by Mark Hewitt
“NO, WHAT?” I asked.
“I’D LIKE TO GO FISHING IN A LARGE LAKE,” he screamed. “I WOULD CATCH ME SOME SALMON AND SOME TROUT.”
“I’D LIKE TO GO TO MCDONALD’S,” I yelled back. “I MISS HAVING A BIG MAC AND FRIES.”
“I’M FROM NORTHERN CALIFORNIA,” Bill continued. “PEOPLE FROM NORTHERN CALIFORNIA ARE MUCH COOLER THAN–”
Suddenly, Charlie shouted, “STOP.” We ceased speaking and sat in silence. Just as suddenly, he got us started once again. Soon, we were laughing like little girls at a slumber party. Crazy? Yes. However, everyone knew who was in control. As usual, the guards were put on notice to expect the unexpected from Charles Manson. Only the newer inmates had questions about what had transpired. The veteran Building Four inmates had seen it all from Charlie before.
At times, Charlie would say crazy things out of the blue. Anyone might think upon hearing about one of these that he must be completely out of touch with reality. As I think about it, however, I realize that he usually had some ulterior motive to say his ridiculous statements. He was entertaining others, he was recapturing control of the conversation, he was putting others on alert with the threat of the unexpected, or he was feigning lunacy to gain sympathy or elude responsibility for something. He may even have used fake insanity as a mask for his insecurities and fears.
He once told me that fish had talked to him while he was at the beach many years ago. I am convinced that he believed what he was saying. I saw no evidence that he was trying to get an untrue story past me. The words of the fish were no life changing pieces of wisdom. They didn’t issue commands of the type that a schizophrenic heeds. The words spoken by the fish were no more bizarre, other than their source, than any conversation that happens between friends. Why he felt the need to attribute the words to creatures that swim in the ocean, I couldn’t explain, unless, of course, it really happened to him.
The strangest thing he ever said to me was that dead people visit him. “If you want to know what one of your dead relatives has to say, just let me know,” he offered. We were talking about something entirely different. I have no idea how his mind wandered to talking with the deceased. “Dead people come to meet me in my cell and sometimes they tell me things about other inmates.”
Even in the height of my adoration of Charlie, I was skeptical of these visitors. If it were true that he was visited by the dead, I was certain that my granddad had better things to do beyond the grave than chat with Charlie. I didn’t respond to his offer, and he never brought up the subject again.
Charlie did many bizarre things in my presence, things that could be classified as crazy or psychotic. Why he did them is open to debate; that they always put people on edge is not. You could never know what to expect from day to day out of him.
The most heinous action that Charlie carried out was a taunt of the African-Americans on the tier in the most horrible fashion: he dressed as a KKK clansman. It was canteen day when he pulled this stunt. Each inmate prepared himself for his turn to purchase food and toiletries. When it was time for our tier to participate, the inmate whom we called, “Joker,” had only a couple of items to purchase. The next inmate had nothing to get so he didn’t go to Canteen. I also passed on the opportunity. Then it was Charlie’s turn.
Apparently, Charlie had gathered some tee-shirts, cut them to pieces, and sewed the pieces together to create a long, flowing shirt and long, flowing pants. The sleeves of the shirt were flared to look like a clansmen’s robe. The pant legs were similarly flared, dragging on the floor. He had taken a pair of state-issue tennis shoes, dyed them black to resemble marching boots or some kind of black biker boots, and put these on to increase the intimidation.
The costume did not contain a pointed hood that would typically accompany such a robe. It was not necessary, however, for others to understand exactly what Charlie was implying. Some weeks later, I did see a small white hood in his cell. It was smaller than what would be expected to match the robe, looking more like a hat worn by one of the seven dwarfs. Perhaps, he goofed in manufacturing it and decided to wear the outfit without the hood.
Donning the unusual garb that could be understood for nothing other than the robe of a clansman on his way to a KKK rally or a lynching, Charlie exited his cell and turned to walk the length of the tier. He didn’t turn around to see the reaction that he would inevitably elicit from the other inmates. The tier became very quiet as everyone waited for something to happen.
