(part 162) LONG ROAD HOME

LONG ROAD HOME
SEEMS FAR AWAY
LAY DOWN EACH MISERY
COME HOME TO STAY

LOAD OF OLD COTTON
ROLLIN' ALONG
MAKE ME A SOFT BED
SO I CAN GROW STRONG

BEEN ON THIS ROAD
MOST OF MY YEARS
LEFT A LONG TRAIL
OF OLD FRIENDS AND TEARS

GO DOWN VIRGINIA
STAY FOR AWHILE
NOTHIN' EXCITES ME
BUT YOU MAKE ME SMILE

LONG ROAD HOME
SOMEDAY I'LL FIND
JUST KEEP ON WALKIN'
THIS ROAD WILL UNWIND

Bobby Jameson June 1, 2009

(part 161) GETTING SOBER

The more I ran from my problems, the more I carried them with me, like a sack of rocks on my back. I could not escape them because, in essence, I was the problem.

My inability, or my refusal, to see this clearly and honestly, had finally trapped me in a corner where I came face to face with myself.

It was true that much had been done to me that was wrong, but it was truer still that my radical reaction to those wrongs had caused me more difficulty than the wrongs themselves.

I lived in a world of unreasonable demands. Those demands were made by me on myself, as well as on the world around me. The demands I made on myself to keep going at all costs, no matter how much destruction I wrought on my body, mind, and psyche, had to change.

My demands on the world and it's people, to treat me fairly, had to be altered as well. But the simple truth was, that there could be no change unless I came to grips with the central issue, which was my ongoing choice to get loaded and stay loaded.

As long as my reaction to the world at large was fueled by my consumption of alcohol and drugs, as a means to deal with that world, I was doomed to take each problem to the depths of hell, or conversely, to the pinnacle of public absurdity.

This was a bitter reality for me to contemplate, let alone to accept, but as I headed back to L.A., I knew I had all but run out of options.

If I stayed loaded, I would continue my head long assault into self destruction, because under the influence, I did not possess the capacity to maintain a sense of balance about anything. I was little more than a ticking time bomb at that point, waiting to explode.

I do not remember the events that led up to my first attempt at getting sober, but roughly, I approached the issue, out of desperation, sometime in 1974.

My mother's brother, Norm, had been a member of AA for years, so I was familiar with the organization from a distance. I was staying with Carol Paulus, and probably hit another bottom of bad behavior, and was attempting to deal with the situation by promising to get help.

Between the pending legal problems in Nashville, and being threatened with banishment to the streets again, I assume that sobriety began to appear to be my only real choice.

I longed for something better than what I'd had, and the possibility of that seemed to be directly linked to my giving up drugs and alcohol. I don't think I wanted to quit as much as I wanted to get the world off my back.

Stopping drinking was something I knew nothing about, because I'd never tried to do it before. Everything about it was foreign to me, but I managed over time to wean myself off alcohol and the drugs as well.

I used booze to get off the drugs, and then used the booze to get off the booze. I'd drink less and less until I got down to nothing. I was shaky as hell, and felt like an open wound, but managed to keep off the stuff for the time being.

I started going to AA meetings in the Hollywood and L.A. area, and would show up wearing my sense of defeat like an old coat. My failure as a human being flooded my thoughts and left me a nervous wreck. Gone now was the once sharp wit and creative force that I had grown accustomed to and depended on.

Now I was dulled like an unsharp knife, surrounded by the gloomy reality that my dreams were gone, and my life was destined to become one of drudgery and plainness. I sat in rooms full of folding chairs, and listened to the tales of those who inhabited those chairs.

In the stark difference of that picture, contrasted by the life I had been living, I drowned in a sea of regret and desire for that which was no more. I stubbornly stayed, even as I wished to run from those rooms. I did not drink or use, and sought out the promise of better times and things to come.

1974 was prior to the onslaught of the late 70's, when AA was flooded with the eventual masses from the 60's. At the time, I was hailed by no one for attempting to get sober.

