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People tell me I share inappropriate stories with my kids; I’m supposed to be their father, not their friend. I’m sure the following post falls under the category, ‘What the hell did you tell them, Al?’
It was Father’s Day, not sure how many years ago, the kids and I decided to do a tour of the Jersey shore. The plan? Start in Asbury Park, and we would work our way along the coast to Belmar, eventually to end in Point Pleasant for a late lunch.
In Asbury Park, as we walked the boardwalk, I got excited as we neared Convention Hall.
“Follow me,” I said to the kids to follow as I serpentine the boardwalk like Groucho Marx trying to find cell phone service.
When I stopped, I pointed to the ground and said, “See this, this is the exact spot where I was arrested!”
They must have wondered why I was smiling.
It was 1980, and a large group of my friends and I went to Asbury Park to see Ian Hunter at Convention Hall. We split into two groups — group one had tickets closer to the stage, group two with seats near the back of the auditorium. I was group one with about six of my friends. I am six-foot-two, but with these friends, I was considered the short one. All except for Pinhead, who stood about 5’4, and was someone I would want by my side in a fight any day.
As the lights went down, the cheers went up and my friend George, who was a few inches taller than me, stepped up onto his seat. The first few notes of ‘Slaughter on Tenth Avenue’ filled the theatre. The curtain opened, out stepped Ian Hunter.
That was the last thing I saw.
To my left, George was pushed down and crashed into the row of people in front of us. He was up in an instant and was on his attacker. Within seconds, the two rows battled. Fists flew blind in the air, connecting on friend and foe alike.
Through the melee, I spotted a sea of yellow-shirted bouncers descend on our group. I was pulled toward the side aisle, my shirt nearly torn off my body. My arms pulled in different directions; it took all my strength to keep my index finger hooked around the finger that currently tried to gauge my eye out.
Once in the aisle, three bouncers on me, the exit door opened, and a handful of police officers entered the building. I thought, “Great, maybe they could get these assholes off me.” They did, but not in the way I thought — a few seconds later my friends and I, handcuffed, were marched down the boardwalk toward waiting police cars.
Once at the station, we found ourselves in a small, concrete-walled room where the stench of urine not only assaulted our senses but then pissed on them for good measure. The lone occupant of the room before us was passed out on the sticky, dark floor.
We sang the traditional ‘Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,’ while my friend John yelled through the door about his fourth, fifth, and nineteenth amendment’s rights (what this had to do with a woman’s right to vote I don’t know, but he was on a roll).
One by one we were taken from the cell to explain what happened, given tickets with a court date, and told we had to appear. The asshole bouncers pressed charges against us (I say assholes because I was a bouncer once and I know). We explained to the police that we had friends back at the concert, so they were generous enough to give us a ride back to Convention Hall.
I found myself in front of the venue, in the same spot that I would be in years later when I told this story to my kids. As I stood there, I could hear the muffled voice of Ian Hunter and would catch glimpses of the stage whenever the front door opened. Unnoticed, someone stepped next to me.
A voice asked, “What are you doing here?” A small man, with a seventies porn mustache, who wore a tan ‘Member’s Only’ jacket, stood beside me. I raised my hand to point at the theater, but before I could explain I was waiting for my friends who were still inside, he snapped a handcuff to my wrist.
Within seconds, I was marched back down the boardwalk, hands cuffed behind my back. Pinhead saw what happened and asked, “What did you do?” I told him, truthfully, I had no idea and to come get me when the concert was over.
When I walked back into the police station, the officer that had given us our ride back looked, at me and laughed.
“Al, what the hell did you do?”
Again, I was at a loss for an explanation. It turns out the porn mustache ‘Member’s Only’ man was their Captain. He had witnessed the first arrest and assumed I went back to cause more trouble. I was issued another ticket, for the same court date, except this time it was the Captain filing the complaint.
***
A few weeks later, we found ourselves in court. My friend John’s (my constitutionally challenged friend) father hired a lawyer and got his charges dropped. The bouncer that filed the initial complaint never showed up for court, so those charges were dropped. All I had left was to ask pornstache if he would drop the charges as well. After I groveled enough to his satisfaction, he agreed to drop the complaint.
My record clear, I can honestly answer in future job interviews, when asked if ever convicted of a crime:
“Convicted? No, never.”
After I finished the story with the kids, and with their confused looks as to why I would still be smiling when talking about being arrested, we continued our tour of the shore.
I wonder what to do for this Father’s Day, what stories I can tell. Perhaps, I’ll take them down Route Thirty-Five and show them the parking lot where I lost my virginity.
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This post was originally published on HuffingtonPost.com and is republished with the author’s permission.
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