By Ray Stern
By Ray Stern
By New Times
By Amy Silverman
By Stephen Lemons
By Stephen Lemons
By Monica Alonzo
By Chris Parker
Walk toward the rear of the lot and there are a couple of ramshackle houses, the yards littered with cages filled with roosters trading shrieks and cackles. You and the roosters and the dust your boots kick up are pretty much the only things moving back here; it's serene, peaceful and a tiny bit surreal. It's kind of like going into a church on a Tuesday.
You look to your right and there's a lopsided, Cold War-vintage trailer; but what's that above it? Not above it, exactly, but sticking up behind it. Looks like the tip of a triangle, made of metal. You keep your eyes glued, watching it slowly rotate as you move down the path, out of the junkyard, around the trailer, to see what this thing is.
A pyramid is what this thing is.
Pointing up to God, it's covered with faded green-copper sheeting, black Roman numerals painted on one side, a cryptic time line on another, a small door and no windows at all. And, at the edge of the lot, a mailbox sits on a crooked post--No. 4222--like somebody lives here.
The pyramid is just sitting there in this otherwise empty lot, at the side of this dead-end dirt road that channels off Broadway. You might never drive down this dead-end dirt road. Almost nobody does. And you might never know that a large copper pyramid with a crooked mailbox out front exists there, minutes from downtown Phoenix, where people are late for work, standing in line for Suns tickets, parallel parking and ordering sushi to go.
At least, I didn't know when I happened upon this creation the other day. I walked back to the junkyard and asked the man what was the deal with that pyramid?
"Oh, this old man used to live there. Philosopher or something."
Is he still around?
"Oh, yeah. Go talk to John, he'll know where he is. He lives next door." To the pyramid.
Yes, John knew where the philosopher was, and, as his dogs barked at me and his roosters screamed at everything, he gave me a name and a number. "He was sort of a loner, but real easygoing," John told me. "Kind of religious, but he didn't push no religion on you; he'd just sit outside the pyramid and read the Bible and do his exercises. He got married and moved out."
I asked if there was anything else I should know.
"Well, he had a figure-eight track in back and he used to walk around it on his hands."
Which brings us to a house on the west side of Phoenix that is quite pleasant, but looks nothing like a pyramid. The front door opens, and there is . . . The Philosopher? The Loner? The Religious Scholar? The Man Who Walks on His Hands?
Yes. All of the above, though he no longer walks on his hands. His name is Milton R. Mitchell Jr.--call him Mitch. He will be 84 years old on October 16. He built his pyramid--13 by 13, 17 feet high, the same proportions as the one on the dollar bill--in 1950 and lived in it for 20 years.
How should I paint Mitch Mitchell for you?
Know this: He's a diminutive fellow with Technicolor-blue eyes, long hair and a beard (gone white now). It's a style he adopted in 1943: "I was such a curiosity that down on Washington Street, people'd go around the block and come around a second time to get another look."
In old pictures, he looks like a cross between Paul Newman and Walt Whitman. Mitchell is a man of religion who does not call himself a Mormon, but a Latter-day Saint. While in high school, he began questioning aspects of the current Mormon doctrine. Finally, he was "driven out" of Utah in 1943 for his beliefs, which adhere to the original teachings of founder Joseph Smith--teachings that include plural marriage.
He says he will leave his pyramid there until the arrival of Chief Joseph, a white Indian who, the Book of Mormon prophesies, will emerge from South America to save the believers.
In the '50s, Mitchell belonged to a folk-dancing club. Later he became an expert at shuffleboard. Mitchell is soft-spoken, and, though he's been happily married for 15 years, for most of his life the Latter-day Saint has been a loner by choice. Mitchell has worked low-level jobs--custodian at the Luhrs Building, yardworker, dishwasher--never making much money, but never wanting much, either. He lived the monastic life of a self-taught religious scholar down in his little lot off Broadway, reading his Bible, writing countless religious tracts and walking on his hands most mornings.
About those tracts. Whether you agree with Mitchell's opinions--opinions on the government, Roman Gentiles, Indian Jews, the coming of the Antichrist, the monetary system after Armageddon, presidents who have fallen from grace with God--they are meticulously created, surprisingly artful works put together by hand.