We came to the concert in a group of three, but we left as a group of five. One of our good friends who was still in high school had gotten a ride to the show and met up with us. Tagging along was a guy we didn’t know, who was a little older than us. I can’t remember the details of why the two of them left with us, since we were going back to our dorm at OU, but I guess one of my friends was supposed to give them a ride back later or something.
The interesting and very memorable thing about the tag-along guy is that he looked exactly like Paul Stanley of Kiss. He could have been the guy’s son. He was tall and lanky with loose, natural curls of black hair. He seemed cool. We were all dead tired after being in a mosh pit for a couple of hours, but we had come, seen, and conquered, so we felt good.
We cruised back to Norman, which took about forty-five minutes. Paul Stanley asked us to take him by his friend’s apartment, so he could borrow a guitar from the guy. We said fine, but it took forever to find the guy’s place in the dark. Finally, we parked, and the Paul Stanley guy ran upstairs and came back quickly, carrying two guitar cases.
We went back to our dorm on the seventh floor. It was late by now, so we went straight to bed. Our two guests had pallets on the floor. Just as I was drifting off, a forceful knock came rap-tap-tapping on the door. It was the signature knock of a policeman.
“Police. We know you’re in there, so open up.”
Nobody moved. We hoped they would leave. They didn’t.
Finally, I opened the door. The policeman informed me that two guitars had been reported stolen and that there were suspicious people in my dorm room. These cops were better than TV detectives.
Here’s the back story. The guy who was going to loan the guitar wasn’t at his apartment, but his door was unlocked. He was probably drying his clothes or something. The Paul Stanley guy went in and loaned himself two guitars, rather than one. Apparently, the guy was expecting Paul Stanley to come by and borrow an axe, but he didn’t appreciate Paul Stanley helping himself to two of his own choosing.
What was more disturbing was that on the short trip from the dorm parking lot to our room, someone had reported us as a suspicious group. Big Brother was watching.
The cops questioned us. Four stories matched, and one was a feeble attempt to explain the purely innocent act of borrowing a couple guitars. Paul Stanley was hauled off to jail, and I never saw him again.
It was now two or three in the morning, and we were exhausted. Enter the sandman…