The VFD Hits the Dead Tour

This is story about a friend who taught me what it means to be a Deadhead.  He had the most effective parking lot scam on
cops that I’ve ever seen.  For reasons that will become obvious, we’ll call him Tom. Tom was a grower in the Appalachian hills who produced extremely righteous KB.  He got busted for 40 full-grown plants one
year, which under normal circumstances would have done anyone in.  However, this was a county with one of those Boss Hogg type operations, meaning in this case that the sheriff who busted him went before the court and swore that 40 plants were three (the other 37 went into his private fund, I’m sure).  Tom’s sentence was to do community service (this was pre-Nancy Reagan), which translated into him eventually becoming lieutenant of the local volunteer fire department.I first met Tom in 1982 when I was a high school kid who liked the Dead, but knew little else about the scene besides that. Tom was a longtime Deadhead who was very accepting of young heads, rather than being “hipper than thou,” as some “old hippies” are wont to do.  By the mid 1980s, I had taught him how make tie-dyes, he had taught me his specialization, and we were caravanning together on the Dead tour.  It was at this juncture that I began to appreciate the true value of being a member of the VFD. Tom definitely enjoyed making a spectacle of himself.  In public, our boy was about as subtle as a train wreck.  He looked like a cross between Garcia and Genghis Khan, with unkempt hair, matted beard, two arms fully covered with tattoos, “roach clip” manicure on thumb and forefinger, jeans that would stand up by themselves, tie-dye covered with beer spills and riddled with seed burns, etc.  His truck had an A-frame camper built on the back, complete with cedar shake shingles (hence its designation as the “Grateful Shed”).  When parked, the Shed was draped with dyes and a large Steal Your Face flag.  Quite often in the parking lot of a Dead show very pungent smoke was pouring out its back.  Tom’s belly laugh, which was good enough when he was straight, got even better (and louder) under the influence of LSD, KB, and Busch beer, his sacraments of choice. Cheech and Chong movies would have done well to match the reality of the Shed on tour.  Needless to say, this combination of factors often attracted the attention of the boys in blue. So here comes Mr. Law for the _th time this tour, knocking on the door of the camper.  Tom opens the door.  Smoke pours out, Tom’s pupils are big as baseballs, and he is sporting a shit-eating grin, with Busch beer in hand: “Can I help you, officer?”  “Sir, we would like you to put that beer down and show us some identification.”
“Sure, officer.  Hang on a second”  (makes a conspicuous display of pouring beer out and fumbles through pockets, trying to produce wallet without losing ticket or letting anything illegal fall out onto the ground).  “Here’s my driver’s license.” “You know you’re not supposed to have that beer here, and your truck smells kind of odd.” “I’m sorry.”  Tom pauses for effect and casually flips the license in his wallet over.  “Oh yeah, here’s my VFD card, in case you need some more ID.  I’m lieutenant of the local department, ya know” (straightens up and begins to acquire an increasingly Appalachian accent). The cop takes one look at the card, looks at Tom, looks back at the card, and looks at Tom, who begins a long ramble concerning his good deeds in the community.  The conversation takes a turn towards VFDs and anything besides what is really
going on, which is a full-blown party in and around Tom’s camper with no restrictions or rules.  Our “stoned barbarian” has gained instant respectability, due to the unspoken alliance between policemen and firemen. “Enjoy yourself, and remember what I said about the beer.”
“Sure, officer.  Have a nice day, and enjoy the crowd.  They’re a little strange, but they are harmless.” The cop looks back, smiles, shakes his head a time or two, gives himself a reality check, and moves on to hassle some poor unsuspecting head who can’t talk as good a line of b.s. as Tom. I had the opportunity to witness Tom’s VFD act countless times, on and off the Dead tour.  He was a master of finessing the law.  So the moral of the story is: if you are a country hippie weirdo freak dope grower who has an unhealthy compulsion to make a spectacle of your illegal habits, join the VFD!  And don’t forget the Smokey the Bear sticker on the back of your ungodly monstrosity of a truck. 
-August West

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