Stone Sharp Vol.1 Page 4
"Hey! White collar! What the fuck do you want?"
A White inmate with flaming red hair caught sight of me with a questioning look.
"Can we talk?" I asked, holding my gaze straight at Shotgun.
"What do you think?" The redhead said as he stood up.
"Hey Rooster, be cool," Shotgun interrupted calmly.
"You, come here," He said.
“You other guys get lost.”
They seemed hesitant at first but Shotgun nodded his head at them, and they left.
He moved to the right side of the bench to create enough space for me to sit. Relief filled me once the threatening group disappeared, and it was just him and me.
"Have a seat." Shotgun said.
His tone was strong but relaxed. I couldn’t imagine what he must’ve thought I wanted.
"Thanks," I replied before I sat down with caution.
"It's damn hot out here today, huh?" I cleared my throat.
I was trying to create a pleasant environment before delving into the real purpose of my visit. Shotgun rose a brow at me and shrugged.
"Tell me about it." he replied as he rubbed his beard.
"How do you cope with the struggle of being stuck in here?" I said.
"You got to hustle, the only way you survive in here." Then he paused as he turned to consider my face.
“This is what you are here for, you want to know about the hustles in here, right?" Shotgun said.
"Ahh.... yeah, but--" I replied.
"Cut the shit! What's in it for me?"
His tone turned threatening and his features crinkled into a harsh grimace. Z’s words pounded in the back of my head, and part of me wanted to tell him to forget about it and leave.
"I'm yet to join a sub-faction, I could be useful, plus I would owe you one," I said.
I thought I earned back my mojo.
"Hum, be careful with that, you better mean what you said."
He placed his right leg on the bench.
“I am,” I said.
I knew it was dangerous to tell anyone in here that you owed them one, but it was the only way Shotgun would share any information. I thought.
"We have a lot of hustles in here.”
“We have five main areas; Food, Equipment, Clothing, Services, and Cigarettes.”
“First, in food, we have...”
Then he paused to think.
“Inmates who get stolen food from the central Prison food warehouse.
Inmates who cooked Commissary food.
Inmates who grow food secretly in gardens.
Inmates who smuggle in food from the outside world."
"The Prison chefs work their magic each day cooking in microwave ovens. The line servers would have items for sale from the day’s meals. Guys that have lots of family close by and visits; smuggle food through visitations.”
“Food warehouse crew, steal food daily from the warehouse when they are loading and unloading crates from trucks that would come in the from the outside. They would hide the food in a barrel placed on the back of the building."
He pointed at the warehouse as I nodded to show I got his point.
He paused for a moment as two Mexican inmates walked by. I noticed him hold solid eye contact with one of them until the Mexican looked away.
Shotgun shifted his weight and continued.
"They would cover it to make it look like a trash can, but it's a stash can. Onions, bell peppers, jalapenos, tomatoes, raw ground beef, raw chicken, corn oil, sugar, butter sticks, cucumbers, and potatoes are among items lifted from the crates a small amount at a time and stashed out back. When Shorty would come by the building with the laundry crates, he would put the food under the laundry and smuggle it in the Camp building. These guys are amazing at stealing. It doesn’t sound like a needed job, but food like that in here is a necessity." He said.
“The fresh vegetables sound good,” I admitted.
"Then you have a few inmates that have green thumbs. There is an empty area next to the bone junkyard where Prison guards never check, these guys grow a good garden every year there. It has tomatoes, peppers, spices and lots of other stuff that would grow native in the Texas climate. They would go water it and do all the things that gardens need. Hell, they sing to the plants back there. We need those vegetables as we get little fresh food from the friendly staff." He said.
I shook my head in disbelief.
“This is like another world.”
He ignored my comment and continued.
"Second is equipment, this is headphones. This is something vital to watching TV and listening to music. You need headphones if you want to watch TV. Also, radio stations are big to listen to.”
“Radio is the only way to escape this Prison mindset,” I said.
“No shit. Inmates have passed down old headphones for years in this place, so they are always breaking and going out. You always need a fresh supply of cords and jacks. You’d be surprised how important of a thing that is in here.”
Then he paused and looked out into the grass.
“Hey, Fletcher! I heard Thomas was looking for you, you going to pray for me, right?”
He interrupted our conversation as he spoke to an inmate walking by.
"Yeah, Buddy I will pray for you with pleasure," Fletcher replied then glanced at me. Immediately self-conscious by his stare, I turned away and hoped Shotgun would continue talking.
Shotgun shook his head and returned to his thoughts.
"Okay, one guy is a wizard at fixing these things, and he doesn't charge much. Hell, he loves the challenge of trying to fix something old and worn-out. Some of the other equipment is for the chefs. Bowls, cutters, and spoon stirs got made in the shop. They make other small things like heal smoothers or what you would call an emery board for your feet on the outside. It is just piece of wood with sandpaper glued to the stick so you could use it on your rough heels. Prison spa pampering... You better not had lied when you said you’d be useful, I might have a job for you soon." He said.
