Life at Hard Labor chapters 16-20

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 16-20
Date: 15 June 2011

Chapter 16-

Over the next twelve years, I hardened. In body and mind, I was becoming 100 percent convict. Swinging a sledge all day everyday for even one year will build you up, but I had done 12. “Chubbs” was soon eliminated from the boss man’s vocabulary, and I simply became “convict” to my overseers who didn’t bother to learn my number or name. Not only was I holding pace with my fellow cons, I was exceeding a few briefly. Any trace of fat was gone, but I had not yet achieved the long, hard, ropy muscled arms of a convict.

My hands went from thick and doughy, to rough and hard with long, strong fingers. I got in trouble too. I’d been in the box one more time for 5 months. I had the rocks in the box with me every day. Buck had a similar sentence, but he served it in the tall box. This had generally shorter sentence times, but it was a different kind of harsh.

The tall box was about the size of your average out house. Made from the same thick wood as the short box. It did not contain a toilet however. Your booted feet were shackled into rigid restraints at the bottom, your neck was collared and chained to the back wall, and for 12 hours every day, your arms were chained, raised and held at the same level as your head. Just as with the short box, there were only a few precious air holes, and a tin roof was exposed to the hot sun. All you did was stand, sweat, and smell your pits, as you struggled vainly against your chains.. Your cock was thrust outside your pants and pissed on the floor. No food, and only a few drops a water every other hour. Buck did 2 months, and both of our turns in the box had earned us a major strike. We were one away from the chain gang, and one day away from a new detail.

It started like every other day. Get up, throw on boots, eat, file out, tap the boxes, grab a sledge, and work the chaff. We were assigned once again to crew 11, and Boss Bob. The steely, aggressive bastard was older himself, and he barely recognized me. The fact that me and buck were three daily strikes away from the chain gang scarcely entered anyone’s mind. A strike meant you lost a cred for the day. That was it as far as most of us were concerned.

It was a hard, hard day. The morning boss had demanded a tally of 8 carts, or we’d each lose credits without a strike. I had broken one a bit too big for one man, and was trying to lift it into a cart, but I let out a “FUCK.” while lifting. The morning boss gave me a strap, and I dropped the rock just shy of my feet. “that’s one strike for cussin son”

Buck had been swinging hard on another earlier in the morning. The head to his sledgehammer broke off, and hit the boss in the shin. That was two for Buck. One for the sledge, one for the leg.

We failed to meet the tally for morning, and I was pissed at not getting my credit for the day. I was out of dip, and had been for three days. They only let you have the stuff so they can take it away. During lunch, I asked Chet for a dip. This set Bob right off.

“Boy, I docked your creds. That means no dip for you. Don’t go beggin boys that got their minds right. That‘s a strike for ya.”

This was Chet’s last day with Buck. He had asked a bunkhouse guard for a split. This wasn’t out of any great hatred of Buck, but they had grown apart due to Buck’s troubles with the bosses. Chet also hated the road crew, and after today, he would swap places with a man who wanted to get out of the cane fields. Chet would regret being sent to the cane field, but he wouldn‘t regret the split.

Buck and I, one strike away from the chain, with boss Bob running the show. It’s shocking that no one saw it coming; not even the boss did for the first few hours. Bob had been dogging the whole crew all that second half of the day.

We were all tired. It was like Craig always said, Easier, but never easy. It was Craig then who asked me to help him lift a rock when we were doing our final load. I just wanted to get off my feet, and stop. I wanted to lay in my bunk and hold Craig for a few minutes and then zone out. We lifted, my hand slipped, and the rock fell, a chip of rock flew up and took out bob’s sunglasses. His bloodied stare slowly made it’s way to me. “Marvel boy.”

Craig tried to take the blame but it was no use. Up came Bob’s strap and blazed straight across my face, the tip just missing my eyes. He then whipped my back ceaselessly for precisely 19 straps as I lie wrenching on the hard ground. He had paid me back for the pushups, the box, and now the straps. My triumph over him was reduced to nothing. “that’s strike three boy. God damn, you’re in for some fun.” Three major strikes saw me sentenced to the chain gang.

Buck had been told by Chet that morning about the split. His heart had been aching all day. He remembered me joking about his flatulence, and picking up his spirits after he had smacked my foot. “YOU SON OF A BITCH! LET UP ON HIM! YOU COCK SUCKER. HE’S A GOOD DUDE! HE’S A GOOD MAN!” Buck was lucky to hold back his rage, and began to sob. He knew what he just did.

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!” Whack. My blood mingled with Buck’s. “HE AINT NO MAN! HE’S A SHIT EATIN CONVICT JUST LIKE YOU. THAT’S STRIKE THREE FOR MOUTHIN OFF. YOU FAGS ARE GOIN ON THE CHAIN GANG. ANY MOTHER FUCKER SAYS ANYTHING THE REST OF THE DAY’S SPENDING A MONTH IN EACH BOX.”

He gave one final strap to each of us, and motioned to Pete to cuff us. Pete tenderly cuffed me and then Buck behind our backs, and Bob walked up to the bunk houses while another boss guarded us both. Pete wanted to say he was sorry, but the box was just as much of a danger for a trustee, if not more.

It began to rain as we sat there, and after 15 minutes or so, a pickup truck careened straight into the quarry. We were motioned to get in the back. I sat right next to Buck, butt to butt, and arm to arm. Craig didn’t say anything. He looked at me with fear, sadness and love. I looked back with more of the first two, but an equal about of the last. Buck shut his eyes and cried. He was followed by me, and Craig shut his eyes against the rain, and the pain. The truck pulled us away from the quarry and towards a long term on the chain gang. The rest of the convicts filed back up to the bunkhouses where a larger truck was waiting. In front 28 of them were destined for the road crew.

Chapter 17-

The truck drove through the night. I bobbed in and out of sleep, while Buck stared at the stars. We had left the rain behind. Buck woke me up. “Dude! Look at the lights! Aint seen those in forever.” Come to think of it neither had I. I used to love looking at the stars. Working the night shift at the factory meant that I never got to see them, and of course my nights in the labor camp had been spend in the bunkhouse. I looked up. Where was Orion? The Big Dipper? I saw no recognizable patterns, but I didn’t doubt that even this backward ass culture had some kind of constellations.

