October 2002

I have seen and done a lot of crazy shit, but there is one night that will forever be remembered and engraved in my head as the worst of my life.

That was the night of October 4th, 2002. One month into my freshman year of college. It started out with going to meet 2 girls at a club. Not a bad start, eh?

Nowadays, the whole club scene is the death of me- I fucking hate how fake and expensive it all is. But back then, I was still in my hip-hop phase. So paying 20 bucks for a cover and singing along to DJ ChewyGum’s selections the whole night was my idea of a good time. What a tool I was indeed.

The two lucky girls were Linzo and the disease known as Clymidia- you will see why I call her that later on. These were two fellow NYC natives who I was just clinging to because they knew some people I did back home.

So I was having a good time: they were playing the likes of Biggie and DMX, I was rolling with two girls, and I even got to chat up a couple of ice queens. What could possibly go wrong? Answer, everything.

At a certain point about an hour into the club, as they usually do the girls got bored. The club was beyond walking distance from campus- and the subway was already closed (Note: The Boston public transportation system is the shittiest in the world. It closes down BEFORE the bars close and parties end- leaving thousands of drunk college kids stranded and begging for rides, therefore encouraging people to drive them back to campus drunk. I wonder what dumbass figured that one out)

After deliberating what to do, Clymidia discovered that she “knew some guy” who could drive us back to a “good party” in the College Ghetto (the town all the cool off-campus kids called home). Just a note, there never has been a “good party” in the College Ghetto, and there probably never will. They are all just about a hundred underaged college kids packed to the gills into some poor kid’s apartment fighting each other over beer from a soon-to-be-kicked keg. They are all just ticking time bombs to be busted up by the stick-up-their-ass Boston police.

So the three of us get into a car with an Irish meathead, who is swilling a bottle from the shotgun position, and a John Mayer lookalike who is obviously a little tipsy himself. I was scared for my life. This guy started driving, and I could tell immediately he was drunk. He was swerving all over the road, speeding down narrow back roads like a demon motorcycler, and blasting loud Dr. Dre from his speakers.

At one point during the ride, I even looked over at Linzo and whispered to her “I really hope we don’t go out this way”. I already had a vision in my head of the article in the school paper the next day. Just a small little Obituary article in the back, with the headline “Three college kids get in a car with drunk driver, all die”. And the article would only contain the words “Yep. Who woulda thunk it?”

After finally reaching our destination, from a full-speed parallel park that nearly upended two cars and a tree, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and said my thanks to God. I got ready to have a good time at this party, thinking that my troubles for the night were over. Nope, they had not even begun.

Having been a straight-edge in high school, I was a complete novice drinker. Because of my neurological disabilities. I was really blindsided in this all-too-unfamiliar of situations. I didn’t even know the most obvious rule in the world of drinking: Dude, Finish Your Fucking Beer Before You Leave The Party.

The party was OK- the highlight of which was when I had my very first taste of shitty keg beer. My first beer I was handed- which I would later realize is a gift from the Gods, and the other one I had to wait on line 20 minutes for. And by the time I got it- I realized that the party was getting lame. I didn’t know anyone there, and Linzo and Clymidia were both talking to random guys. “Fuck this man, I’m heading home”

So I wave goodbye to the girls, thank the drunk driver guy for mercilessly sparing our lives, and head back to my freshman dorm. With an unfinished beer in hand. I figured I’d just finish it on the way home. I walk down the stairs, onto the street, and see a little situation. A man in handcuffs, and three police officers. They are going in to bust up the party. I think to myself. “Well, that must suck for him”.

But then, before I could walk away, all the policemen’s eyes completely leave their arrestee and turn directly to me. One fat, balding officer radios a squad car: “We’ve got another one”. Even then, my semi-retarded 18-year old brain could not process the fact that I was totally fucked. Two of the officers walk right up to me and grab me by the arm. “What is in that cup, sir?” The officer grabs my cup, recognizes it as beer, and spills it out. “Let me see ID sir”. At this moment I should have fucking ran. Now, I would have ran. If I had any sense, I would have ran the fuck away from there.

But instead, I complied. Before I could move a muscle, or even get my ID back, I was thrust against the side of the building, turned around, and cuffed. At this point I start screaming and crying at the officers “Don’t do this to me. This is a mistake. I SWEAR I’m a good kid. I wasn’t even drinking it,”, etc, etc. Too little, too late.

Then, I see Linzo and Clymidia come out of the party and absorb the sight of seeing me in cuffs. They ask me what happened. With tears in my eyes, I barely had enough time to explain before I was thrown into the back of a darkened paddywagon.

