Stone Sharp Vol.1 Read online

  STONE SHARP

  by

  WALT WHITE

  STONE SHARP

  “If you ever have the misfortune of going to Federal Prison in the United States of America, I hope your Sharp, Stone Sharp.”

  --WALT WHITE

  Copyright © 2017

  Lion’s Teeth Publishing Company

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  Lion’s Teeth Publishing Company

  1717 Woody Lane

  Edmond OK 73003

  DISCLAIMER

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  THE ARRIVAL

  DETOX

  COMMISSARY

  FACTIONS

  HUSTLES

  STOREMAN

  GAMBLING

  MORTGAGE BANKER

  COUNT

  VISITATION ROOM

  ISOLATION

  CAMP JOBS

  SURPRISING FRIENDSHIP

  MICROWAVE CHEFS

  CONTRABAND

  THE LINE

  THE HOLE

  BARBERSHOP

  SOFTBALL DRAMA

  IRON MAN

  HEAD INSPECTION

  BLOOD

  UNDERGROUND

  CLEAN UP

  THE SHOW

  DEPARTURE

  HALF-WAY HOUSE

  RETURN

  THE ARRIVAL

  THE DAY OF SELF-SURRENDER I was a chain smoker. I walked up to the Prison entrance and fired up two cigarettes in my mouth at once. I took a dozen puffs. Threw both on the ground and took a deep breath.

  “Fuck it, let’s do this!” I said.

  I approached one guard at the front Prison window, told him my name was Stone Sharp, here for surrender. I seemed to have interrupted an on-going heated argument about what player played best during last night’s football game. They all gave me a stern look, disdain written all over their faces. One of them took my ID and asked me to sit down and wait.

  I looked up at the clock, it was 9 a.m. After waiting for what seemed like an eternity, the guard buzzed the main steel door open, and I was on my way to captivity. I walked through a dark hallway heading towards a jail cell. Now jail is different from Prison, way different. Every Prison has a jail. These are the guys coming into the Prison from other facilities. Call it a Hold Over for your path to another life, and you won’t be wrong.

  One guard put me in an empty cell where I did nothing but stare at the gray walls. The cell had a silver toilet and a small concrete bench to sit down. The walls were full of scraps and scratches from earlier inmates’ frustrations. They made me wait and wait. Lots of guards and inmates came and went.

  When it was my turn out of the jail cell, the guard handed me an orange jumpsuit with two shoes that looked like the old Vans label. They got my weight and took my picture for a new ID badge. The guard said he would put me back in the cell for a while and did not give me any further explanation. He did not think he owed me one anyway. Then he told me to put all my clothing in a cardboard box he threw in the cell with me. While I waited, I peeled off my clothing. I had worn a gray t-shirt with a bold inscription FUCK YOU written on it. I had bought it the previous day from a guy who seemed too drunk to care if I paid him or not. I paid him ten dollars. The faded jeans I wore was a gift from my ex-wife who is now fucking one of my friends.

  The orange jumpsuit smelled of vomit. I almost choked on my spit when I tried it on. I waited for endless hours until the guard came back to my cell and announced that I should go with him. It was off to medical evaluations, questions, and more questions, fingerprints, blood drawn, DNA and a TB test. Then a Prison guidance counselor came in to see me.

  “So, Stone will you be behaving in here? We don’t like trouble makers here. They get cuffed and tossed in the hole.” He said.

  The counselor gave me a quiz for behavior and asked me to sign. The quiz was a bunch of bullshit, and most people put down what these assholes wanted to hear. Then comes the FBI forms. Then came another barrage of commands. I was not to contact this person and that person.

  How was I supposed to contact these people, anyway? I thought.

  The Prison Counselor then asked the guard to put me back in my cell.

  The whole day passed before they would let me go to the place where I would spend the next fifteen months. The guard let me out of the cell and took me back to the front entrance where I had first come in. A Prison Camp inmate already waiting for me asked me to follow him. I was already hungry. My stomach screamed for food, and I was still clueless where we were going. I devoured a huge T-Bone steak the night before not knowing when I would eat again. But my stomach had digested it already.

  The inmate was driving a vehicle that took Prisoners from place to place inside the Prison grounds. It was a PT Cruiser, brand new and White. I did not understand what to expect in the next few minutes. I was nervous, but not scared.

  “My name is Bruno, I am your chauffeur today.” He Said.

  Bruno was an old Mexican man that looked pressed and content with his situation. He tried to make small talk, but I wasn’t listening. We pulled up to an old building that looked built in the 1930s.

  “Go up that ramp and get fitted for your uniform.” Bruno Said.

  Damn, another uniform? I thought.

  I was getting frustrated. No one explained anything. They all yelled orders and turned their backs. I got out of the car and walked up the ramp. Two inmates were running the laundry. There was a big fan in the corner going full speed.

  “What’s your name, fella?” The short kid running the front desk with Black glasses too big for his face asked me.

  “Stone,” I said.