“You have names for em?” I asked.

“Sure. There’s the sledge up there.” he glanced at six bright stars in a rectangle, with one bright star down a ways, which outshone the others in the vicinity. The sledge. I chuckled to myself. I guess they based their constellations on what they knew.

“Buck, what the hell were you thinkin? Why’d you stick your neck out?”

“It was gonna happen sooner or later. I decided on sooner. It would have been a full year before my strikes wiped clean. I would have earned one by then no matter what. This way, we go to the same gang. It’s kind of funny.”

“What?” I said. I couldn’t find anything to laugh about.

“We always end up doin the hard shit together. I don’t know if I could do it again without you.” Buck said

“I get that a lot.” Craig had said something similar. I replied “I couldn’t have done my time in that box without you. Craig aint much for taking punishments.”

“He’s just smart. No gas in that ass.” he said.

We both smiled and laughed quietly, but the fear of the chain gang soon siphoned back into our stomachs.

As dawn came closer, we inched up on another bunkhouse. This one was smaller. The grounds were very close to another quarry, but removed enough so that the cons working it could only hear, and not see the chain gang. There was a well worn, yet well built path leading up to the grounds from the quarry, and there were two heavy depressions where wheels rolled over and over.

I saw four distinct lines. Two were low to the ground, and grey. Two were tall and blue, We rolled up straight to the lines, and we were told to get out of the back of the truck. I looked and saw something that made my dick get hard with dread and loss of hope, and my gut feel empty. Buck felt the same way. The two light blue lines were convicts. This was the chain gang.

On one gang, there were ten men, and on the other, guards were cutting shackles on two convicts second and third from the back. All ten wore a heavy, bluish grey, canvass boiler suit along with an identically colored flat topped hat with a short flat brim. Inked in black on the front right leg of each were the words “CHAIN GANG.” The other gang had its back turned to us, and the word “CONVICT” was inked in gigantic dark red letters across the shoulders, and underneath that “CHAIN GANG” again in red letters on each back.

Not one sleeve was rolled up, and only the top collar button was allowed to remain open during work hours. All 18 of these men were soiled head to toe in black, grey and brown dirt and grime. One looked like he had emerged from a coal mine. This tall man was at the lead of the group, and I couldn’t believe it but I knew who it was. It was the same miner who had been there my first day inside this labor camp those 12 years ago.

I didn’t feel any great joy at our reunion, and after 12 years of hard work I wondered if he even remembered me. I then looked at the rest of the sullen men. All of them looked at us with dead, hurt, longing eyes. “Let me out of this.” one set of eyes said as the forehead began to drip sweat. “Dude. RUN!” said another. “No hope man, no hope.” and “Come on in dudes.” said the rest. Their eyes spoke, but their mouths were closed, and silently graven into their sad faces. One or two was of a very large frame, and one was fairly scrawny and young. Most were just normal cons.

What I saw next in those brief moments gave me the hardest feeling of all. At the ground where the two had been let loose, were two clean but well worn boiler suits, and two sets of heavy leg irons, with a woefully short chain. They were meant for us. Our handcuffs were removed. As much as they had chafed my hands, I wanted them back. They were the only thing keeping me from being forced into that thick, blue, canvass hell.

“LINE UP!” Said a loud clear southern voice. Me and buck stood in front of our new places in the line of sad men. The boiler suits were not a part of Bucks first time on the chain gang, and he looked at them with his eyes slanted and his head bowed. “EYES FRONT!” Said the southern voice. I looked up, and up walked an athletic looking boss. He wore no hat, but had a light brown flat top, and the hardest deep set eyes I’d ever seen. His uniform shirt was tight, short sleeved, and thin in contrast to the heavy blue boilers we were about to lock ourselves into. He had a wad of dip in his lower lip, but he chewed it in a dignified manner.

“Well boys, this is it. End of the road. This here, is the chain gang, and you‘re the new recruits. I think it’s a damn shame. You’re pretty big. You’d make a good drill man boy.” He looked at Buck. We stood there with the dirt of yesterday’s hard day still clinging to our carpenter jeans, and white shirts stained grey. “and you look pretty fresh kid.” he looked at me.

“You got a hard road now, and you’re gonna learn quick. You boys come on the chain gang because you couldn’t just do your job and keep in line. We aint askin’ much out of you. Nothing complicated about hard work, but somehow you two done fucked it up. That’s why you’re here. On the chain gang, you’re gonna learn that your work is more important than you. The state is more important than you. You’re gonna learn god damn everything is more important than you, You’re a convict. We own your ass, and we‘re gonna work you HARD. We’re gonna treat you BAD, and aint nobody gonna give two shits. We took your name and gave you a number. Now we’re gonna take your number, and throw you on the chain.”

Two guards grabbed the loose canvass patches on our jeans, and ripped them off as the boss continued to speak. “From this day forward, you aint nothing but part of a chain gang. They told you it was a temporary sentence when they sent you out here, but that’s up to me. You work hard, and keep in line, I might consider it, I might not. You slack off, you got nothing to look forward to but chains, and boilers. You boys got anything to say? Questions?” We were silent. Finally, we both just shook our heads no. There was no question about it. We had hit bottom, and we could only think to blame ourselves.

“AWL-WRIGHT! PUT EM ON!” the boss said in a military drone. Me and Buck knew he meant the boiler suits. We started to strip, but were met with “LEAVE THEM ON!” Good god. We had to wear our old, dirty, stinking clothes under this boiler suit.

I buttoned my pants back up and got hard. I tried to put a booted foot through the leg hole, but the boss shouted. “TAKE THEM OFF FIRST THEN PUT EM ON AGAIN WHEN YOU’RE DONE RETARD.” I did this. My bare feet slit through the legs, and I pulled the arm through one of the holes, and then the other. It slid against my jeans which moved like a second skin under this third skin. I zipped up the long zipper across my trembling chest, and if felt like I was locked into it. A perfect fit.

