LSD Church Dance: My Felonious Missing Wallet

I swerved to block the exit as the last car tried to leave. If they didn't have my LSD stuffed wallet, were the handcuffs all that remained? Was it already turned over to the cop shop?

I cranked the wheel and swerved, blocking the exit as a young couple attempted to leave the parking lot of the scenic park I had left just minutes earlier.  Were they signaling to make a right turn, to fulfill their role as good samaritans.  Turning in my lost wallet to the nearby Police Station. Just 100 yards away, and clearly visible.  If I were ten seconds later, it’s all over except the clicking sound of the handcuffs.  Felony handcuffs. Ten seconds, the only difference between sweet freedom, or the ugly alternative.  Ten seconds of insanely good luck.  In my world, that ten seconds would have altered my life forever.  A stained label neither my family, nor I would ever overcome.  Or, had someone else already turned in my wallet? I was about to find out. 

 

Let me rewind a bit. Spring 1986, I was in 10th grade. My band of wildlings and our  “professional bowling  league” of potheads believed even the smallest  event was ample reason to ingest drugs.  We had grown out of Church dances, it had been years, but something about the idea really cracked us up.  Not much else happening on a Thursday evening.  Dropping LSD for the first time at a Mormon Church Dance was as good a reason as any.  So we thought.  The Noid had confirmed it was Grade AAA LSD-25.   He  didn’t bullshit or try and sell his product with exaggeration. He admitted if it was disappointing, but that rarely happened with the Noid.  A mysterious character that seemed to have global contacts when it came to procuring the best narcotics available anywhere.  He only did big deals.  He would spend six months or more in-between deals, letting cops follow him around.  Sometimes longer.  “They can’t justify the budget.  You follow around a drug dealer for six months or more and see nothing, the bosses insist they move along to someone else.  That’s how I’ve slipped the pigs, despite everyone knowing what I do.  That, and never dealing with people my age.  Maybe a favor for you Matty, but nothing more.  HS kids can’t keep their mouth shut.  And they crumble under pig questioning.  Remember that night we got hammered?  Ample amounts of booze and narcotics, and you got pulled over because of a dead headlight.  That’s when I realized what a sly f****r you are.  You Jedi Mind-Fucked that Roscoe.”   The night in question, 7-8 beers onboard and motoring on pharma amphetamines, it was probably smoking the joint that saved my a*s.  I had cottonmouth so bad, alcohol is more difficult to smell with zero saliva flowing.  Visine, and I was chomping chips as soon as we saw the dreaded red and blue lights illuminating our scared faces.  For us, a drunken party game from the beginning, roadside sobriety tests.  Practice makes perfect.  Walking the line, standing on one leg, finger counting thing and alphabet forward and back.  As I was on the busy roadside doing the drunken olympic games, Noid was in the backseat hiding beers and shredding the cardboard beer container to shove  down his pants.  If  we had any drugs left, Noid would have stuffed them up his prison purse.  Augie was in the passenger seat, solemn-faced.  

The cop was not happy, and that was a good sign.  I would say I got a B on the test.  “Okay, go sit back in your car.  Do not move.”  “Yes Sir.”  It was a relief to even earn a trip back to the car.  “Dude, I cannot f*****g believe you did so well on those tests dude.  At least the ones I could judge from here.  Dude, I don’t think I could stand up right now,”  Noid observed.  It made me feel only slightly better, this thing was not over yet.  I kept chomping Frito’s, even ate a chunk of Carmex lip balm.  “Guys, don’t act scared, we’re out having fun, turn the music back on.  Augie, dance like you are working the brass-pole,”  I said, to laughter.  Roscoe returned to my window.  Asking me the same 5 questions he already had twice.   I answered the same.   Again, disappointed, he walked back to his car.  Making us wait for some time.  Then, the moment of truth.  He returned  with a  real “gotcha” question.  This was before portable breathalyzer tests.  “Ok, Matthias, I think you’re impaired, but the tests so far have been inconclusive.  So, I’m gonna have you come to the station and take a breathalyzer test, maybe even blood.”   He looked intently at my face.  For any hint of fear or panic.  With zero pause, I smiled, “Ok, cool, should I ride with you, or just follow you?”  His face dropped.  I don’t know if he knew my reputation, but he surely knew Noid’s.  He had run us all for warrants.  He absolutely wanted us in bracelets. 

