Two weeks later, another unsolicited letter from Kenny arrived in my mailbox. Enclosed was an autographed photo of Charles Manson. Kenny apologized for writing, but said that he couldn’t resist, since Donald had written so extensively to him about me, and Kenny had gotten the impression I would be a cool guy to talk to. Kenny would write one more time before I made the decision to write back. He asked for my phone number, because he promised he could get Manson to call me as soon as Manson got out of the hole. It took a few days of serious introspection before I decided to send along my phone number. It had been at least fifteen years since I’d participated in any meaningful conversation through letters. It made more sense to talk on the phone.
It was incredible to think I might have scored the opportunity to talk to Charles Manson. I began to go through his letters once more and decided it would be fascinating to include some of Manson’s more mystical ideas in my book. The aim would be to assist people in feeling a sort of connectedness to all people, even those they find evil or repulsive. I wanted to collect a few of his more insightful quotations and list them anonymously, hiding the author’s identity until the reader turned the page to find that the man who’d harvested his or her empathy was really Charles Manson. Of course I highly doubted that Manson would ever call me; I wasn’t even sure this Kenny character knew Manson.
Kenny called. And called, and called. The first phone bill was shocking, because inmates have to call collect, and it can cost upwards of twenty-five dollars each time they do. It does not take long for those charges to add up. To a prisoner, a phone number is a precious lifeline. Some inmates are meticulous in negotiating their real world relationships and are usually very careful not to “burn up” a phone number. Kenny, on the other hand, would call constantly, sometimes ten, fifteen times a day. I’d deliberately give Kenny my work schedule to ward off some of his excessive phone calls, but he would call me anyway, even when he knew I wasn’t home. I think he did this in order to look important in his prison unit, as if he were doing business, as if he had people to talk to. Once, he called at an hour he expected me to be out, and when I picked up the phone, he asked, “What are you doing home?” I doubt Kenny has any idea what it’s like to pay rent and manage responsibilities. And it is impossible to reason with him. I’m sure he struggles with some obsessive-compulsive behaviors and he has no attention span. For all of these reasons, he can be a bit exhausting. But, and this is a big but, I think he means well.
Kenny’s criminal history is, remarkably, pretty unremarkable. He started out serving time in the California Youth Authority around the age oftwelve for petty crimes like theft. After spending most of his adolescence bouncing in and out of jail, he joined the Marine Corp in an attempt to turn his life around. But after his time in the service ended, he fell right back into his old life and discovered methamphetamine, his drug of choice. Kenny also got into cocaine and a “little bit” of heroin. In 1988, Kenny ended up in the San Bernardino County Jail, sentenced to eight years for three counts of burglary. After his release from San Bernardino County Jail, Kenny ended up in Nevada, where he got caught up in a suspicious death investigation. According to Kenny, he had gone to a girl’s house to hang out, not knowing there was a dead body in the building. The girl had been responsible for the care of an elderly lady, who eventually died from neglect and whose corpse sat in the home, untouched, for twenty-one days. When the girl got busted, Kenny got taken away too. Since Kenny was an informant against the Mexican Mafia, and had a contract out on his life, he made his new home in Soledad California Prison on the PHU (Protective Housing Unit). But, due to California prison budget cuts, the Soledad PHU eventually closed, and Kenny was transferred to Corcoran PHU, where he’s been ever since. Kenny told me several stories about the celebrity prisoners he’s hung with during his time at Corcoran: “I use to hang out with Juan Corona. I’ve known him since 1990. I’d kick it with Sirhan Sirhan, but he didn’t talk much, kept to himself. Pat Kearney, the “trash bag” killer, was cool though; he was a mathematician, a really smart guy.”
