Charles Manson Behind Bars (8 page)

“Yes, it is. Now I’m going to get back to what I was doing before you called me over to ask all your crazy questions, all drunk on pulky.” He was getting testy, but I did not care. I still wanted to talk.

“I wanted to know your favorite color because that chick from Hollywood, whose letter you gave me, wanted to know.” I continued. “I wanted to know your favorite flavor of ice-cream so I could give you my ice-cream next time we have that flavor on the tier.

“Hey, Charlie, guess what?” I was entering dangerous territory and I knew it.

“What?” He replied gruffly.

“I’ve always wanted to get my dick sucked by someone who had no teeth,” I taunted.

“Boxcar,” he said more annoyed than angered. “You are drunk. Go lie down and get some sleep.”

“Charlie, you got a real, real pretty mouth.” I was laughing and feeling very relaxed. I went back to my radio to listen to my oldies station. From time to time, I would call him over if there was a song on that I thought he would enjoy.

I knew he had false teeth. When he took them out, he sounded really old. I would tease him and ask him to take his teeth out so I could hear what a really old man sounds like. He was good natured about my teasing as a mother dog would be with the playfulness of her litter.

I gathered up my courage and finally asked him that night, “Are you gay?” I guessed that I would not dare ask once the alcohol wore off. I was already taunting him playfully and he was not getting upset. What did I have to lose by asking?

“Yes,” was his only reply.

I was surprised at his answer, probably more surprised at his candor than his confession. I knew he had been portrayed on television and in movies as a womanizing pimp. He was surrounded by his family that consisted mostly of young women. As I got to know him, I suspected that the aura was more about his power in controlling others than in any sexual magnetism. The women were mere prostitutes to him, people who could make him some money and who were open to his manipulations.

Wow, I thought. I was right. Charlie is gay!

Charlie and I were never sexually involved, but we did have a playful relationship nonetheless. Sometimes, when I was out of my cell, I would wiggle the padlock on his door. I only did this when I knew he was awake so that I didn’t disrespect him. Like a tiger in the grass, he would whip his head around to see who was there and whether there was a threat to him. In retrospect, perhaps I was cruel in doing this, but it was so funny to see him jump into action.

He would get me, too, though. He would never let one of my pranks go unanswered. He would ask a guard to cut my shower short so I would be left with soap in my hair when the water stopped prematurely. He would ask a guard to slam my tray slot closed after a meal was delivered, or after I had received a book or my mail. Guards generally would not do that kind of bidding for an inmate. For Charlie, they made an exception. I would get startled or annoyed by the sound of the crashing metal as the guard fulfilled Charlie’s request.

I knew that Charlie was behind it, paying me back for my insolence. The actions had Charlie’s name written all over them. The guards would not cut my shower short or bang my tray slot unnecessarily. Charlie did these and many other pranks to remind me and everyone else that this was HIS “bandstand.” He made sure than no one on the tier would ever steal his “bandstand.”

As one long day led to another, and we got accustomed to hearing each other’s voices, Charlie and I began to trust one another. When the interpersonal risk level reached a certain threshold, he began to share with me some of the childhood experiences that made him the person he became. I wasn’t always sure whether he was telling me the truth, however. I have always had a tough time accepting at face value what anyone said. By that time in my life, I had concluded that most people tell lies most of the time. The truth will get you in trouble. It is better to shade the truth, or make up stories and facts that are useful. I know I’m not alone. In jail, a story is as likely to be as phony as a three dollar bill as it is to be an accurate accounting of events. With good reason, all people who have done time in prison tend not to trust others. If you take people at their word, the prison system would have to be full of innocent, wrongfully convicted, people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, or happened to be on the receiving end of some police or political vendetta. Charlie, however, seemed very sincere when he shared with me. He spoke from the heart, and I could tell that it was painful for him to describe his early years. He demanded the truth from me and was never satisfied with partial truths or manufactured facts. In time, I learned to accept as truth the things he told me, and to reciprocate an honest presentation of reality.

