Guys never get girls when they need them. If they did, they wouldn't get into trouble.
Trouble for most young men springs from unfulfilled desires. Now you're on a roll. Testosterone is powering your system. You're all dressed up, but where's the party? You have no job, you have nothing to do, peer pressure is mounting, and you're still too young for the girls your age.
So you get into trouble. There are new limits to explore, but it's different from when you were smaller. Now you have real hostility, confusion, and insecurity. And mom can't fix it anymore. Your group of guys even starts falling apart. One friend is drinking too much and getting in trouble with his folks. The guy across the street can't hang with you anymore because he went off the deep end. This is when you start becoming a loner, and have problems respecting authority.
To deal with the stress, some of us developed split personalities: half model citizen, half hooligan.
In other words, we become Eddie Haskells.
I was an Eddie Haskell. With my friends' parents, I was the model kid they wished their kids would be. I made their brood look pitiful.
"Don't you look nice today, Mrs. Cleaver. That's an interesting tool, Mr. Cleaver."
I'd go on trips with these kids, and later their parents would write notes to my parents: "Dear Mrs. Dick, Tim is just a delight. He makes his bed and cleans up after himself. He's always welcome."
But when my friends' folks were away, I became Tim, the instigator, forcing these same kids to buy beer.
"Okay, Beav, they'll be back about ten o'clock. Now go get me a gun and some brown liquor and see if you find two loose women. Whatever those are."
- -
There are lots of ways to get into trouble.
At school, we were forbidden to smoke in the boys' room. A rule that forbids is a rule that is broken. I would rather have smoked in the girls' room, anyway. (In retrospect, I would rather not have smoked at all. Smoking's not good for you. But then you all know that.)
We also had fights. Manuel Lopadeca was always in the "ring" with somebody. He'd get pissed at some poor guy and the word would spread around school. At three o'clock everything would shut down, and we'd all gather behind the gym. Eventually, Manuel and his latest victim would circle each other. Smack! A couple of blasts to the face, a little blood. It was a catharsis. Fighting was a way to rechannel unused sexual energy. At least it was physical contact. It was a better way to release aggression than today's knifings and drive‑by shootings.
I only fought with my brothers, except for once, when I fought Bob Stirwood. He hit my brother, so I made him sit in an ant pile. That's creative retaliation. Then his brother came, and chased me up a tree.
These days, kids maim each other for scuffing their tennis shoes. Can't we go back to fist fighting when you only hit people you loved?
- -
Sometimes our evil was premeditated.
One of my best friends kept maligning another kid in our science class about his, uh. . unit. He'd say, "Jim Kerwin has a bald pin cock." He'd say it really loud and really often, because this kid was easily intimidated. And rightfully so. We'd seen him in the shower. Tommy Rodriguez's opposite number. He probably spent his spare time desperately scanning the hair‑growth‑tonic ads. Doesn't work. You really gotta wait out that transformation and not fear that it's already happened.
It wasn't Kerwin's fault he wasn't sprouting, but my friend Gus firmly decided that there needed to be a sign on a massive concrete pillar outside the science room, announcing Kerwin's predicament.
"It'll be more effective than me having to repeat it all the time," he said.
And he bet me twenty bucks I wouldn't do it.
"Not only will I put up a sign, I'll paint a sign," I said, unable to resist a dare. I went to the art‑supply store, got a stencil and some black spray paint. That night, with adrenaline rushing, I fashioned a perfect rectangle on the pillar. Next I carefully stenciled, in metallic gold: JIM KERWIN HAS A BALD PIN COCK. It looked like a damn professional sign painter had done it.
Gus saw it and said, "You don't spell cock K‑O‑C‑H." But he still handed me a twenty.
I started feeling really bad that I had ever done it, and was overcome with compassion. Not for stupid little Jim Kerwin and his peewee cock, but because I saw the school maintenance man out there the whole next day, scrubbing the pillar with borax-and wrecking some fine art work, I might add. I had always admired the guy because he took such pride in his job. Now I felt miserable that no matter how hard he scrubbed he wasn't ever going to get off the heavy enamel. I also realized that since I wasn't a born vandal perhaps I should consider a career in art.
Eventually they had to replace the whole school wing just get rid of the monument to our ingenuity. To this day, we're the only ones who knew.
Actually, just me, now.
I had to kill Gus.
