WORLD’S OLDEST PRISONER - FreeCharlieNOW



Charles Norman

Copyright 2006

WORLD’S OLDEST PRISONER

I’m glad all you folks could be here today. Nice crowd. Makes me feel wanted. Of course, with how I’ve lived my life, I’ve been wanted off and on for most of the past century.

I was surprised them people from the Guinness Book of World Records showed up yesterday. They was nice. Took a bunch a pictures, asked me a lot of questions. How does it feel to be the world’s oldest prisoner, how many years have you served, how has prison changed? Man, those folks are worse than lawyers.

Right now I’ve got two world records for sure, the world’s oldest prisoner and the record for serving the most time. I’ll have that third record you’re all here to see me break in just a little bit, and there’s maybe two more records they have to check on–most escapes and most bank robberies.

I’m ninety-nine years old. I won’t see a hundred. My time’s almost up. I was born on Christmas Day, 1905, in Moultrie, Georgia. All my people’s dead, to my knowledge. I had a daughter born in 1937. She’d be 68 now, if she’s still alive. Ain’t been in touch with her since 1981. She had a daughter and a granddaughter that I know of, but she cut me off awhile ago, and I can only hazard a guess. I’m the last of my line. Some people would say good riddance.

Nearest I can figure it, I’ve been inside for 71 years since I first went up for bank robbery in 1926. I’d just turned 21 years old. I’ve done maybe eight years on the street since. Don’t sound like much, does it? Did some living, though.

I did time in Georgia, Florida, Pennsylvania, New York, did fed time, spent seven years on Alcatraz with the big boys. I tried to avoid them fed banks after that. State banks only. That’s where I started at. I got married at 18. Marie West. Prettiest girl in Colquitt County. I sat behind her in school since the first grade. I guess I fell in love with her blonde hair first. Didn’t take long to love the rest of her.

My daddy had a peanut farm. Me and Marie lived with my people, just till we could get on our feet and build our own place.

It wasn’t to be. The Lord took her in 1924. She died. She was 18. That was it for me. I couldn’t tolerate staring at a mule’s behind all day anymore. My cousin, Frank, and I went to Albany, Georgia, and robbed a bank. We split $1800. Most money I’d ever seen in my life. Didn’t last long. We bought a car, went to Savannah, robbed two banks. Third time’s the charm. Frank got shot. I got caught. That was 1926. I spent the twenties in Reidsville. Prison was a lot different then than it is now. The whites and the colored fellas were segregated. We had it rough. They had it worse. We were all slaves. We called the guards bulls, hacks, turnkeys, screws. That was behind their backs. Called ‘em Boss Man to their faces, kept our heads down.

There weren’t no grievances like there are now. You couldn’t file no appeal. Wasn’t no civil rights, no ACLU. This one bull used to say to give your soul to Jesus ‘cuz your ass is mine.

Worked on a road prison for awhile. Chain gang. We’d come in, they’d lock our leg irons to the bunks. We weren’t goin’ nowhere. Some newcock guard knocked over a kerosene lantern one night, forty men burned to death. I was in the box, or I’d been in there with them. I can still hear their screams, and smell that taint up in my sinuses. Human flesh sizzling. Yellow pine boards. Tarpaper roofs. All mingled together.

Them boys at the road prison, they suffered. I grew up on the farm. We killed hogs every year, first cold snap. But after that night at the road prison, I never could stomach pork again. You get a whiff of hog charring, overdone, that’s close to burning men.

They worked me on death row some years ago, cleaning up after the executions. Old Sparky. Same smell, only not as intense. Forty men burnt to a crisp is worse than one poor old soul with a smoking brain. You go in the death chamber with a mop bucket of bleach, soap, and some disinfectant, it don’t do no good. There’s like an oil film in the air. It gets in your clothes, your hair, your skin. Them boys would leak a lot of time, just like your Christmas turkey. Pink fluids not done yet, clear fluids, well done.

Forgive me for getting distracted. I’m pretty old, although I won’t be getting any older. My time’s about up.