Charlie was born in 1934, under the same sign as me: the Scorpio. He arrived in Ohio to an irresponsible, unmarried girl who had just turned 16. Neither Charlie nor his mother ever knew for certain who his father was, though his mom suspected a certain encounter was responsible for him. In Charlie’s words, “everyone in town was doing my mother.” Much of his first few years were spent at the home of the parent’s of Charlie’s mother. Charlie’s mom was not one to be tied down so the two moved frequently. He acquired a couple of half-sisters later in life.

Charlie had some happy memories of his days in Virginia, one of the many places that he called home. Nothing is left of his childhood residence, he told me. It had been demolished so that a large dam could be erected. “You used to be able to drop in a fishing line and pull out all sorts of fish,” he lamented to me. “You could see deer walking in the area. Now, everyone says that it’s all gone. The dam is more important because it makes money and fills the rich people’s pockets, rich people who don’t even live in Virginia. All they want to do is build dams, kill the deer, dry up the creeks, pollute the air, dump chemicals and run all the small people out of town.”

His grandfather being a veteran of WWI, Charlie enjoyed playing with the medals, knives, and guns that were stored in a locked box in the attic. He had two uncles that he remembered from his early years: one who died in prison of tuberculosis and another who worked for the railroad. Charlie vividly recalled visits he made with his mother to see his incarcerated uncle. On one occasion, he observed his uncle working at something in the toilet of his cell. At the time, Charlie concluded that the man was attempting to escape. Only years later did he realize that his uncle was washing his clothes in the time-honored tradition of plugging up the cell latrine, putting soap in the toilet bowl, and scrubbing (often followed by a cleaning of the whole cell with the same soapy water). Charlie laughed and laughed when he recalled his early misunderstanding.

In addition to these uncles by blood, Charlie was introduced to many, many other men, always called, “Uncle John,” whom he later concluded were prostitution “Johns.” Frequently, Charlie was told to play in the yard, even if it was cold, even if was dark, so that his mother could have time alone in with the current “Uncle John.” It was confusing and alienating for young Charlie. The one person who provided any sort of consistency in his life frequently rejected and abandoned him.

The men came and went in Charlie’s early life. Some stayed for a few days or even months. Always, they left. Some of them were friendly to the boy; others were hostile and openly resentful of him.

Prostitution was not the only source of income for Charlie’s mom. The mother and son family was sometimes supported by her occasional jobs, none very steady or lucrative. It seemed to Charlie that he and his mother were always moving. They lived in numerous states, in countless cities, as she flitted from one job and living location to the next.

Charlie’s mom sent him to live with an uncle at one point. She would sometimes leave him with a neighbor or relative and not return for many days, but this was different. The uncle, who may not have even been a relative, agreed to take care of and raise Charlie until his mom got her life in order.

Charlie told me that when he was eight years of age he was forced by this uncle to wear a dress to school. Charlie had come running home because some of the other kids were picking on him because he was the smallest child in his grade. Other children had started to tease him after school. When he ignored them, hoping that the passive response would put an end to the taunting, one large bully approached and hit him in the face. Charlie had run all the way home full of dirt, tears, and fear that the boy would follow him to continue what he had started. Charlie was crying when his uncle found him.

“Charlie, what are you crying for?” the uncle demanded.

“A kid hit me up so I ran home,” Charlie replied between sobs.

“You did what, boy?” The uncle was not pleased with the cowardice. He slapped Charlie on the side of the head so hard that the young boy felt a tingling in his ear and could not hear out of that ear for days.

The next morning, the uncle insisted that Charlie put on a red dress and attend school dressed as a girl. “After school,” the man instructed, “I want you to find that bully and hit him as hard as you can. Don’t come home until the guy is bleeding or on the ground.”

