Demon Box Read online

  Demon Box

  Ken Kesey

  From Publishers Weekly

  The central theme running through this collection of stories (many of which seem to be primarily nonfiction with elements of fiction thrown in) by the author of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest is the struggle to come to terms with the legacy of the 1960s. Kesey draws largely on his own experiences after returning to his Oregon farm following a brief stint in prison on drug charges. A series of tales, apparently sections from a novel in progress, star an alter-ego named Devlin Deboree: his relatively tranquil post-jail farm existence is disturbed both by memories of now-dead companions and the seemingly extinct passions of the '60s, and by burned-out refugees from that era who intermittently arrive on his doorstep, hoping for some sort of help from the most famous survivor of the psychedelic wars. Pieces on visiting Egypt and covering a Chinese marathon examine the complex relationship between Americans and people from other cultures. Kesey's distinctive gift with language and tough sense of humor unify this somewhat disorganized collection, and his elegy for the passing of the mad energy of the '60s will strike a responsive chord with all those who lived through those dangerous, liberating years. 30,000 first printing; BOMC and QPBC alternates.

  From Library Journal

  Kesey fans have waited long for his latest offering, a collection of experiences, stories, and poetry. Most of the tales concern the life and times of "Devlin E. Deboree," a counterculture author who serves time in Mexico on a narcotics charge and later returns to his family farm in Oregon. Though he gives himself an alias, Kesey usually identifies his friends, including Jack Kerouac, Larry McMurtry, Hunter Thompson, and a Rolling Stone reporter who accompanies him to the great pyramids. The collection fluctuates in mood, ranging from warm "farm" pieces such as "Abdul Ebenezer" (concerning a bull and a cow) to pieces dealing with loss of friends and a common cause that reflect a nostalgia for the Sixties. These more personal pieces, especially the title essay, are particularly strong. Susan Avallone, "Library Journal"

  ***

  "Here's good news for pundits and pranksters everywhere: Ken Kesey can still write... Those metaphoric tales illuminate our lives and make us laugh and cry." - San Francisco Chronicle

  Ken Kesey: legendary writer, counterculture folk hero - chief trickster of the sixties' tuned-in, turned-on generation. Now, kesey comes to terms with his own legend, as he reveals his fascinating passage from the psychedelic sixties to the contradictory eighties.

  Assuming the guise of Devlin Deboree (pronounced debris), Kesey begins with his release from prison and his return to an unusual domestic life; recounts various foreign excursions (to Egypt to visit the Sphinx, and to China to cover the Bejing Marathon); relates lively stories of farm and family and, in the voice of his grandmother, a tall tale and a narrative prayer. Most poignantly, Kesey looks at the hard lessons to be found in the deaths of Neal Cassady and John Lennon.

  As always, Kesey challenges public and private demons with sure, subtle strokes - and with the brave and deceptive embrace of the wrestler.

  "In these forceful, engaging, sometimes touching pieces, Kesey shows that he remains a concerned, sometimes vitrolic, but ultimately responsible observer of American society and and the human condition." - The Philidelphia Inquirer

  Ken Kesey

  Demon Box

  To Jed

  across the river riding point

  TARNISHED GALAHAD... what the judge called him at his trial

  - - written later, on the run, in Mexico:

  Down to five pesos from five thousand dollars Down to the dregs from the lip-smacking foam Down to a dopefiend from a prizewinning scholar Down to the bush from a civilized home.

  What people once called a promising talent What used to be known as an upstanding lad Now hounded and hunted by the law of two countries And judged to be only a Tarnished Galahad.

  Tarnished Galahad - did your sword get rusted?

  Tarnished Galahad - there's no better name!

  Keep running and hiding 'til the next time you're busted And locked away to suffer your guilt, and shame.

  - pretty much what happened.

  D TANK KICKOUT

  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.

  "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 Chronicle?"

  "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 Rhack? Lieutenant Gerder? Where can you come up with better names than those?"

  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."

