Life at Hard Labor chapters 21-25

Author: Fumpa
Title: Life at Hard Labor chapters 21-25
Date: 15 June 2011

Chapter 21-

It had been a long time since I saw a sunrise. Of course, to a convict, the sun is not as romantic as it is to a free man. Those long years on the chain gang restricted my vision to the back of the convict in front of me, and to the rocks we were breaking, but the sun was always there, trying to turn my sanity into cinders. To a convict, the sun is like a boss man. The sun governed our schedule, and especially on the road crew; if there was light, you kept working.

I awoke to the sound of a large triangle being rung by a baton. Craig had his arms wrapped around me, and even in my sleep he had given me a backrub like I’ve never had. I first felt his arms, and then saw the sun. It was red, and there was a golden haze made by a morning mist over the green cane fields. "Oh sweet. I’d better grab my camera." even after all that time and toil, the old life came crawling back, reminding me of what I had lost. Rather than grabbing my non-existent camera, I grabbed my dirty, old work boots, and threw them on my bare, sore feet. Before I had finished tying the laces, Craig awoke and smiling at me threw on his boots. "It’s gonna be great workin a full day with you again dude. I wanna see how them years on the chain toughened you up."

I was overjoyed to be back with Craig, but as I looked at the glorious sunrise, I felt for the first time in a long time, a real yearning for my old life. "I bet I looked like hell." I said without even looking at him.

"At least you don’t smell like it no more." Buck joined in with an enthusiastic joking tone. It was like he hadn‘t even been on the chain gang even though he was joking about it.

"I think we’re going to see some more chains today boys." Said Miner. "After only one day too."

I just wanted to shoot that sunrise. I would use my 35mm lens, and capture the whole field and the road we were clearing. F 16 at 1/30th probably. I didn’t want to pick up a weed whip, or a pick axe or anything that wasn’t a camera. I shut my eyes and rubbed the sleep out of them; easily fighting back the tears that were brewing in my memories. "Beautiful mornin though." I said.

"Guess so if you like heat, sweat and work. Aint no clouds today." said Miner. "You alright buddy?"

"No man. I’m tired of it." is what I wanted to say, but "Yeah. I’m cool. Let’s get at that chow. I‘m fuckin starvin." is what I said in the saddest voice I had ever spoken in. They all knew the pain in my heart at that moment, but prying into it further would have been like picking a scab. I rubbed my crew cut as if it had just been cut, and I wasn’t use to it. Without the hat I had on the chain gang, my scalp was probably going to burn beet red, and then go bronze as I labored yet another day of my eternal sentence.

I shoveled the grits into my mouth resting my arms on my knees. They had increased my ration of meat due to my weight loss. I was now building the long ropy muscles the bosses desired for their menial work. I chewed furiously on the last piece of gristly meat. The texture was making my angry. It made me yearn for leaner meat. "Just BREAK DOWN god damn it!" I kept chewing, and finally just swallowed the greasy mass whole. I felt it go down my throat, and plop in my stomach. I looked at Craig who had just finished. His expression was not angry like mine, but neutral.

When we started to weed; despite my anger, and sad reminiscences, I began again to feel like a convict, rather than a wrongful victim. I swung that blade and knew that whether or not I belonged there, it was where I was and there was nothing I could do about it.

We were quick that day, and had gotten to the end of the road in only six hours of work. Yesterday’s shower was rendered pointless by the sweat and flying weed trimmings. All of our pants were dirty again, and would just get dirtier over the next nine days. In the bosses mind, there was nothing that said "hard labor" better than good old fashioned dirt. There were other ways to drive the point home however.

"Alright boys. We’re headin out in the free lands. It’s an hour’s ride and ya’ll know the rules. Long shirts on till midday, short ones on the rest. NO exceptions." said the boss in his best military style. He was gunning for a spot in the military, but the military didn’t take the asshole bosses that were all too common. They wanted people who could be firm, but forgiving, and he tried to be just that.

When out in the free world, we were required not only to wear the longer leg irons Miner had described the day before, but long sleeved denim shirts with the word convict on them and our numbers underneath in black letters. Most bosses followed strict uniform code for convicts. "For public work details, convicts shall be restrained by leg irons at ALL TIMES. Convicts will be provided with long sleeved shirts bearing their status and number. At start of day, shirts must be tucked in, and top buttons fastened. At start of work hours, top button may be undone, but sleeves must be down, and shirt tucked in. At 3 hours of work, 2 more buttons may be undone, and sleeves rolled up to elbow, but shirt must still be tucked in until mid-day meal. Convicts will wear shirt during meal, and one hour after, but will be permitted to take off long shirts after this. At such time, they must wear at least a sleeveless white shirt with numbers printed in black both back and front at all times. May be tucked or un-tucked. Convicts may chose to wear short billed flat hat. If weather requires, they may also wear a heavy coat."

"Let’s line em up!" He said, and 50 convicts became 5 groups of ten. The same heavy shackles were laid at our feet, but the chains linking them were almost long enough to take a full step. We all knelt on the ground while the shackles were clasped onto our boots, and locked into place by padlocks. As they locked my legs, I saw the sun was white and high in the sky in a tacky blue sky. This was the worst time of day for photography, and for everything else. We were then handed the blue denim prison shirts. On the front left breast was stamped "CONVICT M-023-D" And on the back was stamped "CONVICT MPL-1 2159" I unbuttoned my jeans, and tucked it in, and buttoned it up, struggling with the top button. "Don’t worry about the top button boys, I ain’t much for inspection. Just gotta wear these shirts for the townsfolk."

As we walked up the ramp to the bed of the truck, the sound of 50 sets of leg irons clinking, and the sight of the short haired and sorry men attached to them laid heavy on my heart. I wasn’t looking forward to going out into public. On the inside, I fit in. I was well liked by most convicts, and I wasn’t ashamed to be one. I worked hard, told good jokes, and talked simply. These traits meant little on the outside. What mattered there wasn’t how hard you worked, but what you had to show for it and as a convict, that was nothing. I didn’t know what the outside would feel like after so long.

We drove on for some time, and I saw the main offices where I was injected with my sentence. We drove past fallow fields, and abandoned houses that at the start of my sentence were just being built. The road was rough, and I guessed that was why we were being sent out here. After an hour or so I was met with a familiar sight. The same old style buildings I awoke to that hard morning; kicked in the butt and missing a wallet. Things had not changed besides a few coats of paint. There were the same sort of paranoid, crotchety townspeople that I first met in this world, but the actual people I met that day were long dead and buried, even the infants. That old lady who threw rocks at me, the high ranking man who had testified against me, they were all gone but I couldn’t help but look at their peaceful yet high strung descendants and glower.

As we hopped off the truck, we were handed shovels. Lined up down the street and off into the country were piles of gravel and dirt that had been laid out by trustees while we were weeding. There was also a short tanker truck on wheels on top of which stood two tanned trustees with black tar flecking their light jeans.

