Pearls, Pt. 1

He was buried on a rainy, cold Sunday, atypical of late March and belying the fact that spring had already arrived. He was seventeen years old when he died, his coffin lined with forty ounce bottles of Mickey’s malt liquor, Lucky Strike cigarettes, and his favorite albums. Matthew Pearl was a punk rocker in life, and his friends were determined that he remain one in death.
    The last Saturday of his life dawned bright and warm, but he slept right through it. The only thing that roused him on this morning was the shrill ringing of his cell phone. He rolled over, grabbed it and answered groggily.
    “Hello?”
    “Yo, Tompkins show, MDC and Choking Victim, you in?”
    “Tim are you really fucking calling me at ten AM on a Saturday? You’re a dick.” Matt said.
    “Fuck you, by the way good show last night, you guys are getting legit.” Tim replied.
    Matt played in a punk band called The Fux, singing and playing what amounted to lead guitar but it was a punk band, so he basically strummed the same three chords as fast as he could and screamed until his throat hurt. The had played a show last night at a place actually called ‘The Dive’ which was incorrect, the place was a step below a dive. It was only their third show and despite the free drinks the remained sober enough to play coherent song.
    “Yeah it went good as hell.” Matt said, “but those first two bands were awful. So what time is this Tompkins show?”
    “It starts at three but we need beer and all that shit, so we’re gonna meet at like eleven thirty by Burger King.” Tim answered.
    “Bah, alright. I’ll meet you guys there. Who else is going?” Matt said.
    “Uhh I dunno, me, you, Frank, Billy, Joe, and I think we’re gonna meet Dick and Jimmy at Woodside or some shit.” Tim answered.
    “Yeah, yeah, alright dude I’ll see you in a bit.” Matt hung up the phone, rolled back over and stretched out. He looked around his room, at the posters and ticket stubs on his wall, the band logos drawn all over his door and the mess of clothes, books, and CD’s all over his floor. He smiled contentedly and climbed out of bed.
    He walked into his bathroom to begin the prototypical “Triple S”, minus the shaving he did not do that all too often yet. He washed last nights sweat off of himself the smell of soap erasing the sweated out beer and stale smoke that permeated his skin. He dried off and began walking towards his room.
    “Matthew dear?”
    “Shit.” he said under his breath, then more loudly, “Yeah mom what’s up?”
    “You got home after two o’clock last night, you know we’ve talked about this before. At your age getting home at that time of night is unacceptable.” she said to him.
    “I’m in a fucking towel ma! Can we please talk about this later? I have somewhere I need to be.” Matt said with frustration.
    “Language!” she yelled, “and you bet we’re going to talk about this later.”
    Matt groaned, shook his head and slammed the door to his room. ‘At least she didn’t see that tattoo’ he thought to himself. A few weeks earlier Matt had a friend give him a crude, prison style tattoo of the letters “ACAB” just over his heart. This stood for “All Coppers are Bastards”, a 4-Skins song, and something Matt and his friends firmly believed.
    He put on Energy by Operation Ivy his favorite album, and was immediately soothed by Jesse Michaels’ opening words- “I know, things are getting tougher when you can’t get the top off from the bottom of the barrel…”. Matt bopped around his room, searching for clothes among the piles on his floor. He grabbed a pair of black stretch jeans with a hole in the right knee and a Discharge patch on the back left pocket. And ironically white Black Flag t-shirt with the sleeves cut off covered his skinny chest, and he rubbed at a stain that that appeared to be blood before beginning the search for his bullet belt. He rarely wore it because it was a pain to keep up, but a free MDC/Choking Victim show at Tomkins Square Park was a special enough occasion. He found it under a pile of “The Fux” t-shirts he had made up to sell at shows, and pulled his boots on once it was settled around his waist. His denim vest and a knock-off designer hat with a Fear patch completed his ensemble.
    He grabbed his Lucky Strikes from his nightstand drawer and slipped them into his vest pocket, confident his mother would not see them. He headed downstairs, through his unfortunately suburban looking home, filled with fake flowers, doilies and two obnoxiously pink chairs, which if he was honest with himself, he loved. He grabbed an apple from the basket while Matt’s father regarded him confusedly.
    “You look like a complete idiot, you know that right?” Matts’ father said.
    “Yeah dad I know, I know.” Matt replied.
    His father shrugged and went back to his paper. Matt headed through the living room to leave through the front door, where his mother was sitting in one of those pink chairs while talking on the phone.
    “Hang on a second Annie, Matthew! Where are you going?” she asked.
    “The city, I told you I was going out.” Matt answered.
    “Bring a coat, its going to get cold later. And don’t forget your not out of trouble yet buddy.” she scolded.
    “Ma! I’ll be fine alright?”
    “:Be careful sweetheart, and have a good time. I love you dear.”  she said, smiling sweetly.
    “Yeah, yeah I love you too ma.” . Matt groaned, rolled his eyes, and headed out the door.
    II
    He walked down the block, looking anxiously over his shoulder to make sure his parents were not watching him as he slid his Lucky Strikes out of his vest pocket. Matt waited until he was completely off of his block before lighting up. His first drag immediately bolstered his mood and he exhaled a stream of smoke before picking a piece of tobacco off of his tongue. Filterless cigarettes made him feel like a badass, but they could be a pain. His cell phone rang again and he checked the caller ID before answering.
