I was really impressed by my time in the lower yard of the Nevada State Prison for the Fourth of July barbecue and concert.
It was my first time in there. While I hope any further visits will be similarly brief, I can't say I didn't enjoy my time with the inmates.
One guy I wasn't able to cram into the Independence Day story was Chaske Orr. He was yelling to Floyd Sneed, original drummer for Three Dog Night, in between bands.
"Hey Floyd! Play a set! Play a set!"
Sneed, seated under a shade tent up the stage, pointed at his chest as if to say, "Who, me?"
"I've got all his albums," Orr said later. "I've got a big collection of classic rock records at home --Eor I guess my mom does now."
Orr stood in the blazing sun next to a shirtless, muscular man who wore his hair in three square patches, each pulled into a tiny ponytail.
"My name is Raven," he said. "I grew up in California. I just came out here to visit, and I got caught up in a robbery."
He said Sneed and Three Dog Night were a very positive influence on his life. He admitted to making mistakes, but was inspired by the uniting power of music.
"I believe if these men can unify like this then we can pass something on to youth. Say, 'Hey, you don't have to go that path.'"
Blue-eyed Paul Byrd sat against the bars of the "tunnel" leading to cells.
He joked about setting up the "Byrd relief fund" at a bank for folks to donate to.
He and curly-haired Anthony Meno, who said he was looking for a pen pal, rolled a couple of cigarettes.
"This is the tobacco we smoke in here," said Byrd. "It's rough as hell." He held up a 6-ounce plastic bag of "4 Aces" tobacco.
Inmates pay $8 for a bag, which comes with 200 gummed papers.
"They sweep it up off the floors of the filter cigarette factories," joked Michael Lyles, inmate 72417.
Lyles sat with his cousin, Pat Lomboy, No. 74936. Both from Seaside, Calif, they became felons when they were arrested with marijuana then were involved in a "shootout" in Reno.
While I was sitting on the ground with the cousins, I realized I still had my Leatherman tool --Ewith two locking blades, a sharp-toothed saw and a file -- on my belt. One of the inmates in the tunnel behind me could have reached through the bars and grabbed it -- maybe they wish they had. I felt safer once I gave it to a correctional officer.
But I never really felt unsafe. The eyes of the inmates were never menacing -- after a second of staring they would give a nod.
Michael Schjang walked right up to ask what I was doing there.
Despite 15 years behind bars, he maintains an excellent outlook.
"I'm just having a lovely time," he said.
What a great attitude.
"I thank the man upstairs for that," he said. "He's given that to me."
We were talking in the rock-cutting area of the prison, where men were once held in solitary confinement in caves. An inmate described how back in '70, when he got in, they used the caves as a craft shop.
That guy has been confined to the old stone facility on Fifth Street for 33 years, while I've only existed for 26.
When I was ready to leave, I went to see the guard who had my knife. We walked past the long line of inmates in white tank tops and denim shorts waiting for their barbecue. Inmate Anthony Meno was at least an hour from the front of the line -- and still looking for a pen pal.
"Write me a letter," he hollered as we passed.
The guard escorted me through several doors, one at a time, then I was out.
I walked into the free world, thinking about Michael Schjang, Pat Lomboy, Michael Lyles and Anthony Meno. They must dream about this act, I thought, as I climbed into my car, started it, and drove away.
Call Karl Horeis at 881-1219.
