Life at Hard Labor chapters 11-15

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 11-15
Date: 15 June 2011

Chapter 11

04:20- I heard that same metal clanging. “GET ON UP! MOVE IT!” It was like a squawking crow rattling me out of last night’s beautiful dream I looked over, and saw Buck tying his boots. His eyes weren’t even open. He had done it all by feeling. He got up, and accidentally farted in my face as I was tying my second boot. I could see his cheeks flapping in his jeans. “Sorry dude.” he said in a raspy, sleepy voice. He walked towards the mess hall still rubbing his eyes.

I didn’t reply, but I was both annoyed, and humored by the smell of beans. Couldn’t get more manly than that. I wanted something to drink. A mimosa or something. Something sweet, cloying and girly. I stared at my work boots as I tied them, yesterday’s dirt getting on my fingers as I did so. “That’s all gone man.” I thought. “God damn, it’s all gone.” I patted the boots with my hand, and got up. “Nothin I can do man.” I got up, cracked my back and followed Craig to the mess hall.

It was my second day of hard labor. I thought long and hard as I chewed the fatty meat and stared at the hard, still dirt streaked faces of my fellow convicts who were quickly shoving grits in their mouths. We hadn’t even washed our hands. The closest we’d get to washing our faces was a cup of water later while we were working. We wouldn’t be allowed to shower until what I learned was called "Tenth day.” That was 8 days away. This was it. This was what I was getting, and nothing better, ever again. No sweet things. Not much salt. Just some stone cold grits, a lot of hard heavy work, and a bunch of rough crude men, two thirds of which couldn’t read.

Several years into my sentence, the word got out that I could read, and I had a bunch of class A’s and B’s asking me to read them their paperwork every other week. I liked seeing their faces when I told them something like “only two more months. Then you’re up for review.” I liked seeing their faces, but at the same time, it got me down. Whenever I looked at my paperwork, I’d see something like. “Convict has served 226 years of an eternal sentence. Convict is up for review: NEVER (in red letters) Next detail: Timber camp. Strikes: 2.” I only looked to find out our next job, and I‘d throw the paper in a slop bucket.

That second day however, I wasn’t asked to read anything. I would have welcomed the diversion. I looked at the men again, I thought about having to grab a sledgehammer again in a few minutes and swing for 20 hours. I though about doing this again tomorrow. For the rest of the week. I got hard. This situation was turning me on. Maybe I wanted this. Few of these guys even knew the alphabet, but they were better people than I had ever known in my old life. Better than my best friends in my old life. I didn’t have to dress up for these friends, just pull my weight, and be a good dude. And pull I would.

I finished, my meal, got up, and walked out to the quarry for the second time. It was cloudy, and there was a bit of a breeze. I grabbed my hammer from Pete, and walked down. That kid had such a kind face. Young like everyone else here; red headed buzz cut, and well cut half smile on a clean shaven face. You could see a lot of sympathy when he bought us the water bucket during the day, and a flake of sadness as he handed us the hammers. Our hands would rarely leave them during the long day. He didn’t like the feeling of handing us the instruments of our torture and toil, but it was far better than having to go back to wielding one himself. He had done his fair share of hard labor. When his crew had some kind of tally to meet, his class D buddies had always done a bit of his share of the work so that he’d look good at the end of the day. They wanted him to get out of this hell.

This time, I had heard the number called out for our group of ten. Number 11 again. The first shift boss seemed like he liked me. He patted me on the back and said “Damn son. I think you could make your 20 today. I might wheel on back here to see it.” He could go home at midday, having completed the 10 hour shift which was the free man’s privilege. “I don’t wanna see you slackin though boy. You four are on chaff again. Let’s go!”

Once again, I picked up the hammer, and brought it down to meet the hard rock. Again and again. The clouds were a mixed blessing, because although it was cooler out, I couldn’t tell what time of day it was by the sun. Only the free men knew the time today. Hour after hour we swung. I got tired and started to huff and sweat again, but I didn’t feel like dieing. I broke my first rock quickly, and moved onto another.

The injection they gave me when I was processed was beginning to take full effect, and that helped, but what helped more was that my blisters started to callous, and my arms got used to the motion and the impact. I broke several rocks, and soon the place was littered with the man sized pieces that the man needed.

I was just starting to keep pace with Craig, Buck and Chet. They had barely noticed that I had, and to them I almost seemed like just another long timer grinding his way on. They finally caught on though, and Craig said “hell yeah Matt!” low and under his breath.

I couldn’t believe it when the guard said “Alright boys, Load em up!” I was tired, panting and sweating, but I had another good 6 hours in me at least. 12 if I got some food. We picked up the rocks, and loaded them in. There were a lot more of course, but I went faster too. I didn’t know if this was the clouds or the drugs, but my mind wasn’t on fucking or mimosas or the alphabet. It was on the work, and how much of it I was doing and how much I had yet to do.

We got to a patch of rocks that were too big for one man, and I lifted a few with Buck. As well as I was doing that day, I had a lot of catching up to do with this brawny, thick, blond tank. He lifted his end as if it were a light sofa. I struggled as if it were an iron floor safe.

We finally loaded them all up, and three rather than two carts were rolled away by the overall clad chunks. The other six men had only filled two, but they had to drill down through the huge boulders, before they could bust them up.

“Chow time! Come on in boys.” I got my bowl, and rather than stagger off by myself, I sat talking with the boys sitting on top of empty buckets with my arms resting on my knees holding my bowl. I ate it all, and then stretched out and laid down.

I was up, and getting to my feet before the 2nd shift boss could say “Get on up boys.” I had hefted my hammer in my hand, and as soon as I had my orders I began to swing the hammer again. The 2nd shift guard was a lot stricter, but I didn’t know this as I had passed out only an hour after I met him. He was a really mean looking guy. Sunglasses, a thick goatee, and a long large nose. His arms were thick and the guard uniform short sleeved shirt was too tight on them. A gold wristwatch squeezed at his thick tanned hand. He had a deep voice that had a hint of whisky behind it, and sometimes he belched a bit after he gave a command.