- -
Among other things, trouble is a wonderful way to broaden your relationship with the police. That's right! In seven easy lessons, you too can be saying colorful phrases like:
"Damn, it's the police."
"Cup it, it's a cop."
"Quiet, it's the man."
And the bonus phrase if you order before midnight: "It wasn't me, officer. I was at my house, watching Home Improvement."
The worst thing about being bad is getting caught. This is because the excitement does not lie as much in the activity itself as in the thrill of getting away with it. Mischief is a game of cat and mouse. It's guerrilla tactics. This is not like playing Redcoats and Continental soldiers, where you line up in rows, advance into the opposing gunfire and keep falling over dead like good fellows.
Even as adults, not getting caught remains men's number one preoccupation. That's why men learn to lie-although we prefer to call it "bullshitting."
"Who left that on the sink?"
"I didn't."
But you and she are the only two in the house and she knows she didn't do it. She doesn't even have one of those.
"Who farted?"
Same situation. But somehow there's a smug satisfaction to not admitting it.
You're thinking, "She didn't catch me."
Oh, yeah? Think again.
Of course, what you don't admit to women is often something you'll go right up to a guy and do in his face.
Don't ask me why, but it's a sign of admiration. A symbol of friendship.
You can deny stuff to a guy, but he won't buy it. It takes one to know one. That's why we don't make a big deal about lying all the time with other guys. We're in the company of thieves. It's expected. Lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie, lie.
Men even lie about lying. I'm a mathematical liar: you know, two lies make a truth. A guy lies twice in a row and he thinks that adds up to being honest.
These days I find myself lying for no reason myself. This gets really scary. I'm lying right now to you people and you don't even know it! Or do you? Tell me the truth.
- -
There are lots of ways to get into trouble. To be forewarned is to be forearmed.
EGGING: Egg a car and you can put a big dent in the side. Let the egg sit there long enough and it wrecks the finish. That is, it never comes off. When you're a kid, there's always one Egging Night a year.
Fortunately, there was always some guy at the PTA meetings who said, "Oh, they're just kids. Give `em a break." I think he owned the grocery store. "Oh, and tell your kids I've got pears that aren't moving, just rotting. Maybe they should do a fruit night."
"DAD, CAN I HAVE THE CAR KEYS?: fm not talking about serious heisting here. Just kid stuff, like borrowing your parents' car without asking. Before you're sixteen. Now, I didn't do this, of course-to the best of their knowledge. Between you and me, I did take their car around the block once, and my heart beat so fast and so hard that I thought it would burst out of my chest and go right through the windshield. Suddenly, that's all I could think about. I started freaking out. If it came through my chest, I'd probably look down and try to stuff it back in or something. And while I was looking down, some neighbor lady walking her poodle would, at that very moment, decide to cross the street, and I'd look up-oh, my god-and with the skill of a race car driver, I'd swerve out of her way just in time, and plow right into a tree instead. I sped home in neutral and spent the rest of the day recovering.
One guy I knew actually took his parents' car to parties. We'd be out, drinking, flying around at ninety mph in his mom's Mercury Marquis station wagon. They'd be out to dinner, thinking it was in the garage. Just before they'd come home, we'd get back, shut the garage, rush inside. The car would still be going "tick, tick, tick, tick, sss, ssss," and there'd be six guys just sitting down in the living room as his parents walked in.
They'd say, "So, what have you guys been doing?"
"Oh, nothing."
"You mean you've been sitting here all night with your coats on?"
"It's cold."
DONUTS: When you're out in the folk's "borrowed" car, you can have lots of fun making donuts. Here's the recipe: You pull the car onto someone's freshly cut lawn, crank the steering wheel as far as it will go and then just floor it. You'll be making giant donuts in no time! The constant spinning action creates a lovely mixture of grass and dirt, with a haughty bouquet.
This drives the homeowner mad. So you wait until the poor guy has repaired the damage-and do it again.
Occasionally an irate homeowner will lay small tank traps-sharp, well‑placed rocks-hoping you'll hit one as you spin around and puncture a tire. (Try explaining that to your parents!)
This doesn't really work because once a guy challenges your right to be bad you find a way to be worse.
What goes around comes around. I know. I'm a homeowner now.
SILVERWARE: Some guys really surprise you. I knew one who came to school with bags of silverware. Other people's silverware. In art class he'd fire up the smelter, toss in handfuls of heirlooms, and melt them down into ingots.
He'd tell the teacher he was sculpting.
