I had not seen Annabelle in several months. After we graduated she had gone up to Humboldt to attend College of the Redwoods and I was doing a semester in junior college at home. We had been thick as thieves in high school. She was the best female friend I ever had in my life. That remains true to this day. All the other women I’ve been that close with have either been family or a significant other. Annabelle and I were practically bros, if such a thing is possible. She sure talked like a dude, especially when recounting her sexual escapades. And she could party harder than any guy I ever met.
It was Halloween night, October 31, 1992. The Jerry Garcia Band was playing at the Oakland Coliseum, in what was the guitarist’s second and final return from the edge of the abyss of existence in six years. His next foray into serious illness, three years later, would sadly be his last. It is impossible not to acknowledge here the significant role that heroin addiction played in his terrible health and ultimate demise.
On this day however, he was still with us and he was ready to roll. He hadn’t played publicly in a year, and Deadheads from coast to coast coalesced in the Bay to welcome back their spiritual leader. And although Annabelle and I had no tickets to the show and only about fifty bucks between us, we decided to head out to the parking lot to see if we could score a pair. I think we both knew it was likely a fool’s errand. But the worst that could happen is we would smoke some dope around a bunch of happy hippies. What was the harm in that?
We arrived in the parking lot about an hour before the show was to go off and we wandered around. Disheveled female fans held up one finger and melodiously uttered the word “miracle” in an attempt to obtain a free ticket. Dealers coursed through the crowd whispering their wares: doses, shrooms, weed. Annabelle and I stopped and smoked a bowl and enjoyed the scenery. A guy walked by holding a filled nitrous oxide balloon. There was a buzz in the air. You knew it was going to be a grand event.
We tried to buy some tickets but everybody was selling them for a hundred or more. Darkness fell quickly and soon it was seven o’clock, only half an hour from the scheduled show time.
“Well Annie,” I said, trying to sound philosophical about the whole thing. “Maybe we should just take off then.”
“What are you fuckin’ talking about, man?” she replied in disbelief. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“You want to just hang out in the parking lot for a while? We could suck down a couple balloons.”
She looked around and then up at the arena. “Nah man. We’ll just go up there and sneak in.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Don’t be a pussy, man,” she retorted, sounding disgusted. “Let’s head up.”
The Coliseum sits atop a great mound, the base of which was largely encircled by a steep hill which was entirely ice plant. We walked up the hill with some difficulty, as the greenery is thick and somewhat difficult to maintain footing upon. But with some effort we made it to the top and were along the side of the arena. And as it was dark and we were pretty far from the crowd and security on the walkways nobody had really noticed us ascending. And indeed, we were against glass doors which opened from the inside when an event was over. Of course, that did not help us at the moment from the outside, where these portals of egress were nothing more than flush glass.
Unbelievably, a guy wandering around on the inside, a common fan, walked up to one of the doors three or four sections down from where we were standing. He turned around and slumped against the glass where he began to eat a hot dog. He wore a Dijon mustard yellow corduroy jacket. Annabelle and I hustled down to the door he rested against and knocked. I could see security down the long hallway, but they were pretty far away. The guy turned around and looked at us.
“Let us in bro,” Annabelle pleaded.
The guy looked left and right and saw no resistance. So sure enough he pushed the bar which opened the door and we slipped right in. It was ridiculously easy – the essence of simplicity.
“Thanks bud,” I said brusquely.
We slipped by him and hustled, but did not run, inside to where the crowd was gathering. It was probably three quarters full at that point. And we were in the clear. It was the perfect crime.
I felt a tap on my shoulder and my heart sank. Of course there was no way it was all going to work.
I turned to see our gatekeeper, smiling. I only recognized him by the jacket because I had never gotten a good look at his face. He was older than us, but only by maybe ten years or so.
“I’ve been involved in a lot of cool shit at shows,” he said. “But never anything like this.”
Annabelle hugged him and I let out a triumphant scream. I grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pushed him back and forth in a kind of bonding gesture. The next thing I knew a roar went up from the crowd and Jerry began singing, “How Sweet it Is To Be Loved By You” by Marvin Gaye.
“Shit, I gotta go find my people,” he said. “Have an awesome show.” And with that, he turned and walked away.
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