  "Some family." He looks at me: caseworker look, conditioned sincere. Sympathetic. "Sorry about the report on your father."

  "Thanks."

  "That's why Judge Rilling waived that Bad Time, you know?"

  "I know."

  He lectures me awhile on the evils of blah blah blah. I let him run out his string. Finally he stands up, comes round the desk, sticks out his hand. "Okay, Short-timer. But don't miss the ten-thirty hearing Monday morning if you want to get released to an Oregon PO."

  "I'll be here."

  "I'll walk you back."

  On the walk back to D Tank he asks what about this Jail Book; when will it be coming out? When it's over, I tell him. When might that be? When it stops happening. Will this talk tonight be in it? Yes... tonight, Monday morning, last week - everything will be in it.

  "Deboree!" Sixo calls through the bars. "Put this in your fucking book: a guy - me - a guy shuns his comrades, plays pinochle five months with the motherfucking brass up there - five and a half months! When he musters down, one of those bulls misses a pack of Winstons and calls down and asks, 'What brand of cigarettes did Sixo check in with? Winstons? Slap a hold on him!' I mean is that cold or what, man? Is that a ballbusting bitch? But, what the fuck; Sixo will survive," he crows. "Angelo Sixo is Sir Vivor!"

  Some dudes can snivel so it sounds like they're crowing.

  They lock me in and Duggs leaves. Sixo sits back down. He's doing Double Time, on hold like this - Now Time along with Street-to-come Time. You can even be made to serve Triple Time, which adds on Street-gone-by Time and that is called Guilt. A man waiting for his kickout is on what's called Short Time. Short Time is known for being Hard Time. Lots of Short-timers go nuts or fuck up or try a run. Short is often harder than Long.

  The best is Straight Time. That's what the notebooks are about.

  More guys check in. Weekenders. D-Tankers. Some Blood hollers from the shadows, "Mercy, Deputy Dawg... we done already got motherfuckers wall to wall..."

  Drunk tank full to overflowing

  Motherfuckers wall to wall

  Coming twice as fast as going

  Time gets big; tank gets small.

  Dominoes slap on the table

  Bloods play bones in tank next door

  Bust a bone, if you be able

  Red Death stick it good some more.

  Three days past my kickout time

  Ask to phone; don't get the juice -

  Crime times crime just equals more crime Cut the motherfuckers loose.

  Will I make the Christmas kickout?

  Will commissary come today?

  Will they take my blood for Good Time Or just take my guts away?

  Some snitch found my homemade outfit!

  They've staked a bull up at the still!

  They've scoped the pot plants we were sprouting At the bottom of the hill.

  They punched my button, pulled my covers Blew my cool, ruint my ruse

  They've rehabilitated this boy

  Cut this motherfucker loose.

  The fish that nibbles on the wishing Let him off his heavy rod

  The gowned gavel-bangers fishing

  Cut them loose from playing God.

  Back off Johnson, back off peacefreaks From vendettas, from Vietnam

  Cut loose the squares, cut loose the hippies Cut loose the dove, cut loose the bomb.

  You, the finger on the trigger

  You, the hand that weaves the noose

  You hold the blade of brutal freedom -

  Cut all the motherfuckers loose.

  Eleven forty they take me out give me my clothes, whistle and harp put me in this room with a bench and one other Short-timer, gray-pated mahogany-hued old dude of sixty years or so.

  "Oh, am I one Ready Freddy. Am I ever!"

  He's pacing around the little room picking up and putting back down and picking back up one of those old-fashioned footrest shoeshine kits, full of personals. He has on a worn black suit, maroon tie and white shirt. His shoes have a sensational shine.

  "What you in for, Home?"

  "Weed. What about you?"

  "I pull a knife on my brother-in-law... my old woman call the cops. Wasn't no actual goddamn fight whatsoever. But I don't care. Just let me on my mother way!"

  Putting down his kit sipping his coffee picking his kit back up.

  "Yessir, on my way!"

  "Good luck on it," I say.