"We’re gonna be tarring straight through town, and on back to the prison." said the boss. "We’ll go as far as we go, and you’ll sleep on the flat bed when work hours are done. Alright, get to work!"

I didn’t have any Idea what we were supposed to do, but I followed Craig to one of the piles of gravel and dirt.

"Just fling this shit out over the tar when it comes out." Said Craig. "Try to get it as far out as you can."

The two trustees began to push a pump up and down with their strong arms in a see-saw motion. They had a hell of a day ahead of them standing on a hot truck in the hot sun. As they pumped, jets of black tar spewed out of a bar at the bottom, and the truck inched forward. When they were a good distance down, we started to fling the rocks out over it.

This was the final destination of the gravel that was the produce of my daily toil for over 100 years. I didn’t doubt that I had crushed these exact stones not two days before in a set of steaming coveralls. My sweat and blood went into this very road, but our hard labor wouldn’t be noticed by passers by.

Think about any dirt road you have ever driven down; any road at all for that matter. Where the hell did it come from? Was it carved by the passage of time? It was by sweat and muscle that they were built even with the assistance of machines. Even in my days of freedom and ease, I appreciated the men who built and maintained roads like these. Not only their fine, work toned bodies, but the craftsmanship, the dedication, and the friendly, down to earth demeanor of the hard working men who made society go forward.

Now I was such a man. Each shovelful of gravel that I wrenched my sweaty back to throw would grip on some free man’s tire, and make his vehicle go forward. I wasn’t a free man building that road, and I knew that no one on the outside depended specifically on me, but they did depend on us. They had hard laws for a reason. It was to keep the low people, low, and to make the high go higher. They couldn’t go higher without us there to step on.

Across the street, I saw a family of visiting nobles walk out of a building. A young boy stepped out and skipped down the stairs without a care in the world. His attention was fixed on a small box with a circular piece of glass embedded in it. The boy held a camera.

I knew the sight well, and I threw a shovel full of dirt, looking up both to see how far the dirt went, and to get a better look at the camera. It was like an old Kodak brownie. The type people used for "toy cameras." They gave images a soft focus, and sometimes a vignette along the edges. The boy glanced briefly at me and Craig shoveling and at the convicts with their backs turned across the street. Meeting my eyes, he quickly skipped away after his parents. They got in their fine black car, and drove off. I didn’t doubt that the kid would become a fine prodigy in his world. Another Lartigue or something. If my sweat and blood could help him do so, I didn’t mind. My shot at that was over. I was a convict, and I knew my place.

"You eyeballin there Matt?" Said the boss

"No boss, just checkin, my dirt." I said. "How am I doin?"

"Pick up that pace boy. I wanna get through the town before nightfall so you boys aren’t stinkin up the tavern."

"Right boss." I stuck the shovel into the pile, and threw it hard across the hot steaming tar.

When me and Craig had finished the pile several minutes later I shouted "Movin down the line here boss!"

"Alright, move it down." The boss wanted to praise our speed, but among the populace this wasn’t proper behavior for a boss.

The next pile was across from an ally. I saw a scrape of weeds at the base of the stone, and they had grown tall. It was that same damn ally. That very ally where I was knocked out and falsely accused. Of course, the evidence of my innocence had long since been washed away by the wind and rain, but it would not have been heeded even if it were still fresh and oozing. It took the word of one man of high standing to condemn me, and to question him was to bring punishment on oneself.

"That’s it dude. That’s where they got me." I said to Craig throwing out a shovel of dirt and pointing as I brought it back to the pile.

"Matt, man keep your mind on this pile. The boss man there is alright, but he don’t put up with bullshit." Craig said.

I then did something fateful. I waited for the boss to move on to inspect someone else’s work, and I jogged across the street chains clinking. The boss mistook it for someone moving up the line, and I was able to brush past Buck and Miner who were silent, and gave me a terrified glance. I jogged down the ally, and I saw it.

Around the corner, and behind a building was the parking lot to the factory in the old world. I ran towards it, heedless of my chains, and tripped. I tore a bit of the leather from my work boots exposing the steel below. I had landed on the crumbling asphalt only to discover that the factory was long abandoned, and the gate leading to the main road hung off its hinges. A liquor store was still open across the street with a neon sign bearing only the letters L, Q, U, and R. The parking lot had gone back to dirt, and one lone pickup truck sat beside it, owned by the clerk. I got up, and lumbered forward, chains clinking, and muscles tensing. I could barely breathe. I jogged as best I could to the liquor store, and threw open the jingle belled door.

When the clerk didn’t stop hearing jingling, he looked at my booted and chained feet. "Who the hell is that?" he thought, as I walked to a cooler, and pulled out a diet coke. I drank, but the bubbles burned like hellfire in my mouth. I spat it out, and lumbered up to the clerk.

"GET THEM OFF! HELP ME!!!" I said grabbing him from across the counter.

"DON’T HURT ME!" He shouted. He had tripped the silent alarm. I heard sirens from the nearby police station, and I made a choice. As I heard sirens which sounded both foreign and familiar, I knew that they would do me no harm. I could be driven to a police station where they would cut these padlocks and release my feet. I’d be questioned no doubt and allowed to stay in a psych ward and eventually to resume a life in a world 100 years older than when I left it. Did I want that life? Could I tolerate eternity alone in this world that didn’t understand my condition?

I walked out of the store, and jogged back to the factory parking lot. I heard "WHERE THE HELL IS THAT SON OF A BITCH!" shouted by the boss. I saw the old buildings of the new world, and I slumped back towards the voices knowing that probably 5 years in the box awaited me, or worse. I didn’t care. I’d rather face eternity at hard labor and hell with people I loved than an eternity of freedom alone. I would both regret, and be content with that decision. Every day of my hard life to come, I would know that I chose this. I had given up freedom for friendship

Chapter 22

I was lucky that the guard told me just how long I‘d have to sleep in the box. They usually liked to mess with your head in situations like this. They let me work during the day with a 40 pound ball and chain locked to my leg irons, but I was not permitted to speak. At night, they took off the ball, and threw me in the box. The box the road crew used was metal rather than wood, and rather than holes, it had long slots that you could barely stare out of.

"PLEASE BOSS! LET ME GET BACK TO WORK!" I screamed that day as they found me; an all too solid wall behind me where before there had been an abandoned factory. "I’M SUCH A MORON!!!" I was sobbing. I meant both my decision to run down the ally, and the decision to walk back into hard labor once I had set foot in my old world. They didn’t really listen to my plea, but the boss shocked me in the neck, and grabbed me. He tore my back pocket in the process.

It was my last night in the box. I peered out the air slots at the guys showering. Buck and Miner horsed around, but Craig just washed and got his face full of water.

