Lockdown. Almost.

I have a little time on my hands like most people these days. Sometimes to amuse myself, I dig back into my past and view some of my life events like they were movies. It takes little effort as I have a type of episodic memory that can retrieve events in detail, complete with sounds, smells, even tastes if relevant. My brother does the same thing, even better, I think, than me. It wouldn’t surprise me if he remembered what I had for breakfast on September 15th, 1972.
Here’s one of my “movies” I played back recently.

In January of 1975, I joined a group called The Doug Sullivan Band. They were a Bar band that worked every week, partly because they were pretty good but mostly because they wore maroon velvet tuxedos that were retired rentals purchased from Syd Silvers for fifteen bucks each. I got the job because I was the same size as the guy leaving. When we played the Chateau Laurier in Ottawa, we looked like the drapes hanging in the lobby.
Long haired rockers in suits. Wolves in sheep’s clothing was how I came to think of this band, but that’s a different story.
I was with them for just seven months but there were many antics both sublime and ridiculous in that era.
In February, we had a two-week booking at a club in the Toronto area. The only place the manager would allow us to change was a small room near the bar where the safe was.
Things went fine for both weeks, and on the last night we made a deal with the owner to let us leave our equipment there until Monday morning. We would arrive with a rental truck to get the gear up to Peterborough, our next gig.
We all left together to walk to the bus stop, but twenty paces out I doubled back because I hadn’t done a final check of the dressing room. A staff member unlocked the door and let me in. I had a look around our little cell and caught back up with the guys. We agreed to meet at the York Mills subway station at 11 am Monday. The bass player, Bruce, would pick us up in the rental van, we’d grab the equipment from the place and head to the next gig.
When we got to the club, we saw three police cruisers in the parking lot and a bustle of activity just outside the front doors. When we parked and walked over, a cop turned and said, “Can I help you?”
“We’re the band that played here last week. We came to pick up our equipment,” said Doug. “What’s going on?”
The cop had a little conference with the bar owner, then turned back to us and said,
“A bag with a lot of money was sitting on the safe in that room you guys were using. It’s missing.”
“Oh shit,” I said under my breath. The staff saw me return early Sunday morning and go back into that room.
“There was close to fifty thousand dollars in that bag. Let’s go inside.”
The interrogation began. We were all questioned, but I got the deluxe package. It was the old bad cop and good cop routine, although these guys must have skipped school the day it was taught at the academy.
BC (bad cop): You, in particular, are under suspicion. Where’s the money?
Me: I didn’t take it.
BC: You didn’t answer the question!
Me: How would I know where it is if I didn’t take it?
BC: You on the Big H? Need the money for your habit?
I swear, he really did say that. But he topped it with an even better zinger.
BC: You could go to the Crowbar Hotel!
As nervous and intimidated as I was, I still had to stifle a laugh. Picture it. Here I am, a somewhat diminutive long-haired kid being drilled by the GTA’s large, sweaty, overweight version of Buford Pusser, accusing me of grand theft, and I think it’s funny.
At this point, another officer, who, like his buddy, looked like he’d just rolled out of bed but at least had the back of his shirt tucked in, pulled up a chair and said with a smile:
GC (good cop): Hello Michael. I know how it is to be young and broke. The temptation to take a bag of cash would be, well, overwhelming.
Me: I didn’t take it.
GC: Why not do the right thing and tell us where it is? If you’ve already spent some of it, we can arrange payments.
There’s no way he could miss the look of incredulity on my face. I was starting to think there were hidden cameras and half-imagined that Alan Funt would jump out shouting, “SMILE! You’re on …”
The two policemen had another huddle with the owner, and after some whispering that sounded like three old Irish ladies at a drunkard’s funeral, the good cop turned to us and said, “You’re free to go.”
We never heard another thing from the police.
Months later, someone told us that it was an inside job. Duh.