    “Yo Tim what’s going on?” Matt said.
    “Nothin, yo we’re already here, where you at?” Tim answered.
    “I’m like ten minutes away calm yourself down. Did you guys pick up the beer yet?”
    “ Nah we were gonna wait for you but if you’re gonna be that long we’ll just go get it ourselves now. What do you want?” Tim said.
    “Uh, I dunno dude I guess get me like two forties of Mickey’s, and can you pick up cigarettes for me too? I only have like three left.” Matt said.
    “Ah dick, alright but you better pay me the fuck back when you get here. Meet us at Quick-Stop, the alley like usual.”
    “Shut the fuck up, alright dude I’ll see you there.” Matt hung up and shook his head, that goddamned kid always had a complaint.
    Suddenly a rock went sailing past Matt’s head, smashing into the plaster wall of the independent law firm he was walking past, sending small bits of plaster onto his shoulder and the sidewalk.
    “FAGGOT!” someone yelled from a speeding car. Matt raised his middle finger in salute to what he was sure was some college frat boy idiot. He flicked his cigarette into the street and kept walking north towards the Quick-Stop and the last day of his life.
. . .
    Matt approached the alley behind the Quick-Stop somewhat cautiously. The police were generally on the lookout for Matt and his friends’, and hassled them often because of their strange clothes, and the fact that they could usually be found purchasing and consuming alcohol illegally. He didn’t see any cops around and settled himself against the alley wall, lighting another cigarette for his wait. Matt was attempting to blow smoke rings when Tim and the others approached, all wearing backpacks and carrying plastic bags straining at the seams from the forties of Mickey’s the contained.
    “Fuckin’ right dude,” Matt said when he saw them, “the bus comes in like 10 minutes lets get one of these down before we get on.”
    “Fuck off, a) give me my goddamned money, and b) we get bagged here our day is over, lets just wait til’ were already on the bus” Tim replied.
    “whatever dude, whatta you need like 10 bucks right?” Matt said as he took the money from his duct tape wallet.
    “Yeah 10 is cool. Yo how sick is it that we’re about to see MDC? I feel like they never play”
    “MDC plays all the goddamned time and you know it, and these shows get a little dicey any way you know? You get all these crusty squatter kids trying to give you crumb cake with acid baked into it and all that shit” Matt said.
    “Yeah but you were the only one dumb enough to fall for it, and either way Choking Victim rules, remember the last time we saw them? When we met Stza and all that? Mad fun dude.” Billy interjected.
    “Yeah whatever, I’m pumped either way. Some fucking douche bag in a Mazda threw a rock at me on the way here, called me a communist and shit. Kinda cool though, like the Billy Bragg song? You know, ‘just because I dress like this, doesn’t mean I’m a communist’ right?” Matt said.
    “Billy Bragg fucking sucks, he’s mad wimpy.” Billy piped in again.
    “Fuck you,” Matt answered angrily, “Billy Bragg fucking rules and you know it.”
    “Nope, he sucks. So do you.” Billy responded.
    Matt simply shook his head and began stuffing the Mickey’s into his vest pockets, as the others put theirs into the backpacks they had brought with them. They headed to the corner where the N4 bus would take them to the subway at Jamaica station. The bus arrived with brakes screeching loudly and a plume of exhaust fumes, Matt and the others climbing aboard loudly and rushed to the back of the bus to get the good seats. Matt found himself thinking how strange it was that the back of the bus was always the place to cool kids sat, and probably always would be. As the bus rumbled on towards Queens Matt opened his first forty ounce of the day. It was only twelve thirty, but day drinking always lent themselves to shows like this, and the Mickey’s was ice cold and beyond delicious.
    A woman sitting in the seats facing backwards kept looking up from her newspaper to glare at Matt and his friends. Frank stuck two fingers up his nose, pulling it into a pigs snout, stuck out his tongue and loudly screamed in the woman’s direction. She glanced down again, visibly startled while the boys all laughed.
    “Hey lady! Where you headed?!” Frank yelled in the woman’s direction. She looked away again, turning red in the face while Frank began attempting to shimmy up the railing near the back bus door.
    “Hey! Hey! HEY! Look over here lady! Come have a drink with us, we’ve got plenty” Frank yelled again. The bell dinged overhead and the bus approached the curb to disengage its passengers. The woman stood up and headed for the door then suddenly turned, fired her paper at Franks face and screamed.
    “AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!” Frank slipped off the rail in surprise, hitting the ground hard and spilling his beer. “Now fuck off you little shits!” and the woman got off the bus. The boys laughed harder than ever while Frank lamented the loss of his malt liquor.
    “That’s what you get for being such a fuckin’ douche Frank.” Billy said. Frank took a mouthful of beer and spit it in Billy’s face and the two began to wrestle on the back of the bus, startling the other passengers. The wrestling finally concluded with Billy standing on Franks back on the back of the bus and loudly proclaiming himself “King of Douche Mountain”.
    “Goddammit! Cut that shit out back there or your off this goddamned bus” the driver yelled out. The boys all laughed again and continued drinking. One of the great loopholes of the MTA system was that as long as the bottle is covered, you can’t get in trouble for drinking it, so they continued to imbibe as the bus rolled on.