Unable to completely shed this heavy skin, I felt like I’d wear it forever. I then threw my familiar boots back on. My one grace which was soon to be ruined. I looked over at buck who was just pulling on the hat. He didn’t look like buck anymore. He looked like a thick necked mechanic who had given up on being an individual. I pulled on the hat and the brim blocked my vision of the sky. The stars I saw last night forever blocked out by this flat workin man’s hat. I was just another nameless face; eyes down, and mouth shut, ready to do whatever I was told.

As I tried to accustom myself to the warm coveralls, I heard a clinking. I looked at the ink on my leg that said “CHAIN GANG” and then saw the chains themselves. He grabbed my ankle, and slipped the heavy, two inch tall shackle over my work boot. Then the other. My legs were chained together. A big convict in bib overalls had just lugged out an anvil, and another carried a steaming, glowing bucket fresh from the forge. “Foot here.” one said to me. He slid a hot bolt into the shackle where a pad lock should have gone, and I felt the heat in my whole leg.

He pounded down with a hand held sledge, and it flattened the top against the anvil. The bolt was flattened. Then he moved onto the other. CLANG, CLANG, CLANG. I was finally on the chain gang. It was going to be a cold day in hell before any boss, or convict bothered to cut these shackles loose. I would wear them for eternity. I didn’t notice that they had been doing the same to Buck. He stared down at his new chains, and clenched his teeth.

“AWL RIGHT! FILE IN!” the guards moved us into our spots. I stepped forward, and was met by my first step in heavy irons. These were not here to prevent escape. The chain gang barracks was well within the prison property, and so was the majority of our work.

I was behind buck, and a man my height with dusty brown hair, sad sullen lips, a broken nose, and ears that stuck out slightly. stood behind me. In front of Buck was Seth. The man who had tried to take out “Cream puff” 12 years before. I didn’t recognize him. I just saw a thick neck, and short hair between a blue hat and a blue collar. I saw another thick neck, another blue hat, and another blue collar behind him. It wasn‘t Buck anymore, it was a man on the chain. I felt the boiler suit pull down on my frame, and respond to my every move. To the man behind me, I too was simply a thick neck, a blue hat, and a blue collar.

“HOOK EM UP!” someone yelled. There was a long chain on our right hand side. I then noticed that attached to the chain joining my legs, was a long lead chain with a circular link at the end. All ten men lifted their lead chains, and a trustee threaded the long chain through each.. The long chain was then locked to both the leader, and the rear man’s leads with a padlock.

”SHOULDER UP!“ I felt the rear man’s hard, firm hand grab my shoulder. “Here on the chain gang, you always start out with someone on your back. That’s the one comfort you have. You’re in hell, but you aint alone. You’re suffering through together. Get your hand up there boys!” I put my hand on buck’s broad shoulder, and grabbed him hard. I saw “ONVICT” next to my hard dirty hand, which was covering the C. Buck put his Thick hand on Seth’s beefy back and felt the warm moisture of sweat. “ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE! LEFT! LEFT! LEFT!” Buck watched the con in front of him, and copied. I copied buck.

You lifted your foot without bending it, moved it forward, and stomped it down. You did the same to the other foot This was the convict shuffle. We picked up sledges, and the lead chain in our free hand and held the hammer close to the 15 pound head with the handle running up our arms. I felt the links of chain, and the thick sledge handle in my hand. My god I was tired of sledgehammers. I was supposed to be out there with Craig throwing shovelfuls of dirt out of a cool shaded ditch. Instead, here I was again hefting a heavy sledgehammer, ready to bring it down on of all things; rocks.

Chains clinking rhythmically, we shuffled along with the other gang of 10 out to the other white lines. Laid out before us was a long pile of “man sized” rocks that had come in from quarry nearby; all lined up for the chain gang. This was the main method in which the prison camps produced road gravel, or fill stone for rails. This was to be our work. We would pound the “man sized pieces” into gravel, and the cons in bibs would shovel the gravel away and off to a waiting road crew.

“AWL-RIGHT! WORK!” The boss said.

The Lead man, the Miner, shouted “GO ON LIFT!”

He and the rest of the convicts including Buck had lifted their sledges up high, and as they brought them down on the rocks, they all grunted “HUH” as the hammers fell in unison on the rocks. I stood still.

“THAT Boys, was standard drill.” Said the boss. Buck knew it all too well. This was part of the singing. “When the lead man says lift, you bring em down, and grunt! DO IT LOUD, AND DO IT PROUD.” ALRIGHT WORK!”

The lead man shouted “GO ON LIFT:” the words go and on in one syllable, and a harsh, southern, upward inflection on the word lift..

Me, Buck, and eight other damned men brought our hammers down together and said “HUH!“ and we began our day’s work on the chain gang.

GO ON LIFT!

HUH!

GO ON LIFT!

HUH!

GO ON LIFT!

HUH!

GO ON LIFT!

HUH!

It went on like that for some hours. My breath was running out with each “HUH!” I wondered if I would pass out. My amnesty period for passing out had long ago expired, and I feared the consequences of passing out even more out here. Each time I swung, the top part of the coveralls moved. I felt my confinement and my sentence move across my body with each swing. The sleeves crawled up my arms and then back down every time I lifted the hammer and brought it down.

After a while, I started to notice the sweat. The first thing I noticed was the familiar feeling of sweat in my feet from wearing workboots without socks. I then noticed the dense pool of sweat that ran down my back clear to my ass. There were also wet marks from my pits, and running down the long zipper. After a while the whole body became soaked with the foulest, skunky sweat a man can create. Then I noticed my thirst. I knew at that moment I’d never leave.

After some time, the lead man said “WORKIN HARD!”

As the rest bought their hammers down, they said “WORKIN LONG!” with one “HUH” uttered in mistake by me. I got a hard smack from a solid wood club, right on my right shoulder.

:”THAT BOYS WAS A CHANT.” Said the boss. “YOU SAY EM LOUD AND PROUD.”