I had been sweating all day, but it hadn’t fazed me and the sweat was actually serving its purpose of cooling my body. A trickle did start to get down into my eye, and I wiped it off mid swing. CRACK. What the fuck! GAH! The strap had landed hard on my bare back and left a red welt. “Boy, you done worked one day you aught to know better. You don’t wipe that sweat off till I tell you. That sweat is there to punish you just as much as this here.” He pointed to his strap. “That’s a warning. Next time, it’s ten. BACK TO WORKIN!” he spit in my face from 4 feet away as he said this.

“Yeah boss!” I said in a trembling voice and quickly swung my sledge again. I forgot to ask to wipe it off. “Shit, I did good with that yesterday too. I remembered to ask to take off my shirt, what the hell is wrong with me?” I had “free wiped” like this a couple of times during the first ten hours that day too, but the boss said nothing. He did make a note of it though, and told his reliever not to take that from me anymore. He wouldn’t have anyway.

“5 minutes, grab some water!” He shouted. I walked over to the water bucket and drank. We weren’t allowed to sit at these little breaks, but we were allowed to crouch. I sat on my haunches, the wind still stinging my back. Craig crouched down beside me. “Got you huh.”

“Yeah.”

“Here dude. Take a bit, it helps.” He handed me the can of dip that I had given him yesterday. I took a little bit, and it was like the burn in my mouth evened out the burn on my back and each was only half as painful. “Remember to ask him before you spit too.”

“Yeah.” I said with a very affirmative voice. If that was what I got for wiping it off, what the hell would I get for spitting?

We all started back to work. The clouds were starting to break up, but there was still no sun. I kept swinging and swinging with many a “Wipin it off,” and “spittin here” thrown in.

“Spittin here boss.” I said.

“Yeah, spit her out.” he replied thinking more about golf game he had lined up on tenth day. I spit a long stream of tobacco, but the wind took it and it landed on the boss’s pant leg. I went white. Oh god. Oh god. I started to work again.

“Boy, you mind explainin’’ this?” The guard walked over to me and pointed to the long brown strand.

“Sorry boss- it was… The wind…”

“That’s 20 boy.“ He folded up the strap and I prepared for another 20 agonizing slaps. “Your choice, straps or pushups.”

:”PUSH UPS!” I screamed instinctively remembering the dull thud and lingering burn of my earlier strap, and Craig almost dropped his sledge. He was scared for me. I’d said push ups. I was in deep shit now.

“Drop. Count em out.”

I placed my blistered hands on the rocky ground, my work boots thankfully bent with my toes.
“One-” before I could finish one, his boot ground into my whip mark on my bare back, and pushed me hard to the ground.

“TWO” he kept pushing down.

“THREE!” I was terrible at push ups, and I was tired as hell from 18 hours of work.

“FOUR!” The cons were watching with horror.

:”WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU COCKSUCKERS STARIN AT? BACK TO WORKIN!” He screamed,
and I heard the hurried ringing of sledgehammers.

“FIVE!” I saw the first shift boss. Far from horrified, he ripped off a chunk of beef jerky, and chawed it while laughing at my sorry ass.

“SIX!!!” He was going to break my ribs. If only he would.

“SEVEN!” I felt like the chubby kid in gym class that I knew I had been long ago.

“You don’t make it to 20, you’re in the box tonight.” The boss said leaning low.

That was it. I clenched, and pushed.
“EIGHT! NINE! TEN” Fuck, I couldn’t do it.

“ELEVEN! TWELVE!” What the fuck came after twelve again? Now who’s illiterate?

“THIRTEEN! FOURTEEN!” Oh god, five more, no six.

“FIFTEEN, SIXTEEN” He ground hard on me again and kicked me in the side.

“SEVEN TEEN!!!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. This prick wasn’t going to beat me.

“EIGHTEEN! NINTEEN!” No problem now, it took a lot of strain but…

“TWENTY.” I dropped.

“God damn son, you are a fucking marvel. He hawked a big loogy on my back, and it stung where it landed. He kicked me in the chest. Clearly I had robbed him of the pleasure of locking me in the box. “Git on up! Back to workin you piece of shit!”

I struggled, but I made it to my feet. My arms burned like hot bricks. I lifted the hammer, and I brought it down. Slowly at first. ”PICK UP THAT PACE BOY.”

:”Yeah boss.” I swung faster. It was just a matter of getting the kinks out of my back. Everyone looked at me with awe between their own swings. They had all taken worse, and different punishments of course, and more awaited me no doubt, but to stand up to “Pushups” on my second day….And then they heard that another boss had blew the whistle.

“Alright boys! Get on back!” The work hours had ended.

The boss spit again on the ground, and wiped off his pant leg. He relented, and said “Alright boys, get the fuck outta here.” and he walked towards his truck. As he had shut the door and took off, I collapsed. Craig and Buck were right there to get me to my feet. Chet picked up my sledge, and Pete the trustee picked up Craig’s and Buck‘s along with a water bucket. I walked leaning on them the whole way up that steep hill to the camp, our sweaty muscles rubbing each other.

I felt like a boxing champ, punch drunk and on top of the world, but then I realized how much I hurt. Tears pooled in my eyes, I started balling and screamed to the darkening sky “GOD DAMN IT!“ No one thought worse of me for it. It wouldn’t be the last time I won against those prick bosses, and I’d lose to them several times as well, but that evening I had completed my full work hours. I didn’t get my credit that day because of my little mishap, but I got so many offers of dip and food from the cons that it didn’t matter. One even gave me some balm that burned and then soothed my welt.

After I had eaten, I got a strong pat on the shoulder from Craig who pointed towards the bunk house and gave me a knowing look. I smiled and hobbled to my bunk like my boots were filled with concrete. I laid down, and fell immediately to sleep. I got nine hours and fifteen minutes, uninterrupted. Damn close to what a free man got, but not quite.

Chapter 12-

There was that damn metal clanging again. That same southern voice barking at the top of his lungs as if he were trying to get rabbits out of his vegetable garden. I didn’t wake up immediately. Why the hell did my back hurt so much? It was too early.