I’m surprised he didn’t roust and search all of us.  I was surprised, he took it like a man.  “Okay, hey, I’m only going to give you a warning, get the headlight fixed, drive safe, and have a good night.”  “Roger that, Sir,” I said, then turned up the music as he walked away.  “Be cool. Let him drive away first,” in disbelief we were going to drive away from this.   My dangerous stupidity re; drunk driving is shameful in hindsight.  It was all a game back then.  More than not, I refused to drive if really hammered.  That night, the speed minimized the effect of the alcohol.  It’s embarrassing to even repeat such incidents now.  It’s only relevant because that was when Noid decided I could handle anything.  And probably win.   

We were kindergarteners compared to the Noid.  Later, his kilos of Cocaine still had the cartel stamp on the brick. A man who dealt major narcotics, and went to lunch with drug cops.  A dude playing both sides of the fence, and never spent any time in cuffs.  Surely Noid had many a story to tell. 

This was my first transaction with the Noid.  He didn’t sell anything less than a sheet of acid, even then, it was more as a favor.  The Noid and I always liked each other.  Though nobody knew him enough to call him friend.  He gave 5 hits to sample, then decide how much product I wanted. 

Augie and I synchronized our watches.  He had to work until 5pm.  At a grocery store, walking distance from my house.  He was to arrive after getting off.  Whatever happened, drop time was 5pm.  I cheated by 20 minutes.  The blotter paper with a single gold star design.  I carefully avoided touching with my fingers, using the cellophane to deposit the single dose on my tongue.  A single piece of paper, smaller than your pinky nail, how much could that really do?  Well, buckle your safety harness, seat belt, and keep your arms and legs in the vehicle at all times, because s**t is about to get weird.  15 minutes in, I began to feel slight butterflies in my stomach.  Some slight change in visual perception at the periphery.  As if cranking up the color knob on a TV.  “Hey Matty, wanna play catch,” Hambo asked.  My little bro, and right hand man for all things trickster.  Hamilton aka Hambo, knew nothing of my commitment to pharmaceutical adventurism.  The intensity of sights and sounds kept rising.  

Sounds were layered and in depth.  Each layer, clearly differentiated.  Like a multi-track recording, with each perceivable,  yet also melded together at the same time. 

Everything began to breathe and wave, as if I was on the seafloor.  An entirely different plane, an altered state of consciousness where nothing appeared as it did the first 15 years of my life.  As if auditory and visual perception has suddenly become a superpower.  On the front lawn, the transformation continued.  It was when Hambo threw the football that it really began.  Throwing the yellow/blue, two-toned nerf football my way. As I caught the ball, I noticed something very different about the flight of the ball, it was so exquisite to view, I needed to confirm what I thought I saw with another throw.  I had never heard the term “tracers” before. 

Now 30 minutes after drop, I threw the ball back to Hambo, standing 20 yards away.  “Woah,” I said, shaking my head and rubbing my eyes, again, not quite sure if what I had just seen could be repeated.  Before throwing it again, Hambo’s orange T-Shirt appeared as a now plugged-in neon sign. “Ha, your shirt, what did you do?” I asked.  Hambo looked down, confused by the question.  He threw a pass.  The spiraling yellow and blue sides of the ball left a 12 foot tail streaming behind it.  “Woah, that is awesome.  Like a shooting star maaaaan, but even more.”  “Dude, I have no idea what you are saying,” Hambo responded.  I knew there was no point explaining.  I never once told Hambo I had even tried drugs, let alone the extent of my adventures. 

I knew what I was seeing was illusion, it didn’t make it any less glorious to behold.  With each pass, it was both beautiful and entertaining.  I couldn’t get enough of the visuals flowing off that nerf football.  Hambo’s blonde hair and radiant blue eyes, suddenly they were plugged in too.  “Man, it’s electric.  It’s electric.  Did you charge your hair and eyes too?”  “Whaaat?” “Nevermind.” 