  “Mine’s Shorty,” He said.

  Shorty had a huge smile plastered on his face. The first I had seen in this place.

  He looked me up and down for my size.

  “About six feet two and three hundred pounds am I right?” Shorty said.

  “Close, about two hundred and eighty-five,” I said.

  Then he went through rows and rows of green uniforms and pulled down a size four times too large for me.

  “You want your clothes real big here,”

  “We don’t want you looking like someone’s punk bitch in here,” Shorty said.

  I tried on the clothes. Glad to be rid of the nauseous orange jumpsuit I had on. It was a green button up shirt, green pants, white socks, white boxers, white t-shirt and an army-like belt that looked like an old boy scout belt. He did not give me any tennis shoes just black boots.

  “What about tennis shoes?” I said.

  “You are stuck with those jailhouse shoes until Commissary, or you make a ‘deal’ with someone for new shoes.”

  By this time, I was sweating because I had not smoked a cigarette in hours. I should be curious about what the ‘deal’ was, but I did not care. I needed a cigarette. Shorty told me to put everything in an old laundry bag he gave me.

  “Walk that way, the Camp is up the road,” Shorty said.

  I started a walk to the Prison Camp building I would stay in.

  Would no one show
me what the hell I am doing or where the hell I am going? I thought.

  I stared at the rows of barbed razor wire on the large fence I would have to walk alongside. When I got to the building where I would stay, it looked almost like an office building. Picnic tables out front with four old elliptical machines. A little Basketball goal too, about five feet tall.

  This would be perfect for young kids to shoot some hoop on. I thought.

  Also, I noticed a children’s playground. It was tiny but well maintained. I walked through the double doors down the main hall. As I walked down the hall, I could see a TV room to my right with inmates watching TV on metal chairs, and to my left was the cafeteria. At the end of the hall was the guard’s station. The single station in the building.

  One guard? What the hell? I thought when heading to the guard’s station.

  “My name is Stone Sharp, and I surrendered a few hours ago and don’t have instructions on what to do.”

  The guard looked like Homer from the Simpson’s with his bald shiny head and a dumb look on his face.

  “Go see Miss Angie,” He said.

  He pointed to an office to the right.

  I walked in and there I saw a short black woman who also had an infectious smile on her face. The second smile I’ve seen in this place. She had pictures of her girlfriend and daughter on her desk. She told me to be patient.

  “You’re my new arrival. Just sit down and wait. I have a few things to finish, and we will assign you a bunk.” She said.

  A bunk? I thought.

  Ah! Shit, here we go.

  She assigned me a top bunk right by the stinky bathroom. The bathroom had no door on it just a bunch of stalls so one can imagine what aroma it would emit after breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  “How many people live here?” I asked.

  “About two hundred, one hundred on each side of the facility. So, fifty bunks in rows in one big open room on two sides.”

  “We need a few thousand more.” She said.

  “This is your new home. Right above Big Tokey. Bunk thirty-three”.

  She explained little except that she will get me a new telephone access code number for making calls and what the Prison considers computer access. It was a secure email address. Then she handed me a new metal chair.

  “Keep that metal chair now you will need it. Dinner is at five p.m. So, go put your stuff on your bunk. You’ve got fifteen minutes. My Name is Miss Angie Jones, but people call me Miss Angie.” She said.

  I took my chair and proceeded to find my new bunk. As I was walking down the short pathway in front of the bunks, all I could here were large ceiling fans going full speed. The fans were purchased by the Prison to guard against the stagnant smell of one hundred men in one room. As I approach my new home for the next fifteen months, I saw the biggest black man I have ever encountered.

  “Are you my new Celle? My name is Big Tokey” Big Tokey said.

  This man had to be over five hundred pounds. I would like to see this guy assigned a top bunk. The bunk would collapse on the person below. I thought.

  “Where are you from?” he continued with the deepest baritone voice I have ever heard.

  “Oklahoma,” I said.

  I was trying hard to hide my surprise at his size.

  “I have several family members in Oklahoma. Boy, I got an Auntie that makes the best pumpkin pie up there, mmm, mmm.”

  I looked up, and I saw my bunk.

  What the hell? This is some real bullshit. I thought.

  My bunk was about thirty inches across all metal with a thin blue mattress that looked like a deflated air mattress you would see on the side of a swimming pool. No pillow, no sheets, no blankets, no nothing. There were two lockers crammed together behind the bunk.

  “Your lockers right here.” Big Tokey said.

  I opened the locker. It was a thin space with a little rust like one would see in a boy’s locker room that had existed for decades. I set my chair down by the bunk and climbed up the steel ladder welded to the side of the bunk. I was still sweating hard and needed a cigarette bad. I needed a shot of whiskey right now too.

  Fuck I am tired! I thought.

  As I got to the top bunk, I could see out across the room. It looked like an endless sea of bunks. The small Muslim guy next to me volunteered he was from Oklahoma also.

