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Fab Forum

When I was in my late-twenties, a young lady invited me to a rock concert at the Fabulous Forum for which she had complimentary (she worked for a writers’ agent), back-stage passes.  I wore a tailored sport jacket, white collared shirt, and black Calvin Kline jeans—looking sharp for my date.  And at the time, I had what we used to call a cop ’stache (a blond Burt Reynolds-type mustache: wider than the mouth at the corners, partially-covering the top lip).

When the security guard let us in the back-stage door, the group (Can’t divulge their name or I might get sued!) sat around a table.  A few were snorting cocaine, just before they were to go on-stage.  Their long-haired lead singer/front man looked up at us and asked me suspiciously:

“You a cop?”

I sort of laughed and admitted:

“Never been asked that before.”

My date, whom he knew previously, assured him that I was not a cop.
 He gave her a line of coke.  Offered me one, too. (Cops can’t do drugs unless their lives are in jeopardy.  Mine wasn’t.  And I wasn’t a cop!)  But I passed anyway because that night I was driving my new-to-me, bottom-of-the-line Porsche and didn’t want any behind-the-wheel problems with real cops pulling me over (“Step out of the car, please, sir.”) on our drive home.

In part, the lead singer’s mistaken suspicion of me has led to my novel-in-progress, THE COP GUY.  Other factors are also at play in my fictional account of a bygone time.