Manson in His Own Words

by Nuel Emmons

  Now that I was in Seattle I gave some thought to seeing my mother but the telephone directory came up blank. I remembered the name of the restaurant she had worked at years before, but when I went by there no one remembered her.

  Because of Mary’s job and my parole officer, our trip back to the Bay Area was much faster than our drive north. Also, to pacify my parole officer, I had to be thinking about something that would show a means of support. I got a couple of one-night stands in some off-beat clubs in the Tenderloin in Frisco, and with a little panhandling and a dollar or two earned in dope transactions, money wasn’t a big problem—other than the van and gas for it, I wasn’t into material things. But what I wanted most was to get on with my music, to get recorded and shoot for the moon, and it wasn’t happening in Frisco. So I explained to my parole officer that I had some studio contacts in L.A. and received permission to head south for a short period of time. I wasn’t lying, for one of my Terminal Island partners had said he would open the door for me with a recording friend of his.

  Mary was holding down her job, so I headed south alone. There were just as many hitchhikers, and almost as many girls thumbing as guys. Before reaching San Jose, I stopped for two girls who were headed for Santa Cruz. Santa Cruz wasn’t along the route I had intended to take, but the girls were young and pretty, so what guy in his right mind wouldn’t go a few miles out of his way to accommodate?

  The girls, we’ll call them Jane and Stella, checked out the van as soon as they got in and commented, “What a crazy pad.” Seeing the guitar, they asked if I played it. I told them I was on my way to Hollywood and a recording session. Five minutes later we were as tight as lifelong friends and well on our way to being stoned on their pot. Soon Jane was driving and Stella and I were in the back getting it on. We’d been at it for about half an hour when Jane pulled the van to the side of the road and crawled in the back with us. She had her clothes off in no time and wrapped her arms around me, pulling me away from Stella. Stella wasn’t ready to let me go. The struggling got good and we had an hour session that satisfied the hell out of all three of us. The big trucks going by at sixty miles an hour and rocking the little old van didn’t do a thing but add movement to our love-making. The truth is, though I had thought of making it with them when I first picked the girls up, it wasn’t me who made the first advance. Stella opened that door by saying, “Pot makes me horny as a motherfucker. How about you, do you think you can bring me?” The world had really changed in seven years. And a van was the only way to travel!

  Unfortunately, the girls had obligations in Santa Cruz and were unable to make the trip to L.A. with me, but we made arrangements to get together at a later date.

  When I got to L.A. the studio contact was out of town for a few days so I didn’t get to see him. To kill time I hit a few spots in Hollywood along Sunset Strip where I used to hang out in the 50s. As I walked in and out of the bars that were my old haunts when trying to make it as a pimp, I thought of Sandy and the son I had never seen. Occasionally while at Mac, I would think of her and get a little bitter. There was no bitterness now, just the thought of how nice it would be to say hello, to ask how her life was going, and to see a son I’d never laid eyes on.

  After seven years not many of the old gang were still around. Perhaps it was just as well. I still had bad vibes about sitting in the county jail waiting for one of those solid partners to come up with the money. Pimps, like whores, have a short life span. I don’t mean longevity, I mean remaining in one place. The police usually get on to them, and staying in one area is a sure way to end up in jail. Another reason is that a guy who lives from a broad often uses other people without repaying favors, and his friends get tired of giving. That could have been the reason no one came to my rescue when I needed the bail money in 1959.

  Failing to locate anyone, I drove down to the beach cities where I was sure to find the type of people I’d met since getting out of prison. Venice was a smaller version of Haight-Ashbury: pot, acid, and people wandering in search of something. Something they wouldn’t recognize if they found it. Runaways, dropouts, kicked-outs and fantasy-seekers, all in need of a friend and a direction in life.

