A friend of mine named Don told me this story about a time in the 1970s when he was 18 years old.
Don and his friends went to a Grateful Dead concert and, as was customary at Dead shows, they all swallowed a few LSD tabs before the band began to play. When The Dead finished their set, Don and his friends piled into the car to go home. They realized they were still very high and decided to take a less-traveled route home. Don was driving and he was petrified he would crash the car. As they motored down a remote highway they saw the inevitable: flashing lights from a patrol car behind them.
"Shit," Don said to his friends. "Be cool."
Don pulled the car over and waited. The officer got out of his car and came to the driver's side window.
"Son," the officer said in a thick Southern drawl, "do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
Don, totally unsure how to answer, offered a guess. "Sixty?" he asked.
"Sixty?!" the officer replied.
"Seventy?" Don said with a shrug.
"Seventy?!" the officer asked.
Don stared at him blankly. He knew he was going fast but had no idea how fast. He remained silent.
The officer shook his head. "Son, you were going fourteen miles an hour."
Don said the cop took mercy on the group of drug-laden kids (this was the 70s after all) and followed them to the nearest motel. "Stay here and don't get back on the road until you've slept off whatever made you that way," the cop told them.
They did just that.
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3 comments:
Ahhh ... those Dead shows. I saw the Dead in Chicago once, with a group of friends who had traveled together from Mississippi. We split up into two cars after the show to head to a hotel. I'm a nervous driver at the best of times, but in a strange city, at night, and dosed on LSD? I ended up getting hit by an 18-wheeler when I cut in front of him at a traffic light. That was a looooooong wait for the cops to arrive, and an even longer one for my similarly f'd up friends to realize I hadn't made it to the hotel ... Good times.
I skipped the Dead show part and just went straight for the LSD (or was it mushrooms?) After all, what else was I supposed to do on a 3-day cross country train ride? Well let's just say it was NOT the season to be sketching barefoot in the luggage compartment, so the conductor knew something was wrong with me. Luckily for me he didn't call the cops, which he most likely would have if I'd been of a different race and gender. Or violent. But he did send me back to my seat, where I proceeded to amuse and entertain the older, staid lady next to me. She wanted to adopt me by the time we arrived in Washington state!!
Love it!
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