Dr Archeville Posted March 2, 2011 Share Posted March 2, 2011 Joe Macayle was 15 years old. His hair was up in an amateur Mohawk that had taken him two hours and a vat’s worth of industrial strength pomade to erect. He’d just gotten out of his third all-ages show, headed by a street punk act from the West End. And he was trying to avoid getting his teeth knocked out. It had been, for the most part, a fun show. Then the neo-Nazis had shown up. That element just kind of trailed along with the genre out of a misguided sense of identity, but they didn’t usually come to the shows. Most of them had better sense than that. And most of them had better sense than to push a kid who couldn’t have been more than 13 into the middle of the pit just because he’d accidentally hit someone in the back of the head. Once the show let out, things had quickly come to blows, with a chunk of the audience duking it out with the boneheads in the parking lot. Joe had gotten in the fight because it felt like the right thing to do – if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was bullies. The flow of the fight had brought Joe up against a foe who was maybe 40 IQ points down from him, but who made up for it with five inches of height and 50 pounds. All he could do was try and duck the blows as the white power asshole charged at him. He didn’t know how long he could keep it up. “Hey, ugly!†His opponent turned at the taunt. A girl with green hair and a studded denim vest emerged briefly from the mass, her fist covered in a wide variety of brass and steel rings. The fist connected with the man’s nose, driving him to the pavement. As he tried to push himself up, the girl brought a Doc Marten down on the small of his back. “C’mon,†she said. “We both know you’ll just hurt yourself.†She turned to Joe. “You looked like you could use a hand.†She extended her other hand to him. “Name’s Paige.†“Joe,†he said, taking the hand. “Thanks.†She broke the handshake soon after. “Well,†she said, “these guys don’t look like they’re gonna learn any lessons on their own. Come on.†She dashed back into the crowd, and Joe followed. Joe Macayle was 15 years old, and he was in love. Joe Macayle was 16 years old, and drinking a coffee in the West End. He’d been with the Lark Street Baldies, a group of SHARPs based out of Southside, for about six months now. He’d just shaved his head for the first time about a month back, and black stubble was starting to poke out again. He’d just gotten out of another show, and his eyes were on Paige once again, who was poking at a muffin down the way. “Why don’t you just ask her?†Mark gave him a slap on the shoulder. He was another one of the Baldies, and the one who’d brought Joe in. They’d met eight months ago at an Agnostic Front concert, and chatted for a while afterwards. “How long have you been following her now?†“It’s not like that,†he said. “Just coincidence, is all.†Paige had pretty much been at every show Joe had been at over the past year. No matter how big the act, how small the venue, or how varied the line-up, she was there. “Coincidence,†Mark said. “Yeah, right.†He got up from his seat. “Look, if you don’t ask her, I’m going to. ‘Hey, Paige. This is my friend, Joe, who misplaced his balls somewhere --’†“Come on -- †“‘—and he really, really wanted me to ask you if you’d humor him into granting him a night of unspeakable passion -- ’†“All right, sheesh.†Joe got up from the table and walked across to where Paige was sitting. He spent the agonizing voyage trying to think about what to say, and before he knew it, he was at her table. “Hey, Paige.†Paige looked up. “Hey, Joe!†she said. “I see the hair’s coming back in. Does it itch?†“Occasionally,†he said. “Mark says you get used to it.†“Yeah, well, that’s Mark. I hear he threw his knee out in the pit once and didn’t realize it until he couldn’t get off the subway. He rode the Green Line all around Freedom.†Joe chuckled. “Gotta ask him about that one day,†he said. “Listen, Paige… I was wondering if…†The sentiment hung awkwardly in the air, like a baby bird trying to take flight. “If…?†“…if you’d like to go out for coffee,†Joe said. “Well, maybe not coffee – you’ve already got coffee – but dinner. Or something. Some night.†Paige looked at him for a while like she was trying to process what he’d just said. Just as Joe was considering slinking into some dark corner away from the world, she cracked a smile. “Sure,†she said. “I’d like that.†Joe Macayle was 17, and he was leading the charge. “Get out of our shows, boneheads!†he shouted, driving his fist into a Crusader’s gut. “And tell your boss that if he was so brave, he’d take that damn pillow case off his head!†Things had been getting worse over the past few months. The white power skinheads had always been an issue, but that was before they’d gotten truly organized. Uniting under the banner of White Knight, the Crusaders had form, a coalition of every bonehead, Odinist, white nationalist, and other piece of racist scum with a set of combat boots and a penchant for violence. They’d been organizing “peaceful protests†(with the members shouting out racial slurs, daring someone to hit them) and crashing the shows more and more often. Joe had been the one to suggest knitting the Baldies into a larger coalition of anarchist activist groups, rivetheads, punks, and other street kids together to keep a watch on the Crusaders and their activities. The Freedom Guard came out of that sentiment, dedicated to creating a safe space at shows and making sure White Knight’s fanboys didn’t screw things up for anyone else. “We won’t stand for this!†the Crusader yelled back at him. “We got a right to organize --†“So do we,†Joe said, stepping on the man’s foot. “And we’ve got the numbers. Should’ve thoughta that before you threw the first punch.†Joe aimed another blow, but felt his legs go out from under him. He fell to the floor, and saw one of the Crusader’s buddies, a thug with no shirt, an ARYAN PRIDE tattoo across his chest, and a dented aluminum baseball bat. ‘Man, I’m gonna enjoy putting down a mouthy idiot like you.†“Same here.†The Crusader went flying as Paige rounded on him with her own bat. His buddy came after her, but she aimed a good blow right between his legs, sending him to his knees. She helped Joe up. “You okay?†“Yeah,†he said. The sirens rose in the background; the police would be there soon. “Y’know, I really think I love you, Paige.†“It’s taken you that long to figure out?†Joe Macayle was 18, and his heart was breaking. “I… I just don’t think the long distance thing is gonna work, Joe,†Paige said. She’d been at Milliner College up in Brooklyn for three months now on a photography scholarship. She was down for winter break, and the second she stepped into the coffee shop, Joe knew things weren’t going to go swimmingly. “I think we should just be friends.†Joe was at a loss for words. “We can make it work,†escaped from his lips after a while. “I can come up! I’ve got some money set aside, it’s enough for a bus ticket -- †“Joe, Andy told me about your plans to start work last time you two came up,†she said. “You’re going to need that money. And things at school… last semester, I had the professors from Hell. I think I need to focus on my work.†“I… I…†Joe thought about all the things he could say. “I love you,†“Please don’t go,†“You heartless bitch,†and so on. As the list went on, they just got more and more pathetic. Finally, he arrived at the only option that would make sense. “…I understand,†he said. “But assuming I come up to New York – of my own volition, of course – I’ve got a place to crash, right?†Paige smiled. “Of course.†Joe Macayle was 22, and waiting. He’d gotten off of work a few hours ago, and had an hour to spare before he went on patrol. He was dressed somewhere between his usual gear and the stuff he wore as Cannonade. He couldn’t help but look down and think of the weird mix he’d put together when he first became a skinhead. He sat in a shop in the West End, drinking a coffee he probably didn’t need, and waited. She came in at quarter to eight. The hair was longer, and the green had long been traded out for a natural raven black – but not without a few streaks of midnight blue to liven it up. Sleeve tattoos poked out from under her hoodie. And as far as he could tell, she was still wearing the same Docs she’d driven into a bonehead’s back when they first met. She was only in town for a few nights, visiting her folks before taking off on an assignment in Chicago. But it was enough for him. “Hey, Joe,†she said. “Glad you made it.†“Same here.†Link to comment
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