I rolled over to hit the alarm clock. This was obviously some radio commercial. I had to set the radio station to one that I didn’t like, otherwise it would never wake me up. I had just enough time for a cup of coffee before I had to go back to that damn factory, and shove more plastic car part in more boxes. The highlight of my day would be a fruit pie from the vending machine.

As it turned out, the alarm clock that I had turned to smack was one of the bunkhouse guards. He was standing by my bunk while the last few convicts bounded down from the top bunks. Craig had tried to wake me up, but the guard standing before me had ordered him to get to the mess hall. The feeling of my short hair brushing against my rough pillow shocked me back to reality. I wasn’t going to the factory today or ever again.

“Git your fat ass out of bed you god damn lazy ass sack of pig shit!” He kicked me out of my bunk and onto the floor. My boots and his met my eyes as they opened. I scrambled to my feet, and threw my boots on without tying them, “GIT MOVIN’!” he kicked me in the ass as I ran towards the mess hall.

I was damn lucky that it had only been 2 minutes into our morning meal. I sat down at the bench, ass to ass with Buck, and another beefy man and looking across the table at Craig. I tied my boots before I started to eat. “Sorry dude. Tried to get you up, but that screw had his shocker pointed at me.” Said Craig. “Watch your ass today, and don’t piss them off. They got one daily strike on you already.”

“Believe me. I’m keeping my nose clean today.” I said “I was dreaming about my old life. I thought I could just roll over and go back to bed.”

I was still sore from yesterday’s whip, kick and work. How the hell could I have forgotten? As shocking as my awakening was, the bland taste of the grits and the small chunks of tough, gristly meat tasted far better to me than any abrasive coffee would have. This was what I was supposed to be eating. Bland food for a hard life.

There was rarely any conversation in the morning. We only had a few minutes to eat, and needed all the food we got. My first few days, I had been full of questions, but today I ate quickly and silently like the rest of my fellow convicts. Eyes down, hunched over a dented metal bowl of mush eaten with a dented spoon. I was still sore, but the whip mark had disappeared. The blue serum which now circulated permanently through my body had done its work. It removed the scar before it removed the pain. A visitor (these were an immense rarity) would have seen a bare back dirty and sweaty, but free of scars. Obviously we were being treated fairly well. If they only felt…

After we had left the mess halls, we again walked past the boxes. A boss was opening the small door to one of them, and a sweaty mass of denim, hair and muscle flowed out like thick mud. The man had obviously been in prison for countless years, as he was both tan and well built. Despite this, the man was gasping for air, balling and grabbing the legs of a trustee who stood nearby. This same trustee first gave him some water, and then helped him up and led him off toward the bunkhouse. The two walked past as we marched out to the quarry. The sweaty mess of a man left behind such a reek as I had never smelled. Even those convicts with years instead of days under their belts held their breath. I got a feeling in the pit of my stomach. I remembered how close I was to that box yesterday. As I was handed my hammer, I forgot nearly everything, and prepared for my third straight day of breaking rocks. It wouldn’t be a year before I stopped counting the days.

We were with number 11 again, and I saw the first shift boss. As I looked at his face, all I could remember was a jaw full of beef jerky, and a slight beer belly jiggling with laughter as I was kicked in the ribs. His appreciation of my hard work and effort had run out. I was just another con who needed to work harder and keep his ass in line; one of hundreds he had supervised.

He met my eyes, and said “you four on the chaff again.” The six convicts who used the drills were apparently more skilled. This was little benefit though, as the work was just as hard if not harder. You’d think you would envy the man laying down and turning the drill, but his fingers were often subject to a few misses from the sledgehammer. Was he replaced when such happened? He took a sledge from one of his partners, and placed his injured hand near the bottom of the handle. The other partner took his place at the drill. The bone would never break, and by midday the black and blue would be gone.

We four however were stuck with the chaff. These were the remnants of yesterday’s drilling team, and other naturally small boulders. The chaff meant the sound of metal hammers on bare rock, dust and flying chips which occasionally would graze your temples. In my old world, there was no longer any practicality in creating road gravel in this way. We had machines which did much of this work and they did it far more efficiently.

I wouldn’t learn until much later how the “man sized” pieces we produced in the quarry were turned into anything resembling gravel, but I was not glad of the knowledge when I did learn; the hard way.
The closest an average man of my old world was likely to come to the type of work we did in that quarry was breaking up an old patio or sidewalk. They would wear safety goggles, take a few swings, take a break, start again, and then decide to rent a jackhammer. No safety goggles for us convicts. If a chip flew in a man’s eye, he wouldn’t lose his vision, but it would suffer for a long time. This is why Buck was on the chaff. He had been a damn good drill man in his day, but now he was down low with us. His vision had largely recovered by the time I met him, but when offered a spot back on the drill by a sympathetic boss, he requested to remain on the chaff. “If it’s alright with you boss, I’d like to stay right down here. I don’t want to take out no one’s finger.”

We began work, and I was keeping pace. It was a load off my mind, but I didn’t let it go to my head like yesterday. “Wipin it off boss.” I droned. The boss was silent for a while.

“Ya’ll leave it on boy. It’ll remind you of that word you forgot yesterday; convict.”

“Right boss.” I said, and kept swinging. He was right. As the sweat slowly sunk into my eyes, it began to burn. I felt sweat soaking my shirt. I could smell my pits. My legs felt like they were in a deep fryer. In my mind, I could hear the voice of my old manager at the factory discussing the photos I had taken for a safety poster.

“Matt? A photographer? Hell no! He’d scratch the lens without touching it. No, Matt’s a stinkin ass convict out in the backwoods somewhere. Hopefully getting his ass in shape. I wouldn’t trust that fat ass with anything that had any moving parts. That was just some college girl that took those pictures. Don‘t know how Matt‘s name got up there. Probably a fluke.”