Kenny was eager to tell me everything he knew about Manson. They’d met, he said, in 1992, just as Manson got out of the hole, where he’d been kept for almost five years. Kenny insisted this was for Manson’s own safety and not for punishment. “He was almost killed when that guy set him on fire,” Kenny remarked. “Crazy, huh?” Kenny was of course referring to the incident that took place on September 25, 1984, inside the California Medical Facility at Vacaville. Manson was severely burned when a fellow inmate, Jan Holmstrom, poured paint thinner on him and set him afire because Manson, allegedly, had verbally threatened Jan and objected to his ritual Hare Krishna chants. Manson sustained second- and third-degree burns on over twenty percent of his body. I asked Kenny to tell me what Manson was really like. “Manson is really intelligent,” he said. “He’s pretty sharp and he’s got a good mind, but he plays stupid sometimes, plays dumb even though he has a good memory.” Kenny said he saw Manson as “kind hearted,” but laughed heartily as he quipped, “Charlie says he don’t lie, but he lies every day.”
Kenny taught me a lot about the politics, the inner workings of such an immense prison system. He would call me daily and his letters took over my mailbox. Kenny had no problem asking for favors. He was in constant need of stamps and obsessed with acquiring them. I eventually learned that, in prison, stamps serve as currency. Inmates are not allowed to have any money, so the merchants among them expect to be paid in postage. Inmates sell all sorts of “favors” just to get their hands on stamps. When Sirhan Sirhan was transferred out of Corcoran’s PHU, Kenny told me that Sirhan was being placed into population so he could be “executed” by other inmates. Kenny also mentioned that when they stripped Sirhan’s room, they discovered he had more than one hundred cans of tuna under his bed. Fish too is money in prison; a can of tuna costs one dollar at the prison canteen. This was all new to me.
When I was a kid, I imagined Manson living in a cage like the most terrifying animal at the zoo. As an adult, even after reading his letters, it was hard to get a sense of the environment from which he wrote. Through Kenny, I acquired a better sense of the place Manson called home. It was strange to think that, when he wasn’t in the hole, he actually interacted with other inmates, even called a few his friends. Kenny got me to talk to some of the other inmates on PHU. One of the more interesting characters was a man named Ernesto, who claimed to run most of East Los Angeles from his jail cell. Ernesto told me he was high up in the Mexican Mafia, that he’d left a path of dead bodies behind him while he killed his way to the top. Ernesto claimed that he was also a porn star, an author, and an FBI informant on gang relations. Ironically, he said he felt a duty to prevent kids from joining gangs, and he was working on a book that disclosed the dark secrets of gang life.
One day, Ernesto suddenly stopped calling. Kenny told me Ernesto had attacked another inmate, and was consequently almost beaten to death with a broken mop handle. Ernesto was thrown into the hole. I told Kenny about Ernesto’s stories. “What?” Kenny laughed, “That’s all bullshit. Ernesto was never in a gang; he’s a little guy. FBI? No way, not a chance.” I soon became incredibly aware of how difficult it would be to uncover the myth about Manson through his friends. Most of these inmates couldn’t even come to terms with the myths they’d created about themselves.
During one of our many phone conversations, Kenny informed me that Manson would soon be released from the hole. I asked Kenny to tell me exactly what had happened to land Manson there in the first place. Kenny said that Manson had been receiving constant death threats from an inmate everyone liked to call “Skipper.” Kenny said Manson had every reason to be careful. He got hold of a piece of aluminum tubing from another inmate’s arm brace and fashioned it into a knife. While Manson served out his time in solitary confinement for his weapons violation, Skipper got caught with drugs in the visiting room and was transferred to another prison in San Diego. Crisis averted.
Kenny promise
d that Manson would call me as soon as he could. Of course, I didn’t really believe this, but then again, stranger things had happened.
On the evening of November 4, 2008, as I dozed on the couch to the drone of the television, the phone rang in three short bursts, the signature sound of a collect call from Corcoran Prison. I assumed it was Kenny, calling for the tenth or so time that day. I was reluctant to pick up the phone, but I answered anyway and listened to the familiar recording that preludes any phone call from a prisoner.
