Waiting for the last train (chapter 1)
“The broad effects which can be determined by punishment in
man and beast are the increase of fear, the sharpening of the sense of cunning,
the master of the desires; so it is that punishment tames man, but does not
make him better.”
- Nietzsche, “Genealogy of Morals”
Chapter One
How the hell did I end up on death row? The question ran through my mind like some restless rat in a cage. It took a number of years and a lot of growing up before the answer came to me, and when it did the result was more complex than any jury’s verdict. Part of the answer’s complexity lies in the reality that the death penalty is an arbitrary sentence. In fact, I am (as of this writing) still in the appeals process. But another, larger part of the answer lies in the reality that there is no easy answer to the question. There was no plan or formula I committed to as a child. In fact, for all intents and purposes I was an average kid with a normal, middle class upbringing and siblings and parents that cared about me. Sure, I was full of mischief and could be really troublesome, but what kid isn’t? After studying some psychology it is easier for me to understand how the events of my childhood led to my incarceration, but not for the crime of murder, and not in the specific way it happened.
I was never aware my actions as a child would ultimately influence what I would do later in life and maybe this was the biggest problem. “If you don’t eat your vegetables your hair will fall out,” or some such warning was the extent of how much thought I gave to the future, if I even thought about it at all. Instant gratification without regard to a ‘how’ defined me as much as it does the rest of Generation X. Now that time has ripened my ability to explore the past, I can see the impact of some of these actions as well as the perfect storm that brought me to death row.
An impulsive child, the first action I recall on the journey that led me here involved the theft of a box of matches and a key chain. My parents, younger sisters Kerry and Raina, my brother Peter and I had all crammed into the Ford Escort for a trip to Portland. We were going to a restaurant in celebration of Peter’s First Communion. It was a seafood place and Peter ate too many scallops. While he was in the bathroom puking his guts out with our dad trying to comfort him, I was busy looking around. My attention zeroed in on a small stack of boxes on a cloth-covered table near the front entrance. I saw my chance while my mom cleaned up Raina and Kerry was absorbed with some crayons. I didn’t creep to the table so much as I stalked it like a deer, afraid it would vanish if my approach wasn’t quick and silent. When I got to the neatly stacked pyramid of what turned out to be boxes of matches, I took a brief look at my mom. Seeing that she was still preoccupied with my sister, I swiped the top box and quickly stuck it into my pocket. Back at the table in a flash, my heart pounding in my ears, I was immediately filled with the pleasure of having won a glorious game.
After leaving the restaurant I avoided the ‘call of the box’, fondling its shape in my pocket and wanting to inspect it closely, but instinctively knowing my possession of the matches was wrong. For some reason we stopped at a novelty shop on the way out of Portland. My dad, Peter and I went in while my mother and sisters stayed in the car. It was an interesting place made even more so because my dad took us in instead of my mom. That meant that Peter and I could wander about and wouldn’t have to hear the ‘don’t touch’ speech. Finding my way past racks of clothes and displays of cheap jewelry, my attention caught on a rack of key chains. There were hundreds of them dangling there – key chains of every sort! The one that attracted my eye was a miniature 7-Up bottle. As soon as I took it off the rack, I became fascinated by the moving bubbles inside the detailed little bottle. It so caught my attention that I walked out of the store with it still in my hands. Unlike the box of matches, it never occurred to me that I was stealing the key chain. I was still totally absorbed with it as my family drove away from the store. Then, my brother Peter was kind enough to bring me back to earth – dirty bastard.
“Look what Lyle has! Can I have one?” He said with a malicious grin.
My mom looked back and saw what I held. She said something to my dad and when he shook his head it was on. “What have I told you about keeping your hands to yourself?!” Whack! “You’re going right back to that store to apologize young man!” Somehow she managed to smack me and take the key chain while still holding Raina, all before I had a chance to say anything. My dad drove back to the store and marched me inside to hand over the key chain (which I no longer wanted) and apologize. When the manager saw me tearfully stuttering he offered to give me the trinket. My dad politely declined and we left.
It was a very long half-hour ride home. I stared out the window not wanting to see Peter’s smug look of satisfaction. When we pulled into the driveway, I barely had time to get out of the car before mom went into the house with Raina and my dad commenced the spanking. Even over the clothes it hurt enough to sting, but that was not as bad as knowing my father was angry. “We don’t steal in this house – ever!” completed the punishment.
Almost a week passed before there was no resisting the urge to play with the matches I got at the restaurant. I was attempting to let the key chain incident pass from my parent’s conscious memory and maybe get them to stop looking at me with suspicion. Once they did, I gave into my fiery impulse. It began by taking out the box, staring at the restaurant logo on the cover and counting the red-tipped wooden match sticks. When this wasn’t enough anymore, I went outside and lit one or two matches. I watched them burn until the flame licked my fingers.