My face was full of sweat. They made me miss showering day. I had finished crying by then, and much of the regret had passed, but I was still tortured nightly by mosquitoes. The bunk car, and even the flatbed had some kind of foggers hanging from the ceiling which largely kept them away, but I was left at right by the road side, where they bred in puddles in the ditch.

We had moved beyond the town, and as they let me out for work the next morning, I was surprised to see no ball and chain.

"Boy, I know it gets damn rough in here, but that aint no excuse to go shirking your duties and causing trouble. You’re damn lucky no civilians saw you, or you’d be wearin much shorter chains." Said the stern, but fair boss. "I think you know what that’s like."

"Yes sir, boss Mark." I said. "I just wanna get my mind off shit, and workin hard is the best way to do it."

"That’s fine by me son." said boss Mark. "That’s the best thing you can do for yourself, and we can’t stop you. You don’t wanna think? That’s fine. All you gotta do is work. Now get some chow."

"Yes boss. Thank you boss. " I said, and walked off to get my meal; heavy chains dragging at the dirt, but free of the 40 pound iron ball.

I shoveled the grits and meat into my mouth. Craig was silent, but I could tell he had some words for me, and I was dreading it. I didn’t exactly want to tell him "I gave up freedom to be with you." I just wanted to sink a pick axe into the ground. I was granted this silent request, as we had finished tarring the long road sometime the week before.

"Man Matt, what the hell were you thinkin?" Said Craig in a disappointed but calm and nurturing tone. "You know how close you came to the chain gang again? You weren’t even off a whole week, and you pull shit like that. You got lucky, and boss man was god damn merciful."

"I wasn’t thinking." I said. "I don’t know man, but it’s done now. I’m gonna keep my shit straight."

"Don’t always need to do that..." said Craig. "If you feel like takin a turn on the chain, and you don’t like a boss, you can pull something like that on them and get them reassigned. Just got to make sure you’re caught in full view of the public. That’s what I thought you were trying to do, but I didn’t know why you’d do it to boss Mark."

"That aint it man." I shook my head and sunk my pick in the ground. "That’s not what I was trying to do. It’s just that ally man..."

"Did you think you’d find the knife back there man? Like it’d show the boss you didn’t do it? They don’t give a crap about that, never did, never will. You just lose it?" Craig glanced at me.

"Yeah." I said. Yeah, I had lost it. I’d lost my chance at freedom.

"I don’t blame you I guess. I ain’t been on the chain yet, but I imagine it messes with your head." Craig said as he sunk a pick axe in the ground.

"I had kind of a rough day I guess. I woke up thinking about my old life." I said finally building up the courage to tell him the truth. "You know how I told you I was from like another world?"

"Yeah. I still don’t know what you really mean by that. Way over my head probably." Said Craig.

"I saw it. My old home." I said as I sunk my pick into the ground. "I could have been free, but I came back." Craig was silent. "I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I could have had these chains off. I’d have probably had 20 good meals by now. I feel like such a god damn moron." I sunk the pick into the dirt again.

"I think I get you bud." Said Craig. It sounded too good to be true. "I know you better than you think man. I kind of guessed it when I first saw you. You didn’t really like your old life did you?"

I thought long and hard. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a relatively comfortable life. I didn’t have any right to complain, but I didn’t feel right. I had friends, and they were good friends, but they didn’t call that often and I couldn’t tell them anything. They were just people to be with so that I could say I had a social life. A man swinging a pick next to me was the best friend I’d ever had, and I had no trouble running back to hard labor and hell just to be with him.

"I didn’t." I said "It sounds stupid, but I didn’t want to leave you guys here."

"You’re right. Sounds stupid. Doesn’t mean it is." Craig said. "I bet you would have been all alone back there."

"Yeah." I said. "I’d probably be sitting in a nuthouse. They wouldn’t believe this shit." I swung the pick again. "I just couldn’t leave this shit; couldn‘t leave you, or Buck, or Miner, or anyone."

"Well, it’s like before. There’s no getting out of it, so no sense in beatin yourself up." Craig said.

"Thanks." I said. The old life had largely left my mind, and it started to rain.

It was only raining lightly. There wasn’t enough to make mud, and we worked on, glad of the cool water. Dan was working next to me, and had heard what I said to Craig.

"I just wanted to thank you dude." Said Dan

"What for?" I was a little curious.

"That day at the shower." his slender frame sunk his pick into the dirt. "I barely talked at all for my whole first week. I was really in hell, and I was scared shitless of the shower. You kind of loosened me up I guess."

"Heh heh heh!" I laughed. "I do what I can. I was just talkin. But yeah dude, we aren’t bad people. Most of us anyway."

"I used to be a noble. My family kicked me out of the manor when I got drunk and crashed a car. Lived hard for a few years, stole a car and hit someone with it." He said "I didn’t think you were bad guys, but I was afraid you all would hate me for being a noble."

"That’s kind of like hating you for breathin." I said "Can’t control where you were born, only where you go when you can walk. Besides, I doubt you’re going to be doin much drivin in here. You’re a con like the rest of us. You’re gonna wake up tomorrow, and do the same hard work, eat the same shitty food, and sweat your ass off. Ok, you’re a nobleman. So what? If you want to know, I’m a foreigner. Could you tell?"

"No! You sound like you were born and raised down here." said Dan

"That happens. You watch. Next week, you’re gonna start leaving the G sounds off the end of words. You’re gonna break every law of grammar you were ever taught." I laughed inside. He didn’t know what to think about hearing the word grammar coming out of my dirty face. "I was college educated before I came here. Now I talk like I failed 5th grade."

"I didn’t even make it to college. I’m only 18." said Dan. "Anyway, Thanks. I had a talk with my bunkmate, and he’s an alright guy." His thick bearded bunkmate nodded a greeting in my direction, but didn’t speak. I did the same to him.

"Like I said that day man, you do good work for a fine dining noble." I said.

"Thanks." Said Dan.

It was here that I began to go over my story in my mind. The sun came out and the rain clouds departed. Dan was really starting to pull his weight.

"Alright boys, you can shuck those shirts. Aint no one comin out here." Said Boss Mark.

I threw off my shirt, and then sunk my pick in the ground again. How long did we have left? I continued to work for a few more hours, and then I saw the flatbed truck roll up. It was going to be an early day. I could stop and think. My old life. How I got here. The hard work I’d done till now. Craig, Buck, Miner, Dan, all the cons and bosses I’d met and lived with. As my chains rattled along with the moving truck and the setting sun, I fell asleep thinking only about the next job.

Chapter 23-

The truck went back into prison grounds. We didn’t have regular paperwork coming out to the road crew, so I was in the dark as to my next detail. After that day’s work of weeding and filling pot holes, we pulled up next to the intake office.

We slept in the bunk car, and were given our papers.