What did Linzo do in this situation? She actually went to the police station to make sure I was gonna be OK. We are still friends to this day. And what did Clymidia do? She was just like "Whatever" and went to another party with some random guy because “she needed some weed”. I don’t think I will ever forgive her- and I have made no attempt to contact her since. I have no idea of her story since that night. But I’m pretty sure it involves dropping out of school, lots of drugs, and lots of sex with shady people in shady locations.

This has to be the #1 scariest moment of my life. I could not see a thing in front of my eyes, I couldn’t move my hands because of the handcuffs, I had no idea how far away this jail was, and I had no one to talk to. I was crying, bawling, thinking about what the consequences would be. I was almost sure I was gonna be kicked outta school for life. Just for drinking a cup of beer.

So after what seemed like eternity, I got out of the wagon and was herded into a ghetto-ass Massachusetts police station. I was fingerprinted, un-handcuffed (which at the time, felt almost as good as an orgasm), and thrown into a closet-size cell for the night. As you could imagine, I couldn’t fucking sleep in there. I was still scared shitless. And the worst part about it was that in jail, the cops took away my keys, my wallet, my cell phone, even my shoes. All I had for four excruciating hours was four stone walls and a piece-of-shit push-button phone (meaning you had to push and hold a button to talk). In all my panicking and crying, I had to deal with the question of a lifetime: who do you call when you’re in jail?

I was unaware that prisoners didn’t have any rights to their cell phone, and I choked under pressure- I couldn’t remember a single number on there. I couldn’t remember Linzo’s number, nor any of the guys at the dorm, nor Clymidia’s (although in the middle of stoned sex with a random dude, it’s unlikely she would have been much help). I came to the harsh realization that the only numbers I remembered were my parents and my grandmother’s. It was only my luck that my parents were out of town- they were doing something in Philadelphia, which is a long way from Boston.

So, at around 3:04 AM on this night, my grandma’s house phone rang many times. She picked up, only to hear the words “This is a call from (Jail). Do you wish to accept?" Followed by her grandson’s voice. I don’t remember what exactly I said, but it was something like “Listen, I’m in jail, please help me out” before encouraging her to call my parents in their hotel room.

So then, at around 3:10 AM, there was a phone call in my parents’ hotel room somewhere in Philadelphia, awakening them from a deep sleep to learn their son is in jail.

Imagine how horrifying the scene was. My grandmother is someone who throws a panic fit if her food comes out 5 minutes late at a restaurant. I could only imagine the hysterics she was throwing. If I was a normal person, I would feel extreme and deep sorrow for what I put her through. But because I was born with a social impairment (Asperger’s Syndrome) , I’m unable to express emotion in a normal capacity, so to this day I see it as a “necessary evil”.

So at about 6 AM, much to my relief my cell was opened and I had a date with the warden. Amazingly, I had just enough money in my wallet for bail, 60 smackeroos. But much to my disgust, when retrieving my belongings I only got one of my shoes back from the dumbass parole officer.

In one of those “can-it-get-any-worse?” moments, I remembered that those weren’t even my own shoes. Earlier, I had scoured my tiny dorm and was unable to find a single pair of shoes that were appropriate for the club. So in a last-minute fix, I had convinced "Jada", a large black dude on my floor, to let me borrow his $200 loafers for the night. I promised they would come back “untouched”.

Well Jada would never see those loafers again, and now I would have to deal with owing this large black dude, who used to be a defensive lineman by the way, 200 bucks or facing the worst beatdown of my life.

So with the earliest light of day barely coming through, I was released. I began to walk over five miles from the police station to my dorm. I had spent all my cash on bail- so I had no money for a cab or the nonexistent subway train. And I only had one shoe to walk it on. At around the halfway point I began to feel uncomfortable, so I just scrapped the remaining loafer in some garbage and walked the remaining distance barefoot. What good is it to have just one shoe on anyway? At this point I just screamed at the sky, as loud as I could, "Does anything EVER go fucking right?"

So then, just as the first rays of the day were coming through, I finally saw the grassy area which was the entrance to my massive freshman dorm complex. And just as I staggered into Rich Bastard Hall, the skies were set ablaze and Osama Bin Laden unleashed his sequel to 9/11.

OK, that didn’t really happen. But seriously man, that would be the only way I could imagine for my night to be any worse. I mean if you tried to write a script for the worst night ever, there’s no fucking way you can get any lower than mine. I double-dare you motherfucker.

