"george and the devil"

8/12/2019 "GEORGE AND THE DEVIL"

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~ GEORGE AND THE DEVIL ~

(The following is a true story. Please be forewarned that it contains graphic

language and disturbing material. This story is not suitable for children. Please be

advised.)

George and I were digging up palmetto roots in the Florida

panhandle wilderness, toiling together under the relentless midday

summer sun. George had only been with us for a few days, recently sent

to us from the E&O (Evaluation and Observation Unit), where one

was initially incarcerated for approximately 3 months before being

moved to an outside vocational group. We were both

patients/residents/inmates at a place called Anneewakee, which was

supposedly a Native American word meaning land of the friendlypeople. There were indeed some friendly people at Anneewakee, but

there were also monsters and demons that prowled too often undetected.

Our group of twelve was clearing an acre of hardscrabble palmetto

and pine tree land in order to build wood cabins in which to live. In the

meantime we slept in Camel tents, two people to a tent. So we were

motivated to work hard and fast in order to achieve our goal of living in

solid structures that would better protect us from rattlesnakes, wild

boars, alligators, scorpions, and the capricious elements.

The Gulf coast was three miles to the south, and to the north lay

nothing but swampy, dense, and uninhabited forest. No need for electric

walls and razor wire. You could take your chances with the ocean or

with the swamps. Or you could do the safer thing and steal a bicycle and

ride down the lone two-lane road that led to Tallahassee 60 miles away.

Thats what one guy tried. Problem was, it takes a few hours to get to

Tallahassee on a bike, and it doesnt take long to realize that somebodys

gone. The police were alerted, and the poor guy was caught only ten

miles away and shipped back to the E&O for another three month

sojourn in padded confinement.

Most of the people at Anneewakee were juvenile delinquents

sent there by court order. Others, like me, were sent by their parents for


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one reason or another. My crime was that I had been expelled from three

different schools, and my psychiatrist persuaded my parents that living

with hardened criminals under the authority of pedophiles would

somehow motivate me to care more about math.

So here I was, pounding away at sand and soil with our new group

member George. I had been in the group for almost a year, so I was

pretty well acclimated to how things worked. You see, at Anneewakee

there was no predetermined sentence. You had to earn your way out of

the place. The more you complied, the more you worked on your

problems, and the more you demonstrated a willingness to obey

authority and cooperate with the group, then the more privileges you

could earn and the better chance you had of eventually terminating

from the program.

From day one, as I sat in the solitary confinement of my padded

cell in the E&O, I decided that I would accept these conditions and do

my best to adhere to them. I realized this was really my only choice. It

was very clear: rebellion would keep me confined, and compliance

might one day get me released. It was 1983, I was 14 years old, and the

only thing I knew about Communism was that our USA hockey team

had beaten those Commie Russian bastards a few years earlier in the

winter Olympics at Lake Placid, New York. Of course, it never dawned

on me that most people in Russia were much freer than I was at the

current moment.

George had been quiet since his arrival to our group. He was large

and slovenly, an oafish sort. He had clear innocent eyes that never quite

met your gaze. He dug away with his flathead shovel, and I swung my

pickaxe. I had earned the right to wield a pickaxe. George was new and

so he was limited to the use of a flathead shovel. A spade shovel had tobe earned. Every object at Anneewakee was considered a potential

weapon, something that could be used to harm oneself or others. In the

E&O it was a privilege just to wear a belt, to wear a watch, or to wield a

pen. So the right to grasp a shovel was no small thing. The right to dig

and hoe and saw and chop was a hard-earned privilege. At Anneewakee,


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shovels and wheelbarrows were status symbols that conveyed ones

growth and maturity. Tools came with trust, and while some of us

could be trusted to dig, not all of us could be trusted with just any kind

of shovel. The authorities had somehow determined that it was easier to

kill someone with a spade shovel than with a flathead.