If anything, I was ridiculed for the length of my hair and my previous life style. AA was still dominated, for the most part, by the old school drunks from an earlier era, who'd become set in their ways, and were not interested in or moved by my story.

I was expected to get a job, which I did, and pull myself up by my own bootstraps, which meant, forget who I had been, and learn to accept who I was to become. This, in fact, terrified me to no end, because who I was becoming, seemingly had nothing to do with who I was.

I started painting low rent apartments for a contractor on the program named "Blackie" for $5 an hour, and kept at it for as long as I could. I complained about the pain in my feet and ankle, but was dismissed as a whiner by those around me.

I managed to make contact with an attorney on the program, and paid him $300 to deal with my legal issues in Nashville. In short, I did what I was told, and waited for months to feel better, but never did. I just felt out of place and hopeless, and longed for a better way of life.

(part 160) YOU KNOW, PERFORMING

My brother Bill

On the flight back to L.A., I thought a lot about the things that had helped cause me to be in the trouble I was in. Back in Tennessee there were some who were trying to put me in prison for five to ten years for sales of a controlled substance, but here I was on a plane leaving town.

Because DP had grown up in Nashville, and knew a lot of the people in law enforcement, he was able to get permission for me to leave the state temporarily.

I knew that getting loaded was behind most of the crap I did, and was the central cause behind the continuing chaos, but there were other factors as well.

Looking out the window at the horizon, I knew I'd have to come back to Nashville at some point, or keep running, but right then I was reluctant to entertain either choice.

I was truly aware at that moment that I'd gotten myself into deep shit, and that "the police are out to get you" paranoia was now clawing its way into my brain.

The last time I'd felt this way was when I was running away from L.A. to get to Nashville. Now I was running away from Nashville to get back to L.A., and for the same kinds of reasons, bad decisions while loaded.

* * *

As I looked further back into my past, and the causes for what I did and why I was the way I was, I remembered Tucson, Arizona in 1957. My then stepfather Don Macdonald, and my older brother Bill did not get along at all, ever.

Bill, who was epileptic at the time, was taking phenobarbital for the epilepsy. Well phenobarbital is a barbiturate and can make you think you're bigger and badder than you may be.

So on a morning before going off to school, Alice Vail Jr. High, Bill and my stepfather, Don, got into a flat out fist fight in the kitchen. I mean it was like a fucking street fight on linoleum. They both got their licks in, but in the end Don was just too big for Bill to beat, so he had to concede the issue to my stepfather.

My part, other than terrified bystander, was to stand on a kitchen chair after the fight, and clean the blood splatters off the wall in the breakfast nook connected to the kitchen.

I stood on the chair with a damp sponge and wiped the walls down, removing the evidence of what had just happened to my morning. I remember feeling dazed and confused as I watched my arm go back and forth across the wall like a windshield wiper.

Shortly, I was on the bus headed off to Alice Vail Jr. Jail as we liked to call it. I just stared out the window and saw nothing except the instant replay in my head of Bill and Don beating the crap out of each other in the kitchen.

I could hear the yelling and swearing, and feel the anger and hatred the two of them felt toward each other, surging through my whole body. Later that day in school, I was reprimanded for staring out the window and day dreaming instead of studying. "Day dreaming, shit!" I was in semi-shock all day long, maybe all life long.

* * *

Staring out the window of the plane was like staring out the window of the bus that morning back in 1957. I looked out, but saw nothing except the inside of my head, and the world of bad memories that had haunted my every step since then.

My thoughts during the flight were a lot like they had always been, full of regrets and promises, and an undying resolve to somehow make it better. So far, I had not done anything but make it worse.

I didn't have any plan for what I'd do when I got to L.A., or where I'd go when I got there. I hoped I could get Carol Paulus to take me in since I hadn't seen her in quite awhile, and hoped she would be glad to hear from me, and maybe agreeable to having me around.

I vowed to be on my best behavior, and hoped I could maintain some sort of balance for a reasonable length of time. Other than that, I was like I'd always been, just show up and smile a lot, you know, "performing."