  One evening I parked the van and was walking around looking for the unexpected. Or maybe it was the expected, I’m not sure, but there she was: a young, freckled, redheaded girl sitting on a bench. I stopped several feet away and checked her out. She was shapely and about eighteen. The light red-brown freckles and long red hair seemed very appropriate for her fine features, which at the moment showed a combination of hurt, anger and sadness. In a book I once read part of, the author said I approached this particular girl and used the words, “I am the God of fuck,” and lured her into my van. I’d like to say that author is a fucking liar. As are a lot of other writers. But back to the girl.

  I sat down a short distance from her. She gave me a glance but hardly acknowledged my presence. When I spoke, it was with concern. “You look like you have problems,” I said. “Is there anything I can do to help?” She looked at me for a moment and said, “It isn’t anything that I can’t handle.” “Okay,” I said, “if you’re sure I can’t help. I just thought you might need a friend.” With that I got up and left. By the time I reached the corner she was right behind me, saying, “Wait, where are you going, can I come along?” The girl’s name was Lynette Fromme, sometimes known as Squeaky.

  We walked the streets for a while. I told her about myself and the things I was into. She shared some of her past. By the time we had walked a short way and talked a lot, she was ready and willing to head north with me. There was no immediate sex trip. With her. sharp mind and sharper tongue, she was more capable of intimidating me than me her. Intimidation was never part of our relationship. When we did get around to having sex, it was because we both wanted each other.

  Lyn wasn’t the norm of the neglected or abused children who ran away from home. Her reasons for being on the streets alone were very similar to those that had caused my mother to leave her parents’ home. Where my mom had left because of a dominating mother, Lyn was escaping from the dominance of her father. Like her dad, she was a strong-willed person and the two constantly clashed. In clashes between child and parent, the child is seldom the winner, so after finishing high school Lyn moved out of her parents’ home. She was supporting herself and attending college. Then, at the request of her parents, she moved back in with them. On the day that I met her she and her father had had what she termed “a one-sided argument,” he summing it up by demanding she abide by his rules or get her butt out. In need of a friend and a place to stay, at least temporarily, she had gone to her boyfriend’s place, but the boyfriend was not at home. The park bench and the sad face I saw were part of a lonely, forlorn girl’s dilemma.

  Fate had it that I be present when her crisis was at its peak. From that day to the present, our association has been one of mutual understanding. There has never been a need for extended conversation between us. Call it vibes or mental telepathy, but a glance or movement has always seemed to provide instant and accurate communication of what we wished to say.

  We lingered in the area for a few days waiting for my studio contact to return. After several calls he still wasn’t around and, partly because of Lyn’s urge to get on with her new life, we headed back to Berkeley and Mary’s apartment. Mary and Lyn became instant friends. There was no petty jealousy or competition. Having the two of them without any dissension confirmed some of the thoughts that had been going through my mind since making the trip to Washington. I wanted my own little circle.

  In visiting the communes, I had thought, why shouldn’t people be able to live as they choose? As long as they aren’t stealing, hurting others or infringing on other lifestyles, why should they be denied their preference? Anything would be better than what existed in places like the Haight and Venice, where habit-forming drugs, crime, violence, perversion and greed now dominated what was originally good.

  With Mary’s place as a kind of
headquarters and permanent address for the benefit of my parole officer, I was pretty free to move about as I wanted. Since I was a musician, travel and job changes were expected, so if I was in Frisco today, Mendocino tomorrow or Santa Cruz next week, my parole officer had no cause to get upset. If I wanted to travel a long way south, north or even back east, all I had to do was say I was following a lead on a job or advancing my music career. The search to find my mother was also a good reason for a lot of moving around. On each trip, short or long, I met new faces. Some became permanent companions and played heavy roles in things yet to come. Others were just acquaintances. I had some of the most fabulous experiences a person could ever dream of. That is, until maybe mid-summer of 1969. So while there are hundreds of people, and maybe even more experiences, I could mention, I’ll stick pretty much to those who traveled with me when everything was fun and games and rode with me when things got evil and ugly.

