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Vanity Fair may have sent Gore Vidal to cover the Timothy McVeigh
execution, but Time magazine had the foresight to send its controversial,
pop-culture damaged columnist, Joel Stein.







F YOU HAVE TO STAND UNDER A TENT
in the middle of a field in Indiana waiting for some guy to get inoculated against the future, you could do worse than the prison yard in Terre Haute. Let me tell you, those guys know how to host an execution: A no-frills good time without the big city fuss. Just uptight, armed guards and all-you-can-eat tuna fish sandwiches courtesy of the local chapter of the Red Cross. Now, some of my colleagues (Sam “Prima Donna” Donaldson) were griping about the lack of frills, but not me. No sir, I like it the Wabash Valley way: mayo, relish, Wonder bread served free of charge by the smiling Joes beneath the big cross. As far as I’m concerned, you can keep the pine nuts, dill and sporks New Yorkers throw in so they can feel exonerated charging eight bucks for a fish sandwich.

But hey, this isn’t about tuna sandwiches or moral justifications. This is about standing under a big top in the middle of a field waiting for somebody to get offed. And let me tell you, the experience was even less exciting than it sounds. First of all, they rolled us out to this big tent in the middle of the prison grounds and dropped us off. Then, some official from the State Bureau of Revenge offered tours of the grounds, presumably to break the monotony. The tours were given by a prison official or some such (I wasn’t really listening) who offered to drive anybody who wanted around on a golf cart and give them the skinny. I passed on the invite as I am fairly certain I already know what goes on in prisons. America’s pens are run by idiosyncratic, small town, Mayberry-type wardens who loosely oversee falsely accused Black men possessed of the ability to conduct powerful gamma rays capable of curing urinary tract infections. I felt that I, a young, virile man, plumbing very much intact, should relinquish my seat on the cart to Morley or Dan or one of the other old geezers. Plus, if somebody’s gonna get their package grabbed, I think it ought to be Matt Lauer.

I have to admit though, I was a little down about missing out on the poster of the bikini-clad babe concealing a tunnel on the other side. I mentioned to one of the guards to be sure he checked behind McVeigh’s Pamela Anderson pin-up to make sure Tim hadn’t used his miniature hammer to dig a tunnel. In response to my heads up about the potential escape, the guard offered me another sandwich. I declined, thanked him, patting my full belly. The guard pointed to his hairy knuckles and clarified his offer.

At least now I know why the prison calls out the Red Cross to cater its executions. The guards may be trained to handle riots and uprisings, but they don’t know jack about being good hosts. Not so with the super friendly waitresses at the Terre Haute Brewery Museum & Tap Room. I headed over there after we got word that McVeigh was a flatline and that guards had stood by long enough to ensure he was unlikely to pull any Wes Craven nonsense. Donna, my waitress, told me about the specials and asked me where I was from. I told her New York. Donna asked me what I do for a living. I told her I fly to mid-western states to stand under tents and eat free tuna fish sandwiches while I wait for word that somebody is dead. Her interest piqued, my serving wench pulled up a chair and asked if I witnessed the execution. I said no, just got word via a state official in a cowboy hat. Donna wrinkled her nose and looked at me like I was a real dumb-dumb. “We saw more than that here on the big screen.” I knew from her disappointment I should have fibbed and said I was there in the room, witness to the first Federally sanctioned execution in 37 years.

I kicked myself under the table while I ate my ribs. But when I went to pay with my credit card and Donna asked me what kind of name “Stein” is, I knew I never stood a chance. At least I learned a valuable lesson. If I had it do over again, I’d introduce my-self as Biff MacTexas and pay in cash.

Oh well, there’s always next time.    





—Roy Hall
















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