Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

'If you'd trusted me to begin with, I would have shot them both, no reservations. Then I would have burnt down the bank.'

One guy I met actually denied that he'd robbed the bank even though he was caught at the teller's window with a ski mask on and a shotgun in his hand. I said, 'So why were you in the bank?'

'That part I don't know. I don't know why I walked in there.'

'But you had a ski mask on!'

'It was cold!'

'You were holding a pump shotgun and wearing a ski mask; what did you think the response was going to be when you walked inside that bank?'

'Well, I didn't think they were all going to go nuts on me!'

Like I said, prison's a great place for the lunatic. As for me, let's be honest. I didn't do anything. I wasn't even there when the cops busted me. I was at my house, watching Home Improvement. I was framed! I didn't do it!

And I was among guys who actually believed me.

The only place better for lunatics is the Armed Forces, because guys (lunatics?) actually sign up for that. You have to go in and say, 'Yes.' Of course, in the military you can also get weekend passes and see a woman.

There are no women in a man's prison. That makes the biggest difference in the world. You just can't take women away from men. It's devastating. Nothing buffers this. There's a sadness inside those walls, in men's eyes, that's pathetic. The loneliness. The anger. It was incredible.

- -

My sense of humor about jail began in the holding cell. It had to. It was the only way to survive.

After the six?hour interrogation by cops who've watched too many cop shows on TV, the holding cell is first a relief, then a painful experience. But as bad as it was, it was only a peek at what was coming.

There were ten guys in the cell. The toilet's in the middle of the room. I remember looking at the can, then at the ceiling, then at the can, then at all the guys in there with me. I wanted to walk out. Yeah.

It was a smelly room, really depressing. My only thought was that I would die from fecal poisoning. I knew I would not be able to use the can. I mean, you can't take a dump with ten other guys in the room watching you. Peeing, sure; but the other? No way. Fart noises and other private smells are things other guys shouldn't be a party to.

Finally, digestion being as it is, things must emerge. I ambled tentatively to the can. I turned away and started back to my seat, but knew it was no good. I was committed. I sat down and suddenly all the men began moving toward me. I panicked.

I didn't have to. This still blows my mind.

What they did was form a horseshoe around me with their backs in my direction. Because they're men, too. It was a big revelation. These aren't just losers like me, but they're men. They do this so you have some privacy and no one can see in from the outside.

Meanwhile, I was also looking at ten remarkably nice butts.

The worst part, however, is that for about six months after I got out of jail I couldn't take a dump unless there were ten other guys in the room.

- -

The real penalty of jail, as I've said, is no women. With no place for the testosterone to go-and the painful memory of where it could go-the flare?ups get very violent. And the violence is very unlike life, because real life gets mitigated by touch and feelings. In prison the touching and feeling were not my sort of thing. There was a lot of it; a lot of sex between men. There was also something else. I remember a guy who put his hand on my shoulder during a conversation. He wasn't gay, but I leaned in toward him anyway just because having somebody touch you meant a lot.

- -

You could say one wrong word to a guy and he'd want to kill you. Literally.

I once offended a guy without knowing it. We belonged to the Toastmasters Club. The idea was to teach prisoners how to speak and utilize their talents. This guy was outgoing president and I was incoming president. I might add, for you gentlemen still in the club, that I never received my president's pin. Can we take care of this please?

The outgoing president had knitted me a comforter to give to my wife for Christmas. Of course, this is now one of my wife's favorite stories: I got this comforter from a guy who could have been a murderer and rapist. It didn't matter that he stitched this over a year with his bare hands. And at the time, I thought it was such an exciting thing.

We had a roast at his retirement and I guess I really roasted him. Hours later, he came to my cell and said, 'I'm not here because I'm a well?adjusted person. I'm a maladjusted man. In fact, I have one big problem: my really big inability to take criticism or be fucked with. You just fucked with me. And for that you're going to have to pay.'

You could hear me gulp in the warden's office. In a split second, he got me up against a wall. I realized I was going to die-and then a bubble popped right above his head.

When you're really in trouble your face gets this very odd, contorted look-like when you react to a vomit burp. One of the most amusing things, when my brother was about to get hit by my dad or had done something really wrong, was this look. Once, climbing a mountain with my brother, I slipped and fell. And he let me slip. Later, dusting myself off, I said, 'What was that all about?'

He was howling with laughter. 'The look on your face as you were sliding off that rock killed me!'

So as I was about to get my butt kicked, my life snuffed, this bubble popped up with my brother's face in it. And I started laughing. Suddenly the guy stopped roughing me up and said, 'What are you laughing at?'

I said, 'My brother's head just popped in above your head because. .' I tried to explain it to him. I couldn't stop laughing.

He said, 'You're crazy. Getting your ass kicked and you're laughing about it?'

'No, no. .' I still tried to explain, 'No, no, go ahead and hit me. I didn't mean to be rude.'

He let me go. It was fabulous.

One other story: An overmuscled tough guy also wanted to mess me up. Just because he could. Just because he was bored. But he never did because I knew that every time I started talking like Elmer Fudd he'd lose it.

'Yeah, it's pwetty cwose to cwosin' time.'

It would devastate the guy.

You could kick butt anytime. But you don't get to laugh that much in prison. It proved very valuable to me.

- -

I called my mom once because I got moved up from a cell block to my own cell. If your crime is not violent and you behave well, it's sort of a reward. I got it on Thanksgiving. I walked in and went, 'Wow!' My own room, my own toilet! And two storage lockers. It was still the size of a bathroom or a New York luxury apartment, but I was in heaven. The floor had its own phone, as well, so I called my mom.

I said, 'Mom! Mom! Guess what?' She said, 'What's wrong?' because I wasn't calling at my usual time. And even then no one really wanted to talk to me because my stories were so interesting: 'Yeah, Johnny got knifed, I saw two guys in the yard get punched, and the food still stinks. Oh, and there's a wedding coming up.'

So I said, 'Guess what? I got my own cell!'

She goes, 'What?'

'Got my own cell.'

'Oh,' she said. 'I'm so proud.'

Meanwhile, I realize she's thinking, 'Is this a joke? Hold on. Everybody? It's Tim! Davy is in Europe, Geoff's just graduated from Michigan State, Dave's got a brand?new job with a construction company, and my brightest son. . has just got his own cell! I'm just bursting with pride. Look, Tim: Don't call here anymore.'

- -

Prrison food sucks. Big surprise. One reason is that they road?test food on you. Hormel had some sort of magic meat they wanted to supply to the Army, but they wanted to let us lucky prisoners try it first. It was some soy?based thing. I don't think the Army ever bought any, so they turned it either into cat food or a laundry product.