“I don’t know, just feels like it’s time.”
“And the Scar Boys?”
“Maybe it’s time to move on, that’s all.” Note that I said “maybe.” I was still hedging my bets.
He was back to staring me down, trying to find the source of some new lie. He wasn’t going to find it, because it wasn’t there.
“What do you want to study?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. My understanding is that you don’t need to pick a major until your junior year. Maybe something with math or science?” I hadn’t really thought about math and science, but it was the one part of high school where I’d shown some aptitude, and he knew that. I was playing to my audience.
“Mm-hmm.” He was trying to be tough, but I could see he was buying in. My dad has a tell when you’re winning him over: he finally shuts up.
He and I had a strained relationship from the word go, but it changed after I came back from Athens. It took me a while to figure out, but at some deep and secret level, I think my father actually respected me for going on the road with the band. Outwardly, he hated the Scar Boys, hated the music, hated the image, hated how much I’d lied to him, and hated that the band had steered me off the straight and narrow. But he had spent so many years viewing me as this helpless little gimp that when I stood up and did something on my own, I think maybe he was kind of proud.
Since coming back from Georgia, everything about the way my dad treated me was, I don’t know, more gentle. Like this one Saturday, when he was home from Albany—his work as a legislative liaison for the governor had him out of the house four nights a week—he came into my room and said, “C’mon, let’s go.”
“Where are we going?”
“Just grab a jacket. It’ll be fun.”
Fun? Fun was not a word I associated with my dad, but it was three hours until rehearsal, so I grabbed my jacket and went. After everything I’d put my parents through, I figured I owed them the little things.
Ten minutes later we stepped out of my dad’s Chevy Nova and onto a strip mall parking lot on Tuckahoe Road. He nodded to the store in front of us and smiled.
“Anthony’s Billiards Club,” I read aloud. “We’re going to shoot pool?”
And that’s just what we did. We spent the next two hours playing eight ball and nine ball, and just shooting the shit. At first, I was so taken off my game that I didn’t know how to react. I finally asked the question I had to ask.
“Dad, what are we doing here? What’s this about?”
He paused a beat before answering. “Look, Harry, I just . . . you and I . . . maybe it would be nice if we spent a little more time together.”
I had no idea where this was coming from, and I trusted it the way a hen trusts a fox, but what else could I do other than go with the flow?
My dad turned out to be a really good pool player—I had only played once or twice—and while he did give me some great pointers, I think he also enjoyed kicking my ass. He’s just that competitive. He reminded me of what Johnny was like before the accident. Weird.
When we got home, we went our separate ways. Scenes from that afternoon were swirling in my head as I watched him react to my news about wanting to apply for college.
“I think it’s wonderful, Harry,” my mom said. “And we’ll support you in any way we can. Isn’t that right, Ben?”
My father gave my mom a long look before nodding and turning his attention back to me. “Of course, son,” he said, while trying to hold back a smile. “Of course.”
We spent the next few minutes talking about the application process—I didn’t tell them about my epic application essay—and then we were done.
It felt both really good and really bad that I’d told them. Good that it was off my chest and that I had their support, bad that, all of a sudden, it was real. It was my first moment of buyer’s remorse.
But nothing was written in stone. Not yet.
CHEYENNE BELLE
We played a nightclub called the Bitter End.
The place had a very different vibe from CBGB’s. Where CB’s was in the Bowery, the Bitter End was in the Village. Where CB’s was a crap hole, the Bitter End was nice. Where CB’s history was all punk—and, yes, I do love punk—the Bitter End had more to it. It made its name as a venue for folk artists like Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, before they were famous. Isn’t that cool?
Anyway, by this time the band was really humming, and our following was growing. This was the first show where we were the headline act on a weekend in New York City. That was a big deal.
We were blown away when more than a hundred people turned out. Something magical was starting to happen with the Scar Boys.