"Yeah, Ok I got it," I said.
I urged him to continue explaining. His words were so different from the version I had heard from Z.
He stopped talking as his features fell and turned cold. I followed his eye line to see a balding, heavy-set black guy glaring at the two of them.
He cracked his knuckles and looked at me,
“Come on, were going for a walk.”
He stood up and headed down the bleachers. I paused, worried that Shotgun was about to confront the man but he walked in the opposite direction.
With a sigh of relief, I got up and followed him.
"Third is clothing, controlled by Shorty in the laundry. He’ll get you new socks, underwear, t-shirts, towels, bedding, blankets, pillows, laundry bags and uniform items. In a typical month, you get one pair of everything, but Shorty is always grabbing and smuggling new items to people for sausages. He’ll smile every day coming by, and we know the little son of a bitch's cart is full of items he smuggled in. Kind of like a Fed Ex guy delivering your goods each day. He’s the fastest one at getting items smuggled in here. Shorty has his people who make runs for him daily which contribute to his speed. It’s one of the best hustles in Prison to run the laundry because you had access to steal all new clothing items for people all the time.”
“Shorty has his own apparel line on the outside. He has a factory in Mexico where he has his clothing produced for next to nothing by slave labor and lots of outlet stores in the USA. He says his business is legit other than the cocaine he smuggles with the clothing that comes across the border every week.” Shotgun laughed.
I kicked at a rock and laughed too.
“Sounds legit.”
“He’s got it going perfectly for him both in here and out there. Lucky guy.”
“Hey! Shotgun.”
A tall, lanky white guy walking with two others shouted at us.
“Yes?” Shotgun nodded and sped up his pace to greet him.
I started to follow, but the guy gave me a menacing look that made me remain where I was. Their conversation was low and quick. All I could pick up on was the harshness in Shotgun’s tone.
“Then deal with it.”
Shotgun hissed at him then turned and looked at me.
“We’ll finish this conversation later.”
The guy nodded, his face looking slightly pale.
“Come on Stone.”
Shotgun gave me a forced half smile before walking past me, expecting me to follow.
When I caught up, he continued our conversation like nothing had interrupted us.
“The Commissary guys have their own racket going on. They steal from the Commissary like pro-bank thieves then turn around and sell it to us.”
He took a breath and stared at the track in silence as if he were contemplating something. I could sense his irritation from his interaction, and I could tell his mind was now somewhere else.
His gaze turned, and I noticed his eyes flick over my body the same way Z’s had earlier.
“Fourth is services, like washing your clothes and ironing your uniforms, making your bed, washing off shoes, like you would see in a hotel service department. You tell main service guy, and he’ll find someone to do what you need like a personal concierge. If you pay someone enough, you could get several things done for you. The prices are good if I say so myself. Can you imagine paying someone ten dollars a month to make your bed and wash your clothes for you every single day? A lot of the guys in here are desperate for money. They either don’t have the money to fill their Commissary or have no one on the outside to deposit anything for them. It’s amazing because nothing is inflated.”
He trailed off again and stared at the ground as he walked with his hands shoved in his pockets. It was obvious he was getting tired of the conversation.
“What about cigarettes? I’m damn sure that’s your favorite.”
I said, attempting to get him interested in our talk again.
“Oh yeah! I forgot. The last hustle is cigarettes. Several guys had cigarettes bought for them on the outside and smuggled in through visitation. Big Tokey is the biggest seller of cigarettes, everyone goes to him. He sells them for two dollars of Commissary each stick and dumbass inmates pay his fee.”
I smiled as I remembered what Z had told me about how Big Tokey gets his goods.
His girlfriend apparently came in every visitation and brought him cigarettes stuffed in her bra. None of the guards are brave enough to search her in fear that Big Tokey would retaliate against them. Plus, she’s the type of loudmouth that would sue the Prison if they did so much as touch her.
“Big Tokey was a nightclub owner on the outside where he sold drugs, girls, and stolen merchandise to anyone who would pay his prices.”
“So, cigarettes are mere child’s play to a professional hustler like him?” I said.
“Count, count” Came over the loud speaker.
“Let’s go in. We will finish this talk later,” said Shotgun.
STOREMAN
STILL CONFUSED about which hustle to attempt, I was trying to delay my decision to get my facts right about everything going on in the Prison. I studied each different hustle in the subtlest way possible. I hoped no one had noticed my stalker behaviors as if someone realized I was watching them they would assume I had an issue. I wouldn’t be able to tell them I was wondering how their hustle worked.
They’d call bullshit and more than likely pound me or have one of their buddies keep a watchful eye out.
But I found solace in knowing I was smarter than that. I set myself up to where I was just out of view of a hustler to a point where I wouldn’t even get seen in their peripherals.
With each guy, I could watch his body language and how and when they would approach other inmates to sell their services. Even if it wasn’t a service that was against the rules in the Prison, they made sure a guard’s back was turned every time just in case.
