Busted!!

What a dunce! My first foray into the criminal mind and I totally was a dumbass. "Criminal mind," isn't that an oxymoron?

At any rate da fuzz busted me in Shreveport, Louisiana. What made it even worse was the fact that I had my cousin, Gail, with me and he was clueless as to what was going down. I screamed loud and long that he had nothing to do with it and they turned him loose without ever locking him up. Whew!

The charge was burglary of a government building (post office), forgery and uttering. Uttering. That still sounds weird. When I asked about the uttering charge I was told that since I passed the check I'd ripped off as mine it was "uttering" that it was mind, whether I actually "said" that it was. Boggles the mind.

This is the chapter which leads me into a few decades of stomping through the highways and alleyways of America looking for whatever was out there to find. I wanted nothing but the freedom to roam, fuck the rest . . . Although, to this day I am sorry for doing what I did, and who I did it to, to get me arrested that morning in Shreveport, it was a blessing, sorta, in disguise. The aftermath of the arrest, my flight to avoid prosecution and eventually my incarceration, would result in me acquiring the skills which made me more than just a road bum, unless that was what I wanted to be.

The strange saga of the love/hate affair of Jerry+mother+Taylor is one for the cards. A lifetime of blame and love and shame bubbled and boiled inside my brain. Add to that cauldron my headlong path toward destruction, and you have a pretty good idea what my life has been for a good chunk of it. I cannot blame everything I have done on someone else, that is foolish, but the fact is some dominate parents are so overwhelming dominate, to the point of being characterized as a bad parent. My mother was that. She could also be loving. But even when she was into her "loving" mood I was always wary. I knew the other shoe would drop, or in my mother's case, the other shoe would be planted square up my butt. Therefore her loving moments were overshadowed by fear of what seethed behind her loving facade.

I hate to dwell on my mother. I feel it make me sound like a spoiled little boy who is whining, but facts are facts and they shall not be denied in the story. How could I write my story without giving Georgia Orean Bolton her just due? I can't . . .

I'll be back tomorrow . . .

My Novels:

Write To Murder . . . http://www.lulu.com/content/956621

Margaret and David: A Love Story . . . http://www.lulu.com/content/1072842

My Mother's Revenge . . . http://www.lulu.com/content/1132742