Basket Cases: A punk Love Story

Chapter 1— The Beginning

“You gotta destroy in order to create.” Johnny Rotten

***

"Twenty Twenty Twenty-Four Hours Ago," Katy sang as the music vibrated through the floorboards. Katy hurried down the stairs. “I hate these Sally Jesse Raphael discount glasses.” Katy omitted the glass between her eyes. “Thwarted again.”

The pungent smell of Indian spices filled the apartment as Alfie whipped up a curry concoction, moving in time with the Ramones.

“Shankie, slow down. Where are you going? Thwarted by what? “Alfie was in his worn flannel robe over his boxers; he flirted as he chopped peppers in sync with the music. "It's roommate dinner night. Lamb curry is on the menu. Oh, and please pick up some red and white wine." Alfie pulled some cash from his pocket and tossed it onto the kitchen table- those where the day's wines sold in colors, not fancy names.

Sculptures created by Rana, another roommate, littered the apartment. Katy thought Rana loved clams. Shankie is not her name. Columbia House kept sending her CDs addressed to someone named Shankie Reilly. The name stuck. So, to her roommates, she was Shankie. Damn, those Phil Collin CDs.

"Oh, these glasses keep falling off my nose to class, and sure, no problem. Oh, I like the way thwarted sounds. It’s an interesting word," she picked up the dollars as stray thoughts entered her mind. "I get to make a film instead of studying them.” Katy smiled

"Thank you, Shankie." Alfie's voice faded as she grabbed her yellow raincoat and ran out the door to her 1972 blue Dodge Dart, parked too close to the curb.

“Damn,” she thought as she gathered the empty candy wrappers on the driver’s seat, made the sign of the cross, and turned the key in the ignition.

"Come on, baby." Putt, putt, putt, the engine stuttered. Katy rubbed the dashboard. "You can do it," she coached, igniting the engine. "Thank you, car. Thank you.". She checked the rear-view mirror. Her black hair pulled into a ponytail. Today, she would keep her chocolate intake to a minimum.

***

Katy grew up in a strict Irish Catholic household. Most Americans don’t know how Irish levels are in the Irish American social-cultural economy. Katy lived in Irish cultural purgatory. She did not fit in with her American life or Irish culture. Her views of Ireland were crafted around the arrested memories of her family.

Her mother, Bridie, was a gifted party storyteller. It took Katy a few years to navigate her mother’s crafty questions. Katy didn’t want to be fodder for the next family gathering. Katy could hear Bridie say,

“Who in the name of God wears a size eight shoe? She’s an amazon. Those big feet are from her father’s side – farmer’s feet.”

Bridie and Katy shared a love of melodramas, Stella Dallas, Grand Hotel, and The Heiress. Katy loved The Heiress. The thought of Montgomery Clift made her smile. Katy realized it was odd to have a crush on a dead actor, but he was gently handsome. While Bridie loved Wuthering Heights and Rebecca, Katy's A Place in the Sun was her go-to film

“You can marry anybody you want – except an Irishman. Irish men only want one thing, a housekeeper.” Bridie would bridle, “They are married bachelors, the bums.” That was Katy’s only knowledge of romantic love, black-and-white movies, and Bridie's warped perception.

“Get out of my head, Bridie.” Katy pushed Bridie out of her thoughts.

***

She relaxed a bit as the sun was shining. Making films was her ultimate dream. "Oh gosh, I gotta be good at this. I have to get a seat in the front, but not too close…….” Patsy Cline played on her tape cassette. “Walking after Midnight,” Katy sang with Patsy.

Growing up, Bridie always had some type of music playing. Her deadbeat father was tone deaf - theirs had not been a marriage made at Carnegie Hall; Katy's piano skills were dismal, but at least she didn't have to lug an accordion to music lessons like her siblings.

Katy had an electric music style. Her family loved music, and she knew everything from Cole Porter's preference for Fred Astaire to sing his songs to “I’m Just Waiting for a Friend " from the Stones.