I don’t hate ‘em because of what they did to me, but how they treated those boys they strapped into Old Sparky. I seen it all. Some of them would go to meet their Maker real quiet like. Some would cry. Some begged. You’d be surprised how many real bad asses would start screaming and fighting and begging, then they’d start cussing. They all got strapped down, though, and they all got fried.

These young, strong, muscle-bound boys they hire these days go to the training club, work out, shoot all the time, look like them German recruiting posters back in the ‘30's when that Hitler fella had it going on. I knew their daddies and their granddaddies. Family business, the prison. They grew up eating pork chops from the prison slaughter house. They pass down the stories from grandpa, to daddy, to son. Daughters now, too. Dangedest thing I ever seen, these little gals strutting around with their brown uniforms all spiffy, their little can of pepper spray stuck on their big, wide black belt, their panic button– PANIC BUTTONS ! They got some kind of satellite, tracks ‘em. Somebody drags ‘em into a cell, they push the button, clouds of polices descend on them like Mongols, save ‘em.

When I worked on death row, I saw it all up close. They loved executions. It was the only excitement their dull lives looked forward to. They were always so smug. Some of them would taunt the condemned when they were on death watch, telling ‘em stuff like you’re going to hell, you’ll be roasting on a spit soon, tell the devil hello for me. They’d dig at them, find their button, push it till they freaked out and went to pieces. One of them had a big old needle, used to call ‘em over to the bars, and stick ‘em deep with that needle, and just fall out laughing. Plumb mean.

I’m pressing my luck now. The warden’s been making eyeballs at me for ten minutes. But he’s the one who asked me if I had anything to say, to say it, so I am. If any of you folks want me to shut up, and get on with it, and not hear the rest of it, let’s have a vote. That’s another record, probably. Somebody tell those Guinness people. Oldest Jaycee president, seventy-something. I used to teach classes on Roberts Rules of Order.

Let’s see them hands. How many want me to shut up? Okay. How many want me to finish what I had to say? Sorry, warden. We still live in a democracy, no matter what that Bin Laden fella says about it.

Where was I? Oh yeah– lying here on this table in front of all you good people. I was talking about executions, how messed up they are. I did time in Mississippi for a few years. They got the gas chamber over there. Cyanide. Ain’t no different. You should see those boys when they suck all that poison gas outta that chamber, unstrap ‘em, lay ‘em on a table, hose ‘em down. It’s a miserable way to die, all contorted. You know, some of those boys would pull so hard they’d snap their arms, break ‘em.

The guards were no different in Mississippi. I guess it’s the environment, or maybe it’s genetic. Maybe some of you professors can do a study, get a grant.

It don’t matter what you call it. Murder is murder. I finally came around to that point of view. I should know. I’ve killed at least six men in prison, maybe seven, eight, counting this last one. I tell people I ain’t killed nobody in a long time– I’m trying to quit. Nine years now. Never killed anybody that didn’t deserve it, or wasn’t trying to kill me. Yeah, I know, I ain’t no better than they are, justifying it. But all mine was done in heat. They do theirs cold. I don’t see where signing a death warrant is any different than one of those mafia chieftains putting out a contract on somebody. I never did that. I never enjoyed it, either.

Now everything’s all sanitized. Lethal injection. Does that sound like a cure for some disease? You’re very sick, fella, so we gonna give you a lethal injection, a vaccine that will cure what ails you. Won’t hurt a bit. Why don’t I believe them?

Old prison saying– if their lips are moving, they’re lying. Boy told me one time, he was so surprised, the guard told him something, turned out to be a bald-faced lie. He came to me, his lips all pooched out. Couldn’t believe it. But the officer told me, he said. I asked him, was his lips moving when he said it. Yeah. Then he was lying. Dead giveaway. That fella wasn’t too swift. Had to think about it for awhile. I see some of you folks are grinning. Go ahead. You can laugh if you want to. No rule against it, not yet, but there might be one in place next week.