Upon returning to his cell, and having his lock secured, Charlie turned his attention to the three bags of items he purchased from Canteen. Suddenly, the tier erupted. Someone yelled, “FUCK THE KKK!”
Someone else added, “FUCK CHARLES MANSON.” The skin heads upstairs kept quiet. Even they knew that Charlie had shown disrespect in a way that was inexcusable. They wouldn’t condone that behavior. They knew that if they had spoken, they would have to be ready for a fight. They had no intention of defending Charlie in that blatant display of threat and intimidation.
What made his behavior so startling was the fact that almost everyone in our section was African-American or part African-American. Our Tier had only three whites, in addition to Charlie, and one white/Indian mix. My friend’s home-made outfit could have incited some serious fighting, and the white inmates were overwhelmingly outnumbered.
Charlie had his dark days, but this was by far the darkest I ever saw. I knew that he shouldn’t have dressed like that. I am Puerto Rican, black, and Native American. I was offended, but I try to understand where other people are coming from. I don’t hate the clan as many people of color do, but I do understand how foolish it is to taunt others for no good reason.
He had previously told me that he had clansmen in his family back in Virginia, though he did not share their sentiments. In fact, Charlie often told me about his efforts to help the “brother.” This display on the tier, however, made me question his concern for minorities, particularly African-Americans. Which was it, I pondered. Did he love blacks as he said or did he hate them as he apparently demonstrated? There were many times that I just sat and pondered his actions or his words. Something didn’t make sense and I intended to figure it out.
I suspect senility factored into his decision to dress they way he did. He was past his 71st birthday so maybe I should give him a break. Fortunately, nothing came of this demonstration. We were all adults so we let a lot of things go. We couldn’t get to each other anyway, if we wanted to make something out of a slight. In general, we let a lot of insults and bad behavior slide on our tier. I like to think that we had a certain level of maturity that allowed us to overlook our differences. Perhaps it was merely convenience that enabled us to ignore each others foibles.
I would forgive Charlie for all the things he did that would make me mad at him. He was old and under a lot of pressure, I knew, and had been through a lot in his life. By that time, he had spent more than eighty percent of his life incarcerated. I knew that I needed to be more understanding of him, and more forgiving. I had too much to work on in my own life to worry about his behavior.
I never saw his clan suit again. I suspect the guards demanded it of him and destroyed it. It was probably removed during the next shakedown, never to be seen again. He never did get written up for it. I suspect because it was too difficult an offense to prosecute: it’s hard to interpret a symbol in court, even if the message was very clear on the tier.
In general, Charlie was as good to African-Americans as to anyone else. He was known for his generosity, and the color of an inmate’s skin made no difference to him. I saw examples of giving all the time. He gave generously to Hispanics, African-Americans, Asians, and every inmate he thought had a need.
I got to know one particular African-American who was a recipient of his gifts. The inmate on the other side of Charlie, in cell 28, was nicknamed, “Negro.” He was an ex-Mexican Mafia member. Tired of the politics, and wanting to focus on his family, he left the gang to become a special-needs inm
ate like me. We had met previously and were acquaintances of sorts, but being penned near him was a chance for me to get to know him really well. We chatted about Charlie out in the yard one day, away from the old man.
“That Charles Manson is a trip, huh?” I initiated.
“Yeah,” Negro replied. “He sure is crazy. I seen Helter Skelter and read a book on him a long time ago. He don’t seem to be all that bad. He’s cool. Last month, he bought me a bag of coffee and gave me a candy bar. “I’ve heard about him buying people TVs before.” continued Negro.
“Yeah, he has done that,” I informed him. “My homeboys told me about that a long time ago.” I didn’t want to tell Negro that Charlie has promised to give me a television, or that Charlie had given me much, much more than coffee and candy. By that time, Charlie had provided me with a kitchen-sized quantity of food items such as soups, chips, crackers and donuts. My business was mine alone, so to protect my interests, and to protect Charlie from any abuse from this man, I kept silent.
