I was nineteen and a freshman at Gannon College. On the coming weekend, an outdoor rock concert was happening near Zelienople, Pennsylvania, a hundred miles south of Erie. It was one of those mini Woodstock venues on someone's farm. I hitchhiked alone to the place, knowing I would likely meet some new people there. It would be one, big three-day party!
The weather was perfect and bands played throughout the day, and we smoked a lot of cannabis. What an unreal world it was. Nothing mattered when you were high. There were no boundaries. Imagine an alternate universe, a fantasy land where time stood still; or did it drag on? Dragon? Drag on
this. People morphed into hideous caricatures of themselves and they changed constantly. This is why stoned people laugh all the time. They can't get a grip on reality; nor do they want to. It's unbridled entertainment as long as the smoke doesn't clear.
The zeitgeist was that everyone took care of everyone else in this mellieu of casting off authority. No one worried about security because
we were better than our parents' generation, and
we didn't need all of
their values. Or so we thought. Although I had long hair and enjoyed the trappings of the hippie lifestyle, I saw the hypocrisy and it bothered me. The
new world was groovy in theory, but when it came time for self-sacrifice to foster the ideals, suddenly everyone got back to normal. At Gannon, the Student Government invited some guru from India to speak. The whole auditorium seemed mesmerized by this cosmic goodness, but he didn't say anything that you could get a handle on. I kept thinking about the Son of God, whom I couldn't deny, and finally, I got up and left, without breaking his spell.
A motorcycle gang called the
Brigands made a strong appearance at the outdoor concert. Their attitude was not one of "peace and love, man"; they had their fun at the expense of others. The Brigands ran rough-shod over the hippies who could only plead, "Don't hassle me, man." It was Spring, 1971.
I was smoking marijuana with a few people in a tent and spinning some bardic tale. They were easily entertained and I found I enjoyed storytelling as I flashed back to the maharishi's enchantment. The story went nowhere, but it didn't matter, because none of us had any attention span.
Somewhere outside the tent, the Brigands were getting rowdy.
I'm a laid-back kind of a guy who keeps to himself, but once in a great while I do something completely out of character, insane and risky. Why? I don't know why. It's just quirky and it scares me when I think about it.
I threw back the tent flap, singled out the leader and I began pushing him in the chest and yelling, "Why don't you keep the noise down. You wanna fight?" He was about my size and he was as totally surprised at my bizzare behavior. I had a half smile and looked him in the eye, he smiled and went along with my game and we started to wrestle. Some gang members laughed and others seemed bewildered. We ended up on the ground and the guy I wrestled told the others, "Hold him."
I told you it was risky.
As two of them pinned me to the ground, I lost my pants. I guess I deserved that. After a few seconds of humiliation, I got my britches back and the leader came over and hugged me. I had somehow gained his respect. The people in the tent had disappeared. We talked for a while and he thought I should join the Brigands. I said, "No, I didn't want to." "Well, think about it," he said.
Later that day, the gang wanted to play baseball and needed a backstop. One of the Brigands selected a VW microbus whose owner whined, "Just be careful of the windows." Wielding a baseball bat, the guy broke all the windows to the amusement of the others, then said, "Now you don't have to worry about 'em!" I began to see who was in charge here. I was seeing anarchy, firsthand and up close.
That night, after the last band had left, someone was strumming a guitar on the stage and the Brigands formed a circle and danced to the acoustic rhythm. Suddenly one of them yelled, "Get her." Two of them picked up a woman in her late twenties, carried her from the stage and threw her to the ground. As the crowd gathered, one of the gang had pulled off her pants while two others held her down. Desperate, she cried out.as the man who prepared to rape her played the crowd People laughed.
I had never before seen sex performed live and it was going to happen tonight in the middle of a mob. I made my way closer. I made a choice.
"Begone unclean spirit; be ashamed, miserable wretch; thou art very filthy indeed to suggest such things as these to me." ...Thomas
à Kempis
"The Lord is the protector of my life, of whom shall I be afraid?" Ps. 26: 1
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| 1984 |
I went to the woman, picked her up by the hand, and said, "Who's got her pants?" Terrified, she ran away into the night. I ran after her and caught up to her, held her and said, "Jesus will help you." I found a blanket on the ground and covered her. She wept and said, "I should have never come here. I have to get home to my kids." Her friend came to her and said she would see her safely home.
Minutes later, a few of the gang found me and placed me in the custody of the rookies, so they could assemble the others for my trial. After they left, I looked around at the young bloods and said, "Did you guys see what happened?" One of them answered, "Yeah, but don't think about leaving, because they'll come after us." I said, "You guys are &#+$@!-up. You'll just have to deal with it."
I don't know how, but I just walked away--far away, and no one came after me. I went quite aways into the woods that night. I didn't sleep. At dawn, I made my way back to the road and hitched a ride out of that hell. 1971 was the last time I had any drugs.
Years later, Linda, a mother of four, who once ran with bikers, listened as I told her this story. She said, "Scott, they were going to kill you." A neighbor, Randy, who knew some members of the Brigands said, "You're
that Scott?" after I related what happened to me twenty years earlier. It made me wonder if I had a price on my head. After all, I evaded Brigand justice by not appearing at their kangaroo court. I'm not worried. Anyone who wants me will have to get through my head of security, my guardian angel.
Names have been changed to protect the innocent and to dissuade the guilty.
A gentleman walking by heard her sobbing. "There, there," he said as he reached for her hand. He offered to escort her home and she agreed. Harriet told him about the spat she had had as they walked the few blocks to where she lived. When they arrived, Harriet said to the man, "It's so kind of you to walk me home, sir, with Jack the Ripper out and about." The man nodded, smiled and said, "Madam, you have just met him," and walked away. 