I thought that it might as well be true. If I ever picked up a camera again, it would be because some vacationing family had left it in a ditch. I’d throw it in a bag and keep digging. What the hell would I have done with it? I was just a convict. Sweat on my brow was one of the best ways to teach me that.

With that mindset, I labored on, sweat pouring off my face, only speaking when spoken to, and then only a ”yeah” or an “ok.” When it came time for a short water break, Pete said to me “You know we got these rags right?” He pointed to some dingy white rags hanging out of his pocket. They were old bits of t-shirts that convicts threw away, but they had been washed, and were freely available to us. “You can tie one around your forehead if you ask the boss, or you can just keep it in your pockets and use it to wipe off instead of your shirt.” I looked around and saw that several convicts were wearing them. I took three, and thanked him silently as I downed a ladle full of water.

When we started back to work Craig worked next to me. “Hey man you alright?” He said.

The convict I became said “Yeah.” and swung his heavy hammer.

“You can’t be too loud, but you can still talk you know. I’m worried about you man.” He was trying to bring back that generous, humble Matt that he had grown close to.

I swung again, and shot a glance at him. I could read his eyes and said “Sorry man, I’m just feelin really down.”

“You and 99 other boys out here.” He said. “But goin quiet is only gonna make it worse. If the boss is gonna let you talk, then talk! Don’t waste it.”

As if in answer, the boss shouted “Cut that chatter boys. This aint no book club. PICK UP THAT PACE!” he was addressing all ten of us.

We both quickly looked down at the rock and said “Right boss.” We started swinging harder and faster.

We blew through 3 more rocks a piece, and inched closer to where Buck and Chet were working. Buck was swinging just as fast. I was next to him, and heard his deep breathing and grunting. After a few minutes of slaving away, Buck’s hammer came careening down on my boot. “GAAAAH SHIT!!” I screamed more in surprise than in pain. The steel toe had done its job, and the worst that was done to me was a scuff on the toe. Buck dropped his sledge and grabbed me to prevent me from falling.

“God damn my blind ass!” he thought, thinking that he was putting me through the rest of the day and week with a bum foot.

“Just what the hell is this gay ass shit?” The first shift boss landed his prison strap on buck’s bare back. “Can’t wait for the bunks at night Buck?” WHACK. ” Gotta fuck him now?” WHACK “that’s three daily strikes for you Buck-o. You’re sleepin in the box tonight. As for you butter tubbs, that’s two for cussing, and you better believe Bob’s gonna do everything he can to make it three after yesterday!”

He gave me three whacks without interruption, and I fell to my face. “GET BACK TO WORKIN!” I scrambled to my feet, fumbled for my sledge, and before I could take another swing, I got another strap from the boss who had patted my back with a soft hand the day before.

It was only a short time before we started to load the rock, and then a short time until midday. Before I even sat down with my beans, I wanted to apologize to Buck. He beat me to it though. “God damn I’m sorry man. I had a chunk of rock fly up and hit me in the eye a while back, and I can’t see straight.” He could see fine of course, he had just made an honest mistake.

“No man, don’t. I aint even hurt… Not my foot anyway.” my back still stung and sizzled in the 98 degree sun. The strap had torn off my shirt in the first blow, and it would be 5 credits to buy another. I could see that Buck was still looking at me as if he had killed my puppy with his truck. I smiled and said “You can smack me with a hammer any day, just don’t fart in my face again. Then we’ll come to blows.”

He smiled back at me. A joke was all he needed. We sat and ate. Craig sat with us and was silently looking at both of us with fear.
“I’m sorry I got you put in the box.” I said to Buck

“Don’t feel bad dude. I built that box for myself a few weeks ago when I called the bunkhouse guard a cocksucker. This is just the shuttin the lid.” He could tell I was still feeling guilty. “I’ve done time in there before, it aint gonna hurt me none.” you could see his gut tense at the horror of the box. “I’m a little more worried about you. Boss man there’s got it out for you, and he’ll give you a strike if you’re breathin too loud.” he pointed to the 2nd shift boss, who had just arrived and was chatting with the 1st shift boss; no doubt about me.

Craig was still mostly silent. He did finally speak up. “Matt, I’d still try like hell to keep your nose clean. If he offers you pushups or straps again, take the straps. If you take the pushups again, he’s just gonna wrestle you to the ground and shock you till you pass out. You won’t make it to two. I’d tell you to stay on that guy’s good side, but he aint got one.”

“ALRIGHT BOYS, BACK TO WORKIN. LETS GO.” Shouted Bob, the 2nd shift boss. We walked back to the rock pile to begin again. “Well well, if it aint the marvel boy. Hope your arms aint too tired.”

“No sir boss. This hard work and fresh air been doin me good.” I learned from Craig that sometimes the bosses demanded polite conversation out of their convicts. You had to give the right answer, but you never knew what it was. Luckily I had.

“Good to hear it boy, now I wanna see you hustle. Get on that hammer!”

I swung the sledge quickly, and didn’t dare ask him for anything. Before we started, I had tied the rag on my head like Pete had told me. It didn’t arouse the boss’s attention, and it did a good job keeping sweat out of my eyes, but it was soon soaked. It was much the same as the day before. I was silent and quick in my work, but I wasn’t wiping anything off, or spitting. I did want a dip, but I didn’t dare stop until a water break.

When we stopped for water, I took a wad of tobacco that someone had given me yesterday and put it in my mouth. “You got a lot of credits for workin two days, and losin one boy. Where you get that?” Said the boss. I was damn lucky that I saw Craig frantically shaking his head no behind him. I didn’t tell him it had been given to me as a trophy for yesterday’s triumph.

“Uh, bought it my first day boss. Remember? You guys gave me a half a cred! I was mighty thankful and I didn‘t expect it.”
“God damn son, I thought you woulda learned more sense than to lie to me. Aint no foreign born ever ate dip on his first day. That’s a southern tradition! Who the fuck gave it to you?” The boss man was steaming out of his nose. He had given me pushups for spitting on him before. He was going to throw me in the box, and it didn’t matter that he had lied to do it.