People ask me how prison’s changed over all these years. Ain’t no more Jimmy Cagney’s big houses like they used to be. Prison is an “industry” now, like GM up there in Detroit, or U.S. Steel. That’s probably what they should call it, U.S. STEAL. They want to turn us all into packages of frozen food, zipping along an assembly line, then stacked up and stored in warehouses, like inventory. That’s all we are. No humans. When they can replace the guards with robots, they’ll really have it going on. Even that wouldn’t make prison honest. Some call it the Department of Corruption. It’s always been that way. Everybody’s on the take. Lot more of them are scared now, not like it used to be, but there’s something evil about these places that changes people, the captors as well as the captives. The warden don’t like this part of the conversation. Look at him! Old Lemon Puss. You gonna cut the microphone off on me? Write me a disciplinary report? Too late for that. Nah. He’ll just nod his head and have these boys give me a cocktail.

That’s what this is, the cocktail hour. Folks ask you what you did last night, you can tell them you went to cocktail hour with the world’s oldest prisoner. You enjoy your gin and vermouth when you stop at the lounge down the road. Maybe that pretty lady reporter will eat an olive in my name. Ah, hon, what’s the matter? Don’t shed tears for me. You’ll smear your makeup. I’m not worth it. But thanks for the sentiment. Can’t remember nobody crying for me in a long, long time, before any of you were born, most likely.

I’m about finished here. Ready to go. You don’t ever want to be in my position, none of you. I won’t be sipping this drink. They gonna run them chemicals through that tube in my arm and make me sleep like a baby, permanent like, they say. Won’t hurt a bit. I told you I don’t believe them, though. Are their lips moving? They’re lying.

My last words of advice? Don’t do no wrong. Be nice to people. Love your children and take ‘em to church. Don’t beat ‘em or abuse them. Most of these boys in here went through holy hell growing up, and they raised holy hell later on, got them in here.

Don’t kill nobody. Walk away from an argument. They got that road rage thing going on out there now. Don’t never shoot no bird at another driver. He’s liable to shoot his pistol back at you.

Don’t steal nothing, not even shoplifting. Work hard at your job, earn an honest living. It may be dull, but you don’t know what dull is till you sleep on a hard steel bunk in a cage for years that seem like forever. It ain’t worth it.

I suppose I should show my remorse now. Otherwise, you folks will put on the news that the condemned man showed none. I guess I do. Ain’t never been the kind to wear my feelings outside my skin. Show feelings in here, it’s a disadvantage.

I’m gonna go now. It don’t make much sense, executing a 99 year old man. How long could I last, anyway? Them capital punishment lawyers wanted to keep appealing, but what is the use? I’m tired. I’m ready to go home. I know I’m going to heaven when I die because I did my time in hell when I was alive. Thanks for your concern, fellas. Ya’ll did a good job, I got nothing against you. All I wanna do now is see my Marie standing by them pearly gates waiting on me. See ya’ll later. The world’s oldest prisoner is about to break the record for the world’s oldest person to be executed. All we’re missing is Jim McKay.

My daddy told me once, son, if you can choose the way you’re dying, to die like a man. And that’s what I’m gonna do. No begging for mercy. Wouldn’t do no good, anyway. I forgive everybody who’s wronged me, and I hope ya’ll find it in your hearts to extend to me the same courtesy.

I’m done, warden, let ‘er rip.

THE END

Copyright 2004

By Charles P. Norman

LIKE CLOCKWORK

The light blinds me.

I close my eyes and sense

the heat of a summer sun

prickling photons.

The green grass blades are cool

beneath me, patiently bearing

another sweating body.

A mockingbird trills a symphony

in a nearby bush, oblivious

to the mortal below.

White cloud wisps traverse a sky

blue marred only by contrails

jets play tic-tac-toe.

I feel I could lie here forever

sun falling

dusk cooling

dew coating

nightbirds changing

shifts, uncurious

new sun rising

days and nights

repeating endlessly.

And I do.

Metal clangs

Voices grate.

Eyelids spring open.

The sun gone now, replaced

by glaring fluorescent lights

unnatural in their persistence.