We dug and swatted at the variety of stinging, sucking, biting

flying insects that pervaded the panhandle swampland. The layers of

insect repellent were thick enough to permeate the air with a ubiquitous

chemical sweetness, but they didnt do much to deter the mosquitoes and

dog flies. We wore snake guards around our calves on account of the

Eastern Diamondback rattlers that were prevalent in the area. Palmetto

bushes are rattlesnake havens, and we were uprooting their territory with

reckless abandon.

You have to talk when youre working. Theres nothing else to do.

Conversation alleviates the boredom and helps pass the time; and the

more interesting the conversation, the better. In the E&O I quickly

learned that there were plenty of fascinating conversations to be had

with my comrades in consignment. As a virginal adolescent, I was

fascinated by the boastful sexual exploits of a 15 year old guy who was

locked up in my ward. We would play checkers in the afternoon and he

would regale me with explicit accounts of his numerous sexual

conquests. I didnt understand the mechanics or lingo of half of what he

said, but I was enthralled nonetheless. It was obvious to him that I was

quite wet behind the ears, so he was kind enough to balance his boasting

with tutorial information without me having to inquire. Even so, I still

didnt understand much. But I must confess that listening to his lurid

stories was some of the best entertainment Ive ever had to this day.

As George and I battled the palmetto roots and panhandle heat, Iventured the standard inquiry posed to all new blood, So what are you

in here for?

I dont really want to talk about it,George said flatly, without

irritation or offense.


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I understand. Thats cool. But one thing Ive learned since Ive

been here is that the quicker you talk about your problems, the quicker

you can get out of this place.

I had bought into the party line, even though I knew a lot of it wasbullshit.

George kept his head down and scraped away the sand from the

roots with his flathead shovel. Well, Im from Los Angeles. I guess my

home situation was kind of fucked up.

How so? I inquired. If you dont mind me asking. I mean, if

you feel like sharing.

I guess I got in some trouble, you know.Well, yeah, I can relate to that, I said.I got into trouble too.

Mine was different.

Look, I began, you dont have to tell me anything you dont

want to. But its just you and me talking here. We might as well talk. It

helps the time go by. My parents sent me here because I kept getting

kicked out of school. I had this asshole psychiatrist who tried to put me

on Ritalin and he convinced my parents to send me to this place. But Iguess I needed it. I caused them a lot of problems, and I see that now.

The group has really helped me, and Imlearning a lot and growing. But

I still have a long way to go.

I was sincere, but I was mostly nave and mostly full of the

propaganda that I had chosen to buy into out of self-preservation. Sure, I

was truly interested in George, but I was also interested in passing the

time and listening to some salacious stories that would take my mind off

of the blisters and these accursed dog flies.

Well, I guess my mom was a drug addict, George said, matter-

of-factly.

Damn, that must have sucked.


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Yeah. I came home from school one day and my mom started

shooting at me. But she didnt mean to. Shedidnt know it was me. She

thought it was her pimp coming to beat her up again.

George said all of this with no inflection in his voice. He spoke asif he were talking about the weather. I was shaken. I had never heard a

story like this. I mean, my favorite TV show back then was Hill Street

Blues,but this was some real shit that made Steven Bochcos world

look like Disneyland.

What did you do then? I mean, what happened after that? I

asked stupidly. I didnt know what to say. How do you respond to

something like that?

She apologized when she realized it was me. She didnt mean todo it. My moms a heroin addict, and she doesnt know what she does a

lot of times.

Damn.I shook my head. Sometimes thats all you can do: shake

your head and say Damn.

But then, for some reason, I continued:

Well, look man, there are a lot people here that dont deserve to

be here. A lot of people are here because their parents are screwed up

and stuff. The thing is to try and make the most of it. You know, just try

to talk about stuff and work with the group. It can really help you.

I think I believed that. I think I meant well.

No. I deserve to be here,George said.

It doesnt sound like it to me,I replied. Its not your fault your

mom is on drugs. And its better for you to be here than to be home inthat environment where you could be killed by a drug dealer or pimp or

something.

I wanted to comfort George, to let him know that he didnt deserve

this fate. His mom was screwed up, but that wasnt his fault.