Aftermath: My parents drove all the way from Philadelphia to Boston to be “moral support” at my court hearing. I was sentenced to like 200 hours community service and some AA meetings. I had to listen to hours of stories about alcohol abuse and “the bottle”. These meetings scarred me for life and may have subconsciously turned me into the alcoholic I would become in later years. My grandmother began to baby me, and still calls an average of 5 times a day. Hey man, wouldn’t you do the same if your grandson lived on his own one month and he got fucking arrested? Yea that makes a lotta sense.

Jada never got his sneakers, or his 200 bucks back. He was super-pissed at me when he and everyone else on my floor found out I was arrested, but I avoided a beatdown by promising him I would pay him back for the loafers by the time we graduated. I never got the chance, because the very next semester he was kicked outta school for smoking weed. Bonngg!

The dean of my school read the local police reports and found out about my arrest, then threatened to expel me. I put together a manifesto, and made up about 5 detailed witness reports detailing how innocent I was. He totally bought it, and I was allowed to continue my education. I graduated in 06’. So I guess all’s well that ends well. The ultimate proof of this:

You’re reading my fucking story.

September 2007

Living in such a big urban metropolis as NYC, there are very few occasions that are worthy of me going out to the suburbs. Since I don't drive there is no way for me to get around, and a typical trip usually involves sitting around someone's house because there is nothing going on and getting bored to tears. I avoid these at all costs. Occasions that are actually worth me going outside the city atmosphere I am so accustomed to are few and far between.

However, in late September of 07' one of those rare occasions arose, when my old college roommate and buddy "Timbo" was throwing one last going-away party at his house somewhere on bumblefuck Long Island. Timbo, unlike me, had both the presence of mind and financial stability to take everything he hated about the East Coast way of life, which he had always known, and shove it up his ass. He was moving to California and getting the hell outta here. Good for him. So this would possibly be my last chance to ever see the man. And besides, I hadn't been to a good house party in a long, long time, having boycotted them completely in the wake of the previous year's New Year's Party Disaster. So off to Long Island it was.

I got off a train 45 minutes out of the city at his piece-of-shit town, to be greeted by the ghetto-est of stations, and a push-button phone by which I could call a cab to escort me to the party. I had to literally push and hold a button to even get a ringtone. It was reminiscent of the phone acommodations during my night in prison, which happened to be five years ago almost exactly on this date. Surely a sign of things to come.

So I waited and waited, staring into space and emptiness for about 10 minutes before the next available cab arrived. I quickly made friends with the driver "Speedy Mcgee", a young black dude who seemed to hate the unfortunate job of chaperoning those drunk or driving-impaired (Having pre-game material on the train, I fell under both) through this suburban wasteland. He blasted the likes Ludacris and Nate Dogg as an escape from the shitty station his life had handed him. Wisely, I took down his number in my cell, just in case I would need, um, a getaway car or something later on.

So I arrived at Timbo's house to find a large gathering of kids hanging out in his backyard. There were several kegs and a gang of beercans, beer pong in full swing, a stoner circle, and a place to piss in the woods without anyone giving a shit. It had all the ingredients of a good old-fashioned suburban throwdown.

I met up with my buddy Sportskid there, and one of the early highlights of the night came when the two of us had a near-physical altercation with two girls who were stupid enough not to understand or abide by the given rules of beer pong by age 23. They seemingly made up a new rule to win the match, where if you even accidentally drop a ball in your own cup instead of the water it's an automatic victory, or some such bullshit. After about 30 seconds of arguing, I determined that this cause was not worth any more of my breath. Sportskid, meanwhile, may soon become the first man in history to take a ruling in a beer pong game to the Supreme Court. He kept arguing vociferously well beyond the point where everyone else stopped caring, and the next challengers had to forcibly pull him away from the table so the long line of contestants could move. Those girls, obviously, did not get a second more of our time for the rest of the night.

At around 12:30, Timbo came out for his hosting toast, and demanded control of a set of Ipod speakers that had been floating around the party, victim to many annoying DJs. He plugged in his pod, turned the speakers up as high as they would go, and put the Dropkick Murphys on at full blast. Being a connoisseur of Guinness and all things Irish, Timbo loved the Murphys and he knew every word. He gathered together a group of five or six of his closest homeboys and began screaming along to these Irish drinking songs. Being that I am not Irish, nor do I like the local people of Boston, nor do I like drunken Irish skinheads, I never understood the appeal of the Murphys, so I refused to join in. But that's for another website.

