The Days of Youthful Fire

Last night as i sat behind the wheel of a $40,000 S.U.V. with an off duty police officer sitting shot gun whispering freshly laced jack daniels secrets in my ear i knew i was in deep. More than once my right foot touched the floor as we six intrepid adventurers blazed the county roads, Led Zep on the squawk box loader than they played at concerts, beer cans rattling, empty whiskey shooters littering the country side - this is how you make an exit from the big city.

Three new hats, a couple of old friends, and i went to see the Denver Nuggets bask in the glory of handling the Sacramento Kings in a somewhat lack luster game of basketball. We met in front of a place that apparently serves the wild side of the buffalo wing and began the evening with the off duty police officer having a little trouble breathing. Plans were almost canceled early, as, red faced and sweaty, he was trying to make his move into the hereafter without as much as consulting us or our feelings about wasting our money on NBA priced tickets for good seats. He pulled himself together though and we loaded into the S.U.V. owner's ride. Nice vehicle. Three rows, leather, 6 disc, ass warmers, you get it, the works. We busied ourselves with conversation the hour or so to Denver. It was coronation day for the new president, good luck buddy, you're gonna need it.

We get to Denver and i shell out a ten spot for parking. in my mind i am thinking it is a little much for parking but i'll go along, it seems fair. then the S.U.V. owner mentions that at playoff time last year the same parking lot was $60 a night and i realized this may be the best chance i get to park in this lot with out having to do something that would bring shame on my family for generations to come.

After picking up our tickets from will call our motley crew mosied our way over to the saloon and it became quickly apparent my job was to be the designated Breathalyzer test passser. Granted, the medication i am on makes me as stoned as a 1974 Grateful Dead show in Albany at least my exhales wouldn't be laced with anything that would give the hint away. So at 6:45pm i became the keeper of the keys and the five became the proud owners of expensive stadium beer. through luck of the draw i got the short straw ticket. section 126, row 20, seat 9, which happens to be right next to seat 8 which is not being filled by anything other than what it is...woody allen's degenerate cousin, willy allen who spends the whole game yelling in a nasally voice. not just yelling mind you but making weird noises and the occasional deep breath exhale directly to the right side of my face. at one point i almost made him eat the read sweatshirt he was wearing.

as the game wore on the motley five continued their swill in stadium beer and shots that are way too overpriced while i ate a foot long hot dog and bad fish and chips yet was grateful i escaped with as little damage to my wallet as possible. as the game wore on it became apparent my frustration with Willy turned into a point of mockery for those in the crew and so he and i became a team, he and i against them. so, in an odd, way he became endearing in his brown 1970's slacks that he must have worn when the Denver Rockets played with the red, white, and blue ball in the ABA. it was all in fun and by the end i had abandoned seat number 9 and taken over seat number 14, sorry Willy you are on your own.

the game went almost without notice until the Birdman, Chris Anderson, hit an alley-oop backwards dunk. Carmelo Anthony was out of the game with an injury to his left hand, and as it should be in a team sport, the team triumphed still. Carmelo cheered from the sideline in a nice beige blazer and stunning red tie. The star of the show was a waitress who at last call delivered two trays of 32oz beers to the front row high rollers with poise and grace. She received the second of only two standing ovations of the game.

as quickly as my foot long hot dog and sign up for raffles i won't win came the end of the game came and we were shuffling along with the rest of the huddled masses out the door. at this point we begin the normal round of questions every group of guys needs to have after leaving the sports venue. everyone take a piss? good. we decide on a route home? not really, um not too bad the stoned guy driving will get us there. where's the closest liquor store? where is my phone? etc... i jump in the driver's seat, off duty cop, drunk to the gills riding shotgun, click the radio on - "Sweet Child O' Mine" via Guns N Roses, all is right in the world.

i must explain, i normally drive a 1979 delta 88. a boat with windows, a large field of vision, no brakes really, the power steering is a little weak, there isn't a radio, and the blower motor is broken for the heater. Basically i drive a car worth about as much as a nice pair of Jimmy Choo's. I don't normally drive a Jeep Commander, or what ever i was driving and i am about as rolled as i can get on my meds. plus i have a little of the drunk by osmosis you can get when you are the only sober man among a group totaling six. Needless to say, i am the best option, but i needed to find my groove and it took a few minutes but i found it. We are all just lucky the few cars i changed lanes in front of got out of my big way. Move with surety and they will obey.

