Executioner's Song, The - Norman Mailer [223]
That was when Gary had been granted what they call a "school release" from Oregon State Penitentiary to a halfway house in Eugene. They were letting him out to study art. Mikal had been told of this coming event by Bessie, but was nonetheless startled to see Gary turn up at his college room on the day after his release in the fall of 1972, six-pack in hand, and the happy information that he could still register tomorrow. The school at Eugene was a couple of hundred miles away, but Gary seemed in no hurry. Just wanted to see how Mikal was getting along.
Next day, Gary was at the door again. Wearing the same clothes.
His blue eyes stared at Mikal out of a bloodshot field of white, and there was yellow in the corners. He was ready to take Mikal to lunch, but only in a cab. He did not want to be seen on the streets.
Mikal began to feel steeped again in the dread he had always felt on those rare occasions he visited Gary in prison. It was not only Gary but the lost lives of the other prisoners in that visiting room, the depression, the apathy, the congealed rage, the bottomless potential for violence in those halls. After a while, Mikal stopped visiting. It created too much disturbance when he walked in wearing his long hair. It was like protesting the war in Vietnam in front of a barracks of Marines.
On this day, for lunch, they went to a topless bar. Mikal thought Gary was in a trance. He just kept studying the breasts of the girl on the dance floor. After a while, Mikal got up his courage and said, "It's obvious you're not going to school."
Gary answered in a slow deliberate countrified way. Phony as hell, Mikal always thought, more Texas than Oregon. "Man," said Gary, "I'm not cut out for school. They can't teach me anything about art I don't know already." Then he changed the subject. He needed a gun. A friend in Oregon State Penitentiary was going to be brought out for dental work next week. Ward White was his name. He wanted to spring him.
Mikal protested. "You're throwing away your life."
"It's a matter of dignity," said Gary and looked at Mikal's eyes.
When he took in the knowledge that there was no gun forthcoming, Gary said, "I'd do it for my brother."
He dropped Mikal off in a taxi, and went on.
Mikal only saw him twice more that month. Once Gary stopped by to hear some Johnny Cash records. He was charming and sober.
Another day, Gary picked him up at school, took him to a rich friend's house, showed him the swimming pool, then showed him a pistol.
"Think you could ever use one of these?" he asked.
It was like a bigger dude squeezing your machismo to see if it leaked. "I could use a gun if I had to," said Mikal, "but I hope you're talking about survival."
Gary put the gun away and ruffled Mikal's hair. "C'mon," he said, "I'll drive you home."
On the way, Gary started to honk at a car that was going too slow, and when the driver slowed down a little more, to spite him, Gary whipped around a turn on the wrong lane and went right into the path of an approaching van. At the last instant, he escaped collision by driving their car up on the sidewalk.
"You almost got us killed," Mikal shouted.
Gary was breathing deeply. He lay his forehead on the steering wheel. "Sometimes," he said, "you have to be able to face that."
A couple of nights later, Mikal heard over the news that Gary had been arrested for armed robbery. Back he went to prison. Months later, Bessie and Mikal attended his trial. Just before sentencing, Gary made a speech to the Court. Mikal never forgot it.
I would like to make a special appeal for leniency. I've been locked up for the last nine and a half calendar years and I have had about two and a half years of freedom since I was fourteen years old. I have always gotten time and always done it, never been paroled. I have never had a break from the law, and I have come to feel that justice is kind of harsh, and I have never asked for a break until now.
Your Honor, you