Johnny Ramone was an NRA-supporting, full-fledged Republican!” the guy protests.
Jake’s brother leans farther over the counter. “Fuck Johnny Ramone. The U.K. had the right idea—look at Joe Strummer. Look at the Sex Pistols, and Crass and—”
“Whatever, man. The culture’s still dead. Nothing like that exists anymore.”
“You just have to know where to find it,” Jake’s brother says. He withdraws a neon-green flyer from underneath the counter. “The Revengers. They’re hardcore, the real thing, and they’re playing a few shows in state later this summer. You gotta check them out—they don’t mess around. If after that you still think punk’s dead, I’ll give you any record in the store, half off. Hand to God.”
He holds up one hand solemnly. The man only grunts in response—but he takes the flyer before he leaves.
“You make a compelling case on behalf of punk rock,” I say as I approach the counter.
“Someone has to do it,” he replies with a grin. “Need help finding something?”
“Yes. I’m looking for the latest Green Day album.”
He laughs, surprised, and eyes me more closely. “Hey, I’ve seen you before. You were in here the other day, with the blond girl, right?”
“Yeah, that was me.” I pause and clear my throat. “Is your brother around?”
“Jake?” He rubs his chin. “He’s not working today. But I think he’s at home.”
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