In this collection of short stories, Ken Kesey challenges public and private demons with a wrestler's brave and deceptive embrace, making it clear that the energy of madness must live on.
I check in at the SM County facilities dressed in my usual leather jacket, striped pants and shoes, silver whistle hanging around my neck. They allow you to wear street business up at camp. The bulls here at County Slam hate the policy. Lt. Gerder looks up from his typewriter sees my outfit and his already stone-cold face freezes even harder.
“All right, Deboree. Give me everything.”
“Everything?” Usually they let the Honor Camp prisoners check through, trust them to give up their watches, pocketknives, etc.
“Everything. We don’t want you blowing your whistle at midnight.”
“Make me out a complete property slip, then.”
He gives me an unwavering stare through the mesh as he takes a triplicate form from a waiting stack and rolls it into the typewriter.
“One whistle,” I say, pulling the chain over my head. “With a silver crucifix soldered to the side.”
He doesn’t type.
“One blues harp, E flat.”
He continues to look at me over the keys.
“Come on, Gerder; you want everything, I want a property slip for everything—whistles, harps, and all.”
We both know what I’m really worried about are my two Honor Camp notebooks. [1]
“You just slide everything into the trough,” he says. “In fact, I want you out of that Davy Crockett costume, Jackoff. Peel it.”
He comes out of the cage while I take off the fringed jacket Behema made me from the hide we skinned off the cow elk Houlihan ran over coming down off Seven Devils Pass that All Souls’ Eve with the brakes gone and the headlights blown.
“Stuff it in the trough. Now, hands on the wall feet on the line. Spread ‘em.” He gives the inside of my ankle a kick. “Deputy Rhack, back me while I examine this prisoner.”
They frisk me. The whole shot, flashlight and all. Taking sunglasses, handkerchief, fingernail clippers, ballpoint pens and everything. My two notebooks are wrapped in the big farewell card Fastinaux drew for me on butcher paper. Gerder rips it off and stuffs it in the wastebasket. He tosses the notebooks on top of the other stuff.
“I get a property slip for this stuff, Gerder. That’s the law.”
“While you’re in my tanks,” Lt. Gerder lets me know, “you go by my law.”
No malice in his voice. No anger. Just information.
“Okay then”—I take my two notebooks out of the trough and hold them up—“witness these.” Showing them to Deputy Rhack and the rest of the men waiting in the receiving room. “Everybody? Two notebooks.”
Then hand them to Gerder. He carries them around into his cage and sets them next to his typewriter. He hammers at the keys, ignoring the roomful of rancor across the counter from him. Rhack isn’t so cool; a lot of these guys will be back up at camp with him for many months yet, where he’s a guard without a gun. First he tries to oil us all with a wink, then he turns to me, smiling his sincerest man-to-man smile.
“So, Devlin… you think you got a book outta these six months with us?”
“I think so.”
“How do you think it’ll come out; in weekly installments in the
“I hope not.” Bonehead move, giving those three pages of notes to that Sunday supplement reporter—pulled my own covers. “It should make a book on its own.”
“You’ll have to change a lot, I’ll bet… like the names.”
“I’ll bet a carton I don’t. Sergeant
Before Rhack can think up an answer Gerder jerks the papers out and slides them under the mesh. “Sign all three, Deputy.”
Rhack has to use one of the pens from my pile. When Gerder gets the signed forms back he scoops all the little stuff out of the trough into a pasteboard property box with a numbered lid. He puts my wadded jacket on top.
“Okay, Deboree.” He swivels to the panel of remote switches. “Zip up your pants and step to the gate.”
“What about my notebooks?”
“You’ll find stationery in Detain. Next.”
Rhack hands me my ballpoint as I pass, and Gerder’s right: there is paper in D Tank. Sixo is still here, too, after coming down for his kickout more than a week ago. In blues now instead of the flashy slacks and sportjacket, but still trying to keep up the cocky front, combing his greasy pomp, talking tough: “Good deal! The pussy wagon has arrived.”
One by one the other guys that rode down on Rhack’s shuttle show up. Gerder has had to give them each the same treatment, taking cigarettes, paperbacks, everything.
“Sorry about that,” I tell them.
“Steer clear of Deboree,” Sixo advises them. “He’s a heat magnet.”
Just then keys jangle. “Deboree! Duggs is here to see you.”
Door slides open. I follow the turnkey down the row of cells to a room with a desk. Probation Officer Duggs is sitting behind it. My two notebooks are on the desk beside my rapsheets. Duggs looks up from the records.
“I see you made it without getting any more Bad Time tacked on,” Duggs says.
“I was good.”
Duggs closes the folder. “Think anybody’ll be here for you at midnight?”
“One of my family, probably.”
“Down all the way from Oregon?”
“I hope so.”
