During the breaks, Neil poured whiskey from a micky he kept in his bass case into a Coca-Cola bottle and got plastered. As the end of the night approached, I became aware of a gang of leather jacketed hoods pointing at the bandstand. When we were done they came around back to the stage door and started banging on it.
The fear on my face must have been obvious. Mark laughed and teased, “Hey Rock! You gonna pound those punks?”
Frank joined in, “come on Rock! Go get 'em Rock!”
Neil calmly packed up his bass, took his twenty dollars pay from Bob, threw open the stage door and pushed his way into the mob. The door slammed behind him and I never saw the hoods or Neil again in my life.
After we had packed up our gear Mark and I walked home. I was exhilarated by my first gig. I waxed on philosophically about what it took to succeed in the music business, as if I knew.
“Mark, The Beatles started in a tiny club in Liverpool,” I said with absolutely no knowledge of whether this was correct or not, “and now they’re the biggest band in the world. It’s because they’re tough; they’re hard as rock.”
“Yeah,” Mark agreed. “They’re hard as rock, Rock.”
“That’s right, Rock,” I said. “We have to be hard as rock too.”
“Okay, Rock,” Mark answered.
“Okay, Rock,” I concluded
At school, whenever I passed Mark in the hall we would call each other “Rock”; we were both Rock. Then others began to call me Rock and the name stuck. It was somewhat prophetic as I was very dependable, reliable and dedicated to the band and was already considered The Rock by Bob. Soon all those in the know called me Rock or the more formal, The Rock.
I was finally beginning to establish a place for myself in the school society although not an insider with any particular group. There were two powerful sects at school. The first, the Jewish circle, was still very much the in-crowd and, as Mark was their leader, I was invited to tag along to parties and to other events.
One of their group was Howard Diner. Howard was small and uncommonly skinny. He couldn’t have weighed much more than a hundred pounds and most of that was nose. He was cursed with a Cyrano de Bergerac sized nose but it was a thing of awe and beauty and, like his fictitious counterpart, Howard wore it well. He was a zany guy with a hilarious frat-house sense of humour. He was also our driver. A bunch of us would go out in his mom’s ’65 Parisienne and we’d cruise the avenues honking at girls and looking for trouble. One time we found more than we could handle when we were chased by a car full of tough-guys. Our lives were at risk but we had nothing to fear as tiny, fragile Howard, barely able to peer over the steering wheel of the gigantic Pontiac, expertly maneuvered the car, careening down back alleys and flying over side streets at frightening speeds, until our would-be attackers chickened-out, gave up and sought easier prey.
The other force at school was the 'Hershey Bars'. This was the madras shirt, Converse running shoe set. They loved surf music, sports and necking. They were led by the coolest guy at school, Steve Walley. Steve was tall with shaggy blond hair and intelligent blue eyes. He was a James Coburn, Our Man Flint kind of a guy. He was his own man and had confidence that all around him was his. He could do no wrong and even a cursory “Hi” as he passed by in the school halls sounded perfect and made you wish you‘d said that. The man was KOOL!
The Hersheys had formed a band of their own and they called it The G.T.s. Steve was the bass player.
Chapter Three 1966
The G.T.s played an afternoon sock-hop in the school gym one lunchtime in early January. Bob, Frank and I went along to check them out. They did songs by Gary Lewis & the Playboys, Herman’s Hermits and Fever by The McCoys. Truthfully, they sucked. But, even though Steve also sucked as a bass player, our instincts, honed by months of experience in showbiz, told us that he had something. He had that 'it' quality that we knew nothing about but recognized anyway. We agreed that he had to be our new bass player.
As Steve was in several of my classes, I was elected to ask him to join The Statics. I was nervous about doing this because I was still without confidence and at the shallow end of the cool pool. It took me a few weeks to practice my pitch. Whatever I came up with in my mind, I kept hearing Steve’s rejection and rebuke. Ever since I was a young child I had hated rejection. When I had a paper route and one of my customers cancelled their paper I took it personally. I’ve never liked “no” and consequently I’ve been a “yes” guy all my life. The thought of Steve saying no to The Statics would be a no to me and therefore too humiliating to face. I waited, hoping for the right moment.
One day I came face to face with Mr. Flint in the hall.
“Hi,” he said casually without slowing down.
“Uh, heard you play in the gym a while ago,” I began.
“Yeah, that’s a gas,” he replied as he spun around and continued walking backwards.
“I guess you wouldn’t want to quit The G.T.s and join The Statics would ya?” I blurted out, cringing.
“Ah, yeah ... cool,” he answered turning away. “Wanna come to a party?” And off he went. A sovereign so in control of his domain that he could make decisions that would alter the course of the rest of his life, and his subjects, without consultation or even a second thought. It must be great to be King.
There was a pretty girl named Jennifer in my geography class who was dominating all of my fantasy time. My urges towards her were still very innocent. I hadn’t had time to develop any serious perversions yet, or at least didn’t need to embellish the purity of my clean, down-to-earth lust.
Jennifer had long silky brown hair styled like British singer, Cilla Black. She had a cute turned-up nose and big brown eyes. When she locked them on me my heart skipped a beat. She liked to wear tight skirts and low cut blouses. Not that she was any kind of a bad girl. Far from it, she was very sweet.
The party that Steve had invited me to was a make-out session at the home of Hershey in-guy, Dave. Dave's parents were out of town for the weekend.
Fortified by my success with Steve and my invitation to such a hip party, I did the unimaginable; I walked up to Jennifer at her locker after school and said, “I thought maybe you'd like to ... I've been invited to a house party and ...”
She flashed those eyes at me and pretended to be suspicious. “A house party?” she teased, “I know what happens at a house party.”
She turned away but not too far. I took a deep breath. “Would you like to accompany me ... you know, would you go with me?” I asked sounding like a complete moron.
Jennifer smiled at me and said, “Yes.”
Many of the guys were driving now but, as I was still only fifteen, I had no wheels. I was so new to the Hershey Team I didn't feel it was my place to ask one of the guys for a ride. But the promise of nookie overpowered my embarrassment and I picked Jennifer up on foot. She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she snuggled against me all the way to Dave’s place.
As soon as everyone arrived, all of the couples found a sofa or a chair or a spot on the floor and out went the lights. Jennifer and I flopped into