However, this rousing performance had a very unexpected audience. Police officers in suburbia have to be among the most miserable sacks of shit ever. Given that suburban Long Island is not exactly a hub of party activity, it does not take much for them to sit up and notice. In this case, 5 white dudes singing along to the Mcswiggan's Jig or whatever the fuck the Murphys sing about, was more than enough to attract their attention. Within three or four songs, a cop car appeared at Timbo's door, and several 5-0 members came in and ordered all the partygoers to vacate the premises.

Having a paranoid fear of the local law authorities after my arrest and several other close calls in college, I packed up my things and started running as fast as I could. While running I made a frantic call to Speedy Mcgee and told him to come down and find me. Fortunately he did, and bolted me to the train station, where there was a train in sight. Amazing timing- I could get out of this piece of shit town, and hopefully make it back into the city before bars closed.

But wait a second, there were two trains coming in at the exact same time. And it was unclear which train was going where and in what direction. In most train stations there are two platforms which have trains going in opposite directions. But here, there was just one fucking platform, with no signs indicating what train is coming in, no maps, no nothing, so what train was going where and in what direction was anyone's guess. All I knew now was that one of these trains would take me back and one of them wouldn't.

I took my best guess, walked toward one of the trains, and asked the conductor:

SD (Me): Excuse me, which way to New York?

Conductor: What?

SD: Does this train go to New York?

C: What are you talking about? We're in New York right now. We're in (name of town).

SD: I know we are. But I'm going to New York City. Penn Station. Manhattan.

C: What?

SD: WHICH one of these fucking trains will take me back home to Penn?

C: Oh, that would be the one right behind you.

I turn around and look at the other side of the platform, only see a train with all doors closed and secured, pulling OUT of the station! Because of this fucking moron, I was stranded. I checked the schedule for the next available train. 5:35 AM. That's FOUR FUCKING HOURS where I would be stuck here in this shithole. Upon remembering this fact, I let out a barrage of pretty much every curse word imaginable at the top of my lungs, emphasized by a long "NOOOOOOO!"

A group of passengers exiting one of the trains mocked me, calling me a stupid loser and then telling me to shut the hell up and go fuck myself. Thanks for the kind words jackasses. Once they had left, I was all alone on the platform. Not a soul in sight. Aggrivated by this current situation, irked by the strangers' comments, motivated by the feeling of being completely alone, and having lots of alcohol in my system, I continued to scream curses into the empty air until my lungs got sore.

Within a few minutes of my screaming, I decided to give my friend Panic a desperate call for help. Having survived going to school in the suburbs for four years, Panic was a natural choice for advice in this situation. Here is how my phone call went down:

SD(screaming): HEEELLLLLLP! I'm trapped on Long Island and I don't know what to do. HELP ME!

Panic: Oh god, what did you do now?

SD: I'm stuck in the suburbs for Four Fucking Hours and I don't know what do to. I missed my train.

Panic: OK, calm the fuck down. Is there anyone you can call to give you a ride home?

SD: NO!

Panic: Is there anyone you can call to come and pick you up, that you can crash with.

SD: Well there is, but his party just got broken up by the cops and I HATE THE COPS!

Panic: Are you alone right now?

Exactly as Panic said this, I noticed a single car waiting out in the parking lot. It was blue and had red flashing lights, and proved that I was definitely not alone. Do you remember how I said that suburban cops will use any excuse for action? Unfortunately for me, in this case I forgot about that rule.

Upon noticing this, I let out another loud "OH SHIT!", slammed my cell phone closed in the middle of Panic's sentence, and I immediately began running to the other side of the platform and the touch-button phone to get the closest cab. Not like that would look suspicious or anything.

It took me three desperate tries to even get a dial tone, and when I did it was a busy signal. I let out one more loud "FUUUCK!" The next time I tried, I was able to get hold of a driver. I recognized his voice as Speedy Mcgee. I told him to get back to the train station "as soon as humanly possible." Those were the last words I was able to get in to him, because I had some company.

That cop car I had noticed was waiting in the parking lot and pulled directly up to me. The meathead cop inside got out and approached me to have a little "conversation":

Cop: Excuse me sir, what are you doing?

SD: I'm just trying to call a cab.

Cop: Several train passengers alerted me to a public disturbance at this station. They gave me reports of a deranged man doing lots of inappropriately loud screaming and vulgarity. Are you aware, sir, that this is an obstruction of justice?

SD: I know nothing about this sir. All I'm trying to do is get in a cab back to my friend's place.