The pace was quick, but it felt slow, slow, slow. We chanted with them.
WORKIN HARD!

WORKIN LONG!

WORKIN HARD!

WORKIN LONG!

WORKIN HARD!

WORKIN LONG!

We then went back to standard drill.

GO ON LIFT!

HUH!

GO ON LIFT!

HUH!

Everyone began to sweat hard, and all our clothes were soon soaked in the hot liquid. After a while of drilling and chanting (I could never tell how long) the boss said “WORK IT LOOSE!”

“GO ON DRILL!

“HUH!” was chanted for the last time. The chain gang then swung their hammers hard, fast, but at will. I kept pace, and was relieved to be able to govern my own movements to some degree, but soon the Boss began dogging me. “Pick up that PACE CONVICT!”

“Yeah boss.” I said instinctively. WHACK. I got hit by the club again, on my left shoulder this time.

“YOU DO NOT SPEAK ON THE CHAIN GANG. PERIOD. GOT THAT CONVICT?! IF I WANT YOU TO SPEAK, I WILL TELL WHEN TO SPEAK, AND WHAT TO SAY. IS THAT CLEAT CONVICT?! SAY SIR YES SIR.”

“SIR YES SIR!” My back was still reeling in pain.

“BACK TO WORK!”

Just as in my first day of hard labor, I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. I lifted the hammer, I bought it down. God damn I was sick of hammers. “FUCKING HAMMERS!” I though as I brought the thing down hard, and a rock crumbled into 4 pieces. I was working furiously and productively, but no one cared. There were no shouts of encouragement from panting shirtless hunks. There were no pats on the back, except for one at the beginning of the day when we shuffled out, and at the end when we shuffled back in. One long pat on the back. Congratulations, you’re on the chain gang. Welcome to hell.

I was damn thirsty. Finally, I gave up on that concept, and concentrated on my sledge. This was the only way to stay sane. Think about nothing but work. Don’t think about that boiler suit blazing hot in the mid morning sun. Don’t think about those shackles that tense at your feet whenever you take a swing of the sledge. “Hold up nine.” The Boss drawled to me.. A trustee stood before me with water. I could well have been Ben Hur, and he Jesus of Nazareth, but neither of us were as renowned throughout history as those two were. We were a chain gang slave, and a boss man’s boot polisher, exchanging the primitive joy of water after long thirst. I drank long and deep. “Back to workin. Hold up ten.” I swung again, and the rear end man with his sad, young, hayseed face met his own personal Jesus.

After another few hours in the sun pounding away the boss yelled “HOLD UP!” to the whole gang. “WIPE IT OFF!” He said. I reached in the deep front pocket of the boiler suit, and pulled out a blue rag, already drenched in sweat. I lifted my hat, and dabbed the damp rag across my slick forehead , and dragged it across my dirty, swampy neck.

I came to appreciate anything that wasn’t work as a blessing from the angels. Truly humble thoughts entered my mind. “What a sweet privilege. The boss is allowing us to remove this hot sweat from our filthy unworthy necks. What divine grace is this that has befallen me? Why, it’s a cold stream of clean clear water from the fountains of the gods themselves.”

After such silent interludes, I was jarred back to reality by a toothless, southern cop with an under bite barking “BACK TO WORKIN.” like a starving bulldog. After some time, we had finished with the line of rocks, and there was a long line of gravel before us. “TURN EM!” We turned around, and there was another row of rocks. Large convicts in bibs took heavy metal snow shovels sndworked behind us, shoveling the gravel into carts, which they pushed off when they were finished. Another group of these bib overall clad chunks laid fresh rock down behind us.

We were back to drilling again and; after long, sweaty hours of swinging those damn hammers, and shouting those corny slogans like we were proud, the boss man belted out “HOLD UP!”

We all landed our hammers a final time with a “HUH!”

“CHOW TIME.” said the boss. The convicts sat on their haunches. We were not permitted to get off our feet. A bowl each of beans, a thin slice of bread, and a cup of water. We ate them all in less then ten minutes, and then we grabbed our hammers and stood up.. “ALRIGHT, WORK!” our meager meal had ended.

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!”

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!”

“GO ON LIFT!”

“HUH!”

A long, dry period of “working loose,” a few too short water breaks, a few wipes, another session of “WORKIN HARD, WORKIN LONG.” Another load of rocks.

Finally, as the sun had already set, and twilight was fading the boss said, “HOLD UP!” We stopped. “PICK EM UP!” We lifted our hammers and the long chain in our tired right hands. “SHOULDER UP!” We lifted our flat hardened hands to the hard sweaty shoulders of the man in front of us. The lead boy’s hand was held in a fist at his side. “ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE! LEFT, LEFT, LEFT…”

We lifted our tired feet, and stomped them on the dusty ground. A could of dirt rose about us as we lumbered to the bunkhouse. When we were in, the lead boy marched all the way to the back, and the long chain was unlocked and removed. We stood for what seemed like hours until the boss said “DOWN.” We shuffled over to our bunks; ten on each side about a foot and a half apart, and laid down. A still longer chain was threaded through our lead chains which dangled off the ends of the bunks. This chain was then threaded through a hole in the back of the bunkhouse which lead out side where it was padlocked to a post with a ring on it. The same was done in the front of the bunkhouse, and we were locked in for the night.

We could have gotten up to shit in buckets which sat next to our beds, but most laid there a few minutes before they bothered to move. We were sweaty, exhausted, miserable, sore, and dirty. We laid there on our bunks with our boiler suits on, and then we were met with the final indignity. A boss shouted “LOCK EM UP!” And trustees grabbed our arms, and put our hands in heavy shackles which hung from the bedposts. We could lay our arms flat, but we couldn’t unzip the boiler suits to air ourselves out. When they cuffed my hands, I noticed the this bunkhouse had no windows. The door was shut, the lights went out, and we steamed there in hell for the evening knowing tomorrow would be no better.