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You dont understand,he said.

What do you mean George? Whats up? What dont I

understand?

I cant tell you.Look George, whatever it is, you can tell me. Thats what were

here for, to talk about things, to confide in each other, to help each

other. The more you talk about your problems, the quicker you can get

out of here.

Yeah, I know. But I cant tell you.

We kept uprooting the palmettos and tossing them into a pile that

was now as tall as we were. The conversation had taken my mind off ofthe agonizing work conditions. I was absorbed in Georges story. And

the fact that he was holding back a piece of vital information intrigued

me all the more. In the interest of his therapy, I needed to get him to

reveal his deep, dark secret. After all, talking about my own problems is

what had earned me the right to use a pickaxe instead of a flathead

shovel. So I was obliged to encourage George to make the same

progress. After all, a flathead shovel is really no match for those damn

palmetto scrubs.

Like I said, you dont have to tell me anything, I reassured him.

Just know that whatever you tell me stays with me.

That was the truth. For all of my many sins and character flaws, I

would never betray someones confidence. At least I dont think I

would. But then again, I may have done so over the course of my life.

But I meant it with George, and I kept my word. I think.

I feel like I should tell somebody,George replied. But I dontknow how.I dont think I can.

Im not pressuring you man. Just know that you can tell me if you

want to. Hell, were out here working and sweating in this heat with

mosquitoes biting the hell out of us, and were getting to know each

other. Were in this sameplace and were both trying to get out as fast


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nothing to do with emotion, affection, or love. My experience with that

girl set the precedent for a pattern of spiritually unhealthy relationships

with the opposite sex that would haunt me until I got married, and even

afterwards.

So as a virginal fourteen year old, Georges revelation was hard for

me to fully process. When he told me that he had raped his sister, I really

didnt know the full import of the term. Rape. I just knew that it was

something very violent, something sexual, something criminally and

abominably awful. I was stunned by what he said, but my naivety

protected me somewhat from the seismic reality of what I was actually

hearing.

Damn.Sometimes thats really all you can say, right?Yeah, but thats not the worst of it.

Its not?

No. You see

George kept digging. The inflection of his voice never altered. He

showed no change of emotion as he added, She was three years old.

I vaguely understood the concept of rape, much less the concept ofincest, much less the logistics of raping a three year old child. And the

fact that George related this horror in such a nondescript manner

probably helped me to absorb it as calmly as I did.

One thing we were programmed to do from day one at

Anneewakee from the moment we were thrown into the E&O was

not to judge. Who was I to judge anyone elses problems? We were all

here together, and it didnt matter whatwe did to get here; the fact is that

we werehere. So who was I to judge George? My duty was to encouragehim to share his problems with the group, because the group was

omniscient. The group could solve any problem. The group was

infallible. The individual must submit his will, his ego, and his opinions

to the jury and judgment of the group. Whether somebody stole a biscuit

from the dining hall or whether they raped their three year old sister, no


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one had the right to judge another. Individuals were simply supposed to

encourage, support, and understand one another; the groupwould judge.

And I learned that the group often judged lesser sins much more harshly

than it judged greater sins. And time and experience have shown me that

this same twisted dynamic also fuels the majority of human governmentsand political systems of this world.

So I received Georges words with a spirit of non-condemnation.

Perhaps I didnt really want to understand what he had said. Perhaps I

deliberately ignored the specific reality of his words in order to retain

my own sanity. I couldnt judge. It didnt matter what he did. He was

here digging up palmetto roots, and so was I. The only significant

difference was that I dug them up with a pickaxe and he dug them up

with a flathead shovel. We were in this thing together, and I wanted toget out and I wanted to help him get out. Thats all that mattered.

Wow.I may have said Damn again, but I dont remember. It

was Wow,or Damnor something like that. Hell, what else can you

say?

Neither of us said anything for a while. We just continued to

plumb the earth and let the reality of the revelation linger in the miasma

of insect repellent and sun-baked, humid Gulf salt air. He had raped hissister. And she was three years old. And he had chosen to tell me. And I

guess I was supposed to have some answers, since I had convinced him

to tell me.