Patsy was her go-to music for calming down. In her opinion, Patsy had one of the greatest voices of all time. Katy’s mother was always singing. The only time it ever annoyed Katy was if Bridie tried Patsy.

Katy loved everything except opera. Opera was challenging, and getting dressed for it was like in Moonstruck. “Stop rambling,” she told herself. People do not want to listen to me speaking, let alone like James Joyce.”

Katy strongly believed that James Joyce and many other famous authors were faithful. P.T. Barnum’s “If I had only thought to call free writing stream of consciousness and acted as if you need to be smart to understand my “art.” She rebelled in her mind, and Hans Christian Anderson didn’t he warn us about this? She laughed to herself. The Emperor’s New Clothes, she wanted to scream but didn’t.

And then, in film studies, Katy debated with her classmates; she was passionate about topics, but she knew no one wanted to hear them.

 “Film is nothing compared to literature, one of her pompous uncles regaled one night when he invited everyone to a Seder supper. The family isn’t Jewish, but Uncle Colm had wanted to teach us about Seder. In hindsight, that was cool, but film is the new language.

 It’s the Gen X language, at least. Literature, fiction, and romance are important, but why diss film so much? After debating with her uncle over a Seder meal in her head, she went on to her film mates. Katy loved Mae West. Mae wrote her scripts, didn’t get into film until she was 40, and upstaged W.C. Fields. To think, they watched a multitude of films. Then there was M*A*S*H. What a freckin piece of poop, in Katy’s mind. A brilliant, wonderful nurse isn’t accepted until she sleeps with Hawkeye; forget that. She hadn’t said anything in class, but when they showed Mae’s, She Done Him Wrong, damn, the complaints from her classmates stunned her

“She treats men like objects.” A burnout hooted from the blackout school theatre room.

“Yeah, I’m uncomfortable with how the men were portrayed.” One Aqua Net girl flitted as she filed her long fake nails.

“No. No. No.” Katy was having one of her internal arguments burst like an overripe cherry. Her hand was raised, the professor waved at her, and she let her thoughts fly.

“I am the only one who notices how women were treated in M*A*S*H versus how Mae was playing along with the men, not mocking them? “Katy had a nervous habit, her voice getting lower as she spoke. It was a tick she had to overcome, and she would.

“She was an unfunny fat whore.” a male voice pitched

Katy continued; she felt the comment's punch but continued, “Well, that’s a clear critique.”

“Fema-Nazi.” A male voice from the back of the theatre quieted the room.

“Go peel me a grape,” Katy mumbled the famous Mae West line as she bit her lip.

“Katy has a point, " the professor agreed.

As usual, Katy felt dismissed. She knew some "Hip artsy guy" would take her point as his original idea.

***

Her school's problem was that it didn’t have a film department. They had opened a film minor, but it was better than nothing. Katy took a film class at Clark State School in the late 1980s, but it wasn’t popular choice.

The school was only 30 minutes by bus from New York City, but it might have been the moon. Only NYU and UCLA were real film schools, and Clark State only offered a minor in film. She would worry about getting to NYC later. To pay for college, she waited tables at All in the Family, the bar down the block from her apartment.

***

BEEP - BEEP The car behind her honked. She turned quickly into the campus parking lot.

“You’re rambling again,” she told herself as she gathered her books and shut the front door; she rushed to Truman Hall, a university building where clusters of students loitered. She parted the sea of gloom bunnies lounging on the stairs as she walked the three flights to room 317. She found the classroom. She was the first to arrive.

***

WD-40 fumes lingered in the air. Film projectors and editing machines lined three walls of the classroom. She took it all in. These were the 16 MM days. She found a seat in the front since she didn’t see well. Slowly, students trickled in. Maybe there were about 18 of them.

The teacher arrived. She was a large woman wearing a black trench coat. Her voice was raspy. She had long, heavy salt-and-pepper hair, which she wore in a knotted braid.

 Katy pictured Professor Max drinking whiskey, smoking, and eating Chinese take-out in a dingy Village apartment. "How cool," Katy dreamed.

"Let us begin with—" Professor Max coughed.

