The Empty Chair (7 page)

“Ferlinghetti decided to dislike me because I said his manager was ripping him off. He didn't want to hear that. I was owed a
lot
of money and they finally paid
something
, like
$500
—they wrote me a check. I told him the fellow was
stealing
from him, but he liked the fellow and didn't want to hear it. He's got a
different
manager now.
[He pretended I'd asked him a question]
What do I think of
whom
?
Joyce Johnson? Oh,
her.
3
She's, well—
ugh
—I won't get into that. They're all whores and hangers-on. They slept with Jack
once
and all of them want to write about it.
[Again, he pretended to be engaged by an invisible interlocutor]
Who? Oh!
That
one
always
liked Burroughs—which probably explained why he stopped talking to me, and why I stayed away.”

They
all
seemed to stay away from Dame Fag Hag Iron Lady! I'm really
channeling
that cunt . . . What else did we talk about? Allen Ginsberg's visit to Ezra Pound in Italy—Ginsberg
and
Pound must have been hungry for a pair of hands, no doubt! And Peter Ackroyd. I'm not sure
how
Mr. Ackroyd came up, but dear Carolyn had an opinion!

“Oh yes, he's a
wonderful
biographer. I used to stay in his house in London whenever I was in the city. He's written some marvelous
books—the big one about Dickens—that's the one he's known for—I haven't read the last few—he stopped drinking and now he's
so
fat
.
We don't talk anymore, I used to know
why
,
but I can't remember just now. Don't care, really . . .

“
Joyce Johnson and I do not speak.
She's jealous! My God, how those women lived! Sleeping around—with
anyone.
I never did that—

“The fact is, I
never
liked most of their writing much—the Beats—
none of them
—never did. Jack wrote a few good ones. But you see, I went to Bennington. I was a
discerning
reader
.
I was
disciplined, I had a classical
education. Do you know that's what Neal
was seeking? Classicism and a traditional life. He wanted
respectability.
That was how he wanted to
live
and we
did
that. Neal was able to get along with people of all classes. And I had respectable friends. That was all Neal really wanted. Neal never had a mother. That's what he was looking for in me.

“I make good money now, they come and pick my house clean as a bone! I call them the ‘Archive People.' The Archive People come and comb. And wow, do they know what they're looking for. In one of my memoirs, I wrote about a book Jack liked, by Sri Au—Sri
Audi
-something—like the car—no, hold on, let me look . . . I've got one of his over here somewhere—
Sri Aurobindo.
I don't know what the ‘Sri' is all about, maybe it's supposed to be ‘sir' but someone got dyslexic. He was a sage, from India, one of those holy men who appealed to Jack. I wrote somewhere that Jack made notes in the margins of books—even
I
forgot, but the
Archive People
didn't! They asked me if I still had it and I said I didn't know so they came over and we looked, and they
found
it. O there's quite a market! I sold a sticker, and this was a
tiny
‘Can You Pass the Acid Test?' signed by Neal, I think I got 75,000 after commission. You know, that was the little diploma they used to give . . . or maybe I got the 75
before
commission. Gave it all to my son, told him to
use
it, because he was destitute.
Don't wait till I'm dead
, I told him. See, he's out there selling cars
and no one's buying.

