WILLARD'S GREAT BATTLE - by BUD TANT - Government - http://maxpages.com/darkevilworld/Willards_Great

February 3, 1990

Dear Readers,

Willard Robbins was a prisoner. He lived behind a fence which in and of itself made him a prisoner. But, folks, the real estate inside the fence surrounding Willard Robbins was paradise compared to his real confinement. Willard Robbins was a prisoner inside his own body -- a body ravaged by Huntington's Chorea. Huntington's Chorea is a big word for such a little wisp of a man. Willard is but 5'7" and weighs around 120 pounds.

This morning he failed miserably -- it wasn't even close. This morning they found Willard clawing at the bottom of the fence with his twisted hands.

Will was diagnosed as having that dreadful muscle disease five years ago. His muscles began tightening and his hands shook so bad that if he dipped his big prison spoon into a pile of peas he was lucky to have three peas remaining in the spoon by the time he found his mouth. It wasn't pretty watching Willard Robbins try to eat. In fact, there really wasn't anything pretty about watching Willard struggle to do anything. But pretty or not, I made it a point to watch Willard so I could lay it all down for the good folks outside that fence. A struggle that intense deserves recording . This is only a recording...

Willard fought the disease like a mother badger protecting her young. It was a fierce struggle every step of the way. You see, when Willard found out what he had, he went to the library to find out all he could find out about his medical condition. What he read would have made a lesser man resort to suicide. Willard found out that his muscles would twist and bind until they choked the air from his lungs. He found out that exercise was the only factor short of expensive medication (which he knew he couldn't get in an Arkansas prison), which could prolong any sort of life outside a wheelchair.

Willard Robbins closed Taber's Cyclopaedic Medical Dictionary with his shaking hands. Willard had just learned he would be spastic until his muscles ceased functioning. He found out that the diaphragm muscle controlling his lungs would finally succumb to the dreaded process of muscle deterioration. According to Tabor, that's when he would find relief. According to Life As Willard Robbins Knew It, that's when he would find release...

I met Willard when he was handcuffed, being led into a punitive isolation cell here in the East Building. It was obvious that the man had serious physical problems. In disbelief I asked the captain, "What's he doing down here?"

Captain removed his pipe from his mouth and, shrouded in a cloud of blue tobacco smoke, said, "He's down here for his smart mouth. He liked to talk shit to the guards. He's got a real bad attitude."

I pulled his file and there it was: Willard Robbins, W/M. Serving 30 years for burglary. Thirty years, hell! Ten years would have been a de facto sentence of life without parole. I read on. A note said to make sure he got an hour twice each week to exercise due to a medical condition known as Huntington's Chorea. A debilitating muscular dystrophy-type of condition.

Furious, I went back to the captain's office. "Hey, Captain, that man's dying a slow, painful death. Let him go."

The captain started whining about "why don't you do your own damn time and let those other assholes do their own time..." and other such shit.

I wasn't ready to quit. "Captain, you've got more than 100 other assholes back there to play with. Let him go. Please, let him go."

Cap was irritated, but he said for me to cut a release slip and then leave him alone for the rest of his correctional career.

Willard Robbins got out of the hole that day and I didn't see him for a few days. One day I was headed for the sky and I knew I'd have to go outside to get there, so I was walking out to the softball field when I saw a staggering figure lunging along the track. It was Willard. I stood and watched. I'll never forget the sight I witnessed that Spring day.

The man staggered, reeled and lunged around the track. He dragged one leg and his tiny arms fought the air for balance with each struggling stride.

I once read some mythology. The great Nurmi is supposed to have run a marathon and won in the last few strides. Then, according to legend, he collapsed and died when he crossed the finish line with the hard-fought victory. A touching story, I'll admit, but ol' Nurmi had nothing on Willard. Willard fights for each breath he gets. Willard fights for each step he takes. Willard Robbins is the toughest man I know.

I saw that Willard had the heart of a champion. I decided to help him all that I could. So I embarked on a religious crusade. I believed in Willard.

So I took the battle to the infirmary. I spoke with the medical staff on a subject that they kept insisting was confidential. Finally I fought through the bullshit and came away with a piece of paper. I'm enclosing that piece of paper for posterity's sake. It's Willard's shield and it enables him to exercise his First Amendment right of freedom of speech. Boy, ol' Willard sure has a foul mouth...

For the past year I've sought Willard out when I had some time on my hands. He's easy to find. As soon as they open the riot gate leading to the yard each morning, there goes Willard. He has a secluded patch of real estate clearly marked by a large piece of cardboard. This is where Willard lifts weights. He puts more effort and guts into lifting the two bricks he uses for weights than any 450 pound-lifting weight lifter in the joint. Rain or shine. Cold or hot. Makes no difference to Willard. Willard has the heart of a lion and the courage of a gladiator.

So there he was this morning, hiding in the fog and clawing at the dirt in a futile attempt to see the world one more day before he leaves it. The Perigard System snitched on him. I've no doubt he cursed them roundly when they gaffed him up. And as I record this for those of you who wouldn't know Willard without it, Willard Robbins is shackled and manacled in the back of a prison van on his way to the Maximum Security Unit at Tucker.

If a person had a microphone hidden inside that van I'm sure one would hear a sound like a set of chained snow tires running on a street bare of snow. I'm equally certain one's ears would be assailed by Willard's profanity toward the chains, the guards and the world he lives in.

So I can't witness Willard's Great Battle with my eyes any longer. No, he's been removed from my sight. But my mind's eye will see him at various points in time. And when I think life is tough and hard to take, all I'll have to do is think about Willard sitting amid peas scattered all over his table, clothes and the floor of the kitchen as he tries with embarrassment to feed his twisted body. And if life kicks you in the face and you want to feel sorry for yourself, just think about the battle being waged by a wisp of a man named Willard Robbins. He's a prisoner.