Convict Number M-023-D-MPL-2159. Convict has served 112 years of an eternal sentence. Convict is up for review: NEVER. Current Detail: Road Crew 1. Years Remaining in Detail: 5. Next Detail: Cane Field, Camp 3. Strikes: 1. Major Strikes: 0.

Craig, Buck and Miner got the same detail, but Dan was going to remain on the road crew. We only had 5 short years left. Craig had done 100 of course, so he was ready for anything new, but he didn’t like the idea of the Cane fields. Even as long as we had been there, none of us had done any of the agricultural work.

"Cuttin cane. I wonder what the hell that’s like." Said Buck.

"I bet it’s like taking a nap on a fluffy silk pillow." I said, and there were a few stunted laughs.

"We saw them one time." said Craig. "Couldn’t get a good look, but they were movin. They were all wearin overs too."

"Hell, in this heat?" said Miner. "Man I don’t want to go back to that."

"No dude. Bib overalls." Craig said. "I wouldn’t be surprised if they let us take our shirts off under that."

"Oh." Said Miner. "Still, I wonder why we can’t just wear jeans."

"My family used to own a stock in some cane fields." said Dan. "The cons wore overalls because they had to bend over so much I think."

"Great." I said. "Buck, I think I’ll work next to you so I can stay upwind."

"If you can keep up. Better get used to smellin beans son." Said Buck.

"Oh, I am." I said and smiled.

We worked the road crew for 5 more years. In the last year, we worked in Miner’s old town, and he pointed out his old haunts. He received none of the taunts and jeers that hung on him in his first years. He was just a convict to them.

"About time they got them out here fixin these roads." Said some of the townspeople. "What the hell do they think is going to happen to the economy if they can’t get coal down the road to the shipping docks? Can‘t heat them prisons with sweat." They paid little heed to the convicts, and none to Miner specifically.

"There it is. District 16 coal mine." said Miner as he threw a shovelful of dirt over hot tar. We had left the downtown area, and looked at a mine shaft. A few yards away, a few men were sitting by a campfire drinking beer, and passing a joint as they half watched us.

"That wouldn’t have flown back home." I said, "They’d have been fired the next day."

"It don’t technically fly here either." Said Miner. "I use to get so pissed at those idiots smokin like that. I grabbed one dude, and made him swallow the thing lit. You can’t have your head cloudy down in the mine."

"Man, shut the hell up Miner. You’re drinkin hooch all the time." Said a red headed convict.

"He aint in no coal mine though. And that‘s after work hours." I was surprised to hear Dan speaking up. "We aren’t exactly doing dangerous work here. We don’t need our brains. You obviously don’t use em."

"Damn! You got schooled by the new meat Rick." Said Buck. "Besides, those boys get trapped down there, who the hell you think is gonna be diggin em out? Us. If I weren’t a con, I’d be yellin at them too."

"Well, I only really got mad when they’d do it during their shift." Said Miner. "They wanna get doped up after work, that’s their business. Just as long as they can think clear the next day."

We then heard and felt a loud explosion. Men came running out of the mine shaft yelling.

"GOD DAMN! THEY’RE TRAPPED!" A miner ran up to boss Mark, his face still black from the day’s work.

"Alright Convicts, Let’s go dig em out." said boss Mark.

Mark unlocked our leg irons, and we all ran over to the shaft holding picks, and short handled shovels. Buck was far from adverse to helping them get out, and it would have been difficult to hold Miner back. For the rest of the day, and on a few hours into the night, we sunk our pickaxes down into the bare rock and earth, and threw dirt out of the way at a breakneck speed. We worked side by side with the miners, and we each marveled at the speed and force we used. Miners and cons both though of each other as lazy. Matt the Miner, having been both a miner and a convict knew that there was no laziness to be found among them.

We worked furiously until finally as I sunk my pick, I heard tapping. "THEY’RE HERE!" I shouted, and I was joined by Buck, and a few miners. I made a small hole, and I saw a blackened hand stick up through the dirt. I clawed at the hole with my rough bare hands, trying to make the hole bigger. I then grabbed the strong blackened hand, and helped a man up into the fresh air. He was coughing, and panting. "Get him some water!" I shouted, and the trustee ran up with a ladle.

"There’s four more trapped, and one dead. My god, I killed them all!" said the coughing, shivering man.

"Not all of them." I said taking a well earned breather. Buck was pulling up another man, and the three more were right behind eager to get out. "We’re still workin man."

"You’re a convict." he said.

"That’s right. Just happened to be tarrin that road over there when the boss heard that explosion, and your buddies ran up and asked for help." I said.

The miner started to sob. "I’m probably gonna be joinin you soon boy. God damn...Mitch..." The miner was wearing brown canvass pants smeared with coal dust, and his once white wife beater shirt was also stained black. He wore a small headlamp with a dim flame, and in one hand he held a pickaxe head broken from the handle.

"I see five there, and they’re all breathin." I said.

"What? No. He was dead!" Said the sobbing man, as he ran over to his friend tears of sadness and joy mingled.

"That’s all of them." Said a foreman to boss Mark. "I don’t know what we would have done if you weren’t here. We gotta thank them cons somehow."

"They can’t have no money, or no outside food." said Mark. "I’ll give them the rest of today off anyway, and a half a credit extra."

"How about they join us for a beer?" said the foreman.

Mark hesitated "Alright...but make it quick. Captain sees them messing with free men it’ll be my ass."

The foreman came up to me, and patted me on the back, leading me over to a campfire. My number glowed orange in the light, but the miners ushered me to sit down. I eased my back and stretched my arms. I didn’t know what to say to the free men, but they had plenty to say to me.

"Man, you were rollin back there. You’re damn strong. Give us a run for our money I bet." said one miner.

"I don’t know about that." I knew I could, but I knew better than to insult a free man.

They handed me a can of cold beer, and I opened it. The taste was so utterly divine. It was cheap beer, but to a convict, it was fine champagne. Rather than savoring it, I drank it down quick, and was offered another. Miner sat silently looking at his full can, and I walked over to him.

"Man, drink up. This aint happenin again anytime soon." I said.

"I know... Just..." Miner struggled to find the words to express the pain he felt at being among his own people again. He rubbed the blank patch on his arm where the tattoo had been, and stared at the laughing miners and convicts.

"Man, just talk to em." I said.

"I want to, but it’s like...I’m not one of them anymore. They’ll be goin home to their wives and kids, and enjoying life, but I’ll just be chained in the back of an open flatbed. All cause of what I did. I’m fucking scum."

"What did you do?" I asked him for the first time.

"Not too different from what happened here. Shoddy dynamite work, a man got killed by a falling beam. When they were mockin me my first few weeks on the road crew, I felt like shit; like I deserved to get garbage thrown at me. But..." he stopped.

"You didn’t do the dynamite did you?" I said.