Chapter 18-

Bright and early the next day, we heard a metal clang. “GET ON UP!’ a boss shouted. They unlocked our hands, and then the boss said “PICK EM UP!” I saw that the other cons were holding their lead chains at the circular ring. “PULL EM THROUGH!” Miner, the lead man, pulled the long chain through hand over hand, and piled it at his chained feet. “GET ON UP! FALL IN!” We got out of bed, and lined up. The work chain was threaded through, and locked on. “ROLL OUT! SHUFFLE! LEFT, LEFT, LEFT…” we shuffled out to the rocks. We sat on our haunches, and were given out morning meal. We ate quickly, and then the boss said “ALWRIGHT!!! WORK!”

“GO ON LIFT!” said the lead man.

“HUH!” It was only one day, but this routine felt like it had been going on forever. I thought of little else.

The day progressed identical to the day before minus our induction, and instruction. I honestly don’t like to remember it. It was hard, sweaty, and there was no joy. There was only common misery. Day after day. Each day was identical. A new man was both a welcome and unwelcome diversion from the monotony, and the heat. In all, me and Buck did 100 years on the chain gang. This was the same amount of time as Buck’s first sentence to it. Finally one morning, I saw a truck pull up and two mean looking convicts with flat tops stumbled out in transport irons. They were still giving their last thrashes of resistance and acting tough, when they met the sorry sight of us and sank, and gave up.

I felt thick hands grab my leg, and leg iron, and a back and forth motion. Two burly oxen (“ox” was the slang for those huge men in bib overalls who carted in our misery every day) were holding my legs, and four more were holding Buck’s and Miner’s. A new lead man would be taking Miner’s place; one who knew the drills well enough.

The men at our chains were not dumb men. They were class C boys who had lost the privilege of full trustee status, and were trained as oxen. They did the heavy work that was too complicated or insecure for rank and file convict laborers, and too heavy for trustees.

My cock sprang to life. You could even see it through my heavy uniform. The right shackle fell to the ground, and I felt cool air rush even through my booted foot. Soon, the other was loosed, and I took my first free steps forward. We stumbled a bit; unused to freedom of motion. We were told to walk to the side of the bunkhouse. Our boiler suits felt weird when we were able to take a full step.

The boss pointed to a bin full of laundry. “Shuck em. You’re done.” he said. All three knew what he meant. My fingers clawed at the zipper, and I threw it down. I could see heat ripples in the air coming from my chest. I yanked my arms but they got stuck a bit. I finally worked them out, and pulled that damn suit down, worming my legs out. The carpenter jeans were soaked and hung limp on my body.

The old sleeveless shirt clung a bit to my sweaty chest. I threw the hat, and missed the bin. An ox man picked it up, and threw it in for me. I bent over, struggled to lift the damn mass of canvass, and threw it far away from me into the bin. We all stood a minute gasping. The chain boss walked off without a word. No lecture, no ass chewing, and no explanation. The chain boss marched off to induct two new recruits to the chain gang. We were simply done. I cried. God help me, I cried.

The boss who had driven the new prisoners out said “Alright ladies. Quit ballin. We gotta get you out to the road crew. They want you workin TO-DAY. Follow me.” The road crew. He might as well have said “fun fair” or “beach.” I took as big of steps as I could. I would have danced, if we got to the truck any later. “Hop in.” he said. We all hopped in, and as soon as our legs were out stretched, we took off our boots, and rubbed our feet and ankles. Miner took off his shirt. The truck started, and we drove down out of the mountains and the quarries, towards a wetter area, and I hoped away from the hammers.

The sun showed bright. It was only an hour after the start of work hours. “You look…you look familiar Con.” Miner said in a dry, shaky voice glancing at me. It had been so long since any of us had said anything but “Workin Long” or “Huh.” that the words almost didn’t form.

“I saw you….I saw you! The first day.“ I meant both my overall sentence, and the term on the chain gang…..“God damn. Small world huh.” I leaned back and rubbed my ankles, getting between my toes this time. “Yeah, I’m the sorry son of a bitch you got brought in with.”

Miner smiled with his mouth, but cast his eyes down. “Two years. That’s about how long I lasted before they put me on that chain. God damn man, they had me workin right in my old mining town! I was fillin’ pot holes. I was getting hoots and hollers, and shit thrown at me. I lost it.” he paused to cough. “I bet you thought I looked all badass that day with my tattoo. Damn I miss that thing.”

“Damn man that’s rough. I didn‘t even think about that.” I was a far cry from the pasty trembling boy he remembered. I was talking like a long timer….which after the chain gang, I technically was. “But dude…think about it.” and the thought hit me at the same time I said it. “Most of them people you know are dead now.” So were all the people I knew.

My parents, brother, friends from school, dickhead boss, I couldn’t see any of them in their 140s. And yet here I was, in my 140s, looking like a rock hard convict in his mid to late twenties. Miner had been thinking these same thoughts about his buddies from the mine, and his old man. He hadn’t found anything like a girlfriend or a wife before he got arrested, but he had girls that he missed, just like I did.

Buck shook his head silently at the wisdom of my words. 400 years, and 200 on the chain lay on his head, but wanting to lighten the mood, he spoke his first free words. “You two know each other on the outside or somethin‘?”

“Uh no. He came in the same time I did. We got spilt up to different details.” Said Miner.

“You did some good leadin’’ dude. Didn’t fuck up once. Name’s Buck.” they shook hands, and patted arms with the other hands.

“Thanks. Names Miner. Ahh shit… well, that’s what they call me, since I wouldn’t shut the hell up about it. Real name is Matt, but just call me Miner I guess.”

“God damn! Two Matts! Yeah, you’re Miner buddy. Sorry.”

“You’re name’s Matt too? Shit. Didn’t think to ask.” Said Miner

“Didn’t have time.” I said. “So, how’s the road crew?”

“After this shit, I imagine it’s gonna be a bit fun for a few hours.” Said Miner. “Man its tough work though. I thought I worked hard in the mine, but I didn’t need no permission for water down there. Just grabbed it and drank. I couldn’t get used to it, so I got all kinds of strikes. Man, feels good to talk to good old boys for once. You’d both do good down in the mine. Love to have a beer with you too, but that aint happenin‘. My bunk mate was a real dick. I think he split from me when I went off on the chain.”

