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The Nomads

    We decided to leave Los Angeles. We were out of money and out of a job. Those of us from central California piled into a car and started to leave L.A. I was driving. We were on the Hollywood freeway and I was driving. We were almost out of town when the right front wheel came off. I mean it came completely off. We were going about 50 miles an hour and riding on the brake drum; sparks were flying like crazy. Of course, with the tire off and the brake drum exposed, in a matter of seconds, I had no brakes. The hydraulic lines had torn loose. I couldn't stop the car. All we could do was just ride it out. I had visions of the car exploding into flames, due to the sparks. As I steered the car to the far right lane and onto the shoulder area, I told the other guys in the car that "when the car slows down enough, jump out so you don't get burned. This things going to blow!." The car gradually came to a stop. We got out and quickly got away from it, but nothing happened. So there we were. What the heck do we do now? I suggested that we should just wait for the police and go from there.

   Ultimately, a cop car with two officers, stopped. We told them of our predicament and they asked to see our I.D's, so we each pulled out our drivers license. Up to this point, everything was still okay. Then they started doing the basic good cop, bad cop routine on us. One being our friend, trying to get info while the other one was stern and imposing. You know the routine, blatant, but effective and intimidating. We were just youngsters, really. Teenagers. Having long hair in those years automatically got you rousted for drugs. They had us open the trunk and the baritone sax player had, unbeknownst to the rest of us, stuffed a bag of marijuana up the bell of his baritone saxophone to hide it. Brilliant. Not smart. A musician. Where do you think the first place an officer would look for pot, if not in your instrument case? Duh!

   They took us to the Van Nuys police station and booked us. While in the holding cell, with my hands cuffed, I realized I had a phony I.D. in my pocket that I had made in Tijuana, Mexico when I was 15. I was struggling, trying to get it out of my back pocket. I was going to leave it in a crack behind the bench I was sitting on. I was scared of surveillance cameras, but I kept working to get it out. I failed. When the officer came to take me out of that holding room, the very first thing he did was look in that crack behind the bench. I couldn't believe it. Thank goodness I wasn't able to get that phony I.D. out. In those 2 or 3 days I was in jail, the issue of the I.D. never came up. I got it back when I left. I had my regular license and they never really looked closely at my wallet. They impounded the car, which belonged to Jimmy Harris, who was also arrested.

   To make a long story short, I was allowed one phone call. As much as I hated to do it, I called my dad in Modesto. He drove down and was there for the arraignment. He had to put up some money, too. It must have been bail, but I don't recall ever being out of that cell before arraignment came on Monday. The other band member admitted it was his and they dismissed the charges against me. This was the deal: I agreed to come home and go back and finish high school, then try to go to college. I finished high school by attending night school at Downey high. I also attended a couple of months of junior college, but music would continue to call to me and direct my life.

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