Simpler times

It always amazes me that my crazy behavior early in life didn't result in maim and death. Of myself, which would have been acceptable to me then; or others, which I would have forever regretted. But crazy is crazy.

In 1967 my arrogant self and my 1958 Chevy with a 348 engine got into a drag race heading south down Grand Avenue into Ames, Iowa. We came to the tee where Grand meets Lincoln. I grab the inside lane and slew 90 degrees onto Lincoln, tires smoking. The other guy slides outside around a set of traffic cones and pursues me up Lincoln toward Campus Town.  We're both 'pedal to the metal-100 mph.' There's a small hill one has to go over near Laverne lake before entering Campus Town. We crested it and were greeted with 10 police cars, all flashing red. "Oh, boy." I pull over and a policeman approaches my window, "License and registration! I've been chasing you for the last 2 miles, since you slid onto Lincoln! What the hell do you think you're doing?" Well, I'm drunk. So I hand him the documents requested and remain mute. After several minutes I'm issued a citation and let go. Drove to my fraternity house, staggered into the bathroom, threw up, and passed out. Appeared in court a few weeks later. Was fined and had my license suspended - not for the first time. Simpler times. 

In 1968 I moved to Fremont, California. My first post-college job. There, on a destructive impulse, I sent my 1964 Pontiac into an intentional 360 spin on a dry highway while driving from Palo Alto back to Fremont. Escaped unscathed, both disappointed and grateful at the same time.

Several months later, after driving a stripper home from Fremont to San Jose, I drunkenly ran 5 stoplights in a row on my way home with wanton disregard for my safety or anyone else's. Pulled into my parking space at my Fremont apartment complex. A police car, lights flashing, pulled in behind me. "Oh, shit. My nascent career is probably over," I thought, as I got out of my car. "Do you live here?" the officer asked. "Yes, apartment 201," I answered. "Okay," he replied, "There's been a number of burglaries in this neighborhood, so we're adding extra surveillance. Have a good night." Indeed I did.

Somewhere in the late1970's, between marriages, I developed a serious cocaine habit - never snorted, always shot. Had to make a business trip to Richland, Washington. So, prior to leaving my house I got a fix.  On the way to the airport, I decided it wasn't sufficient, so I returned home and shot up again. By the time I reached the airport I'm panicked that I'm late and I'm really, really, tripping. Managed to get on the plane, but halfway to my destination I'm so high I think I might be OD-ing, I've already asked for ice packs to put on the needle marks on my arms. But then have to ask for oxygen. An announcement comes, "Ladies and Gentlemen. "Please refrain from smoking (I know, you could smoke on planes then), we're administering oxygen to a passenger."  I recovered before landing, but meanwhile the steward asked me for some identification, since they needed to report who they administered oxygen to. I handed him a business card. Later, being mostly recovered as we deplaned, the steward and the stewardess were both snickering as they handed back my business card. I wondered, "Why the snickers?" Until I looked at the card while walking up the jetway. Must have been to a dive bar the night before, because on the back of the card I had written "Erica. Fat, but nice."

After finishing business in Richland, I flew to Salem, Oregon, to visit a brother. Pleasant visit, but my brother's a heavy stoner. Before I left I asked him to roll me a doobie. I slid it into the soft leather case containing my HP45 calculator (Yes, back in the day the HP45 cost $400 and came in a soft leather case). I went to the airport and placed my backpack on the security conveyer belt (TSA wasn't invented yet, but minimal security checks existed). I await my bag at the other end of the conveyer belt, when a young black dude working on the other side says, "May I see what this is?" pulling out my HP45 case. He proceeds to unzip the case and the joint falls out.  He looks at me and I look at him and I blurt, "Well, it's a number machine." He laughs, puts it back in the case and says, "Enjoy."

As I said, simpler times. I miss them.