T with Sugar

There were those who called him "T." He wasn't "Big T" or "T the Barbarian" or "The Scarlet T." He was just plain T, and that, apparently, was how he wanted it. n To most people who saw him?and everyone in that town saw him?T was just a huge, overmuscled former Green Beret Nazi skinhead with a seething pit bull and a tendency toward unexpected, explosive violence.

Someone told me they saw T at a kegger one night. T went to a lot of keggers. At this particular one, four drunken fratboys got it in their collective head that if they all ganged up on him at once, they could take him down. Nobody on record had ever done that before. Well, they surrounded T, T assessed the situation and, four quick punches later, all four fratboys were unconscious on the floor.

More than once, I saw him stroll calmly and casually through the middle of the pit at a hardcore show, tossing college punks through the air to his left and to his right, giving it no more thought than he would slapping at a persistent gnat. I also saw the crowd part like the Red Sea when he stage-dove at a Dead Kennedys show. Not only did the entire building tremble when he came down, he hit the floor with such force that the band stopped cold in the middle of a song.

The vicious pit bull he kept under control (just barely) with a spiked chain leash. When T took the dog for a walk, he gave it a good long lead, and the beast strained hard against even that, growling and snapping at everyone it passed. He also owned a pet rat, which he would bring with him to parties.

Along with being covered with white-power tattoos, T lived in a building that featured (not uncommon for turn-of-the-century buildings) a swastika pattern in the tile work of the entryway. I had to believe he chose the place for that very reason.

T beat the crap out of me once, in the middle of what turned out to be the last Pain Amplifiers show ever. We were opening for the Mentors, and I guess T was upset that we hadn't been very cooperative in getting him into the show for free. That was our mistake.

T was a scary and brutal man, whose military-issue thick black horn-rimmed glasses fooled nobody. But you know, despite all the anger and the violence witnessed by me and others, I was also familiar with?yes, another side of T.

See, like most skinheads who take their philosophy seriously, T worked for a living. He earned his way. In fact, it was at his place of employment where Grinch and I went to find him to ask if he'd be willing to work security at the very first official Pain Amps performance. The way things had been going up to that point, we figured we'd probably be needing some protection?and the only person we knew who could provide it was T.

It might've been in bad form to bother a man?especially an ex-Green Beret with an attitude?while he's trying to do his job, but things seemed to be pretty slow at the ice cream parlor that afternoon.

I forget the name of the place on State St., but it was bright and clean, and T, wearing an apron and a paper hat, worked the front counter. His specialty was waffle cones. In fact, there was a handmade sign taped to the front of the counter whenever he was on duty. It said, "Waffle Cones by 'T'"?with the "T" all fancy and colorful. I don't know if he made that sign himself or if someone made it for him. All day long he'd mix up the waffle batter, cook it up in the waffle iron, curl the finished products into cones while they were still warm and flexible, then?this was where the magic was?he'd stuff a little marshmallow down inside the tip, to keep the ice cream from dripping out.

T, I must say, made one hell of a waffle cone.

He folded his massive arms and stared at us hard after we strolled in and started laying out our case. He seemed skeptical.

"We were wondering, uh?if we might ask you, umm?or rather, if you would be interested?"

The front door opened again, and a mother came in trailing three young girls. T held up his meaty hand to cut us off as he turned to take care of the customers, listening intently to what it was they wanted. He made three waffle cones, filled them with ice cream and covered them with sprinkles. Then he leaned way over the counter with each one, handing them to the three little girls individually.

"Here you go, darlin'," he'd say with a warm smile as he passed the massive cones along.

After the mother had paid up and they all left, T turned back to us, his face hardened again, his arms once more folded.

"Continue," he commanded.

In the end, it cost us the promise of $20 and a case of beer to get him to agree to two hours' worth of easy head-knocking work that upcoming Saturday. We shook hands on the deal. Before we left, though, he stopped us.

"Wait a second," he said. We turned. "Don't you guys want an ice cream cone?"

"Well, that's very kind of you to offer, T, but I just?"

"I wasn't offering to give them to you," he said, scowling with contempt. "You bothered me at work. This is a place of business. If you're going to come in here to bother me, the least you can do is buy an ice cream cone."

It was clear he wasn't simply inviting us to buy a cone. Grinch and I scrounged in our pockets and combined what we had, discovering that we had just enough for one cone.

T made the cone with as much flair, and handed it over with as much graciousness, as he had shown the three little girls earlier.

"Here you go, fellas," he said with a smile as he handed it over.

Four days later, the day of the first Pain Amps show, T never showed up. Turns out we really could've used his help, too. A year and some months later, he did show up for the last Pain Amps show and beat the crap out of me.

I'll tell you one thing, though?that T, yeah, he sure did make one hell of a waffle cone.