Negro never verbally disrespected Charlie or me, or anyone else that got along with him. However, if someone disrespected him by telling him to, “Shut up,” Negro would yell a string of expletives back and bang on the door of his cell for hours at a time. Charlie and I had our own program: we slept when we wanted to, wrote when we wanted do, and did our art when we wanted to. We were usually respectful of others. Negro wasn’t. He would stay up late, banging and banging, and then sleep all day to make up for his sleep-deprived state.
Negro carried this out once for four days straight. Charlie and I said nothing. What could we do? Yelling at him would have done no good, but would have added to the noise and confusion. Eventually, the guards had had enough. They sprayed him with mace through the tray slot and rushed him with four large, fully-armored men. They later claimed that Negro was suicidal and had consumed a large number of pills. No one had seen the pills so the story may have been entirely fabricated.
When Charlie still said nothing about Negro, I began to wonder about his commitment to the “brother.” He had often advocated for African-Americans in his discussions with me. Now, here was a real example of a brother being mistreated. Was Charlie being disingenuous with me? However, this situation was different, I realized. Negro had created his own waves in the ocean. He was causing the disturbance. He never cleaned his cell and was continually requesting a transfer to the psych unit of a different section. When he banged on his door for four days, he, and he alone, was responsible for the consequences. The guards saw to it that his transfer request was granted.
The very next day, in the quiet of Negro’s absence, a guard spoke to me. “Negro was asking for trouble. Don’t trip on him and all the trouble he brought on himself.” I concluded that the guard was probably right. Perhaps Charlie said nothing because there was no apparent abuse of the man, regardless of the color of his skin. Maybe to Charlie, the color of Negro’s skin was irrelevant. Negro acted like a jerk, disrespecting all of us on the tier, and got what was coming to him from the system. I hoped that he came to his senses after his transfer, and that he was doing well in his new home. Maybe, he just needed to find the right place for himself.
One morning when I was sleeping in, I heard noises outside my cell. I heard laughter, keys clinking together, voices, and chains dragging on the cement floor. I got up and went my window to see what was happening. I observed at least fifteen guards of all shapes and sizes pouring onto our tier.
“It’s a shakedown,” I said to myself. “Damn it!”
I banged on the wall to Charlie’s cell to wake him in case he was still sleeping. I ran to my bed, under which I kept my pruno, hidden in a paper bag. I dashed to the toilet as I untied the bag. Tasting the pruno, I noted that some of the sugar was not yet fermented. A few more days and this batch would have been excellent. Still, it had some alcohol in it, and I would be damned if the guards were going to deprive me of all of it.
I took a few sips, as much as I could manage. I banged on Charlie’s wall again, “You up, Charlie?”
“Yeah, I’ve been up all night,” was his reply. I guzzled all the pruno I could before pouring the remainder in the toilet. I also flushed my kicker, the pulp that I reused to make batch upon batch of pruno. I wasn’t too happy that I would have to start my brewing process all over again, completely from scratch. I had done it often enough after shakedowns, but it was an inordinate amount of work. I knew it would be weeks before my next taste of pruno.
By this time, the force of guards was fully present in the tier. The group fanned out, posting two guards to the front of each cell. “Strip out!” one of the guards assigned to my cell cried. I removed my underwear and deposited it on the floor beside me. I knew the routine.
“Give me your shoes,” commanded the other guard posted to my cell. I proceeded to gather my sneakers and pass them to him through the tray slot. Stepping close, the guard looked into my mouth and my ears. He did a quick check of my armpits. There was nothing for him to see. I had never attempted to sequester any contraband on my body. It was a foolhardy risk as inmates were almost always caught. Inmates who tried this inevitably paid a price, legal or otherwise. “Squat and cough,” he barked. I complied and allowed him to inspect my privates. “Get dressed and cuff up,” he ordered gruffly. There was no discussing with this guard.
I could hear Charlie arguing with the guards assigned to his cell. As I slid my arms through the tray slot in preparation for being cuffed up, I noticed a sergeant and three guards stationed in front of Charlie’s door. They were telling him to cooperate so they could complete what they had to do. They informed him that if he didn’t obey their commands, they would have to mace him and remove him by force.