"Well no, but I shouldda kicked that kids ass. Smokin pot on his breaks, god damn...." he hung his head wanting to cry. "He’s the one that got killed. Fuse was too short, and it blew up in his face while he was checking it." He hung his head between his arms.

"Miner... Matt.. Listen to me. You aint scum, and it aint your fault. If he‘s workin down in a mine, he better know what the hell is going on." I said putting my hand on the same shoulder where the tattoo had been. "It’s a shame but it was an accident. We both came in the same day, and we both got the same bum deal." Tears not quite coming out, he said "I guess so; still I’d rather just talk with you. I knew you were a good man when I met you...."

"But you thought I was a jelly doughnut. I was." I said. We both laughed, and Miner finally took a swig of beer.

"So now you know what I did, I need to know ‘bout you. " Said Miner

"Well, I was drinkin one night after I got home from the factory, and I don’t know how, but I woke up in that one town. District 14 I think. I stumbled around, and I heard someone callin for help. There was a guy trying to stab another guy. I tried to pull him away, but it was too late. Then I was tryin to save my own life, and I slashed his throat trying to push him away. They got me for killing them both." I said

"District 14 huh... That’s were I went drinkin’ after that shit happened in the mine. They finally caught me in the bar. Guess I shouldda done my drinkin’ at home like you. Might have given me a few days..." said

"Didn’t go me any good." I said

Miner "Heh. I guess it goes to show you, if you try to help a guy, you get slapped in chains and kicked in the chest."

"You know, I don’t mind so much anymore. You’re all good dudes, and in some ways I’m happier here. Didn’t have any friends really in my old life." I said

"I did I guess, but some friends. They knew what the hell went down, but they were still chuckin beer cans at the back of my head. You‘re better people in here. I wish I knew that when I was a free man." He looked down at his empty beer can and chuckled. "I guess these guys are makin amends though. Thank you sir." he said as he was handed another beer.

Craig and Buck walked up with a beer each, and sat down. "Well, I bet they’re freezin down in hell." Said Buck "Never thought I’d taste beer again."

"Ain’t like I remember it." I said.

A miner showed me an open pack of cigarettes.

"Wanna smoke?" he said.

"Thank you sir." I said.

"What’s with this ‘sir’ shit?" the miner laughed. "I’m just a workin man like you. Though I don’t work damn near as hard I bet."

"It’s force of habit. That’s how we gotta talk to our superiors." I said.

"So man, what’s it like in there? They treatin you alright?" Said the miner.

I looked at boss Mark, who was enjoying a beer with the foreman, and I shook my head.

"I can’t complain." I said with a very definite wink which the miner understood. I would have complained if I could, but like I said; I couldn’t complain.

"I hear you man." said the miner.

"We got good people in here though.’ Said Matt the Miner looking at me as I lit my cigarette with a match.

Craig smiled at me, and Buck smiled at Miner.

Chapter 24-

We had all said our goodbyes to the miners, and we lined up to be locked back into our leg irons. As they saw us locked in, a few of the miners looked down putting their dirty hands over their eyes. That particular group would never again take their freedom for granted. We all gave them a glance as if to say "Don’t try to help. There’s nothing you can do." Miner and convict alike hefted their pickaxes, and walked off their separate ways.

When we got back to the truck, we were horrified to see the captain’s pickup truck. We were horrified not so much for ourselves, but for boss Mark who we had grown to appreciate. No doubt we’d be given a real screw next.

"Bringin em in late Mark?" Said the captain. It was not the same one who had inducted me and Miner those years ago, but he was still a mean looking son of a bitch.

"Yes sir captain." Said Mark. "We were helping out at the mine there. They had a collapse."

"Boy, don’t play dumb with me." He spit a stream of tobacco. "You’ve been mollycoddling these fucking tick ridden ass fucks, and it’s time you shaped up. I’m reassigning you to guard the chain gang. Do I smell beer?"

"Yes sir." said Mark. "I had a few with the foreman. I know you don‘t really approve of booze but..."

"Don’t you lie to me. You’re in deep shit boy. Ain’t gonna be no military in your future if you keep this shit up." He then addressed us. "And you fucking cocksuckers, your credits are docked for the week, and your shower privileges have been revoked for the remainder of the detail." Luckily for us, this would only screw us out of one shower, as our new detail was a week away.

"I’m sorry sir." Said Mark

"Come on and make it up to me then boy." said the captain.

Of the 50 convicts there, only a few dared to look at what was going on in front of them. Mark knelt on the bare dirt, and unzipped the captain’s pants. He pulled the uncut mass out of the fly, and began to suck. The captain grabbed Mark’s head and pushed it forward, his thick fingers sinking into the crew cut.

Were it not for the brown uniform, and the shiny shoes, Mark would have looked the part of a convict being abused by his guard. Tears rolled down his eyes, as he was sucking for his career. As the hairy mass of a captain finally came, he held Mark’s head, and forced him to swallow.

"Alright. Get movin." Said the captain, again defying the image of the boss before him. Mark got into the driver’s seat of the truck looking back at us a brief second, and another boss stepped out. This boss had black hair that was in need of a trim, and a wad of dip in his chin as big as a large marble.

"Name’s boss Hunly." he said "Few of you boys won’t have the pleasure of getting to know me, cause you’re shipping out to the cane fields in a week. For the rest of you, things are gonna go down different. You do what I say, we’ll get along fine. You don’t I won’t hesitate to whoop your ass even if we’re in front of an orphanage."

He walked down the line of convicts, and came to Dan. "You look pretty green boy. Come on with me, and I’ll show you the ropes." He said holding his shocker underneath Dan’s Adam’s apple. They went behind the truck as we climbed up to sleep for the night. I could hear Dan moaning and crying as I thought I heard the boss ramming his cock into the young man’s tight ass. When he was finished, he put Dan in the box for the night.

I would have killed the new boss right then and there, but I knew the consequences of such an action. It would mean serving the rest of my sentence on the permanent chain gang; The same place Mark was now going to guard. It would have done little good to kill Hunly anyway, because for every good boss like Mark, there were 20 mean bastards like Hunly. Part of me was relieved that boss Bob was long dead of natural causes.

The next morning, Dan was let out of the box, and he crouched next to us with his bowl of grits. Reading our stern expressions, he sniffled and said "He threw me in the box because he couldn’t get it up. He just beat me a little bit, and that‘s probably what you heard."

Buck almost burst into laughter, but Miner held him back. "I wouldn’t go laughin with this prick here. Ok, he can’t get it up, but I’d daresay he can use that whip."

"That’s about right." said Dan. I could still see tears in his eyes, but I could tell it was just from being in the box all night and getting eaten alive by mosquitoes.

"ALLRIGHT! GET MOVIN!!!" Hunly screamed in a gravelly voice. We began our last few days on the road crew with a shovel full of stone over hot tar.