One day, when it was raining and we weren’t allowed outside, the urge to light a match became unusually strong. I decided to go into the garage and enjoy what was an obsessive ritual. Our garage was part of the house and was mostly filled with a lot of junk alongside the family’s bicycles, my dad’s tool bench, and my mom’s gardening stuff. The floor was unfinished concrete and toward the back there was a 6 x 6 inch square hole cut into the concrete. I didn’t know what the sand-filled hole was for, but it suited my purpose just fine. Collecting a few stray leaves that had blown into the garage, I put them in the hole and set them ablaze. After burning the leaves and a few matches I decided to stop. I buried the burnt remains of the leaves, recovered the hole, and was about to go inside when mom opened the door connecting the house and the garage. “What are you doing in here?” she asked. There must have been something in my expression because this was immediately followed by her stepping into the garage and demanding, “Why do I smell smoke?!” She grabbed one of my hands and sniffed. “Have you been playing with matches? Tell me, Lyle Clinton May or so help me I’ll…” The look on her face and the tone of her voice were enough to scare me into compliance. I showed her where and what I had been doing. She narrowed her eyes and held out her hand. “Give them to me!”
For some reason I did not anticipate this part and was loathe to give up the remaining matches. I got the feeling, however, that hesitation might be hazardous to my health. I gave up the box. When mom saw the restaurant logo, she scowled. A protest almost escaped me as she crushed the box in her hand. The errant thought fled as I was propelled toward my parent’s room. Any thought of fire was snuffed when my mom took one of my dad’s wide leather belts from a hook on the closet door. I hadn’t noticed I was backing away until she said, “Get over here!” Her face was harsh, devoid of any warmth. The threat was obvious, submit to punishment willingly or the pain would be exponential. I froze. It wasn’t a choice at all. I had never been hit with the belt but it’s not like I needed such an experience to know it would hurt. I heard it used on my older sister, Henrietta. Her screams were more than enough to scare the crap out of me.
Just as I formed the thought to run, mom lunged across the room, jerked me around by the arm and went to work. I don’t remember screaming, but I clearly recall the pain and terror. Years later it would occur to me that my parents did not want me to play with fire. But as I got whipped that first time for playing with matches, there was only the shame at having been caught.
I discovered two things at an early age. Don't get caught breaking the rules if you don't want to be punished. And, if it requires sneaking and it's dangerous, or something mom and dad forbid, it was probably fun. Unfortunately, I ignored the real lessons in the punishments I put myself through as a child and continued on the path of disobedience that ultimately led to delinquency. I avoided detection some of the time but I was young and inevitably got caught again. My punishments outnumbered those of my siblings because I found fun and entertainment in things that too often involved breaking the rules. My behavior was never blatant, in-your-face rebellion as such a thing was never tolerated in our house. It was more of an unintentional mischief. My parents did what they thought was best in raising me, whereas I did my best to do what I wanted and worry about the consequences later.
To read more, order your copy of Waiting for the Last Train on Kindle.
- Nietzsche, “Genealogy of Morals”
Chapter One
How the hell did I end up on death row? The question ran through my mind like some restless rat in a cage. It took a number of years and a lot of growing up before the answer came to me, and when it did the result was more complex than any jury’s verdict. Part of the answer’s complexity lies in the reality that the death penalty is an arbitrary sentence. In fact, I am (as of this writing) still in the appeals process. But another, larger part of the answer lies in the reality that there is no easy answer to the question. There was no plan or formula I committed to as a child. In fact, for all intents and purposes I was an average kid with a normal, middle class upbringing and siblings and parents that cared about me. Sure, I was full of mischief and could be really troublesome, but what kid isn’t? After studying some psychology it is easier for me to understand how the events of my childhood led to my incarceration, but not for the crime of murder, and not in the specific way it happened.
I was never aware my actions as a child would ultimately influence what I would do later in life and maybe this was the biggest problem. “If you don’t eat your vegetables your hair will fall out,” or some such warning was the extent of how much thought I gave to the future, if I even thought about it at all. Instant gratification without regard to a ‘how’ defined me as much as it does the rest of Generation X. Now that time has ripened my ability to explore the past, I can see the impact of some of these actions as well as the perfect storm that brought me to death row.
An impulsive child, the first action I recall on the journey that led me here involved the theft of a box of matches and a key chain. My parents, younger sisters Kerry and Raina, my brother Peter and I had all crammed into the Ford Escort for a trip to Portland. We were going to a restaurant in celebration of Peter’s First Communion. It was a seafood place and Peter ate too many scallops. While he was in the bathroom puking his guts out with our dad trying to comfort him, I was busy looking around. My attention zeroed in on a small stack of boxes on a cloth-covered table near the front entrance. I saw my chance while my mom cleaned up Raina and Kerry was absorbed with some crayons. I didn’t creep to the table so much as I stalked it like a deer, afraid it would vanish if my approach wasn’t quick and silent. When I got to the neatly stacked pyramid of what turned out to be boxes of matches, I took a brief look at my mom. Seeing that she was still preoccupied with my sister, I swiped the top box and quickly stuck it into my pocket. Back at the table in a flash, my heart pounding in my ears, I was immediately filled with the pleasure of having won a glorious game.