But I didnt have any answers. I still couldnt figure out why I was

in this God-forsaken place digging up palmetto roots and fighting off

every biting insect known to man. What answers could I give to George?

Hell, I didnt even know if I wanted to give him any answers. How do

you console a monster? Should you console a monster? And yet, as Iwatched him dig and looked at his oafish figure and his innocent eyes

that were perpetually fixated on the ground, I couldnt help but to feel

strangely sorry for him.

So I said, You have to talk about this in group meeting.


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I cant. I cant talk about it. I told you, but I cant tell the group. I

cant.

Look man, you have to. I wont tell anyone. You dont have to do

it tonight, but youve got to do it eventually. The sooner you tell thegroup, the quicker they can help you and the quicker you can get out of

here. I wont let anyone judge you. Were all in here together man.

Remember that. No one has the right to condemn you. Just express your

feelings and the group will accept you and help you.

When all else fails, you can always fall back on the party line. I

believed what I was saying, and I think I was right, as nave as it

sounded. Thats the only advice I could come up with. I was certainly

unequipped to counsel George about the rape of his three year old sister.I mean, if a licensed psychiatrist couldnt figure out that my problems in

school were directly related to the dysfunctional alcoholic environment I

had to deal with at home, then there was certainly no way I could figure

out how to help George deal with this horrific situation.

The sun began to drop behind the Florida pines, and the pile of

palmetto roots was now a small hill that was taller than both of us. We

shared a mutual satisfaction in our accomplishment. Our pile was taller

than everyone elses. We had worked hard, talked hard, and now it wastime to eat, shower, and get ready for the nightly group meeting. I felt

good knowing that I had helped our new group member open up about

his problems. I patted myself on the back, because I had encouraged

George to share his troubles with me. Now I could only hope that

George would one day share his burden with the entire group.

After supper and showers we walked down the beaten trail back to

the campsite, slowly and cautiously, many of us with long sticks, beating

the brush on either side to scare off any rattlers that may be near. Even atnight, the Florida panhandle was oppressively hot in the summer, but the

Gulf breeze would often waft in and provide a modicum of relief in the

evenings. The group logs surrounded the campfire, the size of which was

determined by the seasons and the weather. On rare occasions, if there

was no wind and the night heat was stifling, there would be no kindled


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wood, just a kerosene lantern set in the middle of the blackened ashy

sand. But tonight there was a suitable breeze, and we made a small but

firm flame. We took our places on the group logs around the fire, and it

seemed that we all shared an unspoken satisfaction of a good days work

together. The supper at the dining hall had been good. We were cleanfrom our showers. And some nights just seemed more conducive to

opening up and sharing than others. This felt like one of those times.

But I was not expecting George to bare his revelation tonight. I

thought it would take some time before he disclosed his secret to the

group. And as much as I had coaxed him to reveal it to me, I wasnt

about to pressure him to tell the entire group until he was fully ready.

The group might be omniscient, but theres some knowledge that human

omniscience cant even handle.

There is no thicker darkness than the nighttime of the Florida

panhandle wilderness. Faces around the circle of fire become intensely

clear and magnified against the curtain of blackness that stretches

endlessly beyond them. A campfire in the midst of an endless pitch

black expanse engenders a sense of solidarity and intimacy among those

who share its offer of warmth and light. There is a shared vulnerability, a

common awareness of mortality and finitude. All are equally subject to

the terrible mysteries and unfathomable horrors that potentially lurk

beyond its flickering flames.

We had all barely taken our seats when George began to speak:

I guess I have something to share.

George seemed nervous, less matter-of-fact than he had been with

me earlier that day. He looked down as he spoke. He fumbled with his

hands and kicked at the sand.Im not really sure if I should say it, but I guess I need to.

I was conflicted. On the one hand I felt great pride that I had

convinced George to share his troubles with the group, but on the other

hand I wasnt sure he was ready yet. Maybe he needed more time.


