Two hours to go til they opened the front gates for the KISS concert. I was selling ten dollar packs of PCP to my left and right, and smoking doobies in the middle. I started to blow an occasional cloud of smoke towards the rental cops positioned in front of the box office. I was a twelve year old punk on drugs. This was going to be a great night.
At 7:00pm the gates opened and I rushed in, right into the waiting arms of those rent-a-cops I had been teasing for the last hour. They pulled me into a makeshift booking station located behind the box office and started going through my pockets, relieving me of a special-roll, pre-encore spliff. I still had a few packs of angel dust in a plastic baggie tucked in my underwear. Thankfully, my Mom still outfitted me in tighty-whities, a safe storage spot for contraband. I was processed, had my picture taken, and walked out to a school bus with wired-up windows for safe keeping. As I heard the muffled sounds of the band onstage, I wondered if this would constitute grounds for discharge from the KISS army.
After the concert had been over for a little while, state police cars began taking the detainees out for the ride to the station in groups of two. In the back seat were my possesions in a plastic bag, including my Polaroid camera. The trooper was pretty easy going and let me document the journey with a few pictures. I still have them in an old photo album. The kid in the car with me was kind enough to snap a couple of pictures of me to show my friends in school. After being booked, I was given a phone call home. My Mother let them keep me in juvenile detention for the weekend to try and "scare me straight".
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