“Global Tel Link. This call and your telephone number will be recorded and monitored. I have a collect call from…”
There was a momentary pause, and then I heard Manson’s voice for the first time.
“Charles.”
The monotone recording returned.
“.an inmate at California State Prison, Corcoran One, in Corcoran, California. To hear the cost of this call, dial or say, ‘nine.’ To accept, dial or say, ‘five.’“
I pushed five, held my breath, and waited a few seconds for the call to go through. After a momentary click, I was connected.
ME: Hey, how are you doing?
MANSON: It’s a beautiful day. Of course there is only one day, right? Who is this? ME: This is Marlin.
MANSON: Oh yeah, the Canadian. So, what are we doing?
ME: What do you mean?
MANSON: What do you want from me?
ME: Nothing.
MANSON: Come on. Everyone wants something. You wanna interview me because you’re writing a book?
ME: Well, I think you have a lot of insights into things. Sort of spiritual.
MANSON: Spiritual. Ha, yeah. Geraldo made millions interviewing me, they all did. ABC, NBC, all of them want a piece of me. Every day I get letters. They promise you everything, and then they twist your words. Make it into a bunch of bullshit. Fuck ‘em. I stopped doing interviews years ago. Marlin, right? Like the fish?
ME: Yeah.
MANSON: I’m going to call you, “Walking Hawk.” That’s better than Marlin.
ME: Walking Hawk?
MANSON: Yeah, um, there’s a hawk that flies around here; I see him out on the yard. I’ve never seen him on the ground. I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m pretty stupid. I’m one year old.
He paused. I was pretty much speechless.
MANSON: Without air you are nothing, everything we do is for the air, dig?
ME: Yup.
MANSON: Do you know about ATWA?
I did. ATWA stands for Air, Trees, Water, Animals. It is Manson’s personal philosophy regarding his war against pollution. ATWA can also mean “All The Way Alive.” It’s Manson’s mission statement, a belief system he developed more than forty years ago.
ME: Yeah.
MANSON: Do you like bugs?
ME: Yeah, especially crickets.
MANSON: The cricket is too big for a spider to take on. I’m more like a bug than a person. I was thirty-two years old before I knew a tree was a living thing; can you believe that? Thirty-two years old. The prison has been my mother. I’ve been in jail for sixty-two years.
He paused, and I sat on the other end of the line, stunned.
MANSON: So, what do you do?
ME: I’m a psychiatric nurse.
MANSON: A psychiatrist?
ME: No, a psych nurse. I’m part of a crisis response team. I do emergency, outreach stuff for the mental health clinic here.
MANSON: A psychiatrist? You force people to take Thorazine?
ME: No, I would never do that.
MANSON: Force ‘em down and stick ‘em.
ME: No, I’ve never done that.
MANSON: They kept me drugged up on that stuff for a couple of years. You drool like a rabid dog. Your mind can’t form a thought. I couldn’t get off the floor. It was the only drug I couldn’t get over. I couldn’t get past it, you know? And they say they are helping people. I’m sure you help people, right?
There was more than a twinge of sarcasm in Manson’s voice. I knew all about this. Thorazine was developed in the early 1950s. At the time, it was considered a breakthrough medication, the first of the antipsychotic family of drugs. It was used often on patients with psychotic disorders. It has very potent sedative properties, and was used to sedate patients to a point where they were no longer a threat to themselves or to others. It was widely used in asylums and prisons as a “chemical restraint.” With modern advances in medicine, Thorazine is rarely used today.
ME: I try to. I know what you are saying; that’s horrible. I’m sorry you had to go through that. Do you see a psychiatrist now?
MANSON: Nah, not for a few years. There is nothing wrong with me. The last one brought a gun here to the jail and blew his fucking brains out all over the parking lot. His wife was sucking on some black dick. There are thirty dead doctors at Vacaville, they are all in the GRAAAAAVEYARRRRD!
ME: And you’re the crazy one?
MANSON: Yeah, yeah.