:”I’d bet you half a Cred I’m your new one then.” Said Buck. “So did mine. I bet they’re both down there cuttin cane, and getting’ bit by skeets.”

“You seem like a good dude. It‘s a bet.” He talked in a western accent, but prison vocabulary was slowly moving the geography of his voice towards the south.

“None of us have creds.” I said. “What’s that?” I saw what looked like a railroad car in the road up ahead.

“That’ll be the bunks.” said Miner. “We’re almost there.”

We drove past the railroad car, and I saw that it was a big cage. The roof was solid, but the sides were caged. Bunks hung from chains within, and it rested on large wheels. We’d be sleeping in that, open to the “skeets” but after the chain gang, I would have slept in a swamp.

We drove up the road a mile or two, and saw convicts up to their calves in mud, slopping shovelfuls of muck out of a ditch. We hopped out of the truck, and the guard who had driven us said “Got three clinkers here for ya chief!”

:”Alright! NICK! GET EM SOME WATER AND SOME NUMBERS.”

“Right boss!” said a black-haired trustee who ran up from the ditch “Come with me boys.” We followed him over to another truck, and he gave us some water, which we drank like fish. He then opened a box sitting near the tailgate. Inside were spare carpenter jeans, shirts, and patches of canvass.

“I got em, ready last night. Which one of you is M?”

“There’s two of us.” I said.

“Oh….Which one is M….Ma…..”

“We’re both named Matt.” said Miner. “You ought a know my number by now Nick.”

“Miner! There you go man. That’s old 22 for you. You must be 23.” he said handing me two patches and some small bobby pins. “You’re just gonna have to pin them till they roll the bunks back. Then I can sew em.”

I pinned the front patch on as best I could, and Nick pinned the pocket patch covering the darker blue spots that the Chain gang boss had exposed. I had my letters back, but my numbers were different. I also realized that I had made a pair of jeans last me more than 100 years, and I would make them last even longer.

“And you must be B. Said nick, as he pinned Buck’s number on the back pocket. I saw that it said B-022-D inked on it.

“What did I tell you Miner?” said Buck, but as he pinned his front patch, he farted in nick’s face.

“Keep that shit up, they might let you outta here!” I said. We all wished it were true.

Chapter 19

It was my first time doing road work, and after over 100 years of swinging sledgehammers, I was ready for anything new. After we all had our numbers, Nick grabbed three shovels from the truck. We carried them over to where the rest of the convicts were digging. “What you waitin’ for boys, red carpet? Get on down there!” Said the thin but young and strong boss. This was his first job guarding convicts, but he was doing well keeping them on task.

All of the convicts sweated, and struggled to keep their footing in the mud. We walked down into the ditch, our boots sliding. I stood next to another convict, and Buck and Miner stood to my left. My boots at first sunk only an inch or two. I stuck the shovel into the ground, and scraped up a heavy, but viscous load of mud, and threw it up into a drying pile above us. I knew well enough how to use a shovel. Buck and Miner soon joined in, and we dug. Every once in a while, a mosquito would land my arm or back. After a few burning bites, I looked up at the boss, and said “uh…swattin here boss?”

“Swattin? You mean the skeets? Just go ahead and smack em convict. Don’t need to ask for that. Just do it quick and get back to workin.” said the boss.

“Right boss. Thank you boss.” I swatted a mosquito, and others left me alone. In the late morning sun, there weren’t many, but there were enough to annoy us. It almost felt good to ask for permission for things again, knowing there was the chance it would be granted.

Craig was right. I was much better suited for this work. There was still sweat, and still fatigue, but I felt like a real man out here doing this dirty hard work. The bosses and the public didn’t mind if the convicts felt like men, as long as they didn’t feel like free men.

Digging ditches wasn’t quite so bone numbing as breaking rocks either. It took a lot longer for me to get really tired. As I sunk a shovel into the mud and saw 50 other sweating short haired men doing the same, I felt that this was what a man was supposed to do with his life; especially a lowly, untalented man like me. It wasn’t that I had never been talented, but the sentence to hard labor had driven it out of me. The will to be talented left me long before I entered prison, and despite the miscarriage of justice that led to my sentence, I felt like I belonged here.

I slopped another shovelful of mud up, and said “Get some water over here boss?”

“Nick!” He shouted pointing at me. “Water em’ down!” Nick bought the bucket, and he stooped down handing me the ladle. I drank, and found that it didn’t taste like well water anymore; or maybe it did, but I didn’t notice. After we had shoveled up much of the mud, we moved down the road, and started a new patch. The ground became harder, and packed with clay. I heard a familiar voice say “Ground’s a bit tough here boss.” it was Craig working a few convicts down from me.

“Alright! Grab some picks boys! We crawled up out of the ditch, and went over to a truck which had picks, shovels, sledges, spud bars, and various other hand tools standing up in racks. Me and Craig locked gazes. We slapped hands together and shook, and then hugged hard. Not wanting to incur the wrath of the guards, we quickly grabbed a pick, and went back to the ditch ready to work together for the first time in 100 years.

I sunk the pick axe down hard into the ground, and pulled it back up through the hard, clay packed earth. A few splatters of clay flew up, and hit me in the face and chest. It felt cool being shielded so long from the sun, and after nothing but dusty rocks and sweaty clothing, it felt refreshing. I sunk the pick in again, and hit a root. Some tree had grown there once, but was long dead. I struck hard again, and the root flew up, and landed a foot away. Swinging a pick was much like swinging a hammer, only you had to keep the head straight or risk stabbing yourself or the other convicts. It was far better than a hammer though, as the ground offered a soft but firm resistance in contrast to the rigid, arm shaking rock. It was no less tiring however, and soon I had worked up a thick, heavy sweat.

Me, Craig, Buck, and Miner all talked in short, discreet sentences between swings of the pick. The Boss didn’t mind chatter, even if it wasn’t about work. So long as the work got done well and quickly, we could talk to our hearts content.