Stone walls enclose me

in a tiny cell

steel door, no exit

no air

no birdsongs

no blue sky

a narrow metal bunk

thin plastic mattress

filled with stones

or baseballs

perhaps oranges

no, I would eat them.

I lie here forever

dreaming

of cool green grass blades

beneath me

warm sun darkening

my ever pale face

not knowing

day from night

except for the endless tin trays

of swill that slide

under my door

three times a day

like clockwork.

END

Copyright

By Charles P. Norman

HER MEN

by Charles Norman

You are true

to yourself.

Love Goddess.

Keeper of the flame

that ignites us

Mortal men,

Ceramic souls frozen

in human form

Shuffled from the shelf,

Selected,

Warmed and awakened

from our slumbers

to bask in your heat

and serve you

in our simple ways

Until

your hand returns us

to our places

in the cold, dark

fearing only that we will

fall

from your grasp and shatter,

Never feeling your heat

again.

END

Copyright 2004

By Charles P. Norman

FIFTY PERCENT

A NON-FICTION ESSAY BY

CHARLES P. NORMAN

I stand beneath the eaves at the back entrance to a prison school classroom watching the rain. A double row of chainlink fencing topped by spools of razorwire separate me from the piney woods distant. Down the close-cropped grass field stretching to the fences I observe a line of twenty-four boys wearing prison blues, white-striped pants, red, yellow, or blue ball caps, marching double-time, some squatting, jumping forward, “bunny-hopping,” some laboring beneath cut-off lengths of telephone poles on their shoulders. Two guards, brown uniforms and

caps, former drill instructors, scream at the boys, their strident harangues echoing off the wall behind me. The ones bunny-hopping and carrying telephone poles lag behind, struggling to keep up in the rain.

They approach. The voices of the prison guards ridicule and belittle them. Neck veins bulging, face beet-red, one guard orders a short, chunky prisoner to the ground for fifty pushups in the mud. The others stare straight ahead, rainwater drenching them. The guards order the poles stacked. The boys line up by twos, chests heaving, mostly thin kids, short to tall, black and white, a couple of browns, a Mexican, ages from a young fourteen to an old twenty. This is boot camp.

Two teachers stand by the door, a man and woman, “free people,” as opposed to uniformed prison guards, middle-aged, overweight, jaded, tired, they stare at the young men filing inside. The boys flop down into the class desks divided by a center aisle, limp rag dolls, exhausted, shivering in the soaked blues in the air conditioning. It is my turn to talk to them.

“My name is Charlie, and I’m serving a life sentence for first degree murder.”

Eyes widen. Jaws hang open. I have their attention now.

“I’ve been in prison longer than any of you have been alive. When you were born, I was serving this life sentence. When you took your first steps, I was in prison. When you first stole money from your mama’s purse, when you broke into that house, smoked that first joint, got arrested, went to juvenile court I was here. When you finish this boot camp and go home, I’ll still be in prison.

“I’ve been coming over here talking to boot camp inmates for three years, several hundred of you. I’m the only adult prisoner from the real prison next door allowed over here. Why? I’ve been convicted of murder. But I’m not a child molester, a homosexual, or a druggie. They figure you’re safe with me.”

I nod toward the back. “Officer Friendly and Barney Fife out there don’t even come in here when I’m talking.” Nervous adolescent twitters flare at the verboten jibe at the guards.

“Let’s take a survey, a show of hands. How many of you are going to get out and stay out, never come back to prison?”

Every hand shoots up. I look at them, face-to-face, walking around the room, studying them.

“How many of you are never going to commit another crime?”

About half the hands go up quickly. A couple more raise slowly, hesitantly. One goes back down.

“Never going to smoke dope?”

Another hand goes down.

“Never going to sell any dope?”

More hands go down.

“How many of you graduated from high school?”

All the hands go down.

“How many have a G.E.D.?”

No hands raise.