What he meant was that he was sculpting his initials into the bars, which he'd then carry home to his clubhouse. (A six‑bedroom, five‑bath English Tudor.)
This guy's in big trouble today. He was already breaking into homes to get the silver-a bad sign, considering we were only it junior high school. But I liked his motivation. He'd caught on early that goal‑setting was a key to a successful life-even if it was behind bars.
Iron bars.
- -
Do girls get into trouble? I don't think so. I've asked around.
Girls are more likely to be doing useless things like studying. Or going to afterschool functions to develop their social skills! Skills that don't prepare them for important things, like toiletpapering houses. Now, where's that going to get them?
Sure, some girls were chasing after the bad guys, which is another good reason to make trouble: boys learn early that we can't get a girl without a car and/or a prison record. A good grade point average and a working knowledge of King Lear can't compete with riding a motorcycle. When a girl's parents said, "I don't like that Tim, he drives that bike," you knew you were in. But mostly, if girls were into mischief at all, they stuck to petty stuff: to petty stuff:
Stealing cigarettes. Swiping lipstick and earrings from the five‑and‑dime. Ditching school to hang out with college boys, and smoking their cigarettes. Hemming their dresses really short, then hiding them in their purses so they could change into them at the school dance.
Here's the big one: Reading romance novels under the bedcovers at night.
Reading?
But reading what? Nancy Drew Meets Bernie Broder?
- -
Here's the big difference between men and women at the age when everyone's looking for action.
Take two equally equipped '68 Roadrunners, with the 440 Magnum-ah, what the heck, go for the Hemi with the decor package-vinyl top, the rally wheels with the custom rims, and the airgrabber system. Put four girls in one, four guys in the other. You send them both out to get a six‑pack of beer, and tell them to be back at midnight.
The girls will probably be back by eleven o'clock. One beer is half empty and warm, with lipstick on the rim. The car's cleaner than when you left it, it smells like a mix of Chanel No. 5 and gossip. Everyone's chatting happily and planning how to get together soon for dinner.
The guys-if they ever come back-one is missing, there's blood everywhere, no one's talking. The beer's gone, a second sixpack is also empty, some liquor bottles are in the backseat, there are spent shell casings on the floor, butt prints all over the windows, a tire is flat, one fender's all dented, the muffler's hanging off, and a big piece of animal is strapped on the hood.
Two different worlds.
- -
Some kids cross the line and one day they get into too much trouble. You're in their car, they pull into the parking lot of a 7‑Eleven, and you suddenly realize you're in the wrong car. They're bored and looking for trouble. If there are no women, at least there's got to be some action. And action is definitely not going to the mall and walking around. This situation can lead to wrong decisions.
Petty theft was not for me. I stopped hanging around with these guys and set my own goals.
Selling drugs.
I'm not trying to be funny. It's public record. Eventually it landed me in jail. No one likes to go to jail. Prison takes away your freedom in a way you can never imagine until you've spent time there. Anyone who says prison is great or they can do it-fine. So explain to me why, if you opened the door, everyone would walk away. Once you lose your freedom, you never want to lose it again. Prison was the worst and the best thing that ever happened to me. It taught me in no uncertain terms to be responsible for my own actions.
It's tough to be lighthearted about prison, even if like me you've made it through. Still, I feel a bit like Audie Murphy, back from the war, full of stories.
Even today it's a big shock to people that I spent any time behind bars. They say, "You're not that kind of guy."
Well, yes, I was that kind of guy. Half model citizen, half hooligan.
And where I was headed was full of Eddie Haskells, too.
- -
Prison is filled with guys in whom their lunatic is free. The lunatic is finally where he wants to be. He's in a place where lunacy works. The more of a lunatic you are, the better you get along with the other lunatics. Prison is a wonderful place for the lunatic to be since it's the lunatic in you that gets you there.
The difference between the lunatic living in the outside world and killing time in prison is that inside the lunatic actually speaks. He goes, "I didn't do it." Or "if I had a chance to do it again I certainly wouldn't get caught." The lunatic is always in denial because he never admits the slightest responsibility.
"It was the other guy."
"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. To be honest, I liked it. Especially the heavy barbecue taste. I could have been eating erasers for all I knew.
- -
Lots of guys are behind bars for crimes that the government wants to do something about, but can't figure out how.
