Eventually, after the chaos settled and a month or so had passed, I ran into Dave again. He wasn’t thrilled to see me. In fact, he was downright disappointed that I hadn’t stayed with him during the San Francisco brawl. He believed we should have faced the authorities together, maybe even gone to jail as a team. Apparently, the guy I had left crumpled on the stairs didn’t fare too well. The authorities were pressing Dave for answers about who I was, threatening him with charges for violent crimes against both the tall guy and the short one.
I didn’t mince words with Dave. I told him straight up: I wouldn’t have been in that situation if it weren’t for him in the first place. Sure, I might have gone overboard, but I was only defending him. “It is what it is,” I said, and that was that.
Oddly enough, this confrontation didn’t divide us—it solidified something between us. There was an unspoken understanding born from the madness of that night. From then on, Dave and I became inseparable, bonded by that shared chaos.
We spent the following weeks bouncing between Tijuana and San Diego, chasing parties, dancing until dawn, and living life on the edge. While I gravitated toward the model types—the kind of girls who turned heads—Dave had a taste for what I called “low-hanging fruit.” He enjoyed the power dynamic, picking girls who clung to him like he was their last chance at salvation. He liked the dominance, the way they begged him not to leave.
Together, we were a cocky pair, walking into clubs like we owned the place, shoulders back, chests puffed out, acting like gods among men. The arrogance was intoxicating, and so was the attention we got. Dave had a car, a Trans Am, while I was still rocking a trolley pass. He drove; I drank. We made for a dangerous duo.
One morning, we decided to head to Ticketmaster to grab tickets for the Rolling Stones and Guns N’ Roses concert at the L.A. Coliseum. We waited in line for hours, finally securing nosebleed seats. When the day of the concert came, we loaded up the Trans Am with booze and a couple of dime bags of crystal meth, ready for the ultimate party.
By the time we reached the Coliseum, the place was packed. The energy was electric, and the crowd was buzzing with anticipation. Living Color was onstage, and Dave and I quickly decided there was no way we were sitting in the nosebleeds. We made our way down to the lower sections, blending in with a crowd of other rule-breakers who were clearly planning something.
When the lights went out between sets, it was go-time. Everyone around us made a mad dash for the field, aiming to get into the VIP section. The security guards—big guys in yellow jackets—formed a wall, trying to block us. Fueled by Bacardi, meth, and sheer adrenaline, I charged full speed ahead.
I felt someone grab my shoulder mid-sprint. Instinct took over—I twisted my body and threw an elbow, connecting hard with their face. I didn’t stop to see who it was; I just kept running, blending into the crowd on the field. My heart was pounding, my breath ragged, but I’d made it.
A few minutes later, Dave found me. He was bleeding from the nose and fuming. Apparently, my elbow had hit him, not a security guard. One of many unintentional screw-ups on my part, but we laughed it off—eventually.
The concert was incredible. Guns N’ Roses were in their prime, and the Rolling Stones, despite looking ancient, performed like legends. Afterward, we stopped at a gas station to refuel the Trans Am. I went inside to grab some drinks, but the liquor store was closed.
While I was outside, a guy approached me, pulling a gun and demanding money. His hand was shaking like he’d never done this before. High as a kite, I told him I didn’t have any cash and pointed to Dave, who was casually smoking a Marlboro Light by the car.
The guy marched over to Dave, gun still drawn, and demanded his money. Dave stayed cool, his model-like confidence unshaken. I saw my chance and ran into the street, flagging down a police car. As soon as the lights flashed, the would-be robber panicked, hopping a wall and disappearing into the night.
When I got back to the car, Dave wasn’t happy. He accused me of throwing him under the bus, claiming I told the guy he had money. The tension between us was thick, but we let it go—barely.
The drive to San Francisco was next. Dave had the bright idea to let me drive the Trans Am, despite the fact that I didn’t have a license and barely knew how to handle an automatic. To make matters worse, I decided it was a good time to drop acid, hoping it would keep me awake for the eight-hour drive.
Before he fell asleep, Dave gave me strict instructions: no messing with the music. He popped in a Def Leppard cassette, and that was all I was allowed to listen to. With the highway stretching out before me, the acid kicking in, and Def Leppard blaring through the speakers, I white-knuckled my way up the coast.
The silhouette of mountains, the glow of small towns, the hypnotic lines of the road—it all blurred together in a surreal haze. By the time we reached San Francisco, I was mentally and physically spent, vowing never to listen to Def Leppard again.
We checked into a hotel early that morning. Dave was grumpier than ever, and after we changed into fresh clothes, he hit me with a bombshell.
“Why shouldn’t I just give you up?” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m facing heavy charges because of you. I could just tell them it was you who did the damage.”
Apparently, the short guy from the fight in San Francisco was still in the hospital. The authorities were leaning on Dave, pressuring him to name names, and he was seriously considering throwing me under the bus.
My heart sank. I didn’t know what to say. I could barely process the fact that he was even considering this. But in the end, he didn’t.
When he returned from his court date, he told me they’d dropped the charges. He hadn’t given me up, despite the pressure.
From that moment on, I felt indebted to Dave. Sure, he’d been the one to start the fight in the first place, but he’d also saved me from a life-altering conviction. Our friendship was forged in chaos, and though it was far from perfect, it was solid.
Dave and I would go on to have more adventures—some fun, some dangerous, and some downright stupid. But no matter what, we always had each other’s backs. For better or worse, that night in San Francisco had cemented a bond that would last a lifetime.