I had a thing for getting the right clothing at first, but Shorty had that area covered; he knew everyone in Prison. His style of business was exceptional too; he would smile while smuggling items. If you had looked away for even a second, you would turn back to see nothing changed, as if the exchange never happened. He had a surplus of people working for him too. I knew I wouldn't last a week in his hustle even if I tried.
“I must decide before this week runs out,” I thought.
I walked out of the hall to the field.
The field was almost empty as inmates stayed indoors for reasons only known to them. You’d think being locked up they’d want fresh air. A few inmates were on the dirt track, running or doing strength exercises.
Shotgun seemed absent from the field. I wondered if he had something… or someone to deal with. I found myself interested in the cause of his disappearance. What if he had gotten caught and thrown in the can? No, he was too smart, my mind was trying to make up scenarios to entertain itself. I tried my best to avoid a one-on-one with him do to the result of our last meeting. Though I was grateful, he helped me learn more about the system and how each hustle worked.
I noticed a guy running at the left wing of the field but didn't take note till the shaky figure collapsed to the ground. Without a second thought, I jogged to meet with the inmate, and as I got a few steps closer, I realized it was Z.
His pants were thick as he heaved himself up. He sat at my feet, either unwilling or unable to stand. I couldn’t tell which. His sweats and t-shirt drenched in sweat.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I said.
“I thought you weren’t into exercise?”
I remembered his strange behavior this morning. He had left his bunk earlier than usual, but I didn't bother asking his destination as I was so engrossed in the book I was reading.
"What does it look like am doing?"
"I'm freaking dying!" Z said.
Z then collapsed into a fit of coughs.
"I bet you won’t die today."
I tried to sound light-hearted, but his stern face suppressed my attempt at amusement.
His features showed evidence of how weak he was as if he were dying. I reached out for my bottle of water and offered him a drink.
"I know you won't let me die, you need a friend," Z said.
He gulped more than half the content in the bottle.
"I thought you were joking," I said.
I asked him to sit on the ground. I joined him on the grass so he could catch his breath.
"How many laps did you do?" I said.
"Four maybe three. What's the point?" Z said.
Z tensed up as if preparing himself for what I was about to say.
"You should see the doctor. That can’t be good you’re this exhausted after running a few laps." I said.
I tried to sound sympathetic.
My heart skipped a beat when Shotgun and some of his buddies exited the Prison and made their way to the field. I held my breath until I watched them walk in the opposite direction.
Z noticed my nervous facial expression.
"I heard you met with him some days ago," Z said.
"Oh! Who?" I said.
"You know who," Z said.
Z had a straight face and gestured to Shotgun.
My face turned bright red.
If Z, an outcast in the Prison, knew about our encounter, who else knew? I thought.
"Yeah, I did. Who is that White guy with flaming red hair? I said.
“He fronted me the last time I met with Shotgun."
I tried to avoid Z's face and the question I knew he was hoping to ask.
"That's Rooster, he's the store man to the Whites. He's damn powerful and popular in here."
Z said.
He played with some rocks by the track, un
derstanding my evident behavior.
"Speaking of store men, what is that all about?" I said.
I tried to change the subject.
"I guess you aren’t done with prison explanations yet,” Z said.
“I am just trying to learn, man,” I said.
“Your typical Storeman has over one thousand items in a locker one-foot wide by three feet tall. The typical locker has one shelf. They hang pockets off the inside of the door. Sort of like a shoe hanger you would see on the back of a teenage girls’ door. Imagine that, but smaller made for a locker out of cardboard. Imagine each pocket with different candy bars and snack cakes. Inside the locker are sausages piled on one shelf, and all the other items like squeeze cheese piled on the other. The adjacent lockers are full of his items as well. He might rent those lockers and hire the inmates who have them to store his stuff and help him run his store while he is away. Just like you would go into a convenience store and browse the aisles for something you want. It is the same for the store man.” Z said.
“Why don’t you have a store? You understand that business.” I asked.
“These people fucking hate me in here, you're kidding me, right?” Z said.
“Yeah, I am kidding, just continue,” I said.
“Inmates come up and say can I look at what you have today and he says sure. All the lockers get opened, and he tells you what he has like a convenience store clerk. Now all his sodas and milk are under his bed in coolers. He makes sure he has at least one inmate near his bed at all-time in case anyone tries to steal his shit. Same thing as the lockers goes for all the coolers. He rents them from adjacent inmates and piles as much as he can in them.” Z said.
“Each Prison has an ice machine in the main area somewhere, and they must ice down the soda and milk all day long. I wouldn’t want the butt end of that job.” Z said.
Z laughed and picked up a rock to fling it across the field.
“You don’t want to buy a hot soda or hot milk, right? Z said.
“No, I wouldn’t,” I said.
“A storeman must take inventory and be vigilant with writing down every single item he sells. That is why these guys are like accountants and bookkeepers. When you come up to get a few things he writes what you got on a notepad, then the day before Commissary you will get a bill written on a small piece of paper telling you what items to buy him at the Commissary.