(part 159) I INHERIT BUT THE WIND

I INHERIT
BUT THE WIND
EMPTY AIR
AN EMPTY TIN
COBBLESTONES
OF DESTINY
THE FUTURE WAITS
DIRECTING ME

I THE PAYER
OF THE TOLL
HEAVY BURDEN
ON MY SOUL
I WHO COME
AGAIN, AGAIN
I INHERIT
BUT THE WIND

THIS MY SPACE
AGAINST THE WALL
OF RECKLESS TIMES
THAT COME TO CALL
ASK ME NOW
WHERE I HAVE BEEN
I INHERIT
BUT THE WIND

Robert Parker Jameson April 20, 2009

(part 158) GET ME TO THE PLANE ON TIME

I was bailed out of jail almost immediately, and assumed that it was by someone connected to DP, who didn't think it was a good idea to leave me in there too long, for fear I would get pissed off and cut a deal to get out.

Since DP knew I had the information about where the cocaine came from, I guess getting me out and on the street, was of primary importance to him. I hadn't said anything, but still, I'm sure he didn't want to take any chances.

The whole ordeal turned me off about Nashville, and I started making noise about going back to L.A. There was the pending legal matter of course, but I now felt about Nashville the way I'd felt about Los Angeles and Hollywood before I left there.

I was too conspicuous to be comfortable. I guess the guy Hugh, who'd set me up, was none too popular at that point either, since it was now known that he was the snitch. Anyway my problem was not him, it was me.

Because I was loaded all the time, it is hard to recall everything that happened back then, but soon after this event I secured a one-way plane ticket back to L.A., and was given permission to leave the state; Dp had friends in the District Attorney's office.

He also had a friend who was a Nashville cop. The reason I bring this up is to show how both sides were intermingled, and because on the day I was to fly back to the west coast, I found myself running way behind schedule.

I was so late in fact, that it appeared it would be impossible for me to get to the airport in time to make the flight. That's when DP's buddy, the policeman, said "I'll get you there on time, Bobby, let's take the cruiser."

The cruiser was a Nashville police car. I hopped in the passenger seat and buckled up, for what promised to be an extraordinary ride to to the airport with plenty of time to spare.

As we made our way into traffic he turned on the flashing lights and siren, and barreled through city streets and then onto the freeway.

At about a 110 miles an hour, cars and trucks were pulling to the side to let us through. I was amused by this, because I knew it was nothing more than me, the loaded has-been pop star, just out of jail, headed to the airport, with a ticket paid for by a cocaine dealer, who was my friend, and his friend the cop was driving me there. "What a trip!" I thought, "What a fucking trip!"

After a harrowing ride we pulled into the airport and up to a no parking section near the front door of my airline. I turned to DP's friend, laughing, and said "That's the best Goddamn ride in a cop car I ever had."

He shook my hand, smiling, and said "You take care Bobby, and say hi to all them pretty California girls for me, will ya?" "yeah," I said, "I'll do that, and thanks for the ride and all your help."

I stepped out on the walkway and waved one more time as he drove back into traffic. "What a ride!" I thought, "Man that was fun!"

I stared out the window of the plane from twenty thousand feet, and knew something had to change. My life had become nothing more than a long continuous drunk at that point, peppered with catastrophe after catastrophe.

I thought again about the idea of stopping drinking and using, and it made me shudder way down deep inside, but it wouldn't stop gnawing at me.

It had become overwhelmingly obvious that drinking and using had gotten completely out of control in my life. I looked back over the past decade of my existence, and could see clearly the connection between calamity and my using.

It was literally a miracle that I wasn't dead, and amazing that I hadn't been locked up for a long time in either a prison, jail, or nut house. I could see that it was only a matter of time, though, if I continued on my current path.

I wondered if I really could stop drinking and using? I didn't know. I'd never even tried before, and wasn't really sure I wanted to. Getting loaded for me was the only way I could start a day, get through it, and end it. I didn't know how to do anything else.

I stared at the drink on the tray in front of my seat. I reached out and picked up the plastic glass of scotch and water and took a drink. It was like shaking hands with the last friend I had on the planet, really, it was that important to me.