“How you doin dudes? Glad you’re back. It’s been rough without you two here.” Said Craig.

“Rough? Man, you don’t even know.” Said Buck.

“I know, I know buddy. I was just sayin.” Craig took a hard swing against a tangled root. “Been lonesome as hell. They had a Class A in here to fill in for you Matt, but he wasn’t much for talkin. Pisses me off. We got this cool ass boss that don‘t even mind, and no one will fucking talk.”

“Man….. It was hell. They had us wearin’ heavy coveralls all day, every day. Rain or shine.” I said knowing that Craig wanted to know.

“Yeah. We were out by quarry 19 too. Real hot weather out there.” Said Miner.

“Name’s Craig.”

“Miner.” he said in reply sinking his pick, and looking very much the part. “Real name is Matt, but I think this kid has a better claim on it.”

“Nah, this kid is the Mock Shock.” Said Buck beginning to feel like his old self. In my old life, I would have found this nickname corny as hell and annoying, but out in the heat and dirt, I was appreciative of the affection.

“So how’s the road crew been?” I said to Craig

“Like I said. Lonely.” said Craig. “Boss man is alright, but he aint really let up on the pace in a long while. Like today, when we‘re finished with this ditch, we‘re probably gonna ship out and go weeding down by the cane road for the rest of the day, and then next week we‘re goin back out to the free world. They got us runnin all over hell.”

“Free world?” I said. What I thought was “Escape? To what; eternity in this society? Man, I’m a dumb ass. They’d smell convict before they saw it. Besides, these are my only friends in the world. The best friends I’ve had in my life. I wouldn’t go alone if I did anyway.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” Said Craig. “It ain’t no picnic though. You get to look, but not touch, smell but not taste. I remember last time, they had us weedin out in front of these rich folks havin a barbeque. I could smell that hog roastin for miles. Drove me NUTS! I would have run up to the buffet and played it cool if it weren’t for the chains. Potato salad please!” Buck and Miner chuckled.

“Chains?” I said. My heart sank, and my dick tensed. Off one chain gang, onto another.

“Relax man. It aint like what we just went through buddy.” said Miner reading my face. “They’re heavy and all, but they’re long too. You wan walk rather than shuffle, though your legs can‘t go too far. They just got them there so you can’t run. If you try to, you better be bringin ten other dudes with you. And I doubt very much that they want us in boiler suits. They want us working quick.”

This didn’t make me feel much better, but I figured it couldn’t be worse than the chain gang. It would have it’s own set of tortures, but these would be easy to bear. After we had loosened up the dirt with the picks, half of us started in with a shovel again. I still had the pick, while Craig had a short handled shovel.

We broke up, and dug up three more patches of earth before mid-day, and we were ready to move on to the next job. Rather than rec time, the road crew used the extra three hours to travel all over the prison camp, and the surrounding rural towns, like the one I was arrested in. For longer journeys, we would travel and sleep overnight in a large, open bedded truck for a week or two until we came to a more long term worksite. At that time, they would wheel the bunk car up. To supply us, they had a small army of trucks with tools, clothes, food, fuel, and most importantly water. If we ran out, they would go either to the prison, or to the towns to re stock.

“Alright! Load em’ up! Said one of the bosses, and we hopped onto a flatbed truck, sitting flat on our butts with legs outstretched. A trustee handed us a bowl of cold beans each, and we ate as we drove toward our next job.

Chapter 20-

The road went out through the agricultural sections of the prison, where they grew beans, tobacco, wheat, and the plant most familiar to a convict- cane. Cane was a plant which resembled the sugarcane of my world. It was just as tall, a tiny bit wider, and a lot tougher to cut. : Like sugarcane, it also produced sugar. for the aristocracy, and molasses for the convicts, but this was not its only use. When the juice had all been extracted from the cane, the insides would be scrapped out and left to dry in the sun, creating a fibrous material which was identical to cotton. It wove just like cotton, felt just like cotton on the skin, and it looked just like cotton when woven. The best part was that there were no seeds to contend with. It both fed and clothed convicts, but it also gave us a lot of hard work.

We would not be concerning ourselves with cane today, as there were no convicts working these growing fields. It was our job to keep the roads and ditches free of the thick weeds that grew relentlessly. When the truck stopped, we all filed out, and were handed our work tools for the rest of the day. It was a 14 inch blade attached to two steel strips, which had been curved inward to make a D shape. There was a 2 and a half foot wood handle attached to the curve of the D.

This was a weed whip. That’s right, the convicts were given their own whips, but rather than whipping lazy backs, we would swing the blade through the thick and lazy weeds. I recognized the tools from “Cool Hand Luke,” and I had never known what to call them. I was briefly amused at both the name of this tool, and the fact that I would soon be emulating Paul Newman.

Such amusements are fleeting in the life of a convict. If there is ever a comfort or a joy, the convict must pay for it in sweat, tears, dignity, and sometimes blood. We were property of the State, and the State was concerned with our survival, our productivity and our punishment rather than our comfort. I could have told them the basic premise behind a motorized weed whacker, but it would have been dismissed as the sunstroke induced ramblings of a simple minded convict.

This society was mired in hard labor, and it could afford to be. This prison was one of many on many worlds that I will never see. The State had the military might, and the resources to expand forever and grow without innovation. The military did the expanding, the convicts did the harvesting, and the free men did the building. Its only innovation was the blue serum.

I couldn’t say what people in my old world would have done with this infallible extension of life and health, but this society recognized its true purpose. Extend the lives of prisoners, so they could pay eternally for their heinous crimes. Though the state was cruel and backwards, such cruelty was what made most convicts the best and truest friends a man could have.

Sticking together and helping each other was the only way we could retain anything like humanity or joy. Those convicts who didn’t do what they could to help a fellow con found little friendship in the trustees, and none in the bosses. They all relented their selfish ways after a few years. They all became friends.