The greenness of the grass, the blue of the sky, every robin that flew by, I wanted to thank them for their beauty.  A large flicker woodpecker, white chest with black dots and crimson feathers under the wings made a long swooping dive from altitude right above our heads, before disappearing into the building’s attic through vent holes.  Incredible.  Before picking up the ball, I saw a ladybug in the grass.  I let it crawl across my arm, rediscovering the radiance and beauty of the simple creature.  “Dude, Bob Ross should make a painting only of this.”  

“Dude, you gonna throw the ball,” Hambo asked, giving me a weird look.  I returned the ball, the long streaming tracer tail never got old.  “Ha, woah, shooting star,” was all I could say.  A bright red Honda Accord passed up the hill, left to right behind Hambo, at speed.  “Haha, I didn’t know they made Accord stretch limos.”  Hambo just looked at me oddly.  I was fully aware we were on two different planes, distinctly different levels of consciousness.  I just wished he could see what I was seeing.  My Mom rounded the corner, returning from the bus stop.  Tired, but smiling.  How I always remember her.  Her blue eyes.  Wow.  From 100 yards away, they looked like high wattage bulbs.  It was spectacular.  A quick greeting and hug, it was a struggle to focus on the fact my appearance hadn’t changed, despite the bizarro transformation of every sense I possessed.  “She doesn’t know,” I repeated inside my head.  It was difficult to comprehend initially.  “How can they not know,” was a sensation that took a bit of getting used to.  

Realizing it was already 5:30, I decided to visit Augie’s work, to see what the delay was. 

The 10 minute walk revealed one natural wonder after another.  The simple beauty of the flora and fauna seemed magical.  Greatly under-appreciated until now.  The song of a bird, and distant response from another.  The large Ash trees on Main Street, breathing in and out, alive, their beauty amplified.  I stopped to touch the trunk.  Looking up at the symbiotic relationship of the birds calling it home.  A squirrel ran down the next tree over.  The chaotic bustle of the human world was far less appealing. Anything but peaceful.  The scowls on so many hurried, stressed out faces.  So many, looked so unhappy.  Seemingly irritated by my improv sociological experiment.  Reacting to my wave and smile with irritation, suspicion.  I turned my attention back to nature.  I’d prefer to interact with dogs over people anyway. 

I entered the grocery store.  Augie worked in the meat department. Everything far brighter and more brilliant.  A surging flicker-effect of ceiling fans, yet there were no ceiling fans.  As I approached the meat department it was a ghost town.  Through the glass, I glimpsed Augie in back, mopping the floor.  We made eye contact.  “Duuuude,” we both said.  We could see how extremely dilated each others pupils were.  He signaled to wait, I didn’t care.  I walked back, “Is your boss gone?”  “Yeah, but,” “I’ll just say I got lost looking for the head. Do you need help with anything?” “Nope, gimme 5.  Ha, dude, your eyes, holy s**t.”   “My eyes, your eyes.” The hazel was all gone.  For the first time, I got in front of a mirror.  It was far too intense.  I didn’t know if every zit was really reddened and prominent or it was just illusion. I didn’t like it either way.  My face was flushed and splotchy.  I went back out to wait for Augie.  People-watching was better than any TV show.  To this day, the smell of warm soapy mop bucket water and meat takes me back to that moment. The smells of a meat department trigger that memory, and occasionally, a full flashback. 

If it wasn’t our first voyage, we would know such a setting is a terrible way to waste a good hit of acid.  The Church dance and the human behavior surrounding it.  We began to realize it.  After arriving, the transparency of people was a major bummer.  Petty, self-serving, judgmental, jealousy or passive aggressive, there were few comments or conversation that didn’t fall into those categories.  One friend from a group goes to the restroom, the other four start talking s**t.  Only to slather on the compliments behind big smiles when the friend returns.  I’m referring to the social gathering area outside the gym dancehall. 

The good, kind people also really stood out.  Proportionately, the ratio was a bit depressing.  “Dude, we gotta get outta here, this really sucks.”  Augie agreed with me.  When I saw Clive, our High School Vice Principal practicing his normal routine, it pushed me over the top.  Sliding from girl to girl, he stared at every 15 year old set of breasts while feigning carrying on a conversation with them.  As usual, a 50 year old perv staring at your tits while carrying a conversation is not a pleasant experience for a young girl.  “Okay, we’re gone. Beef has a car,” Augie announced.  The fresh air hitting me damn near felt like a jailbreak. 