Buck shot a glance to me, he had been leaning on his hammer, but hefted it behind his back trying to signal me and mouthed the words “IT WAS BUCK.”

“Him.” I said dejected pointing to Buck. He was already heading to the box, and now so was I. This way, no one else got punished. Craig looked at me, and then shut his eyes in agony. His best friend was spending his first night in the box. “That’s three strikes for you boy. I’m takin you both back right now. You both got a week in the box. Try to resist, it’ll be a month. Pete! You work em till I get back.” He took out his baton and made us run up the hill. When we got back to the boxes, he flung the front door of two open, they were part of a unit of five each built next to each other.

Only one hard solid wooden wall separated my box and Buck’s. “Get on in there!” said the boss. Buck crawled in and tried to fit his massive frame in the short space. It was just enough space to sit with his knees bent. The boss slammed the door shut, and put a thick padlock on it. Buck could not lie down. His head was only two inches from the top, and his arms touched the sides his boots touched the front door where there were six air holes about an inch in diameter.

I was not as strong or thick as Buck, but I was just as tall. The Boss kicked my ass as I crawled in and turned around. I trembled and cried as I was greeted by the sight and sound of the door slamming and locking me in. It was all hard thick wood. The sides and back were solid, and the only air came in from the front. I couldn‘t stretch out my arms, or my legs, and I couldn‘t lift my head.

“Have fun fat ass! Take the rest of the day off!” The boss said as he walked away laughing. I could hear Buck panting from the run up the hill and sweating.

Not fearing any further hell, I said to him “C-Can we talk man?”

“Y-yeah. Keep it quiet though. “ He was trembling, and fighting back sobs. “We aren’t allowed to, but they won’t be watching us till mornin.”

“God I’m sorry Buck.” I said finally letting out a few sobs.

“It aint you man. It’s them. Fuckin assholes!” He kicked the door, but it wouldn’t budge. “I’m here for you dude, but we shouldn’t talk too much. Uses up a lot of air. I hope to god they don’t give us the rocks.”

Not wanting to find out what he meant, I asked. “How do we go to the bathroom?”

“Unbutton your pants and have them hanging around your knees. To piss, just let your cock hang low and let it go, and it’ll trickle out. Thank god the guy who built these thought to highly polish the floors. To shit, lean up with your head against the back wall, and pray like hell it’s solid enough to shove through the air holes. They don’t give us any food, so I wouldn’t worry about that. Don‘t leave your pants down when you’re done though. They‘re lookin in all day. Every fucking day. At night, they leave us alone and let the skeets have some fun.”

I then noticed that one of these “skeets” had landed on my arm and bit, looking for a blood meal, driven mad by my sweat. I swatted it, and the blood splattered on my arm. There were soon 3 more to take its place. “I can’t do it man. I won’t last a week!” I then remembered that this meant ten days. I was breathing heavily as if I was drowning.

“The shitty thing is, that yeah, you will. You’ll get through man, and then back to the quarry. And then on to somethin else. Won’t ever stop. Never.” We were both hanging our heads. Still tears were in Bucks eyes at having to explain this hell to new meat like me. “Yeah, it’s hell. Got each other though, so aint as bad.” He waited for a reply but I was silent “Dude? You with me? DUDE! Don’t breath too hard!”
I was getting dizzy, and I passed out. I offered no resistance to the mosquitoes.

Chapter 13-

I awoke to the sounds of my fellow convicts slapping the top of the box. Their affirmations of solidarity offered little consolation to me. There must have been steam pouring out of the air holes like a teakettle. I wondered which one was Craig, and one knocked in a pattern. I couldn’t see, but I guessed it was him.

After they had all passed, I laid my head back against the wall. I wiped sweat off my forehead. No permission, but no one to ask for it either. It didn’t do much good, as my arm was also covered in sweat. I saw a shadow before the air holes, and a guard said to me “Alright boy. Time to start workin.” I didn’t know what the hell he meant. Was he letting me out?

“The boss don’t think you should be slackin’ so early in your sentence, so we got a little work lined up for ya. Buck, ya’ll just take it easy. You earned it. Buck knew before I did what kind of hell I was in for, but he had fully expected to go through it with me. Now he’d just have to listen to me with guilt, and unearned sweat. He shook, and half sobbed. A slot opened at the top of the box, and in fell a handheld sledgehammer, and 12 or so rocks about the size of my foot.

“We want em’ the size of a quarter. When you’re done, just stick your hammer handle out through an air hole. We’ll slide em out and give you more. If we don‘t hear hammerin all day every day, you aint getting out in no week. I think you know what will happen if you try to hammer your way out. We’re right here to watch it. GIT TO WORKIN.”

I didn’t argue. I took the hammer, in one hand, held a rock in the other and began my work hours. Pound, pound, pound. A little chunk fell off. Pound, pound, pound. Another chunk. Pound, pound, pound. The rock was finished. I was on to the next one. I could barely see the thing with the narrow light coming in through the air holes. My shoulder started to hurt. I went to stretch out, and met the top of the box. Buck listened to me pound. He was both relieved and miserable. Most boys didn’t break them at first. They resisted, and wound up staying in there for weeks before they lost it, wanted to get out, and complied. Then it was another few weeks of breaking rocks inside the hot, steaming locker before they would finally let them out. If I kept working, I’d be out in the week I was sentenced to.

Sitting there and listen to me work while he sweated was a unique kind of sadness for Buck. He couldn’t let himself feel relieved that he didn’t have to do this. I finally got through the rest of the rocks, and I stuck the handle out as instructed. A trustee walked over, and opened a slot at the bottom. He scooped out the rocks, and put a metal tube through one of the air holes. “Drink up.” he said. I sucked the tube as cold water flowed into my mouth, but it was just enough water to keep me working and sweating, and not enough to slake my thirst. He then poured in another pile of rocks.

I set back to work, sobbing. Pound, pound, pound. During the day, we couldn’t talk, but I could hear Buck silently sobbing. He had been in the work camps for countless hundreds of years, but he still felt the bitter tang of this punishment as if it was his first day. It was like Craig said. It got easier, but never easy.