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Maybe he should tell our group leader first. (Group leaders were the

ostensible professionals that were hired to be in charge of each group.

None of them were licensed psychiatrists or psychologists, and it turned

out that many of them were pedophiles and child abusers.) But if George

felt the need to share with the group, then I reasoned that this was a goodthing, right?

The thing is wellthe thing is George stammered. Im not

sure if I should say this

Go ahead George Its OK man, just talk to us Were here to

help man, just say itThe group offered its sincere encouragement.

I was afraid for George to say it, but my voyeuristic side was

quietly urging him on. I suspect that the entire group felt the same way Ihad felt earlier that afternoon. What did youdo?It was the question that

fascinated us all and somehow bound us together. We all wanted to

know if the others crime was greater or lesser than our own. Apissing

contest, essentially. And I was the ultimate loser. I didnt have any

crimes on my record, no jail time to boast of, no Judge that had

sentenced me to this fate. I was the kid who got kicked out of Catholic

school, got kicked out of boarding school, and got kicked out of reform

school; the kid whose parents paid a shrink 80 dollars an hour torecommend that I be sent to this hellhole that my mother euphemistically

called a wilderness program. I looked at my comrades gathered around

the fire and thought, You aint gonna win this pissing contest; in fact,

youre gonna wish you hadnt even entered it.

Its alright George Tell us whats on your mind Were here

to listen Were here to help... Were no different than you We all

have problems... The group essentially echoed the platitudes I had

spouted to George earlier that day.

WellGeorge began, his voice quivering a bit. The thing is

well


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He clenched and unclenched his fists. His knees popped up and

down like pistons. His fingernails dug into his palms. He shook his head

as if he couldnt believe what he was about to say.

The thing is I guess well you see, I raped my little sister.And she was only three years old. And I raped her! She was only three!

And I raped her!! I RAPED HER!!!

George was staring at the fire when he said it. Then his head

suddenly snapped up and his eyes locked right in on mine. He had never

looked me in the eye before. His eyes were no longer shy and innocent.

They were different. Completely different. Then, staring directly at me,

and with a voice that I can only describe as inhuman, he said:

I should never have told you! I should never have told you! Youmotherfucker! Now Ill have to snap your goddamn neck! Ill have to kill

you, you motherfucker. Ill have to break your neck! Why did you make

me tell you?! You motherfucker! Why did you make me tell you?!!!

Then his head snapped back and his gaze was on the fire. His face

was taught and his eyes didnt blink. They couldnt blink. Spittle poured

from his lips.

I SEE THE DEVIL! In the fire! Hes in the flames! The Devilis inthe fire!!! I SEE THE DEVIL!!!

George began to hit himself in the face. Violently. Uncontrollably.

Blood gushed from his nose; his eyes rolled back in his head; he was

foaming at the mouth. His arms launched a volley of fists that pummeled

his own countenance, as if he were trying to viciously and permanently

eradicate anything that could ever be recognized in the mirror again. He

knocked two of his own teeth out.

Our group leader jumped up and commanded, Restrain him!

Restrain him! Get on him! Everyone jumped on George and struggled

to hold down his arms and legs. But I was paralyzed. I was terrified and

shocked and immobile. There were at least 11 guys on top of George,

and yet he still was not subdued. He was possessed of a maniacal


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strength that I had never seen before in my life and that I have never

seen since. There was a cosmic battle taking place. And as much as I

wanted to remain an innocent bystander, I was somehow intimately

engaged, even though I couldnt move. I dont know how long it took. It

could have been ten minutes or it could have been 45 minutes. All Iknow is that something inhuman or subhuman overwhelmed George,

and it took every ounce of strength on everyones part to get him under

control.

