Mike was on his back, arms and legs flailing like an upturned cockroach. The first thing he said to me was, “I’ve got to take a piss.” Laughing and drunk as skunks, I managed to get him up off the pavement and into the alley behind the theater. By then, we were both hysterical. “Mike, you’re on your own now. I’m not holding you while you piss.”
Best friends in the mid-80s and aficionados of alternative music, we frequented the Cameo Theater, which had transitioned from a 1940s movie theater into a punk house in 1986. The Cameo reeked of old beer and sweat, with torn black curtains, equally vile bathrooms, and a crumbling Art Deco exterior in hot pink and lime green. Local band The Drills opened for many great hardcore punk bands, including Black Flag, the Ramones, Suicidal Tendencies, and the Dead Kennedys.
Mike, who stood only 5’4” and was hammered, decided he wanted to dance in the mosh pit, where slam dancers hurled themselves off the stage into the crowd. Mild-mannered Mike, with a twinkle in his small, black, drunken eyes, declared he was ready for the mosh pit. Before I could fully register Mike’s intentions, a guy approached me and said my friend had been taken out back by the bikers.
The Cameo Theater hired local biker gangs as security guards. The bikers dumped Mike on the sidewalk outside the theater. Apparently, they weren’t going to call an ambulance. Liability and all. I managed to get him into my car and drive him to the hospital. Clunk, clunk, clunk went Mike on his new set of crutches. By the time we left the hospital, it was already daybreak, so I said to Mike, “Let’s check out some pancakes before I take you home.”
GrowingOlderHopeWiser 
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