The Great Pink Floyd Odyssey of 1988

This story will relate one of the two times in my teens I Cheated Death. It could also be said that I Cheated Hospitalization or Cheated Arrest, because one or more of those things should have happened on at least five separate occasions during the course of that day in June, 1988. I have told this story many times in the years since it happened, but this is the first time I have written it out in full. Extra points to anyone who can count the number of times I should have been killed, injured and/or arrested.

So, okay. It's late June, 1988. I'm 16 and school is in its final weeks of the year. And it is Friday. The weather, as I recall, is gorgeous. The day begins as most others did in those days. I walk in, find my friends, and proceed to hang about until the bell tells us to get to class. That's when my buddy Al approaches with the news that he has scored two tickets to Pink Floyd that night, and would I like to go?

Hell yes, I'd like to go. So I call my mom and tell her I'm going to see Pink Floyd, and that I'll be leaving straight from school to get there. She's cool with this, as I have in the past displayed sufficient responsibility to be granted this level of freedom. I inform Al that I am good to go, and ask when we're going, thinking we'll likely hang around a bit after school and head down sometime in the evening.

He says noon.

I say that we have this inconvenient bit of business known as school, and that those in charge of such things are not usually in the habit of letting students fuck off to a rock concert in the middle of the day.

That, of course, is when he brings up the idea of forgery.

Al, you see, was 18 at the time and a full year ahead of me. Being 18, he had the option to sign himself out of school whenever he felt like it. As I did not, he hit upon the bright idea of forging a note from my mom stating that I had a doctor's appointment that day, and that Al was going to drive me there. I thought for sure this plan was doomed, as Al's forgery bore little to no resemblance to my mother's actual signature and the attendance office had plenty of legitimate samples with which to compare.

Astoundingly, they accepted our crude forgery along with our half-baked tale. In retrospect, I wonder if they were just feeling charitable toward us. It was a beautiful day, Friday AND the end of the year, after all.

Fast-forward to lunchtime. Al and I meet up, stop by the attendance office, sign ourselves out and hit the road. Al needs to stop at a friend's house to pick up a couple of six-packs of beer and then we decide to get some lunch. After buying sandwiches from a deli in town, we stop at a park to eat. As we are leaving said park, a police cruiser pulls up next to us and the officer driving it asks if we shouldn't be in school. He also asks Al for his ID. He asks for mine too, but I don't drive yet so I don't have any. Oh, and did I mention the beer in the trunk?

We informed the officer that we had signed ourselves out. He says he needs to call the school to verify and asks for my name. At this point, I'm thinking we're done. Whatever providence had allowed our not-so-clever ruse to succeed would not hold up under legal scrutiny.

And yet, remarkably, it does. The officer hands Al back his ID, bids us good day and drives off. We decide to stop tempting fate and head directly to the venue. Bear in mind, it's about 2PM at this point. The show doesn't start until 8. But Al has a frisbee, a hibachi and stuff to cook on it, so we figure we can keep ourselves occupied. Plus, there's all the beer.

We arrive at the venue at 3PM. It is so early, there is literally no one there. It is so deserted, there isn't even anyone in the booth to take money for parking. Yet, for all that, the gate is open. So we drive right in and park in the very first spot next to the entrance. We are the only car in the entire parking lot, which I have to admit is very cool. Of course, we do what any underage truants alone in an arena parking lot would do. We drink beer and play frisbee. Eventually, we also grill up some burgers and hot dogs, and over the next couple of hours, the lot begins to fill up. In that same amount of time, we manage to drink all the beer. That's an entire six-pack each, for those keeping score.

And so we approach showtime. Our beer and food depleted, and the lot becoming too busy for continued frisbee, we decide to go in. I am under orders to buy a t-shirt for a friend of mine, and I want to get one for me as well. We make our way inside and find a t-shirt booth. I buy two shirts and put them both on. I hate having stuff in my hands, and figure I have a better chance of actually getting both shirts home if they are both attached to my body. Given what happens over the remainder of the evening, this decision is a wise one.

We finally make it to our seats, which are way the hell up in what is affectionately called the "nosebleed section". I should mention at this point that this concert was held at Giants' Stadium which (for those not familiar with the tri-state area) is part of a sprawling sports/entertainment complex called The Meadowlands. Can you guess what was paved over in order to build this complex? So, we get to our seats, the sky is moving on toward twilight and two lovely older ladies (they were probably younger than I am now, but to 16-year-old eyes, they were "older") sit down next to me, light up a joint, pass it once between them and then ask me if I want some.

Do I want some? That depends. Did the sun rise in the east that morning?

And so, Al and I pass a few enjoyable minutes with the two lovely ladies in the seats next to us as they share not one but two fat joints with the luckiest pair of drunk underage truants in New Jersey. No sooner have we finished our repast then security appears. After a moment in which I am positive they've caught us red-handed, it turns out the two ladies are in the wrong seats. They vacate their seats in favor of the new arrivals and we never see them again.

Then, as if on cue, Pink Floyd take the stage.