Time stood eerily still during the struggle, but George was finally

restrained; and whatever evil energy had possessed him seemed to

finally be gone. As the fire crackled, I watched him lapse into a deep

sleep. Somebody gently wiped the blood and sweat and tears from his

face. We couldnt wake him and we all felt it best to let him rest. We puthim in his tent, and then we all went to bed, oddly with no fear or

trepidation. Looking back, I guess our lack of subsequent fear was

because we had witnessed a catharsis. Without any substantial spiritual

guidance to direct us, we nevertheless intuitively sensed that something

had been necessarily expunged. George had come clean. He had

unburdened himself. He had faced his devil, and he no longer had to

carry that evil within him. Somehow we understood this expiation, even

though none of us could articulate it; and we therefore retired to ourCamel tents with nothing but our own desperate sleep in mind.

I was in that group with George for another six months or so. We

never talked about his horror againneither the evil he had committed

nor the evil he saw in the fire that night. I dont know what happened to

George, or if he ever saw the devil again. I can only pray that he found

the grace and strength to deal with his many demons. We all have

demons to fight, and George was no different from me in that regard. I

wonder what happened to his drug addicted mother. I wonder whathappened to his sister, that poor little girl. I wonder what happened to all

the others who spent two or three years of their lives trying to survive at

Anneewakee, the land of the friendly people.


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As my life has progressed, Ive come to realize that there are

people in this world much more evil than George, even though their sins

are not as heinous. George was tormented by his actions, and that

reveals the presence of a conscience. George was born into a dark corner

of this world. He grew up in suffering and replicated that suffering. Butsomehow the knowledge of right and wrong, good and evil, was not

completely erased from his soul. Yet the world is full of people who

commit no crimes but inflict hellish suffering with calculated

callousness. Legally and lawfully they murder, oppress, victimize and

exploit. But instead of being called monsters they are called CEOs

and senators, judges and presidents.

My time at Anneewakee and my friendship with George taught me

a lot. It taught me that our world is the land of the friendly people, fullof villains and heroes and many monsters in disguise. The problem is

that we usually confuse the heroes for the villains; and for whatever

reason, we refuse to rip the masks off the monsters and expose them for

what they really are. The monsters that ran Anneewakee had the power,

and theres something about human nature that would rather submit to

evil power than risk the suffering that might result from confronting

corruption. Human history seems to bear witness to this.

We call the slave masters whip necessary discipline; we call

Auschwitzs ashes a cloudy day; and we rationalize the decimated

bodies of unborn children as the natural detritus of reproductive

choice. But because the pathos of conscience pulsates within us, we

must find scapegoats for our moral affliction. So we ignore the systemic

evils for which we ourselves are ultimately responsible, and we reserve

our condemnations for individual monsters whose crimes transcend

anything of which we believe we could ever really be capable.

George was a monster with a conscience. And his conscience

forced him to confront his demons face to face. In doing so he seemed to

find a measure of peace. And, at least while he remained at

Anneewakee, he seemed to grow into a kind, sensitive, and good person.

But as George was overcoming his own demons, Anneewakee was


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unleashing its own legions of hell. Rampant pedophilia, physical abuse,

and psychological terror were forced upon countless innocent young

men and women that were sentenced to live in that environment. And

just like the world itself, the good peoplewent about their way with

their heads buried in the sand, refusing to expose and confront the evilsin their midst.

I myself stood silently by and watched four grown men hold down

one of my best friends as they methodically pulled out huge clumps of

hair from his head. Another time, I saw the only African American kid

there being mercilessly beaten by a 350 pound man named Mr. Phillips.

Who do you think you are nigger?! Youre mine boy! Where you

gonna run? You can take this beatin or you can runaway into thattheyah swamp and be food fa the gaytuhs!

I saw the whole thing as I was taking out the trash one night. It

terrified me. I had never suspected that Mr. Phillips was so evil. He

always greeted me with a smile and a kind word. On occasion he would

come by our group site to show us a freshly killed Eastern Diamondback

that hed recently shot. And sometimes he would bring us fried rabbit,

gator tail, or wild boar stew that he had just cooked up. I perceived him

to be a jovial mans man who protected the grounds and kept us safe.But that perception was immediately eviscerated as I witnessed his

vicious brutality against that defenseless teenage boy. But I said nothing.