So as we were flowing down the highway, this time i think i remember Ozzy blaring, i hear the call from the back, "Hey, we need to find a liquor store. That's your new job." the divine comedy has a nice way of striking the tuning fork. as it so happens i am really bad at directions so when i was elected to drive us home i was a little nervous, but, as fate would have it, my years of partying gave me the innate ability to sniff out liquor stores. so while i couldn't drive my way out of an open field tell me to find booze and i am quit useful. so at the next exit where my internal divining rod perked up i made the swift right and we pulled up to the front door of Mico's Liquor at 9:58pm. They close at 10pm. i am that good.

so to be as polite as possible we only send two recruits in, myself and the cop, and once the deed is done we make a quick exit. the goal here is to be as ghosts. this guy is closing shop and wants to get home but he has an obligation to call the locals if he thinks something is up so we do our business quickly, with cheer and mirth. and once out of sight of the store i hear the first crack and hiss, the first twist and pop. beers are open and shots of whiskey are being passed back and forth. i take a left instead of a right. if, by the slim chance, the badges showed up i wanted to make sure it wasn't on the interstate.

on county roads the radio never seems to be loud enough. we find the Led Zeplin CD and remember that they have legal rights to everyone who play any sort of heavy metal, punk, or hard rock. about 15 minutes into the drive the off duty officer begins to divulge the secrets of the force. how he hates crooked cops and how he hopes to be head of IAD at some point. He teaches me how to spot under cover vehicles and when to look for patrols. by the way if you are driving on colorado highways beware the green cadillacs. Also, if you are a police officer you need to be at home and loving on your family. family first, job second. you work your forty and get the hell out. the off duty told me about the behind the back dealing of off duty officer's wives and officers themselves. being a cop and being married is tough business.

on the trip there was the ever requisite piss break. "hey man, pull over" so i do and then i pull up a bit leaving dudes scrambling with their dragons hanging out trying not to pee on their jeans as they hop back in the truck. Many swear words in my direction. Laughter, smiles, perfection. turns taken a little too fast, collective navigation. diretionalism at its best. sometimes you go with the true north that's in your heart, not with what the compass says.

much to early for how long i wanted the night to last, at 11:15pm we arrived back to our starting point, the bar which serves those delectable but improbable buffalo "wings". and what would have used to be my starting point was my finish line. i knew it was my time to drive home and love on some mutts. that at this point my place in the mechanism has me with things i am faithful to whether or not i want to be - and most of the time i do want to. there are times though when i think back to what it was like to be unhinged.

then i wake up this morning. no hang over, no shame, proud of who i was and the things i had done last night. very rarely during the days of youthful fire could i say such things. and as i have sat here writing these things memories from old times have retraced my mind, the things i did to be tough and hold the image. the remembered taste of a lucky strike cigarette floats in my mouth and i am thankful i didn't get hooked. the burn returns to my finger tips from the couple of times they were singed on the glass and once again i recognize the blessings i wear. and i am still blessed.

blessed to know off duty cops who will get drunk and spill their heart to me, telling me the secrets of his trade craft. blessed to have friends who trust me with their wife's car nice truck even though they know i drive a P.o.S. Blessed to not be judged by the quality of my exterior among those who easily could.

This night may easily be forgotten and the details fade from my mind as countless others have. i trust, however, that as i have preserved the nuances here for you that they also may preserved for me, that they may never be forgotten.