Charlie relented as I waited to be cuffed. His guards removed him from his cell and placed him in a temporary cell that was bolted to the floor of the tier. The cage was about ten feet high, constructed of solid steel from top to bottom. It looked to be lightweight for transport, but durable enough to prevent escape. The steel mesh and bars would resist any kick or punch from even the strongest inmate.
All the prisoners from the tier were to be moved to temporary cells on the other side of the building. That is what happened each and every time that there was a shakedown. Our removal enabled the guards to carefully inspect each cell for contraband or escape attempts. Apparently Charlie’s defiance had made it necessary for him to be kept on the tier.
Once inside the temporary cell, Charlie began to enact some strange Kung-Fu type of moves. He crouched down, took slow deliberate steps while drawing large arcs with his hands. He resembled a windmill before bringing his hands together and reaching out in the motion of someone plucking an apple from a tree.
“Did you see that?” One guard asked another. “Charlie just grabbed your heart.” They laughed out loud. Charlie seemed oblivious to their words. I began to laugh, too. It looked so weird for Charlie to make those menacing moves while completely locked away from everyone else. If anyone wanted to challenge him, they could not. The prisoners were all cuffed up (or about to be cuffed), and the guards were paying him scant attention.
The inmates were all pretty quiet. We had been through many shakedowns before. A couple of men on the tier were asking the guards for gentler treatment. “Don’t be trying to disrespect me!” One inmate yelled as he was led away from his cell.
“Just do as you’re told and we won’t have no problems,” replied the guard as he left to corral another inmate. The sun was out; it must have been about seven o’clock in the morning.
When I thought about it later, it occurred to me that Charlie must have requested to be put in the cage. In the course of the shakedown, the rest of us, from ex-gang bangers to special needs inmates, were all taken to cages on the other side of the section. What appeared to be an act of courage and fearlessness was actually a cowardly request covered by false bravado. Evidently, he was so afraid of being moved off the tier that he requested the special privilege of being placed in a tempo
rary holding cell. The guards never let on about his request, allowing him to play the charade of brave and dangerous inmate who needs to be put in a separate cell on the tier. No one but me, to my knowledge, comprehended Charlie’s fear in that episode.
Charlie changed his hair style from time to time. This may be a reason that others consider him crazy. He was not interested in current hair styles, fitting in with others, or appealing to anyone’s taste but his own. Once, he shaved half his head, leaving the hair on the other half long and flowing. He left his goatee intact. It looked truly bizarre. He explained to me that by attempting to be halfway between good and evil, he could control them both. Jesus had worn long hair, and the devil appears bald in most pictures. By representing them both in his body, he was praising them both.
I told Charlie that he had to choose one or the other. In my mind, you couldn’t be both the Satan and God. “There is no in between.” I explained to him. “It’s one or the other.” Charlie disagreed. He wanted to be an abraxas in his own body, a perfect representation of both good and evil, possessing power over them both.
I’ve since concluded that he is a man of opposites. To describe Charles Manson is to identify conflicting forces. He is the yin and yang, positive and negative. As such, he is just like anyone else, having strengths and weaknesses, but Charlie’s attributes are much more pronounced. He possesses both positive and negative forces; he is both good and evil. Those who see him as only evil miss his qualities of caring, of energy, and of love. They will reject him because they say he is such a bad person. Those who see only good are disappointed when they discover that he can show his evil side with no prior notice. In fact, he makes a point of demonstrating evil to provoke fear and shock.
Charlie is a holy man, in many respects, and possesses in his character all the pros and cons that being a holy man entails. He is a flawed human being. As a born leader, he has a way with people, no doubt. He gathers others to himself and sets them on a course of action. In addition, he bears the stresses and strains of being a leader and public figure. He exhibits the shortcomings and weaknesses as all people who are in the public eye. When he does something wrong, it is magnified to far greater proportions than anything I could ever do to mess up. When he does something well, his followers parade it around telling everyone who will listen that Charlie is a savior.