“My money manager invests
everything
and my account is getting
fat.
There's a Swedish rock star, the Elvis of his country. A friend told me she'd been to one of his concerts. She said that, behind him, right onstage, was an enormous picture of
yours truly.
Because this Swedish Elvis was influenced by Jack and everybody and even wrote some books, about
ten
, that became bestsellers over there. My friend saw that picture and said, ‘Carolyn, you should be making money off that.'
So I rang up the singer and said, ‘You need to pay me
NOW
.
' So we made a deal where he printed up a few hundred of these things and we both signed them and I'd get the money. But he was dragging his feet. I looked at his schedule and said, ‘Well I see you're going to be in Stockholm. Wouldn't that be a good place to meet up?' So we did. And while we're signing the posters, he asked if I wanted to go to his concert—they're booked for
years
in advance—and I said, ‘Sure, can I bring a few friends?' I wound up bringing a whole crowd! He announced me from the stage. There I was in the VIP section and 25,000 people roared and turned their heads to look at me. I asked my friend if she got a picture of all those people's heads turning and she said, ‘No, Carolyn, I was taking a picture of
you
.' The next day I was told that when it was announced that I was in the stadium, it was like some kind of religious experience for the audience. I said, ‘Well, if it was a religious experience for
them
,
what do you think it was like for
me
?'
Anyway, we signed the posters but I started to think those things were probably going to take a
long time
to sell. I mentioned that to the Swedish Elvis and he told me to ring up his man, to settle the accounts. When I got the fellow on the line, he said, ‘Would you like it all in one? Or in two?' One lump or two. I said,
‘Let me have it all in one.'
They cut me a check right there, for 18,000 pounds. O, the world is having a tough time, but not
me
!

“I always felt shy and worthless. Didn't get over it till I was 65—that's how long it took for me to speak in front of crowds. Because, of course, I was invited all the time.
Ginsberg was just
needy
. At least I
knew
why I felt worthless. It was because my brothers molested me when I was 10. Took me 55 years to get over . . .

“Jack wrote
Big Sur
up in Larry's cabin. And I'm in the book. A few years ago, some people made a documentary about it. They interviewed me for an hour-and-a-half but I was in the movie about
two seconds.
When I finally watched it, I almost fell asleep. Had to pinch myself it was so boring. They filmed me walking on the beach but it was the
wrong
beach. Why, I don't know. I
told
them it was wrong but they didn't seem to
care.
I guess they were going to fake it. But what's the point of faking it if you're making a documentary? That cabin isn't even up there anymore. In Bixby Canyon. It's a posh home now. There
are
a few buildings or whatnot where it used to be—but
nothing
in that film is authentic. I just don't understand why people avoid facts! There I was walking down the wrong beach . . . and everyone they decided to put in the movie was so full of
opinions.
You see, I don't have ‘opinions,'
I have
knowledge.
Jack wrote to me that he
had
to write that book
.
He felt good
about it.
The
one
thing I liked about that documentary was they flew me out from New York on EOS. I don't think it exists anymore but it was all First Class—the only way to travel. My son met me there and we had a fabulous day in New York. Then we took the train to California and it was
horrid
.”

One day at San Quentin—she'd been doing her thing up there, and had managed to extend her sabbatical another six months—they told Kelly that a prisoner from the East Block had requested study time. The East Block is Death Row. Kelly thought that was a good omen. The great Buddhist teachers had always said the dharma was best practiced in the shadow of death-awareness. What better a pupil than one on Death Row?

It took some wrangling between the prison and the ACLU because the powers that be weren't all that excited about the prospect of “Dead man meditating!” It was a control trip, that's all. A few months went by . . . my wife didn't have a clue what was going on. Then a friendly soul at the ACLU called to say their argument was a constitutional slam-dunk and the warden had capitulated.

Kelly told everyone she didn't want to know the man's crime or even his last name. “Half are probably innocent, anyway” was what she said to me. The prisoner was brought to a special room with a glass partition. (In her usual jail class, there were sometimes half a dozen inmates, and a guard but no barriers.) She described the condemned charge as “big and rough, sort of handsome, darty paranoid eyes, bookish glasses, big head of grayish Brillo pad hair, biker moustache.” His name was Ricky. The first thing he wanted to learn about was the Noble Truths. When he pronounced “noble”
as in Nobel Prize, Kelly was touched. She said his nervousness was poignant; it'd probably been a while since he'd seen a woman, let alone spoken to one. Kelly was certain this kind of teaching would strengthen her own practice.

