Jesse's Story

By Morri NamastA(c)

Jesse lived a tortured life characterized by mental illness and drug addiction. He developed a criminal lifestyle but was not very good at it. This is a story of his coming to grips with the consequences of his behaviors and his attempts to right his wrongs. While this is a true tale, certain events have been fictionalized to protect the privacy of those affected by Jesse's struggles. This is a tale of suffering and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781638819226

Book preview

Prologue

The story you are about to read is a true one—kind of. It is based on my brother’s, Howard’s, life. Adopted as a newborn from a mother of rather dubious exploits, he came into the world with life stacked against him. While not much is known about his genetic influences, his birth mother was said to have been a drug addict and an alcoholic. Although raised by loving parents, he exhibited symptomology that babies born to drug-addicted and alcoholic parents frequently exhibit. Howard was extremely intelligent and unbelievably charismatic. Learning in school was always difficult, and once introduced to drugs, he left school. Despite help from others and in spite of him being a rather inept criminal (he always seemed to get caught), he managed to stay in touch with others and did accomplish some feats of renown.

Certain liberties have been taken by the author to protect the confidentiality of others. Should all lives be celebrated even if the life lived was fraught with problems? I think so.

Chapter 1

What a Long, Strange Trip

See here how everything lead up to this day. And it’s just like any other day, that’s ever been.

—Grateful Dead, "Black Peter"

An atmosphere of warmth and joy filled the air as the crowd slowly left Red Rocks Amphitheater. The first of two scheduled Grateful Dead shows had just ended with the promise of an even better show the following night. Most of the concertgoers would return. That’s what Deadheads do. Those in the upper seats had been thrilled at the spectacular light show during a rousing rendition of Fire on the Mountain as lightning filled the sky over the plains east of the venue. The band and those in the lower rows could only imagine what the oohs and aahs were about. Once during the show, the band slowed things down considerably as some spaced-out fool climbed up on the rocks and teetered on the brink of disaster before being gently coaxed down by the crowd and security personnel. It all worked out just fine except, perhaps, not so much for the hippie climber.

Red Rocks was, and is, the premier concert venue in the world. Nestled in the foothills west of Denver near the small town of Morrison, it is a geological wonder. Inaugurated in the early 1900s with a brass band and opera performances, it began to expand its usage. Originally known as the Garden of the Angels, it was purchased by the City of Denver in the 1920s and was gradually transformed into an amphitheater by 1941. The Beatles played there in 1964. It became a sought-after rock-and-roll venue although these acts were suspended for five years due to a bastion of unruly and unticketed fans trying to enter a Jethro Tull concert in 1971. Most concertgoers blamed the police for their overly zealous response. The venue became a favorite place for the Dead and their faithful.

It was July 7, 1978, and Jesse Hobarth was worn out after a dizzying night of music with one more to go. The band liked to settle into a place for a few days before shoving off to some other scene. The places were different, but many of the fans—Deadheads, as they were called—were the same. They tended to follow the band around like sheep.

Jesse had traveled westward from Philly with a couple of like-minded buddies to catch the shows. While his friends spent an uncomfortable night splayed out in their car in the upper parking lot at Red Rocks, Jesse bummed a ride into Morrison. He attached himself to some fellow Deadheads and crashed with them in a room in a guesthouse. The town was brimming with out-of-towners. Tents sprung up in backyards. Makeshift shelters were constructed wherever there was space. Townspeople and local law enforcement were taxed for a few days due to piles of garbage and general debauchery, but there was rarely any violence. Deadheads tended not to contribute much to the local economy—they bring most of what they would need with them—and that was likely the major source of unease on the part of the locals.

