We drove blackout drunk every weekend, sometimes bashing through fences and ending up in people’s yards. If the car was still running, we’d simply drive it away.
We got in massive brawls with our crosstown-rival high school that resulted in people going to the hospital with broken noses and concussions, and then we laughed about it until we did it all over again the next weekend.
We had rampant, unprotected sex. It wasn’t unusual at a party to see people having intercourse on the lawn in front of everyone, or to stumble upon a girl giving a guy head in the bathroom. At sixteen, I was already out of control sexually, something that would lead to an addiction problem of its own later in my life.
My friends and I lived hedonistically, did exactly what we wanted, and never worried about the results. School took a back seat to the partying, and my grades continued to nosedive.
Later in our junior year, my friends and I took what we considered the next logical step in our experimentation with drugs. We started experimenting with psychoactive drugs like mushrooms, LSD, and ecstasy. Jeff, Kenny, Alex, and I got into music by Pink Floyd, The Doors, and Led Zeppelin. I grew my hair out, started wearing tie-dyed shirts, and began looking at life through the lens of a psychedelic mindset, seeing things in new ways.
One night, the four of us decided to go to a Dave Matthews concert in Hartford. Practically everyone we knew was going to be there. We didn’t really care about seeing Dave Matthews perform. We were mostly going for the tailgate party before the concert. It was sure to be a drinking-and-drug-fest, as in years gone by.
A few years earlier, in 1999, my older sister had attended a Dave Matthews show and witnessed firsthand rioting partiers as they overturned cars and set them on fire. The police used mace and rubber bullets to break up thousands of fans who were drunk and drugged out of their minds after extended tailgating and boozing inside the arena.
From then on, whenever Dave Matthews performed in Hartford, there was a massive police presence and riot squads to keep order.
On this particular evening, my buddies and I decided to head to the stadium early to begin our tailgate party. As we approached the arena, we saw large mobile response units parked around the perimeter of the concert venue. Police officers carrying riot shields patrolled the parking lot on horseback.
We parked in the enormous gravel parking lot and took in the scene. People of all ages were getting drunk and taking every drug under the sun. Weed smoke filled the air. Music blasted from cars as people laughed, bantered, and partied.
My friends and I walked around the lot from car to car with a bottle of Smirnoff vodka, passing it to each other and taking swigs.
I was mid-laugh about something when Kenny got my attention.
“Mike,” he said, his Irish face beet-red from the booze, “Jeff’s sister’s boyfriend is here. He has those white ecstasy pills we keep hearing about.”
I put the bottle down and followed Kenny deeper into the gravel parking lot that was alive with debauchery. The sun was setting, and the crowd was beginning to get rambunctious.
It was about 7 p.m. when we ran into the guy who had “triple-stack Rolls Royce pills”—referring to the size and stamp on the ecstasy. He was surrounded by other buyers. I pulled a $20 bill from the wad of cash in my pocket and placed it on top of the crumpled bills that each of the other boys had put forward.
Kenny and I were soon back at the car, pills in hand. I was wasted drunk at that point. Kenny, Jeff, Alex, and I looked at each other, shrugged, and all made the same “fuck it” face. Down the hatch. We washed our pills down with a shot of shitty vodka.
We resumed walking around.
Within half an hour, we were all gripped tightly by the effects of the drug. My jaw clenched shut, and I began to grind my teeth. My brain flooded with serotonin and dopamine. A warm, fuzzy sensation enveloped my body and moved down to my penis. Everything felt good to the touch.
The four of us hung out in the parking lot with all the other fans, waiting for the stadium doors to open. We planned on leaving as soon as the crowds went in.
The sky grew dark and the crowd began to move restlessly toward the arena doors. It had only been two hours since I’d taken the ecstasy, and I wasn’t in good shape to drive. We stood next to the car, contemplating what to do next. The parking lot was almost empty, and we still didn’t have a plan.
I was consumed with worry about the situation.
Jeff was ruminating about a weed transaction he’d just made. “I bought a bag off this black guy, and it’s skimpy as fuck,” Jeff said. “I’m going to find him and get my money back.” He turned and walked off.
Since we weren’t driving anytime soon, we followed him. In our confusion, we didn’t notice that we’d crossed the tracks into a dangerous part of North Hartford until it was too late.
“C’mon, Jeff, let’s go,” I said. “You’re not getting your money back. How much was it? Ten dollars? I’ll just give it to you.” My voice rose to a yell. “And why did you even buy weed, anyway? I have an ounce with me!”
Jeff’s face darkened. He didn’t like being lectured. He took off running. We took off after him.
That was the thing about Jeff—it wasn’t that he didn’t show fear, he didn’t have fear. No matter how big or scary the opponent, Jeff never stepped back from a fight. For as long as I’d known him, he embodied a Napoleon complex where he believed nothing was too big for him to overcome. That never changed, even after several ass-beatings from people twice his size.
The three of us looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Alex moved first, and then we were off and running after Jeff—straight into an urban war zone. Before we could reach him, a car of six Hispanic guys pulled up next to us.
“Take off your fucking shoes,” they shouted. “Empty your pockets. Now!”
I didn’t stop or react. Instead, I ran in the opposite direction.
While the other guys stood around in shock, I’d made a run for it. My leg still hurt from the ski accident, but I moved as fast as I could and didn’t look back.
As I reached the concert arena parking lot, I saw a bigger problem. The riot squads were sweeping non-concertgoers off the property. They’d lined up in a battle formation and were marching through the parking lot toward my car. They moved in a long single line, beating their shields with their batons.
I’d never seen anything like it. As the massive line of police moved closer to my car, I saw some drunk kids shit-talking at the cops. Others refused to leave. Within seconds, the police sprayed those individuals with mace, beat them, and dragged them away in handcuffs. The cops were taking no chances this year.
I sprinted to my car, hopped in the driver’s seat, and prayed that the rest of my group had lived through the robbery situation. I hoped they would return to the car before the troops got to it.
The looming riot squad marched closer. There were now only two cars between me and them.
Suddenly, my car doors flew open and my three friends jumped in.
“Go,” Alex screamed as the cops closed in. “Fucking go, man!”
We sped off with no time to spare.
As I drove, my heart thumped wildly in my chest. My vision was blurred from the drugs. I was overwhelmed with fear, anxiety, and the effects of MDMA. Still, I was able to drive, for the most part. The events of the evening had sobered me up just enough to get us all home in one piece.