They met a handful of times. He was an eager student—meditation is popular on Death Row because it dangles the popular out-of-body-experience carrot of astral projection. Kelly began keeping a journal with an eye to writing something for one of the Buddhist magazines,
Tricycle
or
Shambhala Sun.
The subscription dharma rags
love
that shit; growing the sangha in Sing Sing is a perennial. Then she got more ambitious and set her sights on a book. A memoir (dual memoir, actually), part about her, part about Little Ricky. Well, mostly about her, but still, a kind of we're-all-on-Death-Row type of thing. I thought the framework was immensely compelling: a condemned convict and a middle-aged Berkeley Buddhist engaged in the ol' impermanence dialogue.
Very
cool.

I knew it was only a matter of time before she found out the nature of his crime—his crimes. She was making it too much of a thing
not
to know, which never works. The
No!
thing never works. I think she was being somewhat naïve. She
was
naïve, which happens to be her nature. But if she were really serious about writing a book, she'd eventually need to learn. She'd eventually have to ask.
Their evolving intimacy alone, so to speak, would force the issue.

As it happened, her caged songbird was a child killer.

Do you remember Polly Klaas, the girl from Petaluma who was kidnapped? Well, Little Ricky was the monster who snatched her. Richard Allen Davis . . . remember him? If you're from around here, you probably do. You're certainly old enough.

Can I remind you of the case? Polly Klaas was having a slumber party. Twelve-year-olds. Around eleven at night, Little Ricky waltzes in with a knife and ties up the girls. Polly's parents were home when it happened, how's
that
for survivor guilt? If you're a mom or a dad, you've got to be saying
Kill me now
. Swoops in and swoops out, Polly under his arm. Classic unthinkable bogeyman shit. Mrs. Klaas didn't know anything was wrong until the morning, when she came in to see who wanted pancakes.

The weird thing is (in terms of the Winona connection) that
Winona Ryder went up there after the murder—I want to say it was '93—she went up to raise money for a reward. Because that's where she's from. Winona's from Petaluma. And she did, she raised a lot. I want to say the final tally was $350,000. I don't know the numbers, maybe fifty from the community, three hundred from Winona. Winona was awesome. A very kind thing to do, everyone appreciated it, you know, local girl made good, she didn't come with a movie star vibe. None whatsoever. It hit her hard, hit
everybody
hard.

Little Ricky was of that genus of killers who begin their careers by torturing animals. Now imagine what the man-version of that boy would do to a lamb like Polly, a lamb who barely has its fur. A little lamb can certainly bring out the worst in a Little Ricky. A fellow just did the same thing down in Florida to a gal who was a few years younger than Polly. Went right into the house and grabbed her. Took her home and raped her, then wrapped her in garbage bags with her stuffed animal and buried her alive. I think about her. I think about Polly. I think about these things . . . Polly's with her friends, they're doing their girl-talk popcorn thing, playing music and dancing—safe. Maybe he punched her head to shut her up as they left the house, she's under his arm, limbs slow-moving like a drugged crab, his adrenaline's surging, he's wasted, invincible, can't believe he's pulled this off. Drenched in alcohol, pot and meth, barely feels the lamb-crab moving on his hip, a pirate's pride and booty—I'll stop. Not from lack of candor, that's one thing I've never been accused of. It's more, well, you can't know how far I go into thinking about these things, of
inhabiting
that sort of evil,
examining
it from every angle. Particularly of a child's. It's just so unpleasant, Bruce, but that's how I'm wired. My “lingua franca.” If there's a terrible place to go, I tend to be there. See, that's what they did to
me.
I know it's dreadful but that's what I do, I conjure the details because
I
was killed, right around Polly's age too. And I've had lots of time to think about it, I'm a student of murdered children, I
inoculate
myself. I know that's selfish . . . well, the reasons I study them I suppose are two-fold. One is to honor and grieve for them—and honor and grieve for the child
I
once was before those monsters . . . I suppose
another
reason I go so deep is to celebrate that I made it through. That I survived. Because I believed for so many years beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'd be killed by those men. That God could not—
would
not save me. Because it was He who put me in harm's way.