In which I’m stupid…
I know, I know…the crowd of folks I ran with are looking at this title and saying, “only one night? You must not have been tryin’!”
It’s taken me a long time to put these words down on something besides an SF-86. And I’m still not going to get too specific with names and dates, OK? Let’s go with pretty close to Y2K at a Purdue homecoming game.
I’m back in the States from my duty station in Germany, going through some requalification training in the mighty C-130 Hercules (4 Fans of Freedom, Hero of the Skies…horsepower. IYKYK.) I get the call from a close Air Force friend I’ve been stationed with twice and who never fails to bring out the wild side in me.
“Road trip!” he says. The next weekend finds us driving from St. Louis to West Lafayette, Indiana, for the Purdue Boilermaker’s homecoming game. My friend’s a grad, and he spends the entire drive up regaling me with tales of the Big Bass Drum, the Silver Twins, and Breakfast Club before the game.
The next day we’re sampling the first tradition—Breakfast Club. A giant costume-wearing, drink-swilling morning event that puts you in the right mood for kickoff. Although we’ve failed in the costume department, we’re swept into the excitement and I distinctly remember enjoying two Bloody Marys before it’s time to head to the game.
I’ve decided to ditch my jacket in the car, so I arrange to meet the rest of the guys at our seats. I make it to the stadium well before kickoff, but when I enter and glance at my tickets, it’s obvious I’m at the exact opposite end from where our seats are. And a couple levels up. The stadium is only a third full and being the savvy geometry expert I am, I calculate I could probably shave 20-30 steps off my trek to our seats by walking down to the first level walkway overlooking the field and working my way over from there.
Halfway down the stairs, a young man in a security uniform—obviously working a side hustle to help pay for school—stops me and asks, “Where you headed?”
As I wave my ticket in front of him, I think about saying “the library?” but refrain and answer, “to my seat.”
“Let me see your ticket,” he says, and sticks out his hand.
I know exactly where my seat is, but that outstretched hand thing gets me every time and I hand him my ticket. He scans it and then looks me in the eye. “That’s the other end of the stadium. You need to go back up and walk around to the C-gate.”
I stifle my “no shit, Sherlock,” thought and nod, extending my hand for my ticket. “I know where my seat is. I’m cutting across this way.” I point past the security guard toward my intended path.
“No, you’re not.” He smiles. “You been drinking?”
Now, if you haven’t done the math, I’m in my 30s and am very comfortable with a little pre-game social lubrication and my legal right to enjoy it. I smile back. “Hell yes, brother,” I say, “Enjoyed a couple down at Breakfast Club. How about you?”
His smile drops. “We don’t allow drinking at our football games.” He takes my ticket and tears it in half. I’m too shocked to point out that I’m not drinking at the game and I step toward him, my arm reaching forward to retrieve my only proof that I paid for this event.
The guard’s eyes widen as he takes a step backwards, and he fumbles for a whistle. As the shrill blast causes heads to turn our way, I squint my eyes at him, and then turn to see who he’s calling. Two uniformed policemen are shuffling down the stairs toward me, the lead officer holding a mike to his mouth, lips moving.
I start to explain, but am quickly handcuffed and escorted to a patrol car. The police say they are charging me with public intoxication and I ask for a breathalyzer. They refuse, so I remain silent for my ride to the Tippecanoe County Jail.
I never get to explain myself. Turns out public intoxication is a Class B misdemeanor and the police do not require proof to charge someone. It’s just 12 hours in the slammer and then you’re free to go.
My friends got pretty worried about my absence. Not so worried that they missed any of the game (priorities are priorities) but worried enough that they called hospitals first before calling the police. They were there to pick me up around midnight and I had a few stories to share about my cellmates (I was the only guy in there for just 12 hours.)
I spent the next several months trying unsuccessfully to get the charge expunged from my records. I spent the next twenty years having to explain what happened that day every time I re-upped my security clearance.
Once, I interviewed for a job working in the White House. The day before the actual interview, two security guys were running the pre-interview checks with me. “How about we talk about the elephant in the room?” the first guy says, because he’s read my written account of my life story. I start telling the story and I’ve just gotten to the Breakfast Club when he interrupts and says, “Hey sir, we’re talking about your $40 charge past due to Sam’s Club.” (I’d been disputing said charge for three years) He continues, “If you want to interview tomorrow, you need to clear that debt.”
A phone call later, I was debt-free.
There is no moral to this story, but I’ve used it a few times to talk about judgment. Here’s the deal: On the one hand, I can whine about “I only had two drinks, he tore up my ticket, they wouldn’t give me a breathalyzer, blah, blah.”
Or I can look back and point to a single moment. When that young security guard said “You need to go back up and walk around to the C-gate,” I could have looked him in the eye and said, “Yes, Sir.”
And it all might have gone differently.
p.s. and I would’ve seen Drew Brees and those Silver Twins!