On March 27, 1991, the Grateful Dead's opening night at Nassau Coliseum was already etched in cosmic anticipation—spring break for me, a 20-year-old freshman at the University of Nebraska, originally from Paramus, New Jersey. Having already seen the Dead several times since I was 16, including my very first show at Madison Square Garden in September 1987, I knew this Nassau run was bound to be special.
How does a Jersey kid wind up at Nebraska? Basic training in the Air Force at Lackland Air Force Base had planted me smack-dab in the middle of the country. Truth be told, when they first told me "Nebraska," I had to pull out a map just to find it. After serving a few years, Nebraska residency became my ticket to affordable tuition, so I enrolled at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln in August 1990. Before school started, I made sure to catch the Dead's shows in Foxboro and Buffalo, my favorite of the summer.
Back at UNL, finding fellow Deadheads was like searching for a needle in a haystack. Enter Chris Olson, a dorm mate from Abel Hall—a music fanatic leaning toward metal, untouched by the psychedelic experience. With spring break aligning perfectly with the Dead's annual Nassau shows, I convinced Chris, who planned to visit his sister (a nanny out east), to join me for his first-ever Dead concert. Weeks leading up, I inundated him with tapes, songs, and jams, though he absorbed only a fraction of what was coming his way.
Show day arrived. Chris spent the night at my older brother's place in Bergenfield, NJ. My high school buddies, Andy Hauser and Jim Matheson, both seasoned Deadheads, picked us up loaded with enthusiasm, two cases of beer, some joints, and plans to score a full sheet of LSD—100 hits total. Ambitious and reckless at twenty, we intended to consume some at the show and save the rest for Nebraska. By noon, we were tailgating at Nassau, living the dream—hackysack, frisbee, beers, balloons, hippie girls, the whole kaleidoscopic lot scene. Chris's eyes widened, pupils dancing with wonder, as the doses kicked in and the world turned technicolor.
The show was stellar—Scarlet Begonias>Fire on the Mountain, Estimated Prophet>Uncle John's Band, a beautiful Stella Blue, and even a rare "Reuben and Cherise," played only for the second time ever. Phil's bass was cosmic, Jerry's solos soared, and by the "Box of Rain" encore, Chris was irrevocably hooked. Pure magic.
But magic turned surreal after the show. Nassau security eventually cleared us out, and high as kites, we headed homeward, lighting up another joint for the ride back to Jersey. Just as we hit Route 4 in Teaneck, I suddenly directed Andy, our driver, toward an exit he almost missed. His abrupt swerve attracted the unwanted attention of a Teaneck patrol car.
Pulled over, flashlights blazing, reality crashed through our psychedelic haze. The officer quickly sensed we were all profoundly altered. After finding some joints in the ashtray and intense questioning, someone admitted (the exact details foggy) we had acid. Despite Andy's attempt to leverage his disability—one arm smaller than the other, yet he could catch a baseball and throw with incredible skill—the cops showed no mercy. Soon, multiple squad cars arrived, lights flashing in a surreal display, and we were handcuffed, our carefree adventure quickly transforming into a harsh reality.
At the Teaneck police station, cuffed to a rail, the interrogation began—our intentions, the drugs, our story. Initially stern, the cops eventually found amusement in the situation. One officer, while typing our arrest reports, periodically looked up at our bewildered faces, grinning and singing the iconic Dead lyric, "Truckin'…" It felt absurd, hallucinatory, yet undeniably real.
Hours later, Andy and Jim were released on recognizance as Jersey residents. Chris and I, from Nebraska and South Dakota respectively, had to post bail, courtesy of Andy. Exhausted and emotionally drained, we finally returned to Bergenfield in a daze.
What's even more astonishing now, reflecting back as a 54-year-old, is that I went back to Nassau Coliseum the very next night—barely recalling the shows, except fragments like the extremely rare "Terrapin Station" encore night two and the energizing "Saint of Circumstance" night three.
The legal saga dragged on for over a year, casting a shadow over our college lives. Eventually, the case bounced from Teaneck to Bergen County's grand jury, who swiftly returned it. Sixteen months after the arrest, Andy’s lawyer persuaded a judge to dismiss the charges entirely. The arresting officer, perhaps recalling our trippy night in the station, agreed.
When we received the news in Nebraska, the relief was beyond words. It felt like emerging from darkness into sunlight, free from looming fears of Jersey incarceration.
Looking back, it's a tale of youthful recklessness, friendship forged through absurdity, and the timeless soundtrack of the Grateful Dead underscoring life's unpredictable journey.