Most of us were lucky, as Hunly left us alone. The only con that he seemed to take an interest in tormenting was Dan. Every little move was scrutinized, and if one hair was out of place, Dan would get a strap across his bare thin back. It wasn’t the first time Dan had felt the whip, but you could tell he was having a rough time.

It died down the next day, as it got really hot. Hunly lost much of his edge in the heat and took a nap while we worked at will. We were weeding out by an old farm.

"Man, I’m gonna miss that shower this week." Said Dan to me between swings of the weed whip. "I’m stinkin like a dog. I’m gonna miss you more though Matt."

"You got Roy here." I said referring to Dan’s bunkmate. "He’s a good dude, and he’ll look out for you.

"I still don’t think I could have survived without you." Said Dan.

"The sad thing is, yes you could have." I replied. "Get used to it son, it aint ever gonna stop." I swung the whip back through the weeds, and looked at the hard ground.

"Right." He said. He was no longer the soft kid I had met that one day by the showers.

On the last night, Me, Craig, Miner, Buck, Dan, and Roy all sat next to each other with our evening meals. A smaller truck rolled up, and a boss got out and talked with Hunly for a few minutes.

"That’s probably our ride." said Craig. "Dan, you stay tough. Don’t let that son of a bitch get to you. There’s certain things you can do to get him fired. Talk to Roy here about that.

"I’ll take care of him." said the thick bearded Roy. "We’ll give em hell Craig. You boys take care."

"Stay tough." Said Dan.

"You too." we said.

Chapter 25-

The Boss called us to get in the back of the truck. We left our empty plates behind, and our heavy shackles were removed and saved for the next occupants. Me, Craig, Buck, Miner, and 12 other convicts hopped in the back, and the truck took off towards the prison.

We passed a group of 12 other cons in another truck. Some looked suspiciously bright and clean. Dan would no longer be the new meat. The next morning as we rolled back into the prison grounds, I saw another road crew weeding along the cane road. It was before sunrise, but the road crew always started early. We stopped a brief two minutes after we saw them, and saw a bunkhouse, with convicts in overalls standing outside drinking from a hose.

We pulled up to the bunkhouse, and got out.

"LINE UP!" Said the boss. A trustee handed us each a set of bib overalls with our numbers on the back pocket, and across the front pocket on the chest. By our numbers, the four of us were all next to each other again, and Miner would be tackling his first detail that wasn’t road work or the chain gang.

As he pulled the straps over his shoulders, Miner shook his head. I couldn’t help but think how sexy he was when he was either putting on, or taking off clothes. I pulled the straps over my own strong shoulders, and felt overalls for the first time since I was a kid. The feeling was immediate. I felt like a redneck consigned to a life of simple means and hard farm work. My cock sprang up and hit the fly, and I felt the bib push out just slightly. I threw my hands into the deep pockets, and I felt both a white sweat rag and a can of dip. I pulled it out, but it was empty. Second hand clothes again. I threw my work boots on, and bent over to tie them. The overalls went with me, and tugged at my chest.

The overalls were a uniform that was enforced on some of the field hands by bosses that had a taste for nostalgia. The first prison uniforms were overalls, but for some jobs they proved cumbersome, and it took less material to make a pair of carpenter jeans.

The fact that it was carpenter jeans rather than regular jeans had always slightly confused me, but I didn’t mind so much. They were durable, and fit better than 5 pocket jeans. It was also easier to reach in the pockets which were cut diagonally and straight rather than curved. I heard that they wanted us to have the ruler pockets and hammer loops to hold smaller hand tools on some of the jobs. Cutting cane was one such job, and the overalls served in the same capacity. I didn’t know it at the time, but I’d only be working in overalls for a short time.

We marched out to the cane field. The cane grew a few feet higher than us, and a group of convicts were already hunched over beginning their work. The cane was not green, but black and brown. It had been burned the night before to kill off snakes, and make it easier to cut.

"Alright, you boys aint cut cane before, so just watch Nate here." the boss pointed with his coiled up bullwhip to a man with a long, muscular neck, and Caucasian skin that had been burned brown by the hot sun. He was shirtless under his overalls, and I was surprised to see he had short red hair that had been lightened by years of hard labor in the fields.

He brandished a long, broad bladed knife with a small hook on the blunt end. He raised the blade high with one hand, and gripped a few stalks of cane with the other. He then brought the blade careening down to a few inches above the ground, bending and grunting as the knife sliced through the cane. The stalks fell loose, and he threw them behind him on top of a few others he had already cut. He then repeated this on a few more.

"You boys got it?"

"Yeah boss!" we all yelled.

"Good. Get to workin."

How many times was I going to hear those words? I was handed a cane knife by a trustee, and I walked towards an open spot among the cane. Craig was on one side and Miner on the other. I lifted the knife high, grabbed a few stalks of the sticky brown cane, and then brought it down about 4 feet up. WHACK. I got a stripe from a bullwhip on the neck. It didn’t feel as bone crushing as a prison strap, but stung like hell. I reeled and screamed in pain coming to my knees.

"That’s too high convict! You’re wastin good cane! Cut it low to the ground dumbass."

In my overalls, I did feel very much like a dumbass. My one relief was that we were in the prison grounds, and there were 50 odd men around me dressed identically. Rubbing my neck, I got back to my feet, and reached up to take another swipe at that damn cane.

I reached up, and this time, I brought the knife all the way down near the ground, but the blade stopped halfway through the first stalk. WHACK. I got another sting, this time on my shoulder.

"BOY YOU CUT THAT CANE! GET AT IT!!" I then noticed the sound of whips all over. Miner reeled in pain, then Craig, then Buck. Another strike on my shoulder ushered my back to work.

This time, I picked up the knife, and holding it as hard as I could, I struck the cane low to the ground, and was thankful as the knife met the ground on the other side of the bunch of cane. I threw the stalks behind me, and moved on to the next. The field stretched on into the horizon under the rising sun. I began to feel the hard heat of summer as it tingled my whip marks.

The most sadistic bosses requested the cane fields. They relished the idea of throwing a bull whip at the burned backs of convicts. They never even had to look us in the eye from morining to quitting time, if they didn’t want to. All they saw was a crew cut and a denim X across our backs. Our muscles tensing both from the hard work and from the fear of the bull whip.

I cut on with my burning back hunched towards the mounting sun. Sweat came streaming down. "Wipin it off boss!" I shouted. WHACK. The boss answered with his whip.

"You wipe it off when we say so. You keep silent, and work!" I got another whip to grow on.

This was the regime of the cane fields. Far from the brawny showmanship of the quarry, and the slow near relaxed crawl of the road crew, the field bosses drove us hard and relentlessly.