The entire scene was bumming me out.  Having landed a ride, we decided to take delivery of my sheet of acid.  Over the years, I would drop acid over 100 times.  The “Gold Star” of my first experience was top 5 quality, without question.  The Noid and his SF connection never disappointed.  1 hit was like 3 or 4 of average.  The Noid was at a major party at the Bull’s house.  The Bull, one of the biggest weed and coke dealers in our area.  In a little ramshackle house out near the stanky Great Salt Lake, the Bull’s fiestas were legendary.  Not my crowd, so this would my first time witnessing in person.  I decided to drop another hit, yeah, 8:30 was a late start time, but I didn’t want the glorious visuals to end.  Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.  That was our belief at the time.  The vibe and superficial phoniness surrounding us at the dance was a major buzzkill.  On the ride to the Bull’s I waxed philosophical. 

“Over and over, we saw groups backstab whoever got up and left.  Or whoever was absent.  The more s**t they talked, the more over the top the compliments and greetings were when their ‘friend’ returned.  Are we like that s**t?  I’m not.  You’re not.  I would rather have no friends, as opposed to a malicious viper pit like that.  So fucked up.”   Augie was dealing truth too.  “Well, not that bad, but you consider a larger group of our friends, and there is a lot of backstabbing and petty s**t.”  Sadly, upon second thought, he was true.  It’s why I always gravitated to one on one.  Group dynamics in the culture I grew up in were so twisted.  True loyalty, absolute trustworthiness was a rare commodity.  My first LSD trip caused me to do a do a deep-dive on human relationships.  More than not, I didn’t like what it revealed.  I also had a whole lot to work on.  Admitting your s**t is the first step.  It’s easy to criticize everyone else and delude yourself that your s**t doesn’t stink.  It was like holding up a truth mirror to oneself.  LSD taught me the value of true introspection.  Honest introspection.  Wiping away the fragile ego that does nothing but deceive and falsely compliment.  Tells you, I’m perfect, it’s everyone else who is fucked.  To a degree, something I’ve always suffered from. Too quick to criticize and too slow to give the benefit of the doubt.  One thing I didn’t suffer from, gossip.  Gossip, as destructive as termites.  When gossip value, the compulsion to break news or “know stuff” outweighs trust and loyalty to a supposed close friend or family member, something is terribly wrong.  Do people that talk s**t about everybody, all the time, really believe I think they don’t talk s**t about me? Apparently they do, in my experience.

I continued in the car, “Is anyone worth trusting? Does true loyalty and trust even exist anymore?”

“No, only if it’s convenient.  When there is a real price to pay, when it really matters most, it’s quite rare,” Augie offered.  “Well, I’ve never narc’ed on a bro ever.  Broke a promise, ever.  Shared a trusted secret, ever.  So, here’s my new policy.  If it’s not something I would say to someone’s face, I won’t say it anywhere.  To anyone.”   We approached the Bull’s swamplands house. “Holy s**t,” Augie said, as cars were parked on either side of the road for hundreds of yards from the house. “It looks like f*****g Woodstock man,” I added. It was an overcast, humid night. From the stank coming off the lake, rain was coming.  It yanked us from our philosophical, human behavioral analysis-mode and reminded us of the job at hand.  

“F**k man, we should’ve brought a change of clothes,” I said looking down.  “Yeah Matty, you can at least take off that cheesy sweater, and your tie.”  “F**k you Augie, look at your little Sunday School suit and cotton fabric 1980 tie, your Mom must f*****g hate you.  The only thing you are missing is the 3-piece vest thing,” we laughed.  We did the best we could with our wardrobe, but still resembled missionaries. 

“We’ll be quick, we can pull up into the driveway.  Just don’t make eye contact with the animals.  And do not pet, or feed them,” Augie advised Beef, to laughter by all.  Beef was sober piloting the vessel.  I dunno how he did a did a Church dance sober, but he did.  Before exiting the vessel, we could already hear the AC/DC blasting.  “Haha, holy s**t, the neighbors might be 1/4 mile away, but they wouldn’t dare complain or call the Roscoes, even if they were pissed.  That is f*****g loud.”  The music thumped, all manner of humanoid voices reached up and out.  We banged on the door for some time.  Nobody ever knocked on the door, but we didn’t want to surprise anyone.  We began to have second thoughts, the longer our wait. The tension ramped.  I prepared a few lines and concepts to say to the inevitable questions and mockery.  These weren’t exactly Church-folk.  

