After three wild days, including some more balcony-based shenanigans involving Ciambotti, fireworks (M-80 barrel bombs), and a police car, somehow Frank corralled us all up and we headed off to Miami, another long-ass drive. There were seven of us in the station wagon. McFee and I generally sat in the rear seat that faces backwards, with the tailgate down so we could stretch our legs out. It was otherwise a really cramped ride. No one wanted to sit in the middle of the middle seat. You had to call shotgun first thing everyday to sit in the coveted front passenger seat. Woe to the guy who was too hungover to think of calling at least a window. But John and I were the only ones who wanted to ride looking backwards.
Ciambotti, being the last of the partyers to be rounded up by Frank, was sitting in the middle of the middle seat the day we left New Orleans, as we cruised along I-10 through the Florida Panhandle. It was an endlessly long, straight road, not too much traffic. It was a hot, muggy, cloudy day, with thunderstorms brewing. We came up on our equipment truck, with Sinque, Massive Roggie, and Lybo grinding along at fifty-five. Ciambotti lit a bottle rocket in a coke bottle and fired it out the window from his middle seat as we drove past the truck. It shot out and hit the truck right on the passenger door. Wow, what a good shot! But it was dangerous. We were going, fuck, Ciambotti, you’re going to get us busted! Frank was holding a little of that white powder that makes those fourteen hour drives possible and our small stash of pot.
Suddenly, from out of nowhere, there was a Florida state trooper lighting us up. We pulled over on to the green shoulder. McFee and I were sitting with the tailgate down facing the square-jawed guy in his Smokey the Bear hat as he walked up. He looked like an actor who had been perfectly type-cast for his role; thick-necked, military buzz cut, arms like legs. I recall his face as being not unrelated to a mean version of Porky Pig. Probably played tackle at Florida State.
He drawled, Which one of you fellers is shootin’ off fahrworks? He didn’t sound all that friendly.
McFee, his hair hanging halfway to his waist, was wearing three-inch-long abalone earrings, a wild Hawaiian shirt, outsized women’s sunglasses, and ripped-up shorts.
He said, I didn’t do it, officer from behind his Foster Grants.
The Trooper glared at us. Don’t get smart with me boy. You watch your mouth. You’re gonna wind up in a whole heap a’ trouble!
Holy Shit, he meant it, didn’t he? We shut right up. Frank was out of the car, being cool; smiling and explaining that it was our equipment truck, and we knew we shouldn’t have done it. Our truck rolled up. So did four other state troopers. We were way fucking surrounded. Our hearts were thumping. Visions of smirking southern jail wardens danced in our heads. We weren’t in West Marin anymore, Toto; we were fifty miles from some nasty lockup in a small town in the cypress swamps this side of Tallahassee. Long-hairs could still be still mistaken for commie- faggot- nigger-lovers in this part of the world in 1976.
The central-casting troopers were conferring, trying to figure out what do with us when a blue dodge sedan rolled up and a short, beefy guy with long, curly hair, like an afro almost, and a ‘38 in the waistband of his plaid bermudas hopped out. He was an ATF agent who had seen the incident and two-wayed the cops. He thought it was rednecks shotgunning a hippy truck. He was cool, thank God. He obviously outranked the troopers, who didn’t want to have to deal with us anyway. We hastily autographed an album for him and we all apologized profusely to all the burly law enforcement guys. We were released from our doorway to hell and drove off at the speed limit with the windows rolled up. Johnny saved the rest of the bottle rockets so he could rain them down on Raleigh later from a hotel rooftop.
I remember it well. Trying to convince the ATF agent that we were a Country Band being one memorable part. To my recollection, I was in the truck, we were driving down the highway when the band station wagon passed us. As it got in front the back door of the wagon flipped open to reveal Huey sitting facing us with a large bottle rocket held in his hands and resting on his feet pointed at us. At this point Ciambotti lit the fuse and the car drove away as the firework crashed into the front of the truck above the cab. Again the grin on Ciambotti's face was priceless.
ReplyDeleteThis is better than Kieth Richard's memoir More !
ReplyDelete