1966...several guys (who were probably losing at poker and needed a break) volunteered to take Mike to McDonald's.

(I digress for a moment to pay tribute to that icon of teenage life in the mid-west during the 1960's: McDonald's drive-in restaurant. About the only thing similar to today's media-blitzing, world renowned, fast food giant is the golden arches. Back then it was an unassuming, white enameled building, with walkup windows where orders were placed and the flashing sign said "Over 2 Million Sold." However, no self-respecting Redford Township teenager with a driver's license went anywhere without checking out the action at McDonald's. Although casual in appearance, this was a carefully orchestrated ritual. The cars were always backed in the parking spaces so everyone could see who was cruising and each cruiser could determine if the current clientele was the right crowd to be seen with. Once ensconced, an entire evening could pass before relinquishing a coveted spot to the next cruiser. The drama played out there was intense: romances formed, blossomed, and dissolved, philandering boyfriends looked for new conquests, objects of their desires were scorned and ridiculed by the offended girlfriends, fights broke out among bitter enemies. The only way to be in the know was to be at McDonald's, and the hours I wasted there alone could have gone a long way toward a complete medical school degree. But, back to the story ... )

About an hour later, the guys who had taken Mike to McDonald's returned, wild-eyed with the story that Mike had gotten into a scuffle with the rent-a-cop on duty there. It had looked like big trouble, but some of the boys managed to wrestle Mike into the car and sped off before the real police arrived.

Instead of sobering up, Mike was in an even fouler mood. Evidently, he had lost his watch during the scuffle when the rent-a-cop's nightstick hit him in the arm. Before he had even realized it was gone, he had been spirited off. Now he was pissed. He roamed around the house grumbling about getting his watch back. Finally, after almost picking a fight with an unsuspecting reveler, someone volunteered to drive him back to McDonald's, just to get him out of the house. A few others went with them to try to head off any trouble (either that or they were losing and needed an excuse to leave).

It was closing in on 1:00 AM and the games were in high gear. Although most of us completely forgot about the little party that had ventured forth with Mike, we were glad that he was out of our hair so we could get on with some serious poker. Actually, I can't even remember if I won or lost any money that night ... in fact the images of that evening swirl into a surrealistic blur of fullhouses, straights to the Jack, Heart flushes, piles of dimes, quarters, and dollar bills, beer bottles everywhere, laughter, moans, swearing, and the air thick with cigarette and cigar smoke.

Eventually, the party wound down, most of those who could still walk left (in those days, we selfishly never gave a thought to the menace we often presented to others and ourselves on the road), the rest fell-out here or there around the house. I mercifully closed my eyes around 4:00, never giving a thought that we had not heard from Mike and the boys. I suppose subconsciously I just figured that they had run into some girls or something and finished out the night in a drunken stupor somewhere else.

The next thing I realized was somebody shaking me violently and yelling for me to get up! As I slowly regained consciousness and became aware of my surroundings, one of my friends, Bill, who had left earlier with Mike et al, was shouting in my face, "Get up man, Mike's been shot!"

I recognized Bill's face but I had a hard time putting a name with it. The words that were coming out of his mouth were struggling through a thick haze to my brain, which was desperately trying to gain equilibrium. The sun was up, so it was daytime, but what day? I began to recognize things around me as familiar items... so I began to accept the fact that I was in my own room ... but how had I gotten there ... and how long had I been there? And what the hell were those words I kept hearing, "Mike's been shot!"

I finally managed to sit up right and muster a response.

"What?" It wasn't profound, but it was the best I could do.

"Mike was shot, man. At McDonald's. Last Night."

It was hard enough getting me coherent, let alone to comprehend that one of our comrades had fallen in battle. Bill was obviously getting frustrated trying to get me to understand what he was saying. Dim memories of the previous evening began to appear. The guys ... cards ... Mike being obnoxious and stumbling around ... the little party that took him to McDonald's to find a watch. Mike had been shot?

"Dead?" It seemed a logical question.

"Not yet. At least I don't think so. At least he wasn't last night. He's in a hospital right now." "Come on, you're bullshitting me, right?"

"No shit. I'm telling you he was shot ... by the rent-a-cop ... at McDonald's. Listen to the news!

Bill reached over and flipped on the radio in my bedroom and moved the dial up and down until he found a station with the news on. Sure enough, the announcer proclaimed that a youth had been shot and wounded at a local McDonald's restaurant. It was incredible! Absolutely the biggest thing that had ever happen in our quiet little suburban world.

After standing back awed at the radio broadcast for several minutes, I regained my sensibilities and demanded a thorough explanation of what happened. Bill told me that Mike and entourage went back at McDonald's shortly after it closed for the evening. The interior lights were still on, so Mike decided to go to the employees entrance, and see if anyone had found his watch. Just as he approached the rear of the restaurant, the off-duty rent-a-cop was exiting through the door. Mike spotted him and started to approach, asking why he had hit him. According to Bill, Mike was not threatening, merely inquiring. But the rent-a-cop mistook his behavior as aggressive, panicked and pulled a concealed .32 revolver from under his shirt and started shooting. The guys stood watching, bug-eyed, as Mike first stopped in his tracks, spun around, staggered a few steps and collapsed. The cop stared too, for a second, then disappeared back into the restaurant.

Mike lay on his back in the parking lot. Finally, someone had the presence of mind to attend to him. Not until they actually saw a bullet hole in Mike's stomach did they begin to realize what they had just seen. Stuff like that just didn't happen in suburbia ... we read about it all the time in the newspapers or heard about it on the radio or TV, but here ... in Redford Township? No way.

But it did happen here ... six shots had connected ... one in each arm, the one in the stomach, and three in the back. Miraculously, Mike was still breathing. Apparently, the relatively small caliber slugs had not hit anything vital, but he certainly was the worse for the wear. Someone inside the restaurant had called the police and within a short time they, along with an ambulance, arrived on the scene. Once Mike was on his way to the hospital, the police turned their attention to the witnesses. They took all the guys whom were there with Mike downtown for questioning. Finally letting them go around 8:00 in the morning.

It was fresh from the police station that Bill had returned to my house and so rudely awakened me to tell what had happened. We listened to the news report a dozen times and played the scene over and over, hoping to make some sense out of it. How could this have happened? Did Mike do anything to provoke the cops response? Sure Mike was big (maybe 6‘4" and about 210 lbs.), and sure he was drunk, and sure he was walking ominously toward the guy, but he only wanted to know where his watch was. We never considered that the cop was maybe half Mike's size, had already had a run-in with him, and was probably scared to death by this hulking, rambling, menacing figure lurching at him. No, this was a clear-cut case of police brutality. (I never did get the story straight as to what happened to the rent-a-cop, but apparently the police believed it was enough of a case of self-defense not to press any assault charges.)

But even though we convinced ourselves that the rent-a-cops reaction was totally uncalled for, we knew deep down that nothing like this would have happened to one of us. We'd been in some scrapes before ... but nothing of this magnitude. This was big time. But then Mike was not really one of the guys. He was an interloper in a group that had known each other from childhood. When Mike came on the scene, the old rules no longer applied.

We still didn't know if he would pull through ... he had been severely wounded ... and it was a day or two before we found out for sure that he would make it, although he would be in the hospital for several weeks.

We went to visit Mike occasionally during those weeks. I guess we felt especially bad that he had no real family around. But, we weren’t the only one's interested in Mike's health ... attorneys representing McDonald’s were calling on him, evidently hoping to fend off a major law suit. They offered to pay all the medical bills and give a $50,000 cash settlement. That was probably no where near what he could have collected, but it was a lot of money in those days and it certainly was more than Mike had ever seen and it was hassle free, so he went for the deal. All he had to do was wait a few weeks until all the paperwork was completed and he could start a new life with a $50,000 nest egg.

That would have been a nice ending, but, unfortunately, the story goes on...