There was a knock before she could finish her sentence; Monty stood with a shy smile. Monty inhaled the last puff of his cigarette and threw it on the floor. "Come on, take a seat," the professor grumbled.

"Is this open?" he asked Katy as he sat at the desk next to her.

"Yes," she mouthed as her pen slipped from her hand. He pushed the desk closer to her. His dyed blonde hair was poofy. He wore slim ripped jeans, oversized white sneakers, and a Sid Vicious necklace.

"What do you need a pen for? We’re making a film, not writing one," he poked as he picked up her pen.

"Thanks," she whispered.

“Good morning, everyone.” Professor Max deadpanned. “Here’s how it will work: you have 13 weeks to write, direct, edit, and present a three-minute PSA promoting SAFE SEX. The best PSA will run on public television for a week, and it will be entered into NYU’s PSA contest."

Katy unconsciously punched Monty in the arm. Her legs were shaking. “Imagine winning.”

“Listen." Professor Max continued, "You will be placed into groups, read the syllabus, and work as a team. I’m consulting on a film currently. We will meet once a month right here. You got that. You’re responsible for checking out the equipment with the Facility Manager. Be grownups, please."

“I’m sorry for the punch.” Katy apologized to Monty.

He brushed his hand with the air as the punch was dust.

“So, what do I mean by Safe Sex PSA?” Professor Max answered herself. “Think of the eggs in the flying pan PSA. Short, Concise, and Creative. AIDS is a death sentence. Condom awareness for safety must be addressed.”

“That brain on drugs PSA made me hungry.” Monty quipped. Katy held in a giggle. Monty leaned closer, a teasing smile spreading across his face. "Teacher’s favorite, huh? Always upfront, always with a response.”

"I’m not a favorite," Katy muttered, shifting away. "I can’t see." She pushed her glasses up, refusing to meet his gaze. She could feel her neck getting hot. "Professor Max didn’t mention NYU or the topic before.” Her voice was sharper than she intended. His swagger annoyed her, but his confidence was magnetic.

“I’ve seen you in action in the other film classes…. You’re the M*A*S*H fema- nazi.” He joked.

“What are you talking about? Katy moved further away from him. “You don’t like Robert Allen or Kubrick,” Monty noted.

“Allen, pish pash --- Kubrick is overrated, self-indulgent: 2001 sucks. Who has honestly watched the whole movie in one sitting? Oh - man, running like a hamster, and HAL, what acting chops on him.” Each word is shot after the next.

“Whoa there. Pish Pash, what? Relax. I…” His voice trailed off as Professor Max raised hers.

"Townsend, where’s Townsend?" Professor Max interrupted their debate. "Here," Monty straightened his body but lowered his head.

"Are you related to Dr. Townsend, the Philosophy department chair?" asked Professor Max.

“He’s my father," Monty answered, clearing his throat.

“Well, I expect an interesting PSA from you. Give my best to your dad.” Professor Max lit an unfiltered cigarette.

“I will." Monty's fingers tapped the desk.

"How can you be his son?" Katy didn’t realize she had wondered that out loud. "And he called me a teacher's favorite - idiot." she thought.

"Can we have some quiet in here?" Professor Max exhaled smoke towards Katy.

"OK, OK. Just a few more names here…. Rheiner, Turner, Ray, Ford, Hooch, Reilly, Katherine, Mary, Katherine. Is there a Katherine here? Professor inhaled.

“Oh, that’s me. Sorry. Here. That’s me. Sorry.” Katy scrambled. Only her family called her Mary Katherine.

“You don’t know your name?” Monty cocked his eyebrow.

“It’s an Irish thing. We go by different names in the family.” Katy clicked her pen on and off.

“Stop that, please.” Monty glanced at her pen, then her. Katy stopped.

Professor Max interrupted them: “OK, then, Brady and Fjords. It appears you are all here. I trust you can pick your groups. I’ll be back in 10 minutes; I expect you to see you in groups when I return.” Professor Max took her box of Newports with her.