  "Same to you. Ah, I don't care. I even lost some weight in here. Met some nice folks, too..."

  A young black trusty stops in and gives him a number on a slip of paper.

  "I hope you writ where I can read it," the old man says.

  "Plenty big, Pop. Don't forget. Call soon as you hit a phone, tell her her Sugardog still be barkin'."

  "I'll do it, I sure will!"

  "Thanks, Pop. Be cool."

  As soon as the kid is gone the old man wads the paper and drops it in the pisser.

  "Damn fool tramp. Met some real motherfuckers, too, as you can see." He puts the kit down so he can rub his hands as he paces. "Oh, that ol' city be just right, Saturday night still cookin'. If I can get me to a bus, that is. What's the time?"

  "I got twelve straight up. I should have some family waiting; we'll give you a lift."

  "Appreciate it," he says. "Straight up you tell me? Ah well, I don't care. We got nothin but time to do, wherever we be. What you say you been in on?"

  "Possession and cultivation."

  "If that ain't a shame - for the good green gift of the Lord. He hadn't wanted it to grow, there wouldna been seeds. How much they give you?"

  "Six months, five-hundred-dollar fine, three-year tail."

  "If that ain't the shits."

  "It's done."

  "I reckon. Nothin but time -" He starts to take a sip of his cold coffee, stops - " 'ceptin, oh, I am ready."

  He puts the cup down, picks the kit back up.

  "Franklin!" a voice calls. "William O. -"

  "In the wind, Boss. On my way!"

  I'm alone on the bench, sipping what's left of his cup of coffee, spoon still sticking out. The plastic bag his suit was in hangs from the conduit; his blues are right where he left them, on the floor. Ghost clothes. I'm ready too. This stationery is finished both sides.

  "Deboree! Devlin E. -"

  "On my way!"

  * Red Death. What they call the glop of strawberry jelly comes with breakfast coffee and toast - makes, among other things, q
uite a powerful glue.

  * * Never did get those two notebooks back.

  JOON THE GOON WAS WHAT

  ...she used to be called on the beat scene. Shows up this A.M. with her old man who turns out to be the guy in jail with me called Hub, the dude that did two for two. Famous for stretching a two-month Disturbing rap to two years by not standing for any shit. Proud of his rep in the slam, on the streets now he's vowed to change his violent ways - no more red meat, red wine or white crosstops.

  Joon drove him up from Calif this morn for the sake of our soothing farm influence. Their Nova quit on the road before it made it into our drive. They explained everything in a bashful stammer, Joon blushing, Hub wringing his huge tattooed hands together like mastiffs in a pit.

  We talked some about the early frost, the green tomatoes, how some of them might ripen inside in the sun on windowsills. I told them they better use our car and jumpers to get their rig off the road. They head off, Joon in the lead, her purse knocking against her knobby knees. Made me think of Steinbeck and the thirties and the hand-scrawled warnings that are turning up taped to all the cash registers in the area: no checks cashed for more than amount of purchase!

  The first school bus slows and stops by the frost-gilded corn, lets Caleb off just in front of where Hub has my clunker mouth to mouth with his. The kids at the windows flash peace signs; the look of Joon's tie-dye wraparound, I guess.

  A neighbor goes by and honks - our ritzy neighbor, the one with rich relatives and a "ranch" instead of a farm. He's driving a new maroon metallic-flake Mustang.

  Sounds like they got the clunker clunking again; I hear it pulling into my drive below.

  Caleb brings up the mail-bills, broadsides, and a hardbound tome called Love of Place, authored by a famous holy man I've never heard of. You can't learn love of place from those above or below you, it don't seem to me...

  Lotsa action, banging, clunking, as the sun seeps through hazy September. A plane mumbles by and the corn goes golder and golder.

  The second, bigger-kids' bus. Quiston and Sherree get out. Caleb goes loping through the rows to greet them, swinging a golden ear around his head.

  "Hey I bet you didn't know Joon and her Goon was here!"