"WATER EM DOWN!!" The boss shouted, and trustees ran up silently with buckets of water. I drank gratefully and stretched my aching back. I wasn’t used to all this hunching, but I’d soon get used to it. Stacked against eternity, 50 years is not long, but that’s how long I’d be working this cane field. They liked to make sure convicts got a broad sampling of the work so the bosses could find out what we were best at.

Luckily for me, I was not very good at cutting cane. It was the first time in my sentence to hard labor that I really felt like I was struggling. I got the knife stuck in a stalk, and got 5 light lashes in response before I pried it out.

Buck fell to his face at the strike of another. He struggled to his feet, and fumbled for his knife. It had fallen at the boss’s feet. Buck quickly grabbed it, and got another lash.

Craig was doggedly fixed on trying to swing the knife right. He sunk one right through the cane only to find out it was three feet off the ground. He paid for the wasted cane with 2 strikes from the bull whip, one nearly hitting his ear.

Miner was panting loudly. He had heard me ask to wipe it off, and knew better than to ask for water, but I could tell he needed it. Hell, I needed it. He finally couldn’t take another swing until he had a breather. He said nothing, but rested his hands on his knees and crouched for 2 seconds before lifting again for another swing. He got a whipcrack on his shoulder before he could sink it into the cane, and he dropped his knife.

The brutal and relentless whippings went on for several, mind numbing, hellish hours until finally, the boss said "CHOW TIME!

We lined up where a trustee was dishing out beans. The molasses tasted a bit fresher being that it came from our own toil.

"Boys." said a slow drawl. "Hey you!"

I turned to see Nate with a spoon in his mouth.

"It dies down after today. They’re just settin the tone." he said.

"I guess you mean the whips." I said.

He nodded. "You’re swingin too hard. Let the knife do the work. Use your hand not your arm. You’ll get the hang of it."

"I doubt it." Said Miner. "This is some real bitch work here."

"I guess you’re a bitch then." Said Nate. "Been out here 300 years. Before that they had me hoppin around on road crews and quarries for another 400." Said Nate after he swallowed another mouthful of beans. 300 years, just cutting cane. I couldn’t think about it. It boggled my mind.

"Of course we don’t just cut. It’s harvest season for this field now. In a month or two we’ll be done, and we’ll start tilling the soil on field 1, unless they want us to dig irrigation for a new field."

Buck was the only one among us who had done close to as much time as this guy. He spoke up and said "What’s the deal?

"These fields take 10 years to grow." said Nate. "When we finish one field, we can start on another. When we get done with this field, we go back to field 1, till it, and plant cane. That takes about a year. This is field 10. When we’re done harvesting this one, we’ll move back to field one, and then onward to plant field 2 next year, and so on. By the time we till and plant field 10, field one is ready to harvest. Really don’t take much brain work. Just do what they tells you."

"I can live with that." I said. "What I can’t live with is these whips. This shit is brutal." I rubbed my burning neck.

"Like I said. That dies down. Even today it should." Said Nate who took a drink of water.

"ALRIGHT BACK TO WORK!" said the boss. I’d be hearing such commands for the rest of eternity, ushering me to thankless backbreaking tasks in staggering heat or piercing cold.

We got back up, and began again to cut the cane. My arms were covered in a sticky sap that made every particle of dirt or stray plant matter cling to my skin. They were becoming black with the charred cane, and even my hardened hands began to blister at the repetitive endless work. "Now you’re slavin." I thought to myself. I had to laugh at myself to keep my sanity. I could have been eating lime jell-o in a nuthouse, but I was out in a searing sun swinging a large knife at some tall stalks of sticky crap. I tried to remember jell-o. The fact that I hated it, the fact that whenever I had to eat it, I would nurse it in my mouth before I swallowed, trying to sap any flavor out of it. It would be more than an hour before I’d get a water break, and I had nine or more to go that day. I swung again, the knife going cleanly through, leaving only six inches of the stalk sticking out of the ground.

As the sun began to occupy the western sky, I heard the boss say "ALRIGHT, LOAD EM UP." I was handed a ball of twine by a trustee, and told to gather the cane up into bundles, and tie them up. I knew not to make the bundle too small, but I needed to be able to lift it by myself. There was sweat coming out of every dirty pore on my body, and I felt the sticky cane juice tug at my skin. Every muscle in my body ached, but I was used to that feeling. That was just the end of the day coming up. A few more hours and I could stop. I wrapped a length of twine around several stalks, tied it tight with my rough hands, pulled my cane knife out of my ruler pocket, cut the twine, and went on to the next bunch.

After we had tied them all, we began to lift them, and carry them to a truck that was already a quarter of the way full of bundles of cane. I hefted a heavy load onto my shoulder, right on top of my overall strap. "NO STOPPIN TILL THE TRUCK’S FULL." Said the boss. It had already been stocked with what wouldn’t fit yesterday. They had exceeded quota yesterday, and that guaranteed them a meal, and a can of dip if they had kept their nose clean. They didn’t give us credits on the cane field. We were just given a meal, and a can of dip even if we didn’t use the dip. They didn’t want us buying shirts, or hats. If such were necessary due to the weather, they loaned them to us.

Today was luckily no different. We had completely stocked the truck a full half hour before the designated quitting time, and there was little else to do that would be productive. I could finally stop, or so I thought.

It so happened that today was shower and laundry day. We could shower, and then put on a clean pair of overalls. The trustees however were shooting dice behind their bunk house, and I wondered why the washtubs were closer to our bunks. We lined up in front our bunkhouse to await our meal. When we had eaten it, we lined up to turn the bowls in.

"Matt, Craig, Paul, Hank, and Miner fall out." I was surprised the boss had learned our names so quick. "Paul and Hank, you know the drill. You ain’t been pullin your weight this week. Get to workin."

"Yeah boss." they said in a hang dog voice. They walked off towards the washtubs.

"The rest of you boys aint done nothin wrong, but you need a learning experience. You five boys are doin the laundry for the whole camp. 10 pairs of overalls and three pairs of jeans each. Do the jeans first, do your own clothes last. GET MOVIN."

"Yeah boss." we said. Me, Craig, and Miner slumped to the washtubs as if we were wearing balls and chains. Buck looked on sadly, and asked the boss if he could help, but he was motioned towards the showers. The convicts all stripped in front of us, throwing their filthy overalls in heaps by the tubs. Buck slid his off, and he took no joy in getting himself clean, but the other convicts roughhoused and laughed.

We were in for a shower of a different sort. A blond man with a butch haircut named Hank spoke up. "Wash your arms off first. Might as well take some joy out of this shit job." We dunked our arms into the abrasive, soapy water and scrubbed the cane juice and dirt from our arms and shoulders.

"Just take a pair and get scrubbin. Like he said, do the jeans first." Said Hank.