I didnt dare to intervene. All I did was go back to the other side of the

building and throw up. I was sickened by the evil of what I saw. Sick

enough to puke but not sick enough to do anything. Not sick enough to

say anything or do anything about it.

I have come to realize that such cowardice on my part is exactly

what facilitates injustice and evil in the world. Edmund Burke famouslysaid, All that is needed for evil to triumph is for good men to do

nothing.A great quote. But as someone once pointed out to me, good

people dont do nothing. Good people do something. Goodness is not

simply bothered by evil, goodness is disturbed enough to do something

about it. In his bookPeople of The Lie,M. Scott Peck, M.D. writes:


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Triggers are pulled by individuals. Orders are given and

executed by individuals. In the last analysis, every single human act is

ultimately the result of an individual choice The plain fact of the

matter is that any group will remain inevitably potentiallyconscienceless and evil until such a time as each and every individual

holds himself or herself directly responsible for the behavior of the

whole group the organism of which he or she is a part. (p. 215;

218)

Im no psychologist, and my time at Anneewakee (which

conveniently, for insurance purposes, had attained legal status as a

psychiatric institute) conditioned me to be very skeptical of the fields of

psychiatry and psychology. But I do believe that somehow Georgepossessed the goodness to confront his own evil, to look squarely at his

horrors and face the devil itself. Yet I saw the devil and turned away.

And Ive done so many times throughout my life. George did a

monstrous thing, but he had the courage to reckon with it. Most of us

dont do monstrous things, but we refuse to unmask the monsters among

us. Who wants to look at evil? Better to call evil good than to look in

the mirror and risk an honest reflection.

* * *

Years later I took my wife down to Carrabelle, Florida to show her

the land of the friendly people. Anneewakee had been shut down a

few years after I left. Doc Poetter, the one-legged man in charge of the

entire operation, had been convicted of pedophilia and child abuse and

sentenced to prison. I wanted to show my wife the place where I had

spent two of the most difficult years of my life. I wanted to show her the

concrete and stucco buildings we had constructed ourselves, the cabinswe had built, the beautiful football and baseball fields we had plowed

and sodded by hand. We had been used as child labor to create Doc

Poetters pedophile paradise, but we had nevertheless taken great pride

in what we had created with our cooperative sweat. Every brick, every

nail, every coat of paint, every meal that was served, and every


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manicured blade of grass came from our own efforts and labor. As

difficult and unfair as it was, we all felt very good about what we had

built together.

The dirt road that led to the campus was gated and locked. Therewas a sign indicating that the property was for sale, along with a phone

number. I called the number and explained to the man who answered

that I had once lived here as a student at a place called Anneewakee,

and that I wanted to know if I could show my wife the campus. The man

asked my name, and after I told him he said enthusiastically, I

remember you well! Ill be there in 10 minutes. Mr. L had been a

group leader and one of my football coaches there. He was a genuinely

nice man, one of the truly good guys at the place.

He showed up a few minutes later, unlocked the gate, and drove us

down the dirt road towards the remains of the campus.

They want to turn it into a golf course now, Mr. L lamented.

Can you believe that? A golf course!

We turned onto the campus drive and approached a ghost town.

The buildings were crumbling, the football field was overgrown, the

cabins across the lake were falling apart. What had once been so

efficient, so organized, so well-kept and well-run had now become a

wasteland.

After all the work you guys did, Mr. L said. Look at what

theyve allowed to happen to this place. After all the work you guys did.

And now they want to make it a golf course. He shook his head. They

could turn it into a camp or into a school, or something that would

preserve what you guys built. But theyre gonna tear it all down and

make a golf course!It did indeed make me very sad. Mr. L led me on a trek back into

the woods to show me the cabins and the group site that George and I

had helped to build. The trail was barely traceable, and Mr. L beat

back the bushes on either side with a long metal pole. I was scared to

death of the rattlers that I knew were surely lurking nearby. I couldnt


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"george and the devil"

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