In Honor of Thomas Szaz

I was released from the Asylum the day they buried grandma.

Six months wasted in that hell hole because some tree hugger appointed by the court didn’t like my politics. A green who got even with the world by stepping on anyone who insisted on the truth in a world that loved liars.

“So I understand that you had planned to shoot an elephant.”

“Can you tell the guard to take these handcuffs off me? I need a cigarette.”

This oily little man didn’t like me. Eyebrows betrayed his surprise, shooting up over slightly constricted eyes. He’d probably break out in a rash just touching the cellophane on a plug of Red Man.

“You don’t like your job, do you, doc?”

“You may call me Dr. Cohen.”

“Cohen, eh? There’s a real surprise; a Jew shrink. Why’s a smart guy like you working in this concentration camp?”

“The court has asked me to talk to you about this elephant business.”

County Jail Rates Five Stars

Distinguished Detention Facility reviewer William Lawless gives the Yavapai County Jail 4 out of 5 stars. “I’d give it 5 stars, but the maid didn’t turn down my bed last night. And she forgot the chocolate,” says the notorious writer, a recent guest in several Northern Arizona lockups.

“It’s overcrowded, and they don’t have enough of those thick terrycloth towels at the hot tub, so some of the guys have to use those thin raggedy-assed things like in high school gym class. But I always get a fluffy towel because the Jailer knows I can make him look bad in print.”

Insufficient staffing has kept the Jail from that coveted fifth star. Recent cuts in staff to cope with a revenue shortfall have hurt the hospitality. “Some times you sit around for a few minutes waiting for the doctor, even though you show up on time for your appointment.”

The potential to turn this into a world class facility is there, but it takes money. “The Board of Supervisors should step up to the plate and make the taxpayers cough up the jack. I’m going to write up my recommendations and submit them to the Sheriff. I’m sure he’ll want to take them into consideration when he draws up his next budget request.”

“Still, there are worse places to do time.”  Lawless should know. His rap sheet guides Boy Scouts trying to earn their Petty Criminal Badge. Lawless has been incarcerated in fourteen different facilities over the last twenty years. Thirteen of those facilities have been the subject of widely respected reviews. “Jackson County, up by Medford, well, they wouldn’t let me have any paper. I wrote on toilet paper, but one of my cellmates used it to sop up a double latte with non-fat milk that he’d spilled. Too bad; that was a great review.

How was Lawless, whose time is in demand, able to review our jail on such short notice? “It’s all a big misunderstanding really. I was at the mall, enjoying the people watching. I got a pretty good buzz ‘cuz I’d been pulling on flask and did some reefer while sipping on a Starbucks at the Barnes & Noble. Then I had to, uh, relieve myself. I got confused looking for the restrooms. When I finally found the door to the head I figured I was golden.”

Eight Dollar Prison

A yellow-gray miasma hugged the low rolling hills, dusting dry juniper and mesquite with grit thrown up from the scar known as Robb Road. A powdery plume trailed my passage toward the home of the aged couple in whose honor the drive was named. Eighteen years of scavenged machinery – riding lawn mowers, a rusted yellow ‘dozer, a gleaming Airstream, a school bus crammed full of cardboard boxes – hunkered against the house. Protuberances, structures, additions and unfinished afterthoughts sprouted from the original dwelling, a chalky mobile home.

A new Toyota Camry sat in the driveway, next to the mowing deck of a battered bush hog turned upside down across a stack of cement blocks. A galvanized #5 wash tub half filled with green, scummy water and a stack of black gallon buckets from the Wal-Mart nursery commemorated a futile effort at landscaping.

I parked behind the Toyota, waited for the dust cloud to float past, and unfolded myself out of the Acura.

A tall, angular man with straight white hair, a long pink face and a big smile poked his head out of the screen door to see who had driven up. I waved and asked, “Is this the Robb home?” He approached the car, his gait erect, slow and bent forward like Timothy grass in a light breeze.

“I’m Woody.” A strong, firm hand gripped mine like an Erie vise. A lifetime of hard physical labor had produced this sturdy bristlecone pine of a man. Inside, a little boy smiled out at the world. I could see everybody liked Woody.

“The County come round a few weeks back. Told me we had to clean the place up cuz the neighbors was complainin’. We were here first and we give the land for the Fire Department over there, so I’m grandfathered in. But I put up this fence to kinda keep things back from sight.” It was an awkward welcome. Was he feeling bad because he’d let the place run down?

“She’s inside. We bin waitin’ for ya.”