“Yep, the Bull’s ragers are no f*****g joke, man,” I said.  The Bull was an odd looking cat.  Every boy in the Bull family had weird animalistic facial features.  Sharp features, like a cross between a fox and a bear.  They were all very large, very muscular lads.  Sharp features, but grizzly sized skulls, and almost Asian, almond shaped eyes.  “Dude are they gonna answer?  Are they gonna beat our asses?” Augie asked.  “Nah, they won’t even know these are Church clothes man.  Plus, I already have a joke ready for our clothes.”  Just then, the door flew open. AC/DC and weed smoke slammed into me. 

A very drunk Kevin, the youngest Bull brother, staggered toward me.  He was a year older than me, but repeated second grade twice, so we were in the same grade through most of school.  I always felt bad for him.  We played frequently during recess in elementary school.  He didn’t need protection face to face, but I quashed any mockery behind his back.  The Bull boys had experienced a very hard life.  His family had lived there long before the yuppies and their overdevelopment machine began to take over the entire valley.  Alcoholism decimated both parents.  Going hungry or without proper clothes wasn’t uncommon.  He knew and liked me. Drunk Kevin was a bit of a crapshoot.  I needed to win him over. 

“Haha, what the mother-fuuuuck are you wearing?”  Well, so much for not noticing.  “Secret Service, have you seen the President, he got away from us, and he’s naked from the waist down.”  “Haha, Matty, you always say the right s**t.  F*****g smartass.”  The music blared, “for those about to rock” which I yelled a perfectly timed, “fire” while miming the Angus  devil horns from my skull.  Kevin laughed a bit more.  “Who the f**k is that?” someone yelled from inside.  The room was packed.  There must have been 100 people in that tiny front room alone.  “Bring em in, haha, bring em in,” the unseen voice commanded.  As we entered the house, the entire room turned, right then, the record scratched to a halt.  Any progress I had made with Kevin, and any self-confidence I had established, was gone.  100 sneering drunken faces stared at Augie and I. It was like a scene from an 80’s movie.  The Bull took over interrogation from Kevin. 

“Matty, holy s**t, look at your eyes.  You are frying ball-sack. Frying butthole.  Are you Jehovah’s Witnesses or something?"  “Nope, DEA.  They make us sample all we confiscate.”  I knew it was a gamble.  “Ha, well, I’ll try not to bury you too deep out back in the cow pasture.  Pig.” Yikes. The crowd was still stopped, staring, somewhat suspiciously. “Serious, what do you want Matty?”  “Can I talk to you out here?”  “No, just say it man.”  “I need to talk to Noid.”  “Okay. What’s with the monkey suits man.”  “Doesn’t matter,” I didn’t wanna answer.  He wouldn’t let me off the hook.  Now the crowd was suspicious and curious.  It’s ridiculous, if we were narcs, would we wear clothes that make us stick out so embarrassingly? 

“Wait, you’re tripping butthole at a Mormon Church dance? Why would you do it in a place like that?”  The Bull was obviously fond of saying “tripping butthole.”  I gotta admit, I’m a fan of adding butthole to anything.  

“It’s like those Reese’s commercials, you know.  Where two unexpected ingredients collide and turn out to be a killer combo.  Yep, LSD, LDS, dude it worked out magically.”  The room erupted in laughter.  The right message for the right crowd.  It helps to have a few bullet points thought out in advance. 

Of course, I was full of s**t.  The combination was a f*****g nightmare.  It was all I needed to win this tough crowd over.  The seal of approval was forthcoming.  “Okay then Matty.  Grab a beer, for your friend too.  Turn the tunes back on f****r!”  “For those about to rock, fiiaaaah,” continued playing and Noid materialized out of nowhere and quietly led me out and around the side of the house.  He never discussed what pharmaceuticals he had onboard.  He looked so out of his head, I made the mistake of asking.  I’m guessing Cocaine or speed.  He brushed off the question.  I never appreciated when people asked me, or bragged about whatever substances they had ingested.  It was so rookie Junior High School, and just plain stupid in a culture obsessed with gossip and holding s**t over other people. 