Jesse Hobarth was a music lover. Or at least he loved the idea of loving music. At the ripe young age of twenty-two, he made it a point to attend as many concerts as he could. While his preference was the Grateful Dead, any concert would do. His first Dead concert happened at the too-young age of thirteen on July 28, 1973, at Watkins Glen, New York. Such a precarious time to be introduced to the drug culture that was so much a part of the Dead experience. Marijuana was fine, but LSD was an entirely different matter. His trip that weekend was too much. Found face down in a ditch and mumbling something unintelligible, he was taken to the hospital. He recovered quickly after an injection of Thorazine, an antipsychotic drug used in the treatment of acute psychosis. He was taken to jail, where the authorities contacted his foster parents in Philly. They sat with him in court, none too pleased, where he was charged with drug possession. It was his first time in court. It would not be his last. Returning to his foster home, he told his parents he had learned his lesson. But they had had enough. He was sent off to his third, or was it his fourth, new forever home. Such was his life.

Waking up in the morning of the third concert amidst strewn bodies slowly gearing up for the next concert, Jesse wandered into a small greasy-spoon breakfast joint. There he spotted the band’s drummer, Mickey Hart.

Hey, Mickey, how ya doin’?

Mickey looked up from his Denver omelet, obviously bothered by this unwelcomed intrusion into his morning affairs. Nevertheless, he nodded at this exuberant fellow dressed in patched jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt.

Hey, everybody, it’s Mickey, Jesse boisterously announced to the few egg eaters in the joint.

All right. Enough. Fuck off, dude. I’m busy.

C’mon, Mick. You know we all love ya. Give us some love back.

Mickey threw the middle finger salute. How’s that for some love?

Big man, Jesse responded. Well, fuck off too. He felt very much at home.

Jesse knew he had been to the concert. He just couldn’t remember any specifics. That was almost always the case. But he knew it was a good one. They always were. However, massive amounts of pot, cocaine, speed, and alcohol, followed by a generous dose of quaaludes to ease into sleep, affected his memory. He knew this cocktail of sorts messed with his brain. He didn’t care. This is just what Deadheads did at concerts. But for Jesse, this is just what he always did, concerts or not.

Jesse found a seat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee from Betty, the not-so-friendly waitress who wore her name on a pin stuck to her uniform. With twenty bucks left in his wallet, he went cheap.

That all you want? muttered Betty.

Deadheads did not tip well. He fortified his coffee with ten packets of sugar knowing, by habit, that this boost of caffeine and sweets would get him back to alert status.

He drank it quickly, as he did with everything, and muttered quietly, Now that’s the shits. Almost as good as a line.

See ya tonight, Mickey, he howled as he opened the door and made his way out into the fresh air.

He felt fortified. Jesse was always fortified. It was who he had become, and he liked it.

Jesse was well experienced in these matters, and he was always on the lookout for more drugs, which were never hard to find. Deadheads tended to be well stocked. It was easy to bum a ride back to the Rocks. He could have walked if he was of that mind, but why bother? Always looking for the easy way.

Meeting fellow Deadheads and partaking in their generosity made the ride back to the Rocks even more enjoyable. Nothing like a beat-up old VW van with painted flowers on the doors filled to the brim with hippie chicks and dudes, the aroma of marijuana ever present.

Yeah, this is some really fine herb, Jesse intoned to his new friends. Best ever. Well-rolled joints too, he added, not really knowing or caring if this indeed was the case.

He knew how to make others feel good. And it was in his best interest to do so.

What a great concert. The boys were really on, Jesse added.

Everybody nodded in agreement.

One long-haired, bearded guy wearing faded jeans and tie-dyed T-shirt said, That was the best version of Black Peter I ever heard.

Yeah, countered Jesse, it was something special. He thought to himself, They played "Black Peter"?

He couldn’t recall. This was the price he paid for his indulgences.

He looked for an opportunity, and when the designated joint roller’s attention turned away, he quickly and quietly pocketed a couple. He was offered some acid by a very friendly young hippie girl in a flower-themed flowing skirt.

No, thanks, Jesse responded. I’m hooked up, but if you have a couple of joints to spare, I’d surely appreciate it. He merely added them to his already-pilfered stash.

Once the van chugged its way to the upper parking lot, Jesse took off in search of his buddies. Hippies and freaks were everywhere. The parking lot scene was just as trippy as the concerts—the aroma of marijuana ever apparent and Deadheads hawking T-shirts, organic foods of many varieties, and pipes. He walked by a makeshift stand and quickly