After leaving the restaurant I avoided the ‘call of the box’, fondling its shape in my pocket and wanting to inspect it closely, but instinctively knowing my possession of the matches was wrong. For some reason we stopped at a novelty shop on the way out of Portland. My dad, Peter and I went in while my mother and sisters stayed in the car. It was an interesting place made even more so because my dad took us in instead of my mom. That meant that Peter and I could wander about and wouldn’t have to hear the ‘don’t touch’ speech. Finding my way past racks of clothes and displays of cheap jewelry, my attention caught on a rack of key chains. There were hundreds of them dangling there – key chains of every sort! The one that attracted my eye was a miniature 7-Up bottle. As soon as I took it off the rack, I became fascinated by the moving bubbles inside the detailed little bottle. It so caught my attention that I walked out of the store with it still in my hands. Unlike the box of matches, it never occurred to me that I was stealing the key chain. I was still totally absorbed with it as my family drove away from the store. Then, my brother Peter was kind enough to bring me back to earth – dirty bastard.
“Look what Lyle has! Can I have one?” He said with a malicious grin.
My mom looked back and saw what I held. She said something to my dad and when he shook his head it was on. “What have I told you about keeping your hands to yourself?!” Whack! “You’re going right back to that store to apologize young man!” Somehow she managed to smack me and take the key chain while still holding Raina, all before I had a chance to say anything. My dad drove back to the store and marched me inside to hand over the key chain (which I no longer wanted) and apologize. When the manager saw me tearfully stuttering he offered to give me the trinket. My dad politely declined and we left.
It was a very long half-hour ride home. I stared out the window not wanting to see Peter’s smug look of satisfaction. When we pulled into the driveway, I barely had time to get out of the car before mom went into the house with Raina and my dad commenced the spanking. Even over the clothes it hurt enough to sting, but that was not as bad as knowing my father was angry. “We don’t steal in this house – ever!” completed the punishment.
Almost a week passed before there was no resisting the urge to play with the matches I got at the restaurant. I was attempting to let the key chain incident pass from my parent’s conscious memory and maybe get them to stop looking at me with suspicion. Once they did, I gave into my fiery impulse. It began by taking out the box, staring at the restaurant logo on the cover and counting the red-tipped wooden match sticks. When this wasn’t enough anymore, I went outside and lit one or two matches. I watched them burn until the flame licked my fingers.
One day, when it was raining and we weren’t allowed outside, the urge to light a match became unusually strong. I decided to go into the garage and enjoy what was an obsessive ritual. Our garage was part of the house and was mostly filled with a lot of junk alongside the family’s bicycles, my dad’s tool bench, and my mom’s gardening stuff. The floor was unfinished concrete and toward the back there was a 6 x 6 inch square hole cut into the concrete. I didn’t know what the sand-filled hole was for, but it suited my purpose just fine. Collecting a few stray leaves that had blown into the garage, I put them in the hole and set them ablaze. After burning the leaves and a few matches I decided to stop. I buried the burnt remains of the leaves, recovered the hole, and was about to go inside when mom opened the door connecting the house and the garage. “What are you doing in here?” she asked. There must have been something in my expression because this was immediately followed by her stepping into the garage and demanding, “Why do I smell smoke?!” She grabbed one of my hands and sniffed. “Have you been playing with matches? Tell me, Lyle Clinton May or so help me I’ll…” The look on her face and the tone of her voice were enough to scare me into compliance. I showed her where and what I had been doing. She narrowed her eyes and held out her hand. “Give them to me!”
For some reason I did not anticipate this part and was loathe to give up the remaining matches. I got the feeling, however, that hesitation might be hazardous to my health. I gave up the box. When mom saw the restaurant logo, she scowled. A protest almost escaped me as she crushed the box in her hand. The errant thought fled as I was propelled toward my parent’s room. Any thought of fire was snuffed when my mom took one of my dad’s wide leather belts from a hook on the closet door. I hadn’t noticed I was backing away until she said, “Get over here!” Her face was harsh, devoid of any warmth. The threat was obvious, submit to punishment willingly or the pain would be exponential. I froze. It wasn’t a choice at all. I had never been hit with the belt but it’s not like I needed such an experience to know it would hurt. I heard it used on my older sister, Henrietta. Her screams were more than enough to scare the crap out of me.
Just as I formed the thought to run, mom lunged across the room, jerked me around by the arm and went to work. I don’t remember screaming, but I clearly recall the pain and terror. Years later it would occur to me that my parents did not want me to play with fire. But as I got whipped that first time for playing with matches, there was only the shame at having been caught.
I discovered two things at an early age. Don't get caught breaking the rules if you don't want to be punished. And, if it requires sneaking and it's dangerous, or something mom and dad forbid, it was probably fun. Unfortunately, I ignored the real lessons in the punishments I put myself through as a child and continued on the path of disobedience that ultimately led to delinquency. I avoided detection some of the time but I was young and inevitably got caught again. My punishments outnumbered those of my siblings because I found fun and entertainment in things that too often involved breaking the rules. My behavior was never blatant, in-your-face rebellion as such a thing was never tolerated in our house. It was more of an unintentional mischief. My parents did what they thought was best in raising me, whereas I did my best to do what I wanted and worry about the consequences later.
To read more, order your copy of Waiting for the Last Train on Kindle.
