PUNK PROSE: You Live Punk by Fred Pierre

You started hanging out at the Storeroom in ‘94. It was a small, Seattle bar two blocks north of the Offramp with regular punk rock and grunge nights. Musicians flexed; you stage-dived from the bar. You’d never seen a jukebox with punk, grunge, metal, and grindcore, even Hank Williams for the after-hours party. Shep tended bar. He was muscular and tightly-wound. Regulars said he was black belt; the minimum required for a punk club and after-hours speakeasy. You’d seen him throw out Nazis, gay-bashers, raving drunks and a woman who climbed on the bar to dance naked. You figured she was on ecstasy.

After-hours the party moved upward and before long you were smoking pot in the penthouse. That’s where you met Phil, a punk-rock trombonist and gentle, true, creative soul. Three months later he overdosed in a closet. Flashback to Phil on the corner. He looked like an angel was about to arrive. That night Phil played punk trombone at the Offramp. Some flames burn brightest before they expire. You were angry. Who sold him the junk? When a second friend disappeared after binging on crack, it sank in that this wasn’t just a party. Death was hunting us.

Of course you went to see Nirvana at the Offramp. Grunge made you ecstatic. Nirvana’s mosh pit beckoned. Deep bass notes blurred your bodies, drenched in sweat, ecstatic in motion, and bathed in community. 

Did you know about Kurt’s troubles back then? Cobain wrote about his stomach pain and the sweet relief he felt when he was using. But that was later. Back then it was all about music. You were joyously high. Fuck Reagan-Bush! Burn the system if it wouldn’t listen. Do you remember the Battle of Seattle? Nirvana whipped you into a frenzy.

You sat smoking a cigarette and a young woman came over, her long, brown hair draped over flannel and tie-dye. Lydia was independent. She did what she wanted. If you followed along, you might jump from a bridge to swim in the ship canal, hear Eyvind Kang play electric fiddle or glorch to the Melvins. 

Her punk creds consisted of her greeting, “Fuck you,” and the mysterious tattoos hidden under her flannel. Her favorite song was Slayer’s Angel of Death. Friends said she was dating Shep but they didn’t act like they were together. You asked her out, but she said she had plans. You offered a ride but she preferred to walk. You could tell she’d been hurt but she’d reclaimed her power through punk. “Go fuck yourself!” she yelled. “Fuck the System.” That’s the freedom of Punk. Punk speaks truth to power. It cuts through the bullshit to what really matters: Rocking out, stage diving and moshing. 

While you chatted her up, drinking beers in the booth, you could see Shep shoot her the evil eye. You’d heard Lydia was his girlfriend, but Carlin said she was his slave. You couldn’t believe it. She was a wild creature. 

You sat in the booth across from Lydia. She stared deep in your eyes. You felt like you might kiss. Her lips felt magnetic, then Shep vaulted over the bar and pressed his whole body on top of her, then he growled and released her. He walked back to the bar and said “We’re closing early.”

Your friends went upstairs, but you buzzed with emotions. Shep’s assault made you shiver. You reached for Lydia, “Come on. Let’s go,” but she pushed you away, shaking her head, “No.”

You were drunk and you needed to clear your head. It was time to get high, so you followed your friends up to the penthouse where you smokedgrass and poppy sap, drank craft beer and talked punk rock. “Who was the first punk?” you asked. Joe said Bessie Smith.

You were satiated, but a thought nagged: Was Lydia getting raped? You didn’t stand up for her safety. There weren’t cell phones back then, but you knew you should have done something.

The next day you stopped by the Storeroom, but there was no sign of her. You sat down and Shep comped you a beer. He was talking to a young woman. Lydia came in, raging. She walked up to the woman and punched her in the face. Shep grabbed Lydia’s arms, whirled and dragged her out of the bar, shouting, “You’re banned for life!”

What just happened? Carlin told you where to find her, shooting pool at the bowling alley. Lydia said she and Shep were done. She was with Carlin now. You played pool. You couldn’t blame Carlin for making his move. Shep was the world’s biggest asshole. 

You went home in a funk and had an epiphany. You’re an addict. Perhaps we all are. There’s a hole in your gut filled with cigs, booze and opium. Crawl into your soft, furry nest and ignore the violence around you. It’s easier when you’re sedated. You seek out abuse. “Fuck You” makes you feel loved. Your father was dying of rage, so why were you killing yourself? You’ll break free from what’s holding you back. Punk promises liberation. You painted a heart with a glow that could break any chain – beat addiction, swap negligence out for attention, heal trauma, don’t stress about money. Release the restraints you tie yourself down with. You poster-glued “Love Breaks Chains” to the door of the Storeroom. 

You went to hang at the reggae club, where the elders rolled spliffs and shared wisdom. The vibe was peace, love and dance. Alcohol wasn’t popular. Ganja smoke filled the back room. Four hundred years of slavery doesn’t dissolve overnight, but hard times polish us. You learned that we’re all supposed to shine.

You cut back on booze, told yourself drink more water. You took your power back. You saw Lydia one more time. With her head shaved completely bald, she looked masculine. You were moving in three days to Ohio. You never saw her again. Kurt blew his brains out and grunge flatlined.

--Fred Pierre