Whatever I was going to do, I knew one thing for sure at that moment. I wasn't going to stop right then, and I was pretty damn sure I wasn't going to stop that particular day.

I listened to the hum of the plane's engines and stared out at the sky as I settled back in my seat on my way west. Back to Los Angeles and Hollywood.

(part 157) BUSTED FOR SALES OF COCAINE IN NASHVILLE

WANTED

In Nashville, I began realizing that I was living to drink and drinking to live. One day, when I was lying on a bed, I heard an audible voice say, in a completely empty room, "You're an alcoholic."

It scared the crap out of me, and I figured God himself had uttered the words out loud personally, because there was no one there except me. Nothing else was said, just, "You're an alcoholic!"

After it happened, I looked through every part of that room for the source of the voice; under the bed, in the closet, in the bathroom, etc. I was on the second floor, so I knew no one had said it from an open window trying to screw with my head.

This didn't cause me to stop drinking, but it did implant, for the first time, a sense that drinking had become a serious problem for me. It was now a conscious realization that I never forgot from that day on; I was an alcoholic.

During this time in Nashville, I acquired some cocaine from DP so I could sell it and make some money; It was a quarter ounce of coke. I set up a time and place to meet some guy named Hugh on a lonely back road at night.

This turned out to be a full-fledged disaster. Not only was it dark, and completely unfamiliar to me, I'd borrowed somebody else's car to get there.

It was out in the country, but it appeared to be completely safe when I drove up. I waited around for awhile for Hugh, and when he got there, I pulled out the coke so he could sample it. He snorted a line, and within minutes said he'd buy some.

After giving me a couple of hundred bucks, Hugh said he was in a hurry and had to leave. He watched me put what coke I had left, which was in a small bottle, underneath the dashboard, and then drove off.

Feeling good about making some money, I started the car and swung around to head back down the deserted road to Nashville. But all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, flashing blue lights appeared in my rearview mirror.

"Shit," I said out loud, "That asshole set me up!" I pulled to the side of the road, turned off the engine, and waited for my world to fall apart, again.

Sure enough, two plainclothes undercover narcs were on me in an instant. They yanked open the door and dragged me out of the car with their guns drawn, screaming at me to lie face down on the ground.

As I lay with my face in the dirt, one of them pulled my arms around to my back and handcuffed me. He then pulled me up on my knees and continued to scream that I was a piece of shit dope dealer.

I said nothing, and watched as the other one searched the car. I thought I'd been set up, and became convinced of it, when the guy searching the car seemed to know exactly where to look for the bottle of coke, which Hugh had seen me put there before he split.

I thought to myself, "Hugh must have been in deep shit with the law and made a deal with them to save his own ass. What a punk!"

The cops called a tow truck to haul the car I was driving. They put me into their car and headed back to town to the Nashville City Jail.

I stared out the window of the police car, and once again felt as though my life was over. To get busted for drug sales in the South, I thought, was about as bad as it could get, particularly if you were from California, which I was.

We pulled up to the Nashville jail, and I saw for the first time a nine or ten story building that was in part being renovated. I was taken into an office for interrogation, where I sat for a couple of hours and was repeatedly asked where I'd gotten the cocaine I'd sold.

I wouldn't tell them where I got it, because DP was the source, and I wasn't about to give up that info. I told them I'd bought it from some guy on the street, and stuck to that story.

Finally they got fed up with my answers and moved me into a multi-prisoner cell with about fifty or sixty other guys.

I was just in time for chow, which consisted of two pieces of half-stale white bread, a single slice of warm bologna, and a single slice of processed cheese. To drink, we were given watered down cold coffee, served in a garbage can, set in the middle of the cell floor.

While I was in that jail, a young black kid worked his way around some loose-fitting steel plates that covered the windows at the time they were being re-barred. He either fell, jumped, or was thrown nine stories to his death.

The rumor was that he wanted out of the place bad. He was so afraid of being locked up in that white man's jail, that he either committed suicide, or, as I said, was thrown from the window by someone else.

It was a piss poor place, believe me, and I was white.