My Wild College Month with the Wrong Kind of Bars

I had some pretty rough times as a college student at the State University of New York at Buffalo during the 1970s, but there was one period in particular that stays with me.

Over two successive weekends, I was arrested twice by Buffalo police — once for harassing an off-duty police officer, the other for possession of a quarter-pound of marijuana.

There were handcuffed rides in the back of dirty squad cars, tense interrogations in the detective unit with my sidekick, a Long Island guy we called The Doctor.

There was a night in jail, but not before having my face bloodied, slammed onto the hood of a patrol car by an angry cop who didn’t like the way this college kid had sassed him.

And, oh, there were those two back-to-back appearances before the same Buffalo court judge whom I prayed to God wouldn’t remember me.

Ah, wild youth!

Everyone has them — those sudden forks in the road where the choices you make and the consequences you reap have major implications. 

Looking back, you tell yourself, “Man, I’m so glad I stumbled down that one path and not the other.”

Me, I was on a Highway to Hell. At that point, all I needed was one bogus jaywalking or hitchhiking charge and I could have been on my way to a year in the county slammer.

But I never went. I righted my listing, one-man ship of fools and managed to stay out of trouble. Heck, I even found a semblance of a career! 

Yet there were dicey moments I now look back on with a sort of twisted, wistful nostalgia.

It was a Friday night and me and two of my boys had just walked out of some disco called Mickey Rats, not far from campus. 

Very few UB kids ever went there.

The place was the domain of blue-collar Buffalonians who got plastered and did the electric slide to Donna Summers and Chic, while harboring a seething resentment for those uppity out-of-town college types.

Many called the school Jew-B for its contingent of New Yorkers. Walking into The Rat was like trying to score dope at the Cafe Baghdad; judgmental eyes were upon you.

I’d had a few, but I wasn’t drunk, just pleasantly buzzed. I was the last one out the door that faced Main Street. Clarke and Jim were ahead of me. Jim was driving.

Parked on the curb was a car with a couple inside. The late-spring night was warm and they had the windows open. She was in the driver’s seat; he rode shotgun.

Hey guys, I said, you ought to check it out inside. It’s pretty wild.

He surveyed me like a sniper. As it turned out he was an off-duty Buffalo police officer, part of a unit that regularly provided security at The Rat.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was fighting with his girlfriend.

Why don’t you mind your own fucking business? he said.

The words landed like a punch.

Here I was, trying to be a nice guy, and what do I get?

I hopped into Jim’s car (both he and Clarke were, ahem, New York City boys) but it was the kid from Syracuse who stirred up the shit.

Pull up alongside that guy, I said.

That’s when I brandished my infamous drive-by mouth. My wife says I can go from zero-to-asshole in a few seconds flat, so I was cruising (for a bruising, as it turned out.)

I said a few things to the guy, and he said a few things back.

Suddenly, we were surrounded by uniforms. One yanked the keys out of the ignition. I was frog-marched out of the car and bent over the hood.

My tormentor stood over me. He grabbed my hair, while fell over my shoulders, and slammed my face onto the metal hood.

What’s your name? he hissed.

I told him.

Your name is asshole. Now, what’s your name?

When I refused to play along, he bashed my head again.

I tasted blood in my mouth.

A voice came over his shoulder.

C’mon, Jimmy Lighten up.

I don’t remember the ride downtown. But I do recall lying awake in my jail bunk, replaying the scenes in my head, which hurt like hell.

A few years before, fresh out of high school, I'd been arrested in Fort Lauderdale for possession of a single joint. I spent a night in jail and scared the shit out of my parents.

My sisters taunted me: I didn’t do anything different from other kids, they said. I was just the one who got caught. 

This business behind bars was starting to feel like a habit.

The next morning, I was arraigned before a judge with the rest of the overnight catch. She banged her gavel and set a continuance date.

You’d think I would have taken a hiatus from the stray-cat scene, but no.

My phone rang two days later. It was Larry, the Long Island wild man.

The Doctor.

He wanted to score some pot. I knew a guy across town named Ross who had good shit and was reliable. 

Let’s take a ride, The Doctor said.

That Friday night, on the one-week anniversary of my previous arrest, he pulled up outside my apartment in his rusted 1967 Plymouth Valiant. 

I arranged the deal: The Doctor paid $160 for a quarter-pound of weed, to divvy up into four light ounces — and smoke the rest himself.

For my troubles, I got a few buds, which he put inside a small black plastic film capsule.

The deal went down as planned; but trouble waited on the way home.

Instead of stashing the pot inside the trunk, the Doctor and me decided to play Cheech and Chong. We sat in the front seat, the plastic bag of herb between us. We hot-boxed that Plymouth like two party professionals, doing hits from a bong the Doctor had pulled from the glove compartment.

We were stopped at a red light on Hertel Avenue when that pouch of shit hit the fan: A carload of Buffalo detectives on a dinner break glanced over from the next lane and spotted two hapless stoners laughing like stooges amid a car full of smoke.

They pulled us over, just as I stuck the capsule down my pants. As we sat cuffed in the back seat of the cruiser, one cop decided to search me.

Jesus, Frankie. Now I gotta shove my hand down this hippie’s pants?

Busted.

At headquarters, they tried all kinds of scare tactics to get us to rat out our dealer. But we kept our mouths shut.

The night took a turn for the better when one cop rifled through The Doctor’s wallet and came across a close up black-and-white photograph of a 14-inch penis.

The gumshoes loved that one.

Harry! I didn’t realize you knew this kid; he’s got your photo in his wallet!

They charged us with possession and cut us loose. It has been a stressful night. We went home and smoked a few bowls.

The following Monday, I was arraigned before the same judge I’d seen for the cop-harassment charges. I said my prayers that day, let me tell you.

This was the third time I’d stood before her bench. The previous week, I’d returned to court for a pleasant surprise: Maybe he figured I’d file an excessive force complaint; but the arresting cop was a no-show.

The judge dismissed the charges.

Now, here I was again, half expecting her to say, “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Miraculously, she didn’t remember me, which probably says something about the legions of repeat offenders in the Erie County justice system.

The Doctor wore a suit; I didn’t have one, but wore my hair in a ponytail.

And then the skies opened up and the divine light of sweet Jesus himself shone down from the heavens: Again, the cops didn’t show.

They'd seen us for what we were: harmless losers with a sense of humor.

Case dismissed.

The Doctor and me high-fived as we waltzed down the courthouse steps.

It was the only time in history that a dick-pic got a guy out of trouble.

I had dodged two high-caliber bullets without a dime in attorney’s fees.

It was time to celebrate, to get stoned.

It was time to clean up my act.