I kept at it. They weren’t looking for me to be productive. This was not how they obtained the masses of road gravel they needed; that was still another hard lesson I would eventually come to learn. For the moment though, they were simply concerned with punishing me. They didn’t care how fast I went, only that I kept working away in my steaming hell. I pounded, pounded, pounded, and nothing else. I panted heavily; I barely noticed the thin light start to darken. I stuck my hammer out, and the guard comically belted out “Quittin time boy! You done good. Now it’s chow time.” I distinctly remember Buck telling me that we weren’t getting any food. “We got some hot dogs for you.” His frame darkened my air holes, and his dick stuck in through one. “Eat up boy!”

He said Eat up. I wanted to. I wanted to clamp my teeth down on that thing and rip it off. I heard Buck shuffle next to me, and I thought better of it. I licked the guard’s cock tenderly until he came, and I half wanted to spit it out through the air holes. That would spare me both the sight and the taste. I swallowed though out of reflex. He walked off and said “Alright boys, lights out!” The sun had set.

Sitting there in my own fetid atmosphere, it would have offered little consolation that the guard had been spotted by a few of the working bosses, as they and the convicts walked back to the bunkhouses. The guards weren’t actually allowed to make us do any sexual favors, and it was grounds for dismissal and imprisonment if they were caught and reported. It would have been little comfort to me to know that by the time I had completed my third day in the box that guard would be in a pair of convict pants, digging drainage ditches and clearing brush in another district. It would have helped though. Only the guards the bosses didn’t like got ratted out like this, and much of what wasn’t allowed went on anyway. If we tried to resist, we ended up in the box or worse.

For the second half of the week, I was luckily spared the rock punishment. At night on the tenth day, me and Buck talked between panting in brief sentences. “God damn man….“ Buck panted three breaths and wiped off some sweat. “I thought…. I thought they were gonna have you on the rocks… all week.”

“I woulda passed out…..Surprised….. I didn’t.” I panted. “How long we been in dude?” I shut my eyes.

“One week tonight. I hope….I hope there aint no trouble tomorrow mornin.”

I then heard the bottom of the box vibrating, and the smell of beans. It actually made me hungry a few seconds. Buck had farted. We both laughed hard, but quietly. “At least it wasn’t in your face. Now I know how you felt.” We continued to laugh. Buck was right. I had made it through, and tomorrow it would be back to the rock quarry, and then on to something else. It would never end, ever. Neither would the friendships I forged.

Chapter 14

As we heard convicts file past, another guard came and opened the doors to the boxes. He stood back as the heat and smell were flowing out. Me and Buck both crawled out and graciously accepted some water. We followed the guard back to the bunkhouse. He had a red cross on his shirt sleeve. We each sat down in the barber chair in our turn and our vision and other vitals were checked. “You had some kind of eye injury?” said the guard to Buck.

“Yes boss. Year or two ago.”

“I’m gonna recommend the bosses still keep you working the chaff then. Your turn.” he said pointing at me. “Take your boot off.” I did so. “Nothing wrong here. You’re both fit to work. Get on out to the rocks. You’re with number 6 today.”

Different bosses. I wanted to kiss that doctor. I was starving, I stunk like a dead skunk, I was still squinting from the full force of the summer sun, but I wouldn’t have to deal with Bob. We walked out toward the quarry, and Pete handed us some hammers. We walked over to the trustee which held the number six sign. The boss said in a deadwood, low pitched voice “here’s my other two. Name is boss Rudd. You’re on chaff. Just so you boys know I don’t take no crap. No horsin, no jokin. If you talk, it better be about work. That clear?”

“Yeah boss.” we both said quietly.

“COULDN’T HERE YOU.”

“YEAH BOSS!” We shouted with all of the military brass a lowly convict could produce.

“Now get to work. I wanna see some rocks flyin!”

My joy at having a new boss to contend with was quashed by the sun, and the first swing of my sledge after my long time in the box. I had 15 days of stench on me, but it didn’t seem to faze any of the hardened convicts. As good as it felt to stretch my arms, they were soon sore from the sledge. My sided hurt, and my stomach growled. Craig and Chet were there working the chaff as usual. They wanted to talk to us bad, but didn’t dare shift the topic of conversation away from “geology.” Craig waited until I had finished a boulder about the size of your average backpack. “Hey Matt, come on over here and help me with this one.” He was pounding a low, flat rock the size of a car.

“That alright Boss Russ?” I asked quickly before I started another.

“Yeah, go on over boy. Pick up that pace though!”

It was enough for Craig’s soul to see me breathing, working, and talking; however limited the subject matter. “She’s a tough one dude, better swing hard.” I picked up my heavy sledge high, and the morning sun shined off it. I bought it down low, as hard and fast as my slowly hardening body would make it go. Craig soon followed suit. I was soon free of the creaks and cramps of the box, but never free of the memory. “Wipin it off boss.” I said.

“Speak up dude. Shout it like a military fairy. Gotta be loud and proud man.” said Craig. In my first few days, I noticed some prisoners did ask for permission very loudly. I had assumed it was because their boss was far off or heard of hearing.

“WIPIN IT OFF HERE BOSS RUDD!” I shouted like a redneck one week into boot camp. I was slowly but surly adapting my speech and accent to match the cons and the guards. After a while, anyone in the work camps started to talk like a southern boy.

“Yeah wipe it off there Matt!” Already an improvement from yesterday. Yesterday? I damn near forgot the box. I took out a rag and wiped off my brow. I then tied it to my head.“ None of that shit son. Take it off!” I took off the rag and stuffed it back in my pocket. One step forward and two steps back. I hefted my hammer again for the long hours ahead. We loaded up, and then we finally had time to talk at the midday meal.

“God damn Matt, that’s a tough break.” said Craig. “A week in the box on your third day. They give you the rocks?”

I didn’t immediately respond. Buck piped in. “Yeah Craig. For 5 days. They were playin with my head. They didn’t give me any. Made me listen to him. I felt like a god damn slug. I wanted to bust through that door and do my share of your work dude. I wanted to do all of it.” He said to me.

