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Okay – not what you had in mind, the week before Summer Vacation. You and your buddies; all four of you, huddled in an alley outside your girlfriend’s parents house, firing up a joint – taking turns – waiting for the buzz – stereo floating through the neighborhood – giggling to yourselves – warm night – the friend of a friend of a friend who sold you “honest to god Acapulco Gold” – big clouds of Skunk wafting – big eyes getting red – hacking and sucking air.
And then those flashlights – and the Sheriff’s red lights – and those talking shadows – and the blood draining down to your feet and the saliva finding someplace else to go besides your mouth – cotton appears where spit once was.
Lined up – shrugging shoulders, looking at each other – hardened criminals – not knowing whether to be nervous or bust out laughing – voice booms out giving you the right to remain silent.
Sitting in the backseat, handcuffed – the stone faced Joe Friday and Officer Beamish – uniforms in the front seat – no backseat door handle – staring out at the Sunset Strip – the world having a party – you’re not – it starts to dawn on you – you may be going to jail for a while – not quite sure why – nobody actually had the joint, it fell to the ground – little glowing ember – still; they mean business – maybe mugshots – maybe an example.
Four of you, shoved in a cell – one toilet – West Hollywood Sheriff’s Station – stone face uniforms and fingerprints. New experience – so this is what getting busted is like?
One call – Parents not happy – Parents yelling – Mom freaking out – locked up for the night – steel bunks and a drunk driver – loud horking and teary promises – glad you don’t drink. Bright lights staying on – nobody can sleep except the drunk – radio down the hall – gonna remember that song.
Next day – punchy like a wad of dough – baggy eyeballs and styrofoam breakfast – powdered egg and pretend toast – coffee that stands up to a knife fight.
Stern warning – misdemeanor – stink-eye parents – sullen criminal-types and squinting morning sun. Silent ride home.
Sentenced to Summer school – hoodlum friends off-limits – no Whiskey – No Canter’s – just bragging rights.
No Station 8 this year – no wandering eyefuls – No chance romance, not unless it’s in Algebra II.
Word gets around – everybody in school knows – you’re dangerous – you’re groovy – you’re noticed.
Back home – bedroom pillaged by parents – posters off walls – records hidden – stereo confiscated, as if Music was the culprit.
Just you – face up on your bed – transistor radio and earphones – staring into space – that song.
Can’t wait for next time.
Ninety solid minutes of The Real Don Steele – KHJ – June 14, 1968.