Noid led me through the mud and animal dung to an old barn.  “It’s in the loft, some of these b******s will steal it.  I didn’t dare leave it in my car, and I can’t keep it on me, the acid will sweat.  If anyone comes, shoot first, ask questions later.”   “What gun.  Oh, the one I smuggled inside my prison purse bunghole?”  “Well, just gimme a signal if anyone comes.” “What kind of signal?” I asked.  “An animal.  A sheep, can you do a sheep?”  I didn’t know if Noid was f*****g with me.  It began to sprinkle rain. Delivering the stank from the lake on my head. 

“Yep, I do sheep all the time.”  It was good timing to share a joke with Noid and lighten the vibe.  “I volunteer at the hospital, the homeless shelter and donate to charity, teach English to refugees, does anyone notice that?  Call me teacher or volunteer?  No, I f**k one sheep, and that’s all anyone remembers.  I’m Matty Sheep-shagger, that’s all they call me, it ain’t fair.”  We laughed.  “Matty, I needed that.”  “Just hurry Noid.”  He came down the ladder from the loft and we exchanged product and payment beneath that old barn that was at least 50 years old.  I came prepared, carefully folding the sheet of acid in 4, wrapping with tinfoil, and hiding it deep within my wallet.  Worried about the acid sweating and losing potency, I almost guaranteed the near disaster that followed.  Not putting the wallet in my hot sweaty pockets,  I placed it in the door pocket. 

With curfew an hour away, we hunkered down at a park overlooking the valley below.  The roofed picnic area kept the light rain off of us.  A gorgeous nature setting, with the real world making for a nice view down below.  Without being able to encroach on our peaceful tripper isolation vibe.  Trails crisscrossed through the scrub oak and pine trees of the Wasatch foothills. We smoked dooger (cig) after dooger and discussed all things life.  Reigniting our philosophical discussion from earlier, in the same vein.  Other small groups and couples occasionally walked by.  Judging us for our dooger use by giving us “the look.”  A disapproving, phony ‘sad for you’ expression that we knew well.  Or, angry indignation, as if we were in a closed space and blowing it down their throats.  

We would have never smoked “openly” if we were within 10 miles of home.  “I’m participating in a medical trial for Phillip Morris, or I would never do this,” Augie liked to say, to anyone who stared too long, or too disapprovingly.  “All in the name of science and the betterment of mankind.”  If they persisted, “mind your own f*****g business,” was last resort.  

 I kept placing my wallet next to me, every time we sat down.  Worried about the heat and humidity of being inside my pocket.  Close to leaving time, 3 older looking guys approached.  They really stuck out.  The small town bullshit Roscoes did to bust a kid smoking a dooger or joint was insanity.  Also, people calling the cops on kids smoking doogers (cigs) happened occasionally.  Beef spoke up,  “Dude, I swear those guys are Roscoes.”  We stood up and began walking away.  I patted my wallet in my pocket, confident I hadn’t left it.  We left.  Three middle aged dudes with mustaches ruined our vibe.  I watched the world pass by on the ride home, without a word. 

I knew Augie was still tripping hard, he took another hit at 8:30 too.  “Dude, I’m probably gonna call you later, I can’t sleep,” he said.  “Dude, I dunno, be careful what you say if you do.  Your mom always tries to KGB your a*s on the phone.”  They dropped me off.  I greeted my brother and Mother.  Went down to my unfinished basement room, The DreamCenter. A very unnerving place for the all too puritanical type Mormon.  Where Iron Maiden and Megadeth share walls with Jesus and the prophets.  It made perfect sense in my mind.  However, to some it was proof I likely possessed a 666 tattoo somewhere on my sexy body. 

I pulled out my wallet, and nearly s**t my pants.  It wasn’t my wallet, it was a pack of doogers.  I wildly patted all over my body.  Nothing.  I knew exactly what went wrong, and panic took over.  I left it on the park picnic table in the confusion and paranoia over Beef’s comment.  Under layers of clothes, it felt like a wallet.  I made sure, confirming via phone it wasn’t in Beef’s car.  I sprinted upstairs, “Mom, I need to borrow your car for 15 minutes.  It’s an emergency.  I lost my wallet and I have 10 minutes to get there, or I’ll never see it again.  Please.”  “Well, I’ll just drive you.  You are still 15 Matty.”  “Mom, no, I don’t have time to explain.  I drive all the time, you know this.  I’ll be gone ten minutes, I’ll be careful, I have to leave RIGHT NOW.” 