Manson laughed a great deal at this.
ME: I remember a quote of yours, “It’s just a pile of shit anyway, so why not try to grow some flowers in it?”
MANSON: Yeah, I said that. “My nose is a rose with a kamikaze zero.”
Manson said something about dragons flying into the sun, and laughed hysterically as he told a story about how Stonehenge was made by women carrying these huge stones on their backs.
The call was interrupted.
“You have sixty seconds left in this call.”
ME: Thanks for calling; I appreciate it.
MANSON: ATWA warrior.
ME: Yeah.
MANSON: Take care, peace.
ME: Peace.
Click.
That first phone call was a blur. Afterward, I sat in silence, holding the phone, trying to make sense of what had happened. I couldn’t believe I’d actually talked to Charles Manson. Really, I had been listening; he had complete control of the conversation. He hadn’t sounded like a guy who was seventy-three years old. Instead, he’d seemed much younger. His southern drawl was there, but he also spoke with a bit of a California accent every once in awhile.
I tried to call a few friends to tell them what had happened, but no one was around. It didn’t really matter; how could I explain? Charles Manson called me. What the hell was I getting into?
I’m Not In Jail!
I really know what I’m doing but only for myself, to myself, by myself. Any time when I have anybody else or anything else comes in play it’s always I don’t know what they know. If they’re not around and they’re not there, then I know everything. It’s only when I have other people that I can’t know everything. Unless I conquest. Unless I take it, sit down, shut up. Be me, be me or die. See, all these great minds, I listen to them every once in a while, once in a while they get on top of it and really super minds. They have some super minds in this world. And they’re really smart for what they know, but they don’t know everything because they don’t know nothing. If you don’t know nothing that’s everything. You can’t start until you end. We’ve got to end before you start, but they’re always talking about, well, start, there’s no such thing as start. You’re not born, you wasn’t born and you don’t die. You’ve been here for billions of years, man, to recognize in real life, the observation power is just your whole existence. When you observe what you observe, you see what needs to and what is and what’s coming and what’s going and you say, you know, stop fossil fuel. That’s a command.
If you don’t do it you’re all going to die because fossil fuel is destroying your atmosphere. That’s in motion. It was put in motion in World War I. So that’s how far behind stopping pollution you are. Well, the irony is-are you ready for this, sweetheart? I’m not in jail. There’s no such thing in my world. In other words it is all jail. The whole damn thing. My body’s in prison, I’m trapped in my body, man, sometimes. Other times, I can leave and go anywhere I want to, you know, and so there’s no such thing as prison. Prison’s a joke, it’s actually a joke. Y
ou can lock somebody up in solitary confinement and they can sit there laughing at you. Because, like it’s all in the mind, everything’s in your mind, man. You know all that suffering and all that, I mean we all suffer, you know, like we suffer for what we do. I’m suffering for smoking. I smoked for years. I knew it was wrong and I did it anyway. Now I’m suffering for it but it’s actually not suffering. I’m just putting my body through these breathing things, you know, and if I don’t get up in the morning I probably wouldn’t even notice it. I’m not afraid of dying. Dying’s the last thing that I’m afraid of.
They are in the minds of all the people that are in jail. I’m not in these people’s minds. They come up to me and say, “You dirty son of a bitch, I’ll break your neck.” And, you know, that’s like water on a duck’s back. That doesn’t touch me. I’m not upset or afraid with that, you know. I just go along with whatever, and when they sit down, I just sit down, you dig? If they stand up, I just sit down. And if they fuck with me, I just lay on them. You know. I don’t ever tell them I’m going to or I don’t. I may give out one, two, three little warnings about something but, like, generally I don’t even bother [with] that because I’ll run if I can. I’ll get away, you know. I’ll say excuse me and then I’ll go to the toilet and I won’t come back. You know, I’ll just flush myself down the toilet because I’m a piece of shit anyway. I don’t have all that pride thing and that ego trip.
Charles Manson Now Page 7