The state allowed these friendships, both because it kept us in line, and because there was nothing they could do to prevent them. It was a friendship that the leaders and aristocrats in their cold lonely towers would never know, recognize or understand. As I swung the weed whip with Craig, Buck, and Miner behind me breathing heavily, I pitied those wealthy people. In my old world, I could have been one of them.

I held the weed whip in front of me, and holding it almost as if it were a golf club, I swung it among the weeds, letting go with one hand, and swinging it back with the other. The blade caught on the weeds, and cut some, sending them flying to the ground while some landed on my bare sweaty chest. There was no hiding from the sun that day, and it beat down on us like a booted foot.

“Wipin it off boss!” Shouted Buck as strands of dry weeds flew up from his whip.

“You boys just work your wills the rest of today. Save your breath.” Said the boss. This was a good boss. Not a pushover like Cream Puff, or a ball buster like Bob, but a man who in his short service had learned how to both keep us working, and keep that convict mindset in our heads. If he had one fault, it was that he was inconsistent, and that he had let to learn what some of the prison vocabulary meant to convicts. When I heard “work your wills” I whipped out my cock to take a piss thinking the boss was going to take a nap. WHACK. It had been some time since I had felt the strap, but I knew it well.

“BOY WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO PISS?!”

I didn’t know what to say. It was obvious that if I said “You said work your wills boss, and I had to take a leak real bad” that I’d get the box for sure.

“Couldn’t hold it boss Mark.” I said. “I wasn’t thinkin.”

“Damn right you weren’t convict.” He said. “Finish up and back to workin.”

I wouldn’t even lose my credit. I think the boss had realized his mistake, and didn’t want to admit it. He also didn’t want to punish me for following orders. I zipped up, and was back to work, but as I zipped, I tore the pants I had worn under the boilers on the chain gang, and my cock hung out a little bit.

“Boy, that aint regulation. You’re damn lucky we’re in the camp. Just keep working, and get a new pair when we’re done.” said boss Mark.

Finally, as the last of the twilight was gone, and the mosquitoes took flight in the ditch, boss Mark blew a whistle and said “Alright boys! Bring em in!”

I saw that the rail car housing our bunks had appeared as I toiled, and I walked back with a stream of cold night air flowing into my pants from the hole in my crotch. I handed my whip to a trustee who was standing on a truck and putting them on racks. We got half of the long cane field road done, and would be doing the other half bright and early in the morning.

I walked to the bunks, and saw that the black haired trustee from earlier in the day was at the box with the spare jeans. I knew this routine from my 12 years in the quarry.

“Hey. Jeans are fucked dude. 34, 30. Can of dip while you‘re at it.” I had gone down a few sizes due to the hard work of the centuries.

“Hold up boss.” For one brief moment, I was the boss. Hearing the word used in reference to myself made me hard. “There you go. Had em’ numbered for you this morning. Hand me those.“ He took my old pair and the numbers pinned on. “Get to the showers while they’re cold.” I threw my spare set of carpenter jeans on, and ran. There were no chains around my ankles.

Shower. Ye gods…. A shower. 100 years in a boiler suit, and I had nearly forgotten the word. I didn’t notice, but the cons kept their distance from me, Buck and Miner during the work hours. Even Craig found it difficult to inhale around us, but his curiosity and happiness to see us had overcome his nostrils.

From a water truck, there ran a long pipe with ten holes spewing water. A group of nude convicts stood there. Their bodies and heads were tanned and near red, but their legs and butts were white. On top of the truck, two trustees struggled to pump water through the pipe, and water came down on the cons with surprising pressure.

For 5 minutes, the cons hurriedly scrubbed their bodies with a harsh, industrial smelling soap as the blackened suds fell at their feet. I was rock hard both at the sight of the men, and at the prospect of my first shower in a century. Our heads had been shaved while on the chain gang, but that was little relief. You wanted a shower after all that sweating and grunting.

I got in line behind Buck, Craig, and Miner and a new young blonde inmate got behind me. I turned back. “Hey dude. Name’s Matt.”

“Uh…I’m Dan.” he said in a low nervous tone. He was both intimidated and repulsed by my smell and he didn’t want to make me angry.

“You been here long?” I knew he hadn’t.

“Um…bout 10 days now.” he said. He smelled bad from the work, but nowhere near as raunchy and awful as I did.

“You were really rollin today.” I said, as the 10 men at the shower stepped out. “Well, time to get this stink off.” I said, and stripped my jeans shirt and boots. As Dan nervously did the same. He was shaking a bit.

When we got under the pipe, the cold water came cascading down like a pristine waterfall. The smell of well water soon overtook the sweat and dirt. I rubbed the soap all over my body. I expected it to burn, but it removed the sticky stench from me without as much as a tingle. It smelled like it was intended to be floor cleaner however. Craig was next to me, and then Buck and then Miner.

Buck moved so quick he slipped and fell on his ass. We all laughed as he got up and wiped the dirt off his ass. Craig looked at me and my sudsy dick and couldn’t contain himself any longer. He grabbed it and began to stroke me, and we kissed. Buck slapped us both on the ass. We were the last group of the 50 men to shower, so there were no shouts of “Quit wastin water!” from anyone. We horsed around and had fun in the water without rhyme or reason, unaware of work or chains. Even Dan got in on it after a while. All too soon, the water stopped, and we had cleaned every blackened bubble off our bodies. Craig hadn’t finished with me, but it felt so good to have Craig’s long cold fingers on my dick.

I threw on my clean jeans and shirt, and my still dirty work boots. It was better than walking on the bare ground, but they still housed a considerable stink. We were utterly clean, and I came to appreciate how rare a feeling that was in this place. There was only 20 minutes left of Rec time, so we ate hurriedly, and crawled up into the rail car. Me and Craig walked towards the back of the car, and Buck and Miner lay down next to us. There was less room between top and bottom bunk, and between each set of bunks was the center aisle only three feet wide the chains that held up the beds were like a cruel joke near my feet. Clean and re-united, Craig and I met eyes; we both had the stern sad eyes of a long time convict. We didn’t say one word, but slept together in my bunk, unwilling to let go until the morning bell called us back to work.