“I have some bad news.” I pause a beat. The room is silent. The clammy air is redolent with the musty funk of arm pits, wet hair and clothes, bodies steaming and chilled. I call it the odor of the wild inmate, the animal den scent of fear, despair, regret that hangs like woodsmoke in a room of densely-packed prisoners. All eyes focus on me. They may laugh and joke and cut the fool when the guards leave and the free people are trying to prepare them for the upcoming G.E.D. test, which is nominally why they are in this classroom, but when I take the floor, all that stops. In the presence of a lifer, a grown man their fathers’ age, a convicted murderer, there are no alpha males among these short-time boot camp boys, nor are there beta, gamma, or delta males in the survival of the toughest prison hierarchy.

“They keep records on you. They’ve found that about half – fifty percent – of those who go through boot camp is rearrested and comes back to prison. That means this half of the room is going to get out and stay out, and this half is coming back to prison.”

The two halves look across at each other nervously. One boy starts to get up and move from the “prison” side to the “get out” side.

“Nope. Stay where you are.” He sits back down. “It won’t do you a bit of good to move. Half are staying out, and half are coming back. But which half?

“That’s the bad news. But there’s some good news, too. I’ve served a lot of time in prison, and I’ve learned some things.

“I spent years in college, University of South Florida, finance, accounting, computers, foreign languages. Learned a lot. Did well. But guess what? When I came to prison I knew nothing. NOTHING!” I shout. They jerk back. I walk to the front of the room, thinking.

“In the past twenty-some odd years I’ve learned a lot. Tons. More than I ever learned in college. I’ve seen thousands of men pass through prison’s revolving door, entering and leaving. And I’ve seen about half of them come back. Failures.

“I don’t care about the failures. They don’t interest me. The ones I’m interested in are the ones the prison people don’t talk about, the other half, the ones who get out and don’t come back. Guess what? There are thousands of them.

I can’t get out myself. I’m stuck here. But I’ve helped a bunch of them get out, and some of them appreciated it, kept in touch, told me how they were doing.

“The men who stay out know a secret, a big secret, that those who return don’t know– how to get out of prison and stay out. Makes sense.” Heads nod. “And guess what? I learned their secret. Unfortunately, with this life sentence, I’ve been unable to put it into practice on my own behalf. But I know it.”

All quiet. I walk down the center aisle and turn. “How many men in here would like to learn that secret, how to get out and stay out?”

Every hand shoots up. “Looks like a hundred percent.” I turn and point to a dull-eyed boy at the back.

“What about you? You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in prison here with me?” Heads nod no vigorously.

“How about you?” I point to another. He nods no quickly.

“Let’s take another survey. You fellas have this hand-raising down pat.” I continue to walk around the room, pausing for a moment or two near each desk.

“How many would like to get out of here, go home, get a good job, collect a nice paycheck every week?” Every hand shoots up.

“How many want to get married some day to a nice girl, sexy, she loves you, you love her, every night she fixes a good meal when you come home, turkey hot dogs, turkey bologna, turkey sausage, turkey loaf, instant potatoes, jello?” Groans and grimaces. “Okay, no turkey byproducts. We get enough of that crap in here. Husband and wife, how many?”

Most of the hands raise. “I guess a few of you want to be bachelors, monks, or players, right?” They laugh. “Put your hands down.

“How many of you want children, rugrats, a family?” Most of the hands go up.

“How many already have children?” One-third of the hands raise. “More than one kid?” Two hands stay up.

I point at one boy. “What are you, sixteen?” He nods. “You’ve got two children?” Yes. Head nods. “Same mother?” No.

“I take it you’re not married.” No.

“You feel bad about that?” He hesitates, drops his eyes. “You should. Don’t you think a father ought to be out there taking care of his family instead of being in here doing bunny hops while assholes scream at you?” Silence.

“Anybody in here ever visit their mom or dad in prison, or had a mom or dad serve time?”

Several hands raise reluctantly, then lower.

“I thought so.” I wait. Let them think.

“One third of the children who visit a parent in prison will one day return as a prisoner himself.” Silence, shock.

“You want that ?” I point to a boy who’d fathered a child. “You want your kids to grow up to be convicts?” He nods no.

“Back to the job, wife, kids. How many want to own your own house, three bedrooms, two baths, a garage, backyard, some trees, a nice neighborhood?” Hands go up.