Their very first number is "Shine On You Crazy Diamond". They launch right into it, with no preamble, unleashing the first salvo of amplified psychedelia upon their audience.

And that's when the drugs kick in.

To this day, I insist there was more in those joints than pot. I'd smoked my share of weed prior to that concert, and far more than my share in the years after, and I NEVER smoked ANYTHING that affected me the way this stuff did. Essentially, I could actually feel the bass and drum parts come up through the cement floor into my body. Not only that, but the base line wrapped itself around my lungs and the drums around my heart, leading me to believe that the rhythm section of Pink Floyd was trying to sonically remove my internal organs.

Needless to say, the sensation was not entirely comfortable. I was pondering the question of whether I'd be able to remain seated for the duration of the show without losing my mind when Al looks over and informs me that he's about to go insane and needs to take a walk.

Now, this is where the evening starts to get fuzzy, and big blank patches appear in my memory. I remember getting up from our seats and walking into the concession area. However, the next thing I remember is waking up on the floor of the concession area and seeing a young hippie girl leaning over me, asking if I have any acid. I groggily inform her that, contrary to all appearances, I do not have any hallucinogens of any kind. I also ask her where I am and she laughs before bidding me goodbye and walking away. I look around and discover that I am lying on the floor, and that Al is unconscious on the floor next to me. A song is playing in the background, but it is not "Shine On You Crazy Diamond". I think it may have been "Welcome to the Machine". I wake Al, explain our situation, and suggest a change of scenery. We get to our feet, VERY unsteadily, and try to find our way outside (there is an area just outside the building that, while outdoors, is still technically inside the stadium). I remember feeling curiously detached from my surroundings and having a very tough time seeing or hearing anything clearly. Except the concert, oddly enough. I heard that just fine no matter where we ended up.

We finally make it outside, only to discover that it is very dark. Night has clearly fallen during our blackout, leading me to wonder just how long we were actually out. We wander around a little more. Things get fuzzy again at this point. I know we end up on an escalator with a really drunk guy carrying one of those leather wineskins and singing "Welcome to the Machine" as loud as humanly possible. He has a friend with him who kind of apologizes to us, but since we can barely hold ourselves upright we're hardly in a position to criticize.

We decide to try finding our seats. When we do, there's someone else in them. Nether of us is in any condition to try to roust the squatters, and it is also starting to rain a little. I make the brilliant suggestion that we go one level down and sit in the empty seats behind the stage. Al agrees and we make our way there, whereupon we immediately pass out again.

I wake up to a very bright flashlight aimed directly at my face. A rather official-looking young man and about three burly guards inform me that no one is allowed to be in these seats, and is there some sort of problem sir? I assure the guards that there is most definitely no problem, and gosh I'm awful sorry to be somewhere we're not supposed to be, and if I could just gather up my friend here (I begin hitting Al to wake him up at this point), we'll be out of their way. Al wakes up, I keep talking and we just get up and stagger out, not waiting for security to say (or do) anything else. By now, Dave Gilmore is making encore noises, and Al and I decide that we have most definitely worn out our welcome.

So, time to leave. Unfortunately, we're still high as two kites and Al is the only one of us licensed to drive anyway. Regardless, we make for the car, figuring that at the very least, we can pass out there for a while unmolested. We leave the stadium through the first doors we find, and set about trying to find the car. We know it's right in front, but we don't remember what section it's in, or where that section might be in relation to the door we just walked out of.

And thus begins the long walk around Giants' Stadium, desperately searching for the car, while Pink Floyd taunt us by playing the song, "Run Like Hell". After what seems like 10 laps of the stadium (but probably was one, maybe two), we find the car. Right outside the very door we used to exit the stadium. Al decides he's had enough, and is willing to brave the highway. We pile into his car and manage to make it out of the parking lot. The show is still going on, so there is little traffic. On the ride home, I wake up to the sensation of the car drifting off the road. I smack Al awake, he gets back on the road and I fall asleep again. This happens three more times and against all odds, we both arrive home safely. I stumble inside, up to my room and into bed.

The next morning, I make it downstairs just in time to catch the tail end of breakfast. In my house, breakfast would take up the entirety of a Saturday/Sunday morning, so even if you didn't roll out of bed until almost noon, there'd still be coffee and something to eat. I exchange morning pleasantries with my family, fix myself some coffee and pick up the entertainment section of the paper, which happens to have a review of the Pink Floyd show I was at the night before. I flip to the article to read up on what I missed, just as my dad starts asking about the show.

He asks how it was, I tell him it was good. He asks what they opened with and I tell him. Then he starts asking all sorts of specific questions; questions I'd have no problem answering if I had actually, you know, SEEN the show. Fortunately, the morning paper had provided me with a cheat sheet, and I scoured the review for the answers. Giant pig? Scan,scan,scan... Yes, Dad, they had the giant pig. Did they do The Wall? Uhhhhh... Yes, but not the whole thing. And so on like that. Al stopped by shortly thereafter and my dad asked him about the show too.

Fortunately, he'd read the paper before leaving his house.