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I sleep in again. That’s for damn sure.” I said. That was the one strike I could have avoided. I wondered if they had cold weather in this prison camp. “How’s the 2nd shift boss?”

“Dude, he’s a creampuff. I can’t believe it.” said Craig. I didn’t believe it. “He gave me a cigarette yesterday, and let me stop for 5 minutes to smoke it. He told me I was showing a good hustle. I about passed out I was so shocked.”

This same boss then ushered us back to the rock pile. “Alright guys. Back to it. You can work at your wills tonight. I need a nap.”

“What’s that mean? I asked fearing some new torture.

“Means you can wipe off the sweat whenever you want. No permission required. Same with taking a leak, a dip, a spit, a shit, anything! The only thing you gotta ask for is water, and you ask the trustee. Still, you gotta keep up the pace or the boss will get after you.”

“Wow.” I said. I felt privileged! I felt like I’d been given a raise or something. I swung at a brisk pace stopping every few seconds to wipe my head on my forearm. If it weren’t for the other bosses driving the other cons, we could have sat down and took a break. This was not to last however.

Towards the 19th hour, one of the six guys on the drill crews set down his sledge and walked toward the napping boss. His name was Seth, and he had a thick neck, broad chest and shoulders, and brown hair that had been shaven off and was just growing back to show its color. His hands were wide and his fingers strong. Before the boss could wake up and grab his baton, Seth was on top of him; his work hardened hands strangling the poor cream puff. Before Seth could finish the job, 12 other bosses were on top of him and had pried him off.

The cons all tasted copper as the mad beast was shocked into submission. I almost dropped the rock I was loading on my foot. The boss gasped for air, and grabbed his strap. He landed it hard on Seth’s convulsing back before he could even catch his breath. “Get that meat headed, dick suckin, piece of convict shit to the chains! You assholes, back to work. I’ve been too soft I guess! GET MOVIN!” He talked a big game, but it wasn’t long before he was snoozing again.

The boss had demanded that Seth perform sexual favors for both the boss and his two kids in their early 20s. The two had a long history of abuse, but Seth couldn’t take it anymore. He had snapped. If he had been successful his fate would have been far worse, but still what awaited him was even worse than the boxes.
“They’re gonna put him on the chain gang.” said Craig. I was confused. Here I was swinging a sledgehammer for 20 hours a day, asking permission to wipe sweat off my face.

“I thought this was the chain gang.” I said.

Buck half laughed, but in a serious way. “Yeah? I don’t see no chains, do you?” That was true enough. It hadn’t dawned on me that I hadn’t been bound since I got off the truck on this miserable little rock. “Yeah we work hard, but that’s just life man. The chain gang that’s…God damn.” he set another rock in the cart and continued. “That’s a whole fresh hell right there.”

Of the four of us, Buck was the only one who had been on the chain gang. The only thing I could get out of him was that they worked in heavy leg irons that restricted your movements to a shuffle, and that you had to sing. I didn’t know what he meant by sing, but it wouldn’t be overly long before I found out. Had I been a bit less focused on keeping out of trouble, and keeping up with the work pace the bosses had set for us, I could have heard a rhythmic grunting coming from the distance down the hill some ways. I would have wondered what it was, but thought no more of it. I might have discounted it to a song stuck in my head. Buck wouldn’t have told me until I had a week under my belt. Since we both had a week in the box together, he felt it was necessary to tell me.

“That chain gang is worse than the boxes, worse than the straps. It’s as close as you can come to the pit of hell without falling in. You try like hell to avoid it. I sure do.”

We got back to the bunkhouse with those happy thoughts, and came in. All four of us got our full daily credit, and since I already had a full can of dip, I bought a bottle of “hooch” with a half credit. They let us have alcohol once a month on a specific day, but if we were hung over and it affected our work, they’d dock our credits for a week. We rarely had the money for it anyway, but they let us have it in the mess hall. It was piss warm, but it made us happy. We passed the bottle around and each took a swig. It had the taste of strong cheap gin, but it left the smell of rotting oranges in your mouth until you took another swig. It was an acquired taste like dip, or coffee, or any other booze. We were soon laughing and shooting the shit. A lot of hard pats on the back and pounding the table and talks about work and mishaps. It was a happy reunion for the four of us, but as I lay down to sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder about the chain gang.

Chapter 14- Author’s note- In the last chapter the character named “Seth” who attacked the boss, was once accidentally referred to as Rhett. As I first wrote, I named him Rhett, but I decided to change it as it reminded me too much of Gone With the Wind. I simply forgot to change that one instance. Also, there are two chapter 10s listed in the first part. Rather than re-number everything, I’m just going to call both Chapters one large chapter 10, and keep the numbering the same. I hope the format is now easier to read. It did seem to me like my previous entries were just massive walls of unbroken text. Any feedback on any subject is both requested and welcome.

Chapter 15-

My fifth day in the quarry was the day I largely stopped counting. It was also the first day that I was able to simply work my long hours without incident; well almost. During the long morning hours of swinging, I was finding that even after the short time I had been here, insults such as “chubbs.” were becoming slowly less accurate. The crusty deep voiced morning boss of crew number 6 had little reason to bitch at me, and if he did so, it was only to reinforce my status as a convict rather than any specific problem I was causing. My arms began to show the faintest traces of the shape of muscles.

More important than my bodily progress was the change I had felt in my mind. I had always had the will to show these guys that I was up to my new hard life, and to pull my own weight but I retained some of my old world speech, and bearing. With each fall of the hammer, it seems as if I said “how’s it goin dude“, more often than “how are you feeling?” In short, I was fitting in. I had never fit in; ever. Later in my life, I even made that fact a reason to like me. I stood out. My attitude was different, so my opinion must be different, and therefore better. I was an individual. Under the hot sun, I realized all of that was bullshit. I was a convict now. My deeply held beliefs in friendship and helpfulness hadn’t changed, but my short sighted, selfish attitudes about “individuality” showed themselves to be of little use to me or any of the convicts. I gave up most of those attitudes that fifth day. The convicts knew I was an individual without my using excessively long words like “excessively.” Looking to your right and left, and seeing nothing but the same pair of pants with the same patches make it hard to think of the word individual.

