I just discovered your Jukebox game. If you ever have the time, my choice is V4.
V 4: Vacation, Hyde
New York, Manhattan specifically, was nothing like Hyde imagined. TV and movies had lied to him, man. He'd expected the grit and grime of subways and sidewalks. The peep shows and prostitutes of Time Square. But W.B. insisted he stay in a four-star hotel called The Carlyle. Originally built in the jazz-age, and it and seemed stuck in that time. That part Hyde didn't mind, but all the places within walking distance were freakin' classy.
Museums. High-end stores. Central Park.
His dad wanted to expose him to experiences he'd never had. Given spending money Hyde had tried to reject. Angie got this opportunity at his age, so W.B. wasn't going to deprive Hyde of it.
But the Upper East Side, not his scene. Yeah, he had a list of rock clubs to visit, including CBGB's, in lower Manhattan and Brooklyn. "Just don't use the bathroom at CBGB's," W.B. said before Hyde left for the airport. "You can't unsee that."
Now he had to see it.
Got tickets to the Ramones' Blitz Benefit or the Benefit for Policemans' Bullet Proof Vest Fund, as it was advertised. Hyde and cops didn't go together, but this might be his only chance to catch one of his favorite bands play. The compromise was worth it.
1979 was turning out to be a good year ... except for Jackie dumping his ass again. This time over nothing but a shrug. A couple of shrugs. And an I don't know. 'Cause she needed him to be a goddamn fortune teller, and he couldn't predict the future.
Hyde strolled to the 77th Street and Lexington Avenue subway station. Passed by a couple of homeless folks and handed most of them a fiver. One exception was a thick-bearded guy spitting out conspiracy theories and plain ol' spitting. Without the threat of saliva landing in his eye, and a goal to be close to the CBGB stage, Hyde might've stopped to talk to the man.
Riding the 6 train finally thrust Hyde into the New York he'd dreamed of since he was four. The ear-piercing screech of wheels on the tracks. The sleeping passengers who'd probably boarded in the Bronx. The dude jerking off through his open jeans fly. Hell.
Hyde switched cars soon as he could.
He exited to the street at the Bleeker Street Station, and a small crowd was already clustered in front of CBGB by the time be arrived. Small enough. He'd get to the stage even if he had to throw elbows.
That wasn't necessary, though. Dee Dee Ramone's bass vibrated through his chest. Marky Ramone's drums rattled his teeth. Johnny's guitar tangled his nerves, and Joey's voice cut into his stony heart. The band played its songs fast and loud, just as it should.
Hyde never thought he'd be here. The reality of this moment raised goosebumps on his arms like Jackie's fingers used to, but he withstood the combination of joy and discomfort until the end of the show.
Pushing through the crowd to the bathroom proved no small task. He waited eight minutes to enter the crap-stenched room, with its graffiti-sprayed brick walls and urinal twenty times dirtier than The Hub's toilets.
This was the New York City of his imagination made real. W.B. spoke truth: Hyde would never unsee this place, and he was glad.
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