(part 171) NO PLANS AT ALL

As I write these words in search of my own meaning, and the context of this story as well, I struggle with the garbage I have had to revisit in the past couple of years.

It has not been all that pleasant, at times, doing this. Coupled with health problems and bouts of frustration, I continue the process of deciding, one way or another, what is relevant and what is not.

There is nothing I can do about my past, other than to not repeat it in my daily life, but use it as an example of how not to live.

When I tell you that I hit a women in the face because her rug was more important to her than the fact that I was bleeding from a knife wound, I am not saying I was right; I am telling you what happened as factually as I can.

None of these things by themselves had the power to alter my course in 1975, but collectively, the direction I was headed in was taking a toll on my gut.

I began to see clearly that the person I'd become, and more importantly the person I was becoming, was not acceptable to me in a strict philosophical sense.

I had been rejected so many times, in so many ways, by so many in the past, that I was now guilty of rejecting myself. In short, I was trying to discard or throw away Bobby Jameson and create an entirely different person.

Again, the problem was the person I'd created, and was continuing to create. What I was building in my attempt to replace the old Bobby Jameson, was a far worse version than the one I was trying to get rid of.

Looking into the future, I could see my direction was leading to a tragedy I was unwilling to accept, such as killing someone while loaded, and ending up in prison as a result.

I began asking myself if what I was doing was working for me and my answer was "No!" That gave rise to the next question, which was, "Why the fuck do you keep doing this then?"

I pondered this question in detail, for some time, and decided I didn't know. I did not know why I continued to do that which clearly was not working to make my life better.

This may seem obvious to many, but in my world, this unanswerable question became the key to my actions and decisions in the first few months of 1976.

As stated, I'd begun committing criminal acts in 1975 that included, amongst other things, burglaries. With a guy I'd met earlier through DP, we'd go to hotels in the area with a stolen ring of master keys and rob people's rooms.

On the 1st of April 1976, at about 4 in the morning, I found myself in the lobby of a hotel in Beverly Hills dragging a large piece of stolen luggage across the floor. I was so drunk I could barely stand up, so being cool and not drawing attention to myself was impossible.

As I struggled with the bag, a hotel employee approached me from across the lobby, and I assumed I was about to be busted. Resigning myself to this, I let go of the piece of luggage and waited for the worst.

But what I heard instead was, "Can I help you with that, Sir?" I quickly recovered my composure and answered, "You can get me a cab." He turned toward the main door and and went out and waved for a taxi and returned to where I was standing.

"Let me get that for you sir," he said, and reached down and picked up the bag. I walked out the exit to the cab, waited while he opened the door for me, and I got in.

He asked if I wanted the bag in the trunk, and I said, "No! Put it in here with me." About 30 minutes later I was in the apartment of my partner in crime while he went through the luggage on the floor.

I sat in a chair watching as he examined the items. I studied his reactions and the expression on his face as he handled each stolen piece. While I waited there in silence, a strange feeling came over me and I just wanted to leave.

As the feeling grew stronger, I told him to give me twenty bucks, and he could keep whatever was in the suitcase. "Why?" he asked, "there's a lot of good stuff here, Jameson." "I don't care," I said, "just give me the twenty, and you can have it. I gotta get outta here."

Reluctantly, he gave me the money and I left. It was after 5 in the morning and I headed toward a Mayfair market at Santa Monica Blvd. and Sweetzer in West Hollywood to wait for the liquor department to open at 6 o'clock.

I bought a quart of cheap scotch, went back to the car in the parking lot, and began drinking it in gulps, trying to ward off that feeling that had come over me in the apartment.

It was the second quart of booze in less than twenty-four hours, and I waited for the deadening rush. I had no plans to stop drinking. I had no plans at all.