Reluctantly, Charlie followed the instructions. He was ridiculed for his attire and was the brunt of much teasing. Once school had been let out, as his uncle had instructed him, he sought out the bully and punched him in the face. The bully was felled by the smallest kid in his grade. The fighting didn’t end, however. Charlie straddled the larger boy and began hitting him again and again. Another student ran to summon the teacher who promptly arrived to pull Charlie off of the bully. The teacher sent them to their respective homes with a stern warning. Charlie, who had been utterly humiliated by being forced to wear the dress, was now empowered to take matters into his own hands when necessary.

The bully didn’t mess with him after that. “I fought lots of other kids that year,” he confessed. “I became a holy terror.” Never again did he fail to stand up to a bully.

Charlie recounted for me another influential childhood event. His mom had been working in a bar while they were living above it in a single room, furnished with only a simple bed and dresser. About the age of nine, Charlie’s already chaotic life was further disturbed by a fight in the bar. A man was making passes at Charlie’s mom, demanding sex or some drunken fondling. To repel the man, his mother picked up a liquor bottle and broke it over his head. Fearing the repercussions, especially from other gang members, since this man was a “Beanie Brother” with ties to the West Virginia prison system, Charlie’s mom decided to flee the area. The man was bad news and she knew it.

Charlie’s mother rushed upstairs, woke Charlie, and ordered him to help her gather their meager possessions. Within an hour, they were on the road. They resurfaced in Indiana a few weeks later. No one from their old town knew where they had gone; they had to find new friends, a new job for his mom, and new living arrangements. This type of uprooting was not uncommon to them. It became a way of life, and what Charlie would come to know as normal.

Charlie’s time in Indiana was an introduction to a life of crime, as he moved with the edges of society and was more than willing to assist where he could. His role models and associates were thoroughly steeped in a disregard for the law, ever seeking out new ways to violate community statutes. They involved themselves in any kind of scheme they could find if it made them some money. Charlie learned how to steal cars, pick pockets, burglarize homes and businesses, fence stolen property, and deal drugs.

In one story he told me, Charlie met some underworld figures to whom he intended to sell some guns he had acquired. His collection of pistols was secreted in a potato sack he was clutching. As he and his contacts went out to a houseboat to conduct the transaction, Charlie noticed that there were no firing pins in the guns. He was so afraid that the buyers would not let him escape with his life for deceiving them, even though he never intended to, that he stumbled out a window, fell into the water, and swam for freedom.

He tried his hand at pimping in Indiana, though he was not very successful at it at this point in his life. He also held money and drugs for others. Somewhere along the way, he picked up the guitar and become somewhat proficient at it. I was spellbound as I listened to his many tales of his childhood and his entry into lawlessness.

In time, I let down my guard completely and began to accept everything he said. He had no reason to lie to me or to exaggerate his exploits, I rationalized. I sat on no parole board and was not part of the system. Besides, Charlie trusted me just as I trusted him. The more he shared, the more I felt free to share my own story with him. Soon, I told him all the embarrassing details of my childhood, my disappointments and failures, as well as my dreams and aspirations. We were growing closer and closer by the hour and by the story.

Charlie’s life never got any easier, he told me. His mom was arrested for armed robbery and sentenced to prison while he was still young. His life became a succession of institutions, none treating him well. He never seemed to belong anywhere. He longed for the freedom he had experienced with his mother, even though that freedom came part and parcel with frequent abandonment. The group homes, foster homes, and other institutions he was paraded through, each had their own set of dehumanizing rules. He attempted to escape from every place that ever housed him.

Charlie had a great deal of anger built up toward his mother. It was apparent to me that she wasn’t a capable parent. She didn’t provide for Charlie: not materially and certainly not emotionally. She gave him away or left him with others, again and again. The scars of abandonment were apparent. To be fair, Charlie’s mom was only a child herself when she gave birth to him. She had no interest in raising him, and no one gave her much support either.