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Ken Kesey - Demon Box

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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 Cuckoos 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. Keseys 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 *** Heres 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: author's other books


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Ken Kesey Demon Box To Jed across the river riding point TARNISHED GALAHAD - photo 1

Ken Kesey

Demon Box

To Jed

across the river riding point

TARNISHED GALAHADwhat 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.

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