She reluctantly handed me her keys, and was still issuing instructions as I sprinted out the front door.  I don’t know if it’s true, but there was an oft repeated rumor regarding getting busted for LSD.  “Mandatory ten years in jail, it’s federal.  Judge can’t do anything about it.”  Probably urban legend scare tactic, but that’s what I believed.  Everyone repeated that same line.  I was a minor, so it would go better, but it would still be a big f*****g deal in my little town.  Something I would never live down.  A sheet of acid sounded like a lot, I would surely be painted as Pablo F*****g Escobar.  My heart sank as I rounded the corner and saw the parking lot.  There was only one f*****g car remaining.  A dozen or so when we left 20 minutes ago.  Now, one.  And, holy s**t, it was on the move.  It’s headlights flipped on, and it began heading for the exit.  I had to stop that car.  If they didn’t have my wallet, hopefully it was sitting all alone on that picnic table. Waiting to be reunited with me.  I couldn’t let them go and then conduct my search of the picnic areas. 

We both arrived at the entrance/exit at nearly the same time.  I darted out and blocked the whole road.  The young couple in the truck looked scared, as if they were being robbed or assaulted.  Gesturing, I come in peace, I exited Annie.  My name for Mom’s black Honda Accord.

Still gesturing, I approached, and the driver rolled down his window.  “Hey, sorry, I’m really sorry.  I didn’t mean to freak you out.  But, I noticed you are the last car, and I lost my wallet up there.  So I really needed  to stop you, and ask if you happened to find a wallet up there, on the picnic tables?  I’m just in a real panic, I really need to find it….” 

Before I could even finish rambling, the driver spoke up, and his girlfriend started laughing.  It almost pissed me off.  Then I learned why.  “No way, this is crazy.  Matthias Gregory?  Is that you?”  “Yes, that’s me, did you find it?”  “Wow, we just barely found it.  Yep, you look like your Driver’s License.  We were seconds from leaving, but you didn’t need to worry at all.  See the Police Station right up the street?  We were headed there.  To give it to the cops, so they could go through it and get your contact info, and call you.”  He was downright chatty.  “So, even if you didn’t stop us, and showed up ten seconds later, the cops would have still returned your wallet.  Either way, you’re good.  It’s amazing how things just work out sometimes.”  

“You have no idea brother, you have no idea.  Yep, it’s amazing.  Thanks for your help,” I said as he handed me my wallet.  There was no way they found the goodies.  They were square as it gets, probably reading scriptures up there.  If they had found it, they probably wouldn’t even know what it was.  The relief of the saved washed over me.  I took pride in being careful and not making stupid mistakes like that.  I was totally pissed at myself.  Ten seconds, the difference between salvation and getting dramatically, publicly busted, running on every news channel for days.  Ruining my life.  It’s all in the little details.  That’s the only difference between those who get busted, and those who don’t.  Augie would call me later that night. Ignoring my caution, he spoke openly about the marvelous sights unfurling on his ceiling, his carpet.  Ever cautious, I would’t reciprocate.  Only saying, “really?  Weird man.  Get some sleep.”  I heard breathing over Augie’s talking.  No humanoid can do both at the same time.  An entirely separate tripper tale for the archives emerged from that late night phone call.  

It would take some fancy maneuvering and Jedi mind-f***s to control the damage.  That story began after I said, “Augie, do you hear that breathing? Beeker, beeker.”  Our code for “bust danger.”  Suddenly, his Mom blurted out “Augie, what is wrong with you? Did you take drugs or something.  I heard it all!”  Then, Augie, “Oh fuuuck, she’s stomping down the stairs, coming down here.”  In the twenty seconds privacy we had, “Dude, tell her we accidentally doubled your hay fever meds here, I’ll get my Mom to back our play.  No matter what, stick with that.  Very matter-of-fact, not defensive,” just as the phone went dead.  Major drama, well into the night. A story for another day.  Thanks for reading.  Until then, Stay Frosty, Stay Aerodynamic.