  "I am from Oklahoma City. My name is Z." The Muslim guy said.

  He had a bald head and was a little hairy fella. Hair was sticking out of his shirt like he had on a costume. I did not know who to speak to or who to avoid.

  “I am Stone Sharp.” I reached out to shake his hand. The first introductions in a place like this are always awkward. I laid down on my bunk to get a feel of my bed. I felt like I would fall off the damn thing. Damn! I laid there and stared at the White ceiling for a while. The last call for chow came over the loudspeaker in the ceiling.

  Last call? What the Hell! I hadn’t even heard the first call. I thought.

  I got in the chow line. Z follows me. I tried not to talk and made my way to the door the chow hall in a long line. When I got to the opening, I could see the room. Four long tables all segregated.

  The first was the Black table, second the Mexican table, and the last two were White tables. Homer, the Prison guard, was standing guard with a goofy look on his face. I came up to the silverware and tray stand. It was all wet, and the trays were dirty still. Only spoons were on the stand. No forks, no knives. I got my dirty wet tray and one spoon and proceeded through the line. I could see through an opening to my right a dish-washing crew working in a small dish room.

  I watched different people coming to the window dumping their plates in the trash can in front and slamming their tray down into the stainless-steel window. Some were polite, and some were obnoxious. The dish-washing crew would place the trays in a machine that looked too old to clean the dishes. When the trays came out of the machine, they would place them right on the tray and silverware station I grabbed my tray from.

  Gross! I thought.

  I proceeded through the line, and when I got to the buffet where the food was, I saw Big Tokey in charge of the serving line.

  That’s a real shocker. This fat fucker oversees handing out our food. I thought.

  I put out my tray to get what they were serving. A small piece of ham, green beans and a piece of what looked like a cake.

  Not too bad, but now where the hell do I sit down, I thought.

  I walked to the second White table and sat down with thirty other guys. The guy next to me was a sloppy looking chap who talks my ear off.

  “How are you doing Buddy, my name is Fletcher,” he said.

  What have I got myself into? Damn, I need a cigarette. I thought.

  DETOX

  AS I LAY ON THE BUNK the next day, I felt my stomach rumble. Breakfast was beginning, and everyone was lining up to eat. My stomach wouldn't stop rumbling, and I knew soon I had to dash for the John. The John is what one might call a toilet. But in this place, it’s the last place one would want to take a shit in if given a chance to make a choice. Here, choice is a luxury no one can afford. The John reeked of an unpleasant odor you could smell all the way from down the hall. The odor came from shit that has refused to go down the drain. I was sweating and my stomach shifting like a rocket ship. I felt exhausted.

  My whole body shook as I made waste of the energy I had in me. I had no experience with detox, but from what I have heard and read about it, I knew I was experiencing it now.

  What the hell did I eat last night? Damn, my vision is blurry! I thought.

  I couldn't help but wonder as another wave of rumble hit my stomach.

  I took a lot of energy to get it all out. After what seemed like forever, the rumbling stopped. Sweating, I felt a deep relief wash through me as I looked around. It was then I looked where I was. The toilet door was hanging on its hinges; it looked like the door was waiting for a small push to fall in my direction. Various markings and writings were on the
worn-out door. Disgust ran through me as I looked down to wipe my ass. The sooner I got out of here the better.

  What the hell is this? I thought.

  I almost yelled and tried not to open my mouth. Freaking out when I realized there was no toilet paper.

  What the hell do I do? I wondered.

  The guy in the next stall was knocking like crazy. This had me panicking.

  "Put water on it asshole, put water on it now!" He kept yelling.

  His accent sounded different with enough vibrations of ‘R’ in his words. I stood still wondering about what the dude was yelling for a while till I realized he asked to flush the toilet. My mind was racing, my body was aching. Withdrawals from all the voices I had on the outside were futile.

  What the hell? What do I do now?

  My mind raced with various thoughts.

  I turned to the guy next to me and forced myself to ask where the toilet paper was.

  "Get the fuck outa here." He said.

  "Pull up your pants and get in the shower." Another voice said.

  I had no choice but to adhere.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. I have never done this before, but here it goes. Gross! I thought.

  I rushed out, scrunching up my face in disgust as I pulled up my pants. I didn't mind who was watching or listening as I scurried. I could feel the shit in my pants, and I had to fight the urge to vomit. I rushed for the shower; took off my pants and top to remember I had no shampoo and towel. I felt a load of frustration deep inside of me. I felt the urge to throw up in the shower, my stomach was still going nuts, and I was still sweating. I turned the shower knob to hot and no hot water. I sat there in the cold water for a few minutes. I looked down and saw tons of hair in the shower pan bottom. I dry heaved for a moment. Cringing, I put on the same clothes I had shit into earlier. This felt like hell. Never in my life have I had to deal with shit like this.

  "Count, Count!" I heard the guard yell, causing me to suppress a groan.

  You've got to be kidding me. Now of all times. I thought to myself.