Katy glanced back at the others. Three students were in the back corner, talking over each other.

“Over here,” the Danish exchange student waved to Katy and Monty. “You two will be with us.” Her naturally white, blonde hair framed her soft features and porcelain skin.”

"Oh,” Katy was startled. Monty took her arm and led her to the group.” “What’s wrong?” he asked Katy

“Nothing. You surprised me. That’s all.”

Monty’s attention turned to Gabi. “How are you doing?” he probed.

“Fine, we need to organize what we will do.” She commanded.

“You’re right, Gabi.” Katy complied. Her body relaxed as she realized Gabi was a worker. Now, she was invisible to Monty.

“Katy, we are the only two girls in the class. I’m happy you’re here.” Gabi noted.

“Me too.” Katy smiled.

“Where are we going to meet, when, and how often? We need to decide who will do what. Oh, this is Turner, and this is Hooch,” Gabi introduced the remaining members.

Turner wanted to be a" the commercial Jim Jarmusch"; he was dressed in black from head to toe – He had that John Cusack Better Off Dead look. Hooch was his buddy, a chubby guy wearing a Giant’s jersey with curly red hair. He looked like Yukon Cornelius from Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer. “Lookie Here. Lookie, what Bumble – I mean Turner - can do.”

Katy imagined Hooch trailing the Abominable snowmen like in the Rankin/Bass Special. They were going to run the show. She could be wrong, but she felt talking in this group would be difficult.

“Fatty and Skinny went to bed. Fat rolled over, and skinny was dead.” That rhyme her father used to say popped into her head. “That’s not a nice way to think. Back to the group, she told herself, Katy wrote Gabi’s words in her notebook. “Gabi was going to lead this team to the prize.” Turner pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from his long black coat and stomped back and forth with his puke green Frankenstein Doc Martens.

“Here,” Turner offered cigarettes to all. Hooch and Monty obliged with a smile. ‘" My uncle was one of the producers of Porky’s II. I can get some advice from him. He's flying for the holidays from Hollywood." Turner bragged.

"Hollywood, with all the hookers, coke, and sun -- your uncle sounds like a tool for coming here." Monty chided with a smile. Turner ignored him.

Gabi and Katy eyed each other – bonding by the disgust of all things related to Porky films. “I’d keep Uncle Porky to myself.” Katy’s words slipped. Monty let out a quick laugh. Gabi reached into Chanel's purse, retrieved a slim European cigarette, and offered one to Katy.

“Thank you,” Katy said as she accepted the offering. She didn’t smoke, but this mini cigar looked cool; Katy wanted to try an elegant cigarette.

“Come on, ladies, relax. We need some drinks.” Monty’s confidence returned. He was hoping for confidence, not cocky, but lately, he couldn’t tell. What he needed was another smoke.

“Yeah.” Turner and Hooch agreed. “Gabi, what kind of accent is that?’ Monty flirted.

“Foreign,” she snapped, unfazed. Her perfect posture made her taller than the rest, even when sitting.

“We need to organize,” Katy redirected the conversation. Gabi is a doer. She is not looking for an MRS degree. Thank God, Katy thought as she moved closer to Gabi. How many times had she thanked God when she thought?

Monty slapped his hand on his desk. “People, People, we are tasked with a Homeric order. We will need to gather at the Rat Skeller. This is bat country.”

"What are we doing, Fear and Loathing in New Jersey now, Monty?” Katy sighed.

Turner and Hooch glued themselves to Monty. Puzzled, she thought, “Team Boys and Team Girls. Drinks.” They pushed themselves from their desks and followed Monty as their pied piper led them to the campus pub, forgetting the professor would return.

“Hey, you’re all right…you’re a Hunter fan.” Monty tested Katy. She failed to mention her ticket to see Hunter. "Yeah, I read his stuff," she said.

 "You see, many people don't realize what's happening. They view life as a bunch of unconnected incidents and things. They don't realize that a lattice of coincidence lays on top of everything." Monty quoted Repo Man as he lit a camel cigarette.

“Whose being pretentious now? Katy thought.