“A dog and a cat, a boat, neighbors who treat you with respect, look out for each other?” The hands raise and lower.

“A bank account, checking and saving, a brown leather wallet full of credit cards, a wad of twenties?” Hands go up and down like a Pentecostal prayer meeting.

“What did I forget? Watch your kids grow up, put’em through college, they get good jobs, get married, you and the wife sit on the porch and play with the grandchildren. You get old. REAL old!” They laugh.

“Die in your sleep. Have a nice funeral. Go to Heaven. Sit on a cloud and play a harp. How many of you fellas want that, the whole package, a good life, law-abiding citizen?” Every hand goes up. I raise my hand with them.

“I have good news and bad news.” I wait a beat. No one moves.

“The good news is that every single person in this room can have all that. It’s called the American Dream, and for good reason. Most people on Earth right now will never have a life like that. It’s not in reach. But it is for you, even after screwing up and going to a prison boot camp.

“The bad news is that you can’t have it in prison. It’s off-limits. I know, because I had all that. I had it made. I came to prison. I lost it all. Somebody else is sleeping in my bed, and it’s not Goldilocks. We call him Jody in here. ‘Jody’s got my old lady.’ Doesn’t matter what his real name is, while you’re in here Jody’s out there working getting your girl in the sack, telling her to forget about you, you’re in prison, probably already plucking your eyebrows and shaving your legs. Am I wrong?” Acknowledgment. Your children are calling him daddy, and you’re in here carrying a telephone pole on your shoulder like a damn fool. It’s not funny, is it?

“Back to the secret. Get out and stay out. How do you do it? A question. How many think you can get out and stay out for two years? Two years. That’s it.” Every hand flies upward.

“You can’t get arrested, violate probation, get handcuffed, commit any crime, period. Can you do it? Heads nod.

“What’s the big deal about getting out and staying out for two years? I’ll tell you. More statistics. Ninety percent of the men who get out of prison and come back in return within the first two years!

“What does that mean? It means that if you can get out and stay out for two years, keep your noses clean, most likely you’ll never return. You’ll break that chain that keeps you enslaved to a life of crime and punishment, a life in prison.

“That’s a start. Stay straight for two years. But how do you do that ? That’s part of the secret. I’m gonna tell you , the first step of several steps you have to take that will walk you so far from these prison gates that you’ll never find your way back in.

“First step, you get out, you get a job. Doesn’t matter where. You have to get a job, go to work every day, earn a paycheck. Don’t tell me your family is rich, you’ll live at home, mama will take care of you. I don’t want to hear it. Selling crack or pimping is not a job, either. Those are crimes. If you want to be a law-abiding citizen, you start with a job.

“Ninety percent of those who get out and come back to prison return within two years. And almost ninety percent of those who return were unemployed when they were arrested. They didn’t have jobs !

“Next step, no drugs or alcohol. None. No joints, no crack pipes, no beers. Why not ? It’s against the law. You’re on probation, and some time, some place, when you least expect it, the probation officer is going to pop up and pull out a little cup for you to pee-pee in. Go to jail, go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. You got a problem ? Get help. AA, NA, whatever.

“It’s a funny thing about statistics. The same numbers keep popping up. Close to ninety percent of those who return to prison within the first two years were high on drugs or alcohol when they got arrested. What’s that tell you ? Don’t get high, don’t drink, and you’ve eliminated another ninety percent of the risk of coming back to prison. Bottom line – get out, get a job, stay straight, and you’ll be free for the rest of your life, be happy, raise a family.

“That’s just the first two steps. There are more.” I look at the clock. “I’ll give you steps three, four, and five tomorrow. Looks like the rain has stopped. You can pick up your poles, march back to the boot camp, and think about what I said. Now get out of here.”

They nod. Some smile. One approaches tentatively, holds his fist out, and I bump it with mine. Others file by and touch hands. I watch them go, and wonder how many I’ll see again in six months, a year, two years down the road. And how many won’t I see ? How many will get out, struggle, go straight, seek a law-abiding life in society ? About fifty percent.

END

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