  Charles Manson and Nuel Emmons

  Main building of the Indiana School for Boys in Plainfield, Indiana. Manson spent three years here, from age thirteen to sixteen, and knew it as “Painsville.” (Nuel Emmons)

  The dock at McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary, where Manson served five years beginning in 1961. It was here that Manson first thought of becoming a professional musician in order to escape the life of petty crime he had been leading. (Nuel Emmons)

  Manson in his twenties.

  Spahn’s Movie Ranch, just outside of Chatsworth, California. Manson arrived there in 1968, and he and members of his circle lived there intermittently until after the Tate-LaBianca murders. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  George Spahn, owner of Spahn’s Movie Ranch, with Cathy Gillies. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  Ruth Ann Moorehouse and one of the group’s children.

  August, 1970. Still able to relax at Spahn Ranch are Ginny Gentry, Catherine Share, Sue Bartlett, Danny DeCarlo, Sandra Good, Lynnette Fromme, Chuck Lovett, and Ruth Ann Moorehouse. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  The Barker Ranch, in Panamint Valley, California (near Death Valley), which Manson envisioned as a permanent home for the group and where they fled after the Tate-LaBianca murders. (Michael Haering/L.A. Herald Examiner)

  The area behind the 28-acre Spahn Ranch is pockmarked with small caves like this one, which the group used for protection against imagined enemies. From left: Danny DeCarlo, Catherine Share, Mary Brunner, Chuck Lovett, Ginny Gentry, Cathy Gillies, Lynnette Fromme, Sandra Good, and Ruth Ann Moorehouse. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  Lynnette Fromme, Sandra Good, Mary Brunner, and Ruth Ann Moorehouse in a supermarket garbage bin, one of their main sources of day-old fruits and vegetables. (Michael Haering/L.A. Herald Examiner)

  During the police raid on Spahn Ranch, initiated on suspicion of auto theft.

  Some of the weapons confiscated in the raid.

  December 1969: bearded, in chains, and dressed in a jail jumpsuit, Charles Manson is taken to Independence (California) Court House, as a suspect in the Tate-LaBianca murders. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  Linda Kasabian being escorted to the Hall of Justice in Los Angeles. She was given immunity for her testimony against Manson. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  Leslie Van Houten at the Tate-LaBianca murder trial. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  Sandra Good as she looked in 1982. (Nuel Emmons)

  Susan Atkins at the trial with her attorney, Richard Caballero. (Michael Haering/L. A Herald Examiner)

  Charles “Tex” Watson, at the trial. (Michael Haering/ L. A. Herald Examiner)

  Bruce Davis

  Sandra Good, Ruth Ann Moorehouse, and Lynette Fromme sitting outside the courthouse in Los Angeles. The “x” each etched on her forehead in imitation of Manson was a symbol of their protest against the trial. (Michael Haering/L. A. Herald Examiner)

  The entrance at Vacaville Medical Facility (in Vacaville, California) where new inmates are admitted. Charles Manson was confined here from 1976 to 1985. (Nuel Emmons)

  Manson being interviewed in 1982 for television, wearing the shirt hand-stitched for him by Squeaky Fromme and Sandra Good. (Nuel Emmons)

  Manson, about 1984, with the swastika he cut on his forehead visible. (Nuel Emmons)

  Charles Manson, age 51. (Nuel Emmons)

  CHAPTER 5

  MARY BRUNNER and Lynette Fromme were the beginning of what other people later referred to as “The Manson Family.” Personally, I had long ago lost the desire to be any part of society’s normal family atmosphere. My mother was dominated so severely by her parents that she fled into the unknown for relief, and then she only played at having a family of her own. I’d had two mates and two sons, one child never seen and the other known only as an infant. Of course, splitting up that scene had been pretty much my fault, but because of it, “family” to me was an empty word. Had it just been my experiences that soured me on the meaning of family, my views might be different, but every kid who ever stepped in my van had bad family relationships. I know too many righteous-appearing fathers who thump on their old ladies, beat their kids, play at incest, chippy with any strange broad who gives them a look, and yet thrive on the role of a family man, the king of respectability.

