Tim Allen - Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

Two different worlds.

- -

Some kids cross the line and one day they get into too much trouble. You're in their car, they pull into the parking lot of a 7‑Eleven, and you suddenly realize you're in the wrong car. They're bored and looking for trouble. If there are no women, at least there's got to be some action. And action is definitely not going to the mall and walking around. This situation can lead to wrong decisions.

Petty theft was not for me. I stopped hanging around with these guys and set my own goals.

Selling drugs.

I'm not trying to be funny. It's public record. Eventually it landed me in jail. No one likes to go to jail. Prison takes away your freedom in a way you can never imagine until you've spent time there. Anyone who says prison is great or they can do it-fine. So explain to me why, if you opened the door, everyone would walk away. Once you lose your freedom, you never want to lose it again. Prison was the worst and the best thing that ever happened to me. It taught me in no uncertain terms to be responsible for my own actions.

It's tough to be lighthearted about prison, even if like me you've made it through. Still, I feel a bit like Audie Murphy, back from the war, full of stories.

Even today it's a big shock to people that I spent any time behind bars. They say, "You're not that kind of guy."

Well, yes, I was that kind of guy. Half model citizen, half hooligan.

And where I was headed was full of Eddie Haskells, too.

- -

Prison is filled with guys in whom their lunatic is free. The lunatic is finally where he wants to be. He's in a place where lunacy works. The more of a lunatic you are, the better you get along with the other lunatics. Prison is a wonderful place for the lunatic to be since it's the lunatic in you that gets you there.

The difference between the lunatic living in the outside world and killing time in prison is that inside the lunatic actually speaks. He goes, "I didn't do it." Or "if I had a chance to do it again I certainly wouldn't get caught." The lunatic is always in denial because he never admits the slightest responsibility.

"It was the other guy."

"If you'd trusted me to begin with, I would have shot them both, no reservations. Then I would have burnt down the bank."

One guy I met actually denied that he'd robbed the bank even though he was caught at the teller's window with a ski mask on and a shotgun in his hand. I said, "So why were you in the bank?"

"That part I don't know. I don't know why I walked in there."

"But you had a ski mask on!"

"It was cold!"

"You were holding a pump shotgun and wearing a ski mask; what did you think the response was going to be when you walked inside that bank?"

"Well, I didn't think they were all going to go nuts on me!"

Like I said, prison's a great place for the lunatic. As for me, let's be honest. I didn't do anything. I wasn't even there when the cops busted me. I was at my house, watching Home Improvement. I was framed! I didn't do it!

And I was among guys who actually believed me.

The only place better for lunatics is the Armed Forces, because guys (lunatics?) actually sign up for that. You have to go in and say, "Yes." Of course, in the military you can also get weekend passes and see a woman.

There are no women in a man's prison. That makes the biggest difference in the world. You just can't take women away from men. It's devastating. Nothing buffers this. There's a sadness inside those walls, in men's eyes, that's pathetic. The loneliness. The anger. It was incredible.

- -

My sense of humor about jail began in the holding cell. It had to. It was the only way to survive.

After the six‑hour interrogation by cops who've watched too many cop shows on TV, the holding cell is first a relief, then a painful experience. But as bad as it was, it was only a peek at what was coming.

There were ten guys in the cell. The toilet's in the middle of the room. I remember looking at the can, then at the ceiling, then at the can, then at all the guys in there with me. I wanted to walk out. Yeah.

It was a smelly room, really depressing. My only thought was that I would die from fecal poisoning. I knew I would not be able to use the can. I mean, you can't take a dump with ten other guys in the room watching you. Peeing, sure; but the other? No way. Fart noises and other private smells are things other guys shouldn't be a party to.

Finally, digestion being as it is, things must emerge. I ambled tentatively to the can. I turned away and started back to my seat, but knew it was no good. I was committed. I sat down and suddenly all the men began moving toward me. I panicked.

I didn't have to. This still blows my mind.

What they did was form a horseshoe around me with their backs in my direction. Because they're men, too. It was a big revelation. These aren't just losers like me, but they're men. They do this so you have some privacy and no one can see in from the outside.

Meanwhile, I was also looking at ten remarkably nice butts.

The worst part, however, is that for about six months after I got out of jail I couldn't take a dump unless there were ten other guys in the room.

- -

The real penalty of jail, as I've said, is no women. With no place for the testosterone to go-and the painful memory of where it could go-the flare‑ups get very violent. And the violence is very unlike life, because real life gets mitigated by touch and feelings. In prison the touching and feeling were not my sort of thing. There was a lot of it; a lot of sex between men. There was also something else. I remember a guy who put his hand on my shoulder during a conversation. He wasn't gay, but I leaned in toward him anyway just because having somebody touch you meant a lot.

- -

You could say one wrong word to a guy and he'd want to kill you. Literally.

I once offended a guy without knowing it. We belonged to the Toastmasters Club. The idea was to teach prisoners how to speak and utilize their talents. This guy was outgoing president and I was incoming president. I might add, for you gentlemen still in the club, that I never received my president's pin. Can we take care of this please?

The outgoing president had knitted me a comforter to give to my wife for Christmas. Of course, this is now one of my wife's favorite stories: I got this comforter from a guy who could have been a murderer and rapist. It didn't matter that he stitched this over a year with his bare hands. And at the time, I thought it was such an exciting thing.

We had a roast at his retirement and I guess I really roasted him. Hours later, he came to my cell and said, "I'm not here because I'm a well‑adjusted person. I'm a maladjusted man. In fact, I have one big problem: my really big inability to take criticism or be fucked with. You just fucked with me. And for that you're going to have to pay."

You could hear me gulp in the warden's office. In a split second, he got me up against a wall. I realized I was going to die-and then a bubble popped right above his head.

When you're really in trouble your face gets this very odd, contorted look-like when you react to a vomit burp. One of the most amusing things, when my brother was about to get hit by my dad or had done something really wrong, was this look. Once, climbing a mountain with my brother, I slipped and fell. And he let me slip. Later, dusting myself off, I said, "What was that all about?"

He was howling with laughter. "The look on your face as you were sliding off that rock killed me!"

So as I was about to get my butt kicked, my life snuffed, this bubble popped up with my brother's face in it. And I started laughing. Suddenly the guy stopped roughing me up and said, "What are you laughing at?"