Idling on the edge of adulthood with no notions beyond the next tankful of high-test, the future prospects for these fella are few. The front seats of their machines all too swiftly empty out, and a dense grit of confusion, self-doubt, and acrimony grinds up from the gearbox. There is nothing left to skip out on, no forum for fucking off. So you tell the boss you'll be staying on at the gas station, the lunch counter, the box factory.
Nights drip by.
His hard, swollen bug eyes bear down, and an invisible veil lifts to show a firey resolve, the unyielding essence of an angry young man who traded punches with life until he triumphed. Picture windows on his right frame the crest of an overcast New York skyline, a grotesque array of concrete, glass and steel pinnacles floating eerily in a sea of mist. The light in the bare room is feeble and reduces JOEL'S familiar puppydog gaze to a tavern squint. Dressed in a grey pinstripe shirt, black tie, tan slacks and oxblood slip-ons, he could be a rising brokerage executive taking a breather from bullishness, or a failed office flunky peering into the abyss. Either way, doesn't remotely resemble a rock 'n roll star in the prime of his chart life.