  I see wives and mothers as a more dependable lot than fathers, but over-all, the vanity of a female, that need to be pretty, loved and accepted, wins out over being a devoted wife and understanding mother. Many, like their husbands, thrill at outside romances. For the convenience of their own pleasure, both mother and father cheat their kids out of knowing the true meaning of family. So Mary and Lyn were not “family,” but the beginning of a circle of people who voiced their own opinions and played out their desires with me. That was true of anyone who entered our circle, especially those who stayed with me through the summer and fall of 1969.

  At that time I didn’t see myself as wanting to control anyone or be a leader. I didn’t want to pull a person away from what he or she desired or enjoyed. I didn’t want to save souls, nor did I want to corrupt anyone. I simply felt that if I ran across someone at a crossroads in life I could lend a helping hand. I had a need to be with people who wanted love and understanding. Because I had experienced so much shit in my life, I felt my advice could help and strengthen some of those lost children.

  Where the girls were concerned, I admit wanting to make it with anything that wore skirts, but not if it meant rape. For every girl I have ever made it with, there are ten times as many I have helped without thinking about sex. As for men, it was just as important for me to do good by them, but guys have skills for survival that a lot of women don’t and consequently I came into contact more often with girls.

  Writers have said that all I wanted was to manipulate everyone I met. Not true! That all reflects back on the same old crap. If a guy has a bad record, nothing good he does is ever mentioned or looked for. It has been laid down that every breath of fresh air I inhaled was fuel for evil and corrupt thoughts. Hey, in 1967 when all my travels began, I had a heart crying for love. And there isn’t much doubt about my craving some attention and wanting to be accepted. These are all things I had in common with the kids I met, and perhaps the total explanation of why we ended up together. I wasn’t the culprit who lured them away, as everyone wants to believe. Never did I force anyone to join me, stay with me or succumb to my will. Things that were originally good and meant always to be good somehow got turned around later.

  As for the rap and programming previous accounts have said I laid out, sure, I talked a lot to the kids, but mostly in answer to their questions and confusion. The only thing I had to draw on was my own past and my own version of a better way to live, which had always been to forget what you have been: Don’t live in yesterday’s world. Don’t put too much faith in what tomorrow is supposed to bring, for it seldom happens as planned. Don’t lock yourself too close to any one person, for if you do, you’re sure to be hurt. If you want to share with other people, share
what you have. Don’t hide behind emotions and what others, such as parents, have programmed you to do. Get your head out of material things, for it only puts you in competition with greedy, power-conscious pigs. Wipe your own ass, do your own thing and ego be damned.

  That wasn’t something I preached on every corner, only to those who wanted to ride and linger in my van. Different strokes for different folks—a lot of people would stay for a day, a week or longer, and then be into moving on. If that was their pleasure, far be it from me to deny them the other things they sought.

  However, being the center of attraction, the one everyone leans on, the advisor, the authority and the hub that turns the wheel, can sometimes have an adverse effect on a person. You see it every day among wealthy people. It often happens in charitable organizations, in religion, in those who govern, those with physical strength, and those who receive even the slightest bit of authority. Given a little taste of power, personalities often change, and someone who was once humble and righteous becomes a tyrant, so caught up in status that the original good becomes bad. Unfortunately, it happens without conscious awareness. It kind of creeps up on you, and before you know it, all that strength and power inflates the ego to the point where a person starts struttin’ and thinking his shit doesn’t stink. All my life I’ve hated those pious bastards who, because of their position in life, delight in controlling other people. And now that it’s too late to set back the clock, it ain’t hard to see how I got around to being everything I hated.