For instance, are stiff sentences for cocaine and other drug use stemming the tide? Right. Now we have crack-as if coke wasn't bad enough. This is a menacing trend. This problem is vexing the population. What I've learned in my life is that the truism is often true: If first you don't succeed try try again. Try it from another angle. Right now, it's like we're running through the forest with our heads down and banging into a tree, and just backing up and running into the tree again life the tree's going to move. Look up, step around the tree, and continue on your way.
Now, I'm in no way advocating drug use, just the rethinking of policies that don't seem to be working. The English plan for making opiates legal and monitoring their use is a small step. I don't think that people are saying, "Well, since the government is providing it, I might as well become a heroin addict."
Here's my solution.
Put cocaine in a beverage the way they did when Coca‑Cola was first invented. It's soluble in water. (What did you think Coca-Cola meant?!?) There would be very little left for street consumption, and we'd allow the farmers in Colombia to sell a product we want. We could buy Colombia's whole crop. We could control it, tax it, and-here's the elegant part-make it into an afterdinner liqueur with somewhat the same effects, but it's also extremely fattening. Very tasty but full of calories. And believe me people would not be willing to get fat over cocaine.
You'd know the coke abusers right away.
"Hey, Frank. Put on a little weight, there."
"Uh. . yeah, and I didn't get much sleep, either."
People will do anything not to get fat.
Oh, and no Cocaine‑Lite, either.
Behind bars, men always steal glances at other men's penises. No matter how hard they try not to. You get used to it.
In the prison shower it was quick, but definite. You try to act as if you're looking at the drain, but everyone knows better. What you discover is that there are some men who would make women terribly happy. Also, some terribly misshapen men. I think when I say "misshapen" you know what I'm talking about.
In camp, you don't want to stand too close to a naked man. In prison, you have to-like it or not. There are no private facilities, which bothers some guys more than others.
In fact, in prison they like naked men so much that every time you finish a visit with anyone from the outside you have to strip down for inspection before you go back inside.
Kinda makes you want to stay in your cell.
- -
Admit it, you've been waiting for this.
One guy inside liked me a lot. He'd been convicted of killing two FBI agents. (Didn't do it, of course.) He took care of my clothes. Most of the gay men worked in the laundry. It's a job; they get to sit and gossip.
Even guys who weren't homosexual before will, after a while, try something. Prison and Hollywood are exactly the same thing.
One night this guy came on to me. He tried to convince me that he could satisfy me better than a woman could.
My eyebrows went up as I recoiled.
Then I thought, you know, he's probably got a point there. Who could satisfy a man better than another man? We know what we want. Men hugging men is great. I think we should kiss other men like the Italians. And I think the day is just around the corner when you can blow another man.
"Tony, sorry you lost your job, sit down, let me blow you."
"Hey, let go of my ears. Hell, I know what fm doing!"
This is one of my favorite stories to tell onstage because you get everyone laughing and suddenly two guys who have been high‑fiving each other will stop, and their expressions will say it all: "Hey! What are we laughing at? This is off‑color."
But I told the guy in prison "No."
- -
Guys end up in jail because they don't have goals. Or their goals are the wrong ones.
If life is, in fact, a river, then you have very few options, all of them very clear. You're in a canoe. You can try to paddle upstream and live in the past, looking backward. Then you're going to hit something, and you'll keep wondering why life keeps hitting you in the back. Or you can fight the current but face forward, and not get anywhere. Or you can casually go with the flow and think about pulling over to the side now and then to explore the land. Smell the roses. And some people want to go as fast as they possibly can, straight to hell.
I think I was backpaddling and the canoe flipped over. I had no idea about looking forward and setting a goal. Then I met a guy in prison, at one of these groups, who summed it up best. The greatest missile in the world is useless, he said, unless it's targeted. A torpedo is adrift unless it has someplace to go. An arrow is pointless unless it hits something.
So it's important for kids-for everyone, even if you fail at first-to target something and head in that direction.
With all your might.
- -
In a way, I was luckier than most. While awaiting sentencing I decided to give stand‑up comedy a shot. The judge had suggested I get my act together, and I took him seriously. It was better than sitting around wondering why I wasn't getting any job offers. I thought that at my sentencing hearing the judge would take my efforts into consideration. He didn't. But, as you know, being funny saved my life-on the inside, in my inside, and, as I was soon to discover, on the outside.
Plus I had a few uninterrupted years with no responsibilities, to work on my material. Nothing like a glass that's half full.