Craig grabbed a pair of 5 pocket jeans with a patch that said TRUSTEE K-04-C on the front and back. I took one with a similar number, and dunked it down into the water. I scrubbed it up and down the wash board, dirt and sweat coming loose as I did so. My arms ached so badly, and the work made a kink in my back. I couldn’t stop though, because we only had three hours to get through it. We would not be afforded the luxury of a real shower, and the laundry water made a poor substitute.

By the time we got to the overalls, the water was already lukewarm and filthy. I did as I was told and saved my own laundry for last. A clean pair of my overalls sat in the dirt beside me. The first pair I washed was Buck’s as he was last to the showers. "B-006-D." I read silently. Mine were M-005-D. "Here you go Buck. Nice and clean." I thought as I scrubbed the overalls hard on the washboard. As much as it was tiring and demeaning to wash these clothes, it kind of felt good to be doing something to help a convict feel clean.

I scrubbed the hell out of eight more, my fingers wrenching in fatigue, and sweat streaking the sticky dirt on my face. Miner was looking so degraded. This man belonged in a coal mine, working hard but free. Here he was scrubbing overalls with a sticky black soil on his face and neck. His hair sparkling with sweat.

I finally got to my own pair. I stripped, and was about to put on the clean pair when Hank said "Leave them off bud. Aint so sense getting that dirty water on a clean pair." He stripped his own off, and sat nude in front of the washtub and plopped the overalls into the tub. His stubby cock swung between his legs as he scrubbed. It was just as dirty as his face. Me, Craig, and Miner got rock hard. I sat down nude, next to a nude Craig, and Miner scrubbing our own overalls. When they had finished, Paul, the other guy, began to hang them on a clothesline. There was an x shaped tan line on his back from the overalls.

I saw that Hank had taken a handful of the dirty water, and washed his neck and face off with it. "It’s the best we’re getting this week. Better get at it."

I scrubbed my neck with the fetid water, and it felt slick and smelled unpleasant. As it dried, I could tell I was clean, but there was the slightest hint of stickiness in my hair and neck. I pulled my clean overalls up, and strapped the shoulders. I dusted the butt off, and threw my work boots back on. Inside one of the pockets, I noticed a full can of dip. It was better than what Paul and Hank got, as they had been given laundry duty for slacking on the field.

I offered them a wad of mine, but Hank said "It’ll be our asses if you do. Givin dip to a man under punishment is a night in the box for each of you. They smear your chest with molasses and let the mosquitoes have fun. Can’t say as thought I don’t want a bit, but I aint about no box."

"Alright." I said "Just tryin to do the friendly thing."

"That’s fine. Nice to know someone gives a shit, even if it don’t do no good." Said Hank. "We got an hour and a half left of rec time. Let’s go."

We walked back to the bunkhouses and the mess hall therein. Buck was sitting alone at a table, smoking a cigarette. Hank and Paul went separate from us back to their bunks. It was well on the other side of the bunkhouse, and our contact with the troublemakers would be luckily limited.

"Damn, where’d you get smokes buddy?!" Asked Miner.

"Here." he said handing one to Miner, and one each to me and Craig. "Just found em’ in my overs. Don’t do much good on the field. They don’t give you a chance to stop. Here. Light em off mine."

I took my cigarette, and held the cherry from Buck’s up to it to light it. I took a long hard drag, and released it slowly from my nose. It tasted really strong, but the years of dipping had desensitized me. Nate walked up to us. "Hey, can I bum one of those?" he said to Buck.

"Sure dude." Buck gave him one, and Nate produced his own book of matches.

"I started smokin these hopin it’d kill me after a few years. It don’t even hurt my lungs though. I start out fresh every mornin, breathin deep and ready to work." Said Nate. We all chuckled quietly.

"Thanks for helpin out this mornin bud." Said Craig. "This shit is rough."

"It is at first. You get used to it like anything I guess but they don’t keep boys like you much past one detail. You look more like a road boy." He added nodding to me.

"Seems to suit me the best out of anything I’ve done so far." He thought I meant in prison, but I meant in my entire life.

"These overalls won’t last long either." the redhead said putting his thumbs under the straps. "The boss’ll get tired of em getting in the way of the whip. We’ll be back to carps soon enough. Still, that leaves your back bare."

"Well, at least it’ll be an even tan." Said Miner.

Nate let out a long puff of smoke, and it joined a hazy cloud hovering about the mess hall. It had been years since I smoked. I felt so relaxed, and my pounding heart and muscles dulled to a slow throb. We smoked our cigarettes, while nursing our sore necks and backs.

"Time to be getting to bed." I said. "Night Nate."

"Night boys." We all walked back to the bunk house, and found that Nate was directly across from Me, Craig, Buck, and Miner in bunk 15. His top bunk was empty, no doubt awaiting new meat that would arrive in a few weeks. Nate was glad of our company. It had been some time since he could talk to men who worked hard, and laughed harder at the end of the day. Most of the guys on the cane field were sluggish, petty bastards like Chet, who had abandoned Buck at the first signs of trouble. I saw Chet on the other side of the bunk house. Despite being clean, he dragged his feet and rubbed his head. He was miserable.

"Heads." said Craig. It had been so long since we could just let loose. I unfastened my straps, and Craig thrust his cock out through the fly. I offered to suck him, but I had been having a rougher time, and needed it more. Tomorrow it would be him. Craig’s cold tongue felt like the icy water of a shower on a hot day. He cupped my cock in his long tongue, and moved it up and down the veins. He jerked himself furiously as he did so, going rock hard.

In the bunk next to us, Miner and Buck were holding each other, and had thrust their cocks through the flies of their overalls. They rubbed them together upright, and rubbed each other’s backs and shoulders. They motioned to Nate across the aisle, and Buck bent over. Nate worked himself up, and shoved his stallion cock through Buck’s asshole. Miner then laid under Buck and sucked him off. He jerked himself off and soon was squirting cum up in the air as he continued.

Craig and I had been watching out of the corner of our eyes, and were made even hornier by the sight of the three toned men. Miner’s face still showed a faint layer of dirt, and it rubbed off on Buck’s cock.

As I came, Craig swallowed. I then bent over, and spread my ass wide. His cock was rock hard and pointing towards the heavens as he trust it in and began to ram me. I continued to stroke my dick, my hands making my cock filthy. The whole bunkhouse was half watching the spectacle of five men finally getting some release. Most jacked off as they watched, too tired from the day‘s work to bother with their bunk mates.. Newer con’s tried to hide their boners, desperately clinging to their straight attitudes. It wouldn’t be long for them. Chet had already fallen asleep. He and Buck would never speak again.

When we had all finished, we took another cigarette, and smoked it as we laid in bed. The lights went out, and it was the end of rec time. We put our cigarettes in the buckets, and fell asleep, wide smiles on our faces, but with the next day’s work at the back of our minds. It would prove to be an important day for Chet, and an important week for all of us.



Fumpa