I had been resistant to the idea of a convict given nick name like C-Stroke, or Buck-o, because I was just Matt. I couldn’t come up with a better name. Of course people said “Craig” more often than “C-stroke” but the later was a way of greeting, ribbing, and joking about Craig. As I heard a man holler “HEY C-STROKE. DON’T STARE TOO LONG I noticed that the sun was just poking out of the clouds. I then learned that the nickname came from Craig’s early days when he was out working, and took a brief second to stare at the sun before he received a strap across the back and quickly passed out. He basically had a C-stroke.

Buck’s nickname was less elaborate. When convicts were showing him the ropes, he would often simply respond with “oh.“ Hence, Buck-o. It wasn’t very creative, but it was funny in a corny way once you understood it. I didn’t know, but my friends were intently watching me for any comical, or embarrassing thing I did, so that they could come up with my nickname.

As we approached the loading time for the morning hours, I was really moving. Boss Rudd was crawling up behind me, both to admire my speed and force despite me being so green, and to catch me wiping the sweat off. As I went to take another swing of the sledge, I lifted the hammer high, and a developing muscle decided to cramp. Not wanting to drop my hammer I let out a modest grunt. “Yeaaaaah Uh!” I said bringing the hammer down on the rock again, But Boss Rudd thought I was gearing up to turn around and sink the hammer into his skull.

He pulled out his shock baton, and stuck me in the neck. Rather than convulse like most people who faced the baton, I fell flat on the ground, and my eyes rolled back in my head. I wasn’t even twitching. Boss Rudd panicked. “Son of a bitch I killed him!” He thought, and ran towards his truck. Craig’s heart sank. Buck just stared.

Rudd was chased by other bosses, including Bob, who actually ended up capturing him, and giving him some of his “pushup treatment.” I sprang back to my feet shortly afterwards, and shook my head like a dog. I picked up my sledge, and said “that hurt.” That was the last any convict saw of Boss Rudd. He became convict Rudd with a class C sentence for attempted murder, and after building roads and cutting “cane” for 50 turns, he found a fine job scrubbing jeans by hand in the washtubs.

Craig was struck dumb with joy. Buck was the first one to say anything.
“Hey! Mock shock!” He said. I didn’t respond to my new nickname, as I was still rubbing my neck. Boss Rudd had the shocker set to “fly” mode. A non submissive setting, but it somehow knocked me out a couple of minutes.

Buck was the best at coming up with nicknames. It was he who came up with both “C-stroke, and Mock Shock.” He felt his own to be very lackluster, and didn’t want any other convict to have to suffer such an indignity.

That was two guards who had lost their place trying to abuse me. New meat guys thought I was invincible. Others knew better. That night in the bunkhouse, it dawned on me how much I stunk. That’s why everyone but Craig kept their distance from me and Buck. We had missed the showering and laundry day while we were in the box. Even Chet kept his distance, preferring instead to shoot dice in the mess hall.

I had scrubbed the dirt off my arms and face as well as I could at the wash tubs, I got rid of the dirt, but the stench of several days of sweat would be with me for 6 more. It was paperwork day, and I read my report as well as Buck’s and Craig’s. We all knew that there was no point other than finding out the next job we’d be assigned to, but we didn‘t have anything better to do.

“Alright Craig, gimmie yours.” I said. Craig knew how to read well enough for a convict, but he was slow and couldn’t read certain words. Buck knew enough of the alphabet to know B stood for Buck, and that D stood for Damn; as he put it, but he couldn’t read at all. He would give his paperwork to Craig.

“Convict Number C-014-D-MPL-2159. Convict has served 87 years of an eternal sentence. Convict is up for review: NEVER. Current Detail: Rock Quarry # 15. Years Remaining in Detail: 12. Next Detail: Road Crew 1. Strikes: 1. Major Strikes:1.”

“Road crew. That aint bad. Aint good… but you know. It’s different. I think you’ll do better out there Matt. Less of the same old same old.”

“Thank god. I thought I was going to be in the quarry for 100 years straight before they changed anything. Alright Buck- Convict Number B-013-D-MPL-2159. Convict has served 306 years of an eternal sentence. Convict is up for review: NEVER. Current Detail: Rock Quarry # 15. Years Remaining in Detail: 12. Next Detail: Road Crew 1. Strikes: 0. Major Strikes:1. Chain: 1. What’s all that shit about strikes?” I asked.

“The strikes that got you put in the box are daily strikes. Yours are zero because you got punished for them. When you get punished for three daily strikes, you get one major strike.”

“And three major strikes?”

“A trip to the chain gang.” Said Craig. This was how Buck had wound up on the chain, and he shut his eyes. “Read yours.” said Craig wisely changing the subject.

“Convict Number M-014-D-MPL-2159. Convict has served 15 days of an eternal sentence. Convict is up for review: NEVER. Current Detail: Rock Quarry # 15. Years Remaining in Detail: 12. Next Detail: Road Crew 1. Strikes: 0. Major Strikes:1. We‘re all gonna be on the road crew?”

“Yup.” Craig confirmed. “They usually keep blocks together, unless there‘s some kind of experiment going on. This whole wall of 30 cons usually sticks together, not the whole bunkhouse though. All 30 of us, clearin weeds, and layin tar.”

“How long we gonna be doin that?” I asked

“Who knows. Could be 5 years, could be 500.” Said buck. “Road crew’s where I cut my teeth. I did that 20 years, been doin this one 80 or so.”

“What about the rest?” I asked regarding his more than three centuries or hard labor.

His smile vanished. “The chain.”

The conversation kept turning to it. “dude, it’s better if you don’t go around dreadin that shit.” Said Craig. “Buck here could tell you more than I could, but chances are we’ll all do our fair share on that shit in our own time. No sense dwellin’ on it.” That was the end of the conversation. For several years.