Cop: You're only making your case worse, because lying to an officer of the law is a federal offense, and I clearly saw with my own eyes that you were the one doing the screaming.

SD: I really don't know what you're talking about sir. I'm just trying to call a...

Cop: Alright that's it, you're coming with me.

Just as the cop put his hand into his back pocket to pull out his handcuffs and make the arrest, whose car came screaming around the corner but Speedy Mcgee to the rescue! As soon as I saw it I began running towards the back door of the cab. Right before I opened the door, I turned towards the baffled cop and gave a memorable parting salvo: "Well, it's been nice chatting with you, bro, but I gotta run. Catch you later!"

I immediately jumped in the cab and told Speedy to get me back to Timbo's house as fast as he can, adding "And Step On It" for emphasis. I would have never have guessed that a line from an old Bugs Bunny cartoon would make so much sense today, but step on it he did, speeding away from the police car. One block past the station, I looked back to see the familiar red tailights. Every few seconds, I looked back only to see the cop trailing us. "Faster, faster" I urged, having to scream over his loud Snoop bumping. Very appropriate music, I might add, for a legitimate police chase. And faster he went, with barely a car around for miles except for us and the po-po. I told him to take the most "alternate route" possible, and that he did, throwing in a few detours. Timbo lived at the very end of a long and confusing street, but by the time Speedy swerved onto it at full speed, I turned back fully expecting to see the cop tracking my progress. Not a car in sight.

Every few seconds I would look back, expecting to see him right there. But nope, still no one. By the time we reached the end of this road and got back to Timbo's house, it was clear that Speedy had shook and lost the bumblehead officer. I told him thanks for doing what I had said, and handed him a few extra dollars than my fare. For once in my entire lifetime, a cabdriver had actually earned his tip!!

So I walked back onto Timbo's lawn, which had been completely cleared out except for the host and a few close friends. I explained to Timbo my situation, and he told me I was cool to lay low there until the next train finally came. At the back of my mind, I got anxious, because usually if the police are drawn to the same location twice on a single night, there is likely to be an arrest made no matter what. So I nervously watched his driveway for the slightest sign of a police car. After a few minutes, Timbo and Sportskid calmed me down and told me I could help them kill whatever beer the cops had not confuscated. Speedy had lost the officer, and I was among friends, so I was safe.

I chilled and drank for a few minutes with the small circle of Timbo's friends, before I got bored shitless and realized I had three and a half hours to go. So I figured out the easiest way to make time go by is sleep. I chugged another beer as fast as I could and attempted to pass out on a lawn chair. About half an hour later I was rudely awakened by an unfamiliar voice.

"Who the hell is this? And why is he passed out on MY lawn?" It was Timbo's mom. I had completely forgotten that he still lived in his parents' house and they had been inside through the whole party, the drunken sing-alongs, and the cops showing up. Now, of all times, they decided to come out of their hibernation, and were not very open to the prospect of strangers sleeping on their lawn.

After Timbo's desperate efforts to convince them that I was an old friend who needed a place to crash until 5AM, they finally agreed to let me inside their house and rest. About an hour later I was awakened by a strange slurping sound. I opened my eyes, only to see Timbo on a couch opposite mine, sucking the face off of one of the weirdest looking girls I had ever seen. Picture an Asian porn star, such as Syren. OK not too bad. Now picture that same Asian porn star, but weighing about 300 pounds and having excess body fat everywhere. Well folks, that is the visual I had to wake up to.

I smiled at this, because Timbo has a reputation among several of my friends as a Whaler. And nope, I ain't referring to the old Hartford NHL team that folded in in 97'. Good thing he was about to move to Cali, because if they found out about this, Timbo would never hear the end of it. But this time, I kept it to myself and passed back out.

So 5AM finally rolled around, and like it or not, I had to break up Timbo's tryst. I figured that Speedy Mcgee had earned a good night's sleep after all that, so I had to force a very irritated Timbo to start his car and get me to the train station. So I got to the station, said my goodbyes to Timbo and his latest conquest, and went back up on that same train platform. But this time, not a police car in sight.

I counted sheep, counted stars, counted everything imaginable to pass the time until the train finally got there. But this time, it was only one train on one side of the track. Still, I kind of choked up, hoping this would not be Deja Vu all over again, and Scotty Luck would not figure out some bizarre loophole to keep me off this train. The train pulled up and the doors slowly opened. I asked this conductor forcefully: "Are you positive that this is the train to Manhattan, Penn Station?" He replied "Yes it is, kid. Now calm the hell down and get your seat!" At the time, those words could not have sounded any sweeter.