WTBA was having a contest. First prize was a weeks vacation in Indianapolis. Second prize was two weeks. They were a new radio station, hungry for publicity. To kick off their grand opening they sponsored a parade in downtown Indianapolis on Halloween. The centerpiece of this parade was a 100 member marching band made up entirely of tubas. I got in on this, because when you are a performing musician, a gig is a gig. I contacted Harvey Phillips, who was running this shin-dig. He issued me a map and a uniform. My uniform was a baby-blue tuxedo. We met in a parking lot in downtown Indianapolis at 9:00 p.m. in an empty parking lot. All 100 of us lined up in rows of 5 (to make us look bigger) and then we marched. What can I say, a parade is a parade. When we got to the Hoosier Dome where we were fed brats and beer and turned loose.
Now, there is this story about two tuba players who walked past a bar. Well, it could happen. You can imagine this crew of ruffians in blue tuxedos carrying tubas carousing the streets of downtown Indianapolis at 11:00 p.m. on Halloween. We did eventually find the parking lot. It was only then that I realized that I had locked my keys in the car. Immediately a dozen hooligans volunteered to break into the vehicle. Things like locked doors never stopped a bunch of drunken tuba players before. I was driving a 16-year-old Pontiac, so there was little chance of them damaging the car. That thing was a tank. To my surprise, this band of pirates was having no luck.
It was then that one of Indy's finest came riding up. The Indianapolis Police ride horses downtown. Imagine the scene. There is brass plumbing scattered all over the ground. A dozen pickled and disheveled young men in baby blue tuxedoes are molesting a car in a parking lot at midnight on Halloween.
The officer asked if he could help. I explained that I had locked my keys in the car and we were trying to get in.
"This is your vehicle?"
"Uh, yes. Can you help me get the doors open?"
He did not have his lock pick with him, but told me to go to the police substation in the next block. Perhaps someone there could help me. Everyone left and I grabbed up my tuba and began walking down the street. The substation had a window like a Chinese Carry-out. The lady behind the counter told me the lock-jimmy was being used. Then she asked, "Do you have AAA?"
"Of course."
"They'll open the door for you."
"Uh, can I use your phone?" I called AAA and gave them directions.
"How will we know you?" they asked.
"I'm wearing a powder-blue tux and am carrying a tuba."
AAA said they would be there within the hour. I sat on the curb, played "Old Man River" and "Amazing Grace" on the tuba, and waited until they arrived. I got home about 1:00 a.m. feeling really stupid. I could no long tell my brass from my oboe. But, whenever any of the tubists would remind me of that night, I would tell them to blow it out their brass.