had made his point, but he wasn’t done. He raised the hammer and brought it down on my back. Again and again. While he was beating me I kept bouncing the basketball like I didn’t care, and I really didn’t feel anything. I didn’t scream or cry. I just bounced that ball. Thump, thump, thump. Then I went numb and collapsed.

I was in bad shape, so they took me to the hospital. In the emergency room I told the nurse I fell and hurt myself playing basketball. My mom was crying. She made my stepdad apologize and he actually did; it was one of the only times he said he was sorry for anything. He knew he had gone too far.

Nothing was broken, just badly bruised. But I knew I had to leave the house. I was almost 17 and my life was changing. I had discovered a new world and needed to get out. I couldn’t stand being in the house anymore. I couldn’t take the beatings. And I couldn’t stay there while everyone else was getting abused. It was too much to take without snapping. Sitting there in the emergency room was the breaking point for me. If I stayed in the house, someone was going to wind up dead and it probably would have been me.

My mom invited me to Florida and promised the new environment would calm my stepfather down, but I wasn’t going. I felt bad for my brothers and sister since they had to go, which meant they had to keep putting up with the abuse. But I had finally made friends and found something I liked. I had to get the fuck out of the house right away.

Part